“So much for your hope in humanity,” Adam said, with a ghost of a smile.
“I’m getting there,” Kanmi said, waving a hand. “Now, we’ve all known that for a while. But most humans . . . can’t deal with the fact that the gods don’t have all the answers. That they’re figuring things out, the same as we are. Even a hundred years ago, most humans couldn’t have dealt with that concept, let alone a thousand years ago, or ten thousand. So, the gods handed out ‘little truths.’ They gave humans what they could get a grip on, and let them use it. I’m actually fine with that. The problem isn’t the gods. It’s the institutions that humans build around them. The institution of a faith gets locked in on that one piece of truth handed out in the Bronze Age, and the people in charge of the institution use it to maintain their power. To institute social control. And any new truths that get handed out in subsequent years . . . threaten that control. Because while there’s not finite truth, it’s in their best interest to say that truth can’t change, that truth isn’t subject to interpretation or understanding or revision based on new information. That truth is truth, and there’s only one, and it’s theirs, and, for a small fee, for their power over your life, they’ll share it with you.”
Sigrun was tired enough that the words just washed over her, and it took her a moment or two to make sense of them. “So what does this have to do with hope?” she finally asked. “The gods are dying. Humans are dying. Most of those humans depend on the institutions that you hate to maintain some semblance of order in their lives right now—”
Kanmi held up a finger. “Because the people who are surviving out there in the chaos and the confusion are doing it, both with and without their gods, Sigrun. With and without those social institutions. India . . . they’ve lost their entire pantheon. But there are still people there. Trying to hold their cities and their towns together, and I admire them, completely. There are Atenists here in Judea who have given in to existential despair and are writing nihilistic tracts about how there is no point at all in life . . . and the Mithraists in the camp right next to them are writing pamphlets that say that if there are no gods, then the point of human existence is what we make of it. And they’re getting out of bed and getting the work done, so that that life can go on. That’s my hope, Sigrun.”
Minori put her head to the side. “And yes. He’s reading all of it. Every time we get a bale of new tracts from the Praetorians. I don’t know where he’s putting them all.”
Kanmi looked faintly embarrassed. “Actually . . . .”
Sigrun’s eyebrows went up. “In the Veil?”
Kanmi exhaled. “Yes. I had a very, very long talk with Matru. I’m building a realm there.” He gave Adam a sidelong glance as the other man stiffened a little. “Call it the Library of Eternity, pretentious as that might sound.” His expression sobered as Min sat up, her face suffused with delight. “Because if humanity lets me down, we’re looking at an age in which there will be no education. No sanitation. I’m not willing to go back to the Iron Age. You lose the institutions that educate, you lose the knowledge, you lose the books, and you’re stuck re-inventing the wheel. So I’m . . . taking things there. Things that shouldn’t be lost. Textbooks and manuals and a couple of full libraries, so far.” He coughed. “Including most of the Library of Alexandria. Matru took me on a field trip when the Egyptian gods bought it.” He gave Minori an uncomfortable look. “I didn’t want to mention it until I had it a bit better organized.”
“I want to see it!” she told him, immediately. “Have you negotiated with Erida about the Magi Archives yet?”
“It’s on my list.”
Adam gave him a look. “You’re preparing for an age without learning. I trust you’re putting more than quantum physics textbooks, journal articles, and classical plays in there?”
Kanmi snorted. “Yes. Because when our pipes decided to leak inside the walls, I knew a lot about hydraulics and hydrodynamics, but nothing about plumbing. That’s why I hired a professional to fix the pipes, after turning off the water to the house. He knew nothing about magic or physics. I knew nothing about pipes. Fair trade: my coin for his time. And yes, there are books on that topic in the Library. Lots of them. And farming, too. Because I personally like eating.”
Adam laughed, reluctantly.
It had taken some time for Brandr to find a moment in which he could talk to Thor without being in the field, or his grandsire being in battle, himself. A god-born could directly invoke their own ancestor at any time, though it was well not to be too presumptuous in doing so. Requesting an audience with any of the other gods required making an official request through the Odinhall. In Brandr’s case, invoking Thor had to be done outside. Tyr could be called upon indoors, safely, but the god of the wild heavens needed to be invoked beneath the welkin itself.
Preferably somewhere where there were lightning rods available.
Thus, Brandr went up to the top floor of his apartment complex, stood somewhat to the side of the grounding rods, and planted his hammer on the roof, glancing up at the sky. Lord of lightning, feeder of eagles, slayer of giants, hear my prayer. I have a boon to request of you.
Brandr was startled as the clouds overhead thickened, and a lightning bolt seared his eyes, with a simultaneous clap of thunder that set off all the local car-alarms. Thor himself materialized on the roof-top, and a nest of prosaic pigeons promptly took flight, alarmed by the thunder and his appearance. You have not asked anything of me in twenty-seven years, Cloudwalker. Other than begging to be allowed to die. Thor clapped a hand to Brandr’s shoulder, as the bear-warrior attempted to recover from the shock. You look surprised.
“I was . . . not expecting a . . . personal audience.” Brandr got the words out without a stammer, wrapping space around the more difficult ones. He was separated from Thor by about six generations. Apparently, his great-great-great-grandmother had been very comely back in 1770. A year after Reginleif had been born. She’d pointed that out to him, hesitantly, as if expecting the information to drive him away. It hadn’t.
But in calling to Thor, he’d expected a voice on the wind, and little more.
You have been much on my mind since Hel’s attack on you, Cloudwalker. It is good to hear that your speech has so much improved. Stormborn gave you a little truth to consider, and Shadowweaver has helped you much as well. A steady look from the levinbolt eyes.
“About Reginleif . . . .”
While I respect the willpower that impels you to use your voice with me, it is not necessary. Use your mind. It is a good one.
I have asked her to hand-fast me, and she has accepted. There are only two beings who can bind us. Brandr stared straight ahead, wincing internally.
You’re quite certain that this is the path you wish to take, my son? Thor’s voice was ruminative.
This isn’t just gratitude for her aid, or the re-emergence of an old infatuation. Brandr paused. She deserves the words. She needs the words. I would like to give them to her before time ends.
He wasn’t expecting Thor to laugh, boisterously, hammering his hands down on his shoulders with brother-and-equal vigor, which actually staggered Brandr. Excellent. Not before time, too. Make it next week, and Stormborn and Malice-Striker can bring the two of you to the Odinhall. Thor pointed up at the sky. I really shouldn’t even be here. Bad manners and all that. But for those who are most important to us, we make exceptions. And if the god of Abraham hasn’t risen up to smite Loki or Stormborn by now, I don’t imagine he’ll make the effort for me. He clapped Brandr on the shoulders once more, and then grinned. The end may be coming, Cloudwalker. But it is not yet here. And it is good to see people reaching for whatever future, whatever hope they can. Because it is hope that might save us all.
Reeling, Brandr made his way back downstairs. Simply put, he needed to get dinner started before the rolling blackouts that plagued their neighborhood would result in the stove being a useless block of metal again. And dealing with something so prosaic might help him r
egain his equilibrium.
The front door opened as he put each item into its respective pan and got them cooking, and Regin, fresh from the refugee center, entered, sniffing the air appreciatively. She loved the smell of cooking beef, but she couldn’t eat it anymore. She’d apparently tried it once after leaving the Veil, and been sick, as she’d never been before in her life. Now, she wouldn’t even try the juices from the pan, no matter how tempted she was. “You found steak at the butcher’s?” she asked, padding around the counter. “You must have cashed in a month of ration chits.” She looked over his shoulder, and raised her eyebrows. “Swordfish, too? Did someone die?”
“No. Celebration. We’re getting hand-fasted. Next week. Thor agreed.” Brandr frowned. “Said it was about time.”
Regin went very still beside him. “He knew?”
“Apparently. Not a secret. Get your watercress.” The short, choppy sentences got on his nerves, but at least he could speak this way without stammering. Progress of a sort. “Whatever else you’re eating.” He jerked his head at the icebox. He’d unplugged the refrigerator in the last year as useless, given how much time they spent here, and how frequent the blackouts currently were. Instead, if they had something that needed chilling, they put it in the icebox . . . as he remembered doing, when he’d been young. And Regin had grown up in an area where ice cellars had been common, two hundred years ago.
He liked watching her eat. It had taken her a few months to not be embarrassed around him . . . but her response to food was as voluptuous and carnal as her reaction to her skin being stroked. Her soft moans of pleasure made him chuckle. “You laugh, but you don’t understand how wondrous the world is,” she told him, between bites. “I could try to link our senses with seiðr. But that would require . . . quite a bit of trust on your part.”
Brandr considered that. “Hallucination?”
“I could do it that way. Or I could . . . no.” She shook her dark head.
Could what? Mind-speech was so much easier.
We already mind-speak to each other. We already know each other’s Names. We could bind our Names together. That would establish . . . a connection. She was playing with her knife now, staring at the table. It’s a bad idea. Nevermind.
Would it let you taste this steak? He stabbed it with his fork.
Possibly.
Do it.
You don’t remember any of my lessons in binding! Her voice was aggrieved. Bargain, Brandr. Don’t just trust blindly.
He reached across the table, and touched her face. I don’t. But you’re the one thing in my life that I know is real, Re . . . Shadowweaver. He changed her name at the last moment, at her look of distress. You’re my solid ground.
She bit her lips. I’ll bind myself to you, but just . . . ten percent or so. That way, the danger should be lessened for you.
The weaving was exquisite, and it didn’t take long. And when she’d finished, Brandr could feel the pleasure in her body every time he took a bite of his rare steak, and laughed as she slid out of her chair to lie on the floor, her hands over her mouth and her wings spread, her entire body wracked in transports of delight. Don’t get used to this. There’s not much beef in our future. Quite a lot of lentils, though.
Shush. I haven’t had this in over thirty years. Oh, gods, that tastes so good . . . .
Brandr quietly contacted Sigrun next, and asked her to arrange for transport, and for a few other details. “Not a big ceremony,” he told his old student as they stood on the balcony of his apartment, her dragon friend looming behind her in the darkness. “Track down Eitri as my witness? If he’s dead, Erikir will do. Lor asked for you and Minori. If you’re willing.”
Sigrun nodded. He’d caught her between sorties over the Caledonian Woods. “I can handle that, and taking both of you to the Odinhall,” she said. “Erikir’s going to have an aneurysm at everything he’s missed.”
“I’ll pay any weregild. On Regin’s behalf.”
“Nonsense. I’ll pay it.” Sigrun held up a hand as Brandr tried to object. “Part of my wedding gift to the two of you. I’ll talk him around before you see him, though.” Sigrun sighed. “Let me duck inside for a moment and brace her about what she’s going to wear.”
He spread his hands, and was relieved to hear an almost-human chuckle from her. “Yes. I know. Women’s talk. But in truth, she can’t wear valkyrie armor. Her wings get in the way!” The resulting snort of frost from Nith definitely didn’t tickle Brandr, but he wiped the frost from his eyebrows, gave the dragon a dark look, and followed Sigrun back inside.
Sigrun rapidly discovered that Reginleif was actually more stubborn than she was. Brandr found someplace else to be, giving the lie to the notion that a bear-warrior never retreated, as Sigrun finally unleashed her most devastating set of arguments. “Yes, yes, you don’t want to make this a big deal, it’s inappropriate in war-time, you’re not worthy, and so on.” She folded her arms over her chest and glared down at Reginleif, eyes narrow. “This might not be your first marriage, but it is for Brandr. Make it a good day for his sake, eh?
She watched in mild amusement as the ruby eyes widened, and Reginleif’s teeth closed with an almost audible click. “Very well,” her old teacher said, with a certain resignation. “What would you have me do, then? I cannot go there as a valkyrie. I go there as an enemy of the gods.” She looked down. “As possibly the most notorious war criminal in history. Certainly, the only one left living. You and your friends are usually more thorough, Sigrun.” The red eyes came back up, with a hint of defiance. “You should have made a clean sweep in Fennmark.”
Sigrun exhaled. She had to be careful how she said this. “It took me a while to realize this, Reginleif.” Sigrun paused. Interesting. She only flinches if Brandr uses that name. “It’s not as if I often listen to our people’s priests.” A faintly shamefaced admission, that, and from the other room, Brandr guffawed. Few god-born of Valhalla did. They were already intercessors, themselves. They didn’t need someone else to intercede for them. “The gods know that you were there, on the Day of Hel’s Demise. Those of us who were there, know. No one else even knows that you were involved, my old teacher.” She paused. “Not even other god-born. I’ve done a little asking around. Quietly.” She tipped her head to the side. “The gods put the blame where it really belonged. With Hel, and the technomancers. You were twisted and distorted by Hel, stretched taut between her and Loki, and you snapped. Yes, you made some bad decisions, but no one puts all the blame on you, the way you hold yourself responsible. Yes, you were wrong. Yes, you’ve been punished. But endless punishment, ceaseless vengeance, isn’t any more justice than unstinting mercy. You need both edges to make up the blade of justice.” Sigrun hesitated, and lowered her voice. “And you’re not going to shame him. Brandr doesn’t shame easily, anyway.”
Reginleif held perfectly still, and finally said, “When did you grow so wise?”
“Such wisdom as I have, has been beaten into my head by people using large, heavy hammers.” Sigrun beckoned. “Come now. Let me have a look at what passes for a siren’s armor.”
It wasn’t pretty, but it was functional. Ballistic cloth, tight-woven with polymers and light-weight ceramic inserts to protect heart, lungs, and other vital organs. The stiff vest covered Regin from the throat to the hips, latched under the wings at the back, and had an additional flap that could be brought up between the wings to protect the spinal column, at least. Sigrun grimaced at that, seeing nothing but openings for bullets that would rip through the wings and into the body cavity from behind, but there was really no help for it, save armoring the wings . . . and that would deprive a harpy of their flight, instantly. The vest, trousers, and greaves were made of lightweight ballistic fabrics with ceramic inserts. Anything that prevented a harpy from being damaged, but also kept them from being burdened in the air. “It’ll do, once I make it match your wings and hair.”
“Haze-gray is important. It lets me disappear in the sky—”
�
��You can do that with illusion. I doubt you want illusions for your hand-fasting, though. Which is why I’m not making this look like chain-mail or anything else.” Sigrun touched the armor with a fingertip, turning it inky black. “I can change it back for you later. Do you still have your spear?”
“Yes. It was in my hands when I left the Veil. Nothing else was, though, besides some clothing.”
Not even your locket. You left your past behind you. As much as you could, anyway. Sigrun just nodded, however. “Now, as to the date, I was told Thunresdæg, Aprilis twenty-sixth?”
Reginleif nodded, looking dazed. “Next week,” she affirmed.
“Don’t worry about anything. It’ll all be arranged for you, so you can concentrate on your work.” Sigrun patted her on the shoulder, and left, and was ambushed at the balcony door by Brandr, who picked her up off the ground in a bear-hug. “What’s that for?” she asked, blankly.
“Giving her things to think about.” Brandr beamed down at her.
She spent the next week trying to track down his classmates from the Odinhall. Dvalin was helpful in that regard, but the news was universally bad. Even his old friend Eitri had, unfortunately, died in Polania last year. He’d left behind several children and over a dozen grandchildren, all of whom were in Nova Germania. Sigrun didn’t relish the thought of having to pass that news to Brandr, and focused, instead, on finding Erikir. Germania, Nith.
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