He’s next on my list. He’s been preparing for the end since before we knew there was going to be one. Sigrun exhaled. It was true. Trennus had started building the Woods and the fortress in the lake decades ago. And I don’t know how he knew to do it. But that fortress of his . . . it has a purpose. If all seems lost . . . move everyone we love there. Sigrun sighed. Be well, Kanmi. The world was a poorer place without you. And would be again, without you and Min.
She looked up in time to see Minori land beside them, and the smaller woman gave her a hug. Did you think I’d let you go without a farewell? Minori demanded, pellucid light radiating out from her skin. I expect you back here for the defense of Judea, Min added, defiantly.
Sigrun shook her head, faintly. She was as death-touched as the world was. Take care, she told them, mounted back up, and Nith took off again, leaving them as rapidly dwindling dots.
Trennus and Saraid were indeed her next stop, north of Jerusalem. Both were in the field, and Nith and Sigrun spotted an inbound contingent of grendels, heading directly for the Pictish lines at the edge of the Forest . . . and Nith dove, pouring out clouds of his deathfrost, forcing those of the creatures who weren’t killed to retreat, while Sigrun brought down lightning to go with it. Every once in a while, where liquid oxygen created a hyperoxidized environment, and lightning intersected, they created a heatflash hotter than the outermost layer of the sun. Then vortices of flame bloomed, incinerating the attacking grendels. “Nice of you to drop by,” Trennus called, as they came in for a landing. “You’re not going to ignore me, and go looking for Maccis anyway?”
He is fine, Saraid said, though her tone was worried, as she loped up in her wolf form. He’s fifty miles south of the city’s outskirts. He’ll make it home.
Sigrun shook her head, and accepted an embrace from Saraid as the spirit shifted form, and another one from Trennus, which startled her, slightly. “I am saying my farewells. And checking to see if your Island of the Apples is ready.”
“It is. Lassair’s already there, waiting. Keeping an eye on the Guardian.” Trennus frowned. “I’d be happier if he’d ever let you see him . . . but we’re ready for refugees.” His blue eyes were tired. “I never thought it would be used this way.”
Sigrun nodded. But using the Woods as a sanctuary made sense. They could evacuate people there, and then wait to see what the mad godlings did. Prometheus had projected all of them eating one another, until there was only one, as powerful as all the old gods put together. But if that didn’t happen? If the planet became safe once more, with stable, non-fluctuating ley-lines? What better place to take into the Veil, than Jerusalem, where contingents of people from all over the world had taken refuge, and where walking along a suburban street would reveal at least twelve different subspecies of ‘humanity’ over the course of an evening stroll? Quetzalcoatl and Amaterasu had brought refugees from their people, and the Evening Star and Coyote had brought the survivors of the petty kingdoms of Caesaria Aquilonis. The jotun, the nieten, and the fenris dwelled here in large numbers, along with the dryads, harpies, and centaurs of Hellas. It was even the current home of the uncrowned Emperor of Rome. So why not evacuate all of these people into the Veil?
It had been Trennus and Kanmi’s audacious idea, as Trennus had worried and fretted over the stress on the ley-lines. And Judea was, as Kanmi pointed out, the only place on earth solidly on an electrical grid, instead of ley; if its infrastructure survived, when the people returned, they wouldn’t strain the recovering ley-lines. And here was where there was access to the satellites, the spacecraft that could reach Libration Station, L’banah, and the Cydonia outpost. They could return here, if and when the godlings . . . dissipated, were defeated, or simply starved to death.
Of course, the biggest problem might be convincing the people who could work the electrical grid, the spacecraft, and everything else, to evacuate to the Veil. There were Hellenes and Nipponese who could do the work. But the Judeans might not accept the refuge of the Veil. Any more than Adam has accepted it.
Trennus put a hand on Sigrun’s shoulder, and looked down at her, shadows of old regrets chasing themselves across his face. “You know, forty years or so ago, I was working my way up to trying to ask you out for coffee, when Adam got hurt, and you took the wounds from him. It was all over after that.” He shook his head in rueful amusement. “Do you ever wonder, Sig, what the world would look like, if we’d made other choices?”
Her eyes filled. All the time. I suspect I could have easily fallen in love with you. You were so innocent then. I’d like to think that you’d have warmed me, and that I’d have gotten along very well with Saraid, as I always have. She managed a half-smile for the forest-spirit now. And then I wonder if any of the other choices we’d have made would have turned out any better. But if I let myself go too far down the road of what might have been . . . I’d get lost, old friend. And it doesn’t matter, anyway. We made the choices that we made. She exchanged embraces with both him and Saraid, and received an unexpected kiss from Saraid, whose leaf-dappled eyes shone with tears. Go into the Veil, Saraid. Please don’t let yourself be killed here.
She clambered up onto Nith’s back, and the dragon ascended, and then ducked into the Veil, taking them back to the house on Shar’abi street. The roof was frost-rimed, and even wore a few icicles. From above, Solinus and Masako’s house—Trennus’ old home—still looked remarkably leafy, though the vines had been cut back, no longer obscuring the windows. A little less eldritch, and a little more practical, befitting Solinus’ more pragmatic nature, and Masako’s, too.
It was nightfall, but the streetlights were off, as a power conservation measure, also intended to make it harder for Persian ornithopters to target the city. Nith landed in the backyard, delicately planting his feet until he’d taken lindworm size. Do you wish me to enter? he asked, tentatively.
Sigrun slipped down from his back, letting her armor dissolve. She put her head against his flank, shaking her head. No. This is mine to do. She looked down at herself. Consciously or not, she’d put herself back in the same clothing she’d always favored. Dark blue jeans that laced at the sides and fly, a long-sleeved linen shirt, and a black doeskin bodice, and the same leather boots she’d worn for thirty years. Master cobblers and the house-spirits had resoled them for her once or twice. These days, the soles never wore out, of course. Why won’t he say yes? Is it some part of him that is like Kanmi, which will resist any attempt to compel him? Or is it because the soul to which a young man is an abstraction, the life which can be risked with reckless ease . . . becomes very real indeed, to one who might soon experience dissolution?
Nith ducked his head, only saying, simply, I will wait for you here, my lady. Will you wish to speak with Reginleif and Brandr afterwards?
I may wish for their counsel, depending on how badly this conversation goes. Sigrun exhaled, and touched the back door, and then said . . . No. I can’t do this. Not now. I’m . . . not ready.
You will never be ready to say good-bye.
Sigrun swallowed, hard. I know. But . . . it doesn’t have to be today.
Then when? When you battle in Burgundoi? When the gods of Rome fight the mad ones beyond the Alps? Nith’s tone was gentle, but ruthless. There is no more time. He must decide.
Sigrun’s chest felt tight as she became mist, flowing through the cracks, and reforming inside the kitchen. She padded to the living room, where she could see a candle’s flickering light, and stared in the archway at Adam, who sat in his chair, regarding a piece of paper in his lap. She couldn’t read what it said from her angle. “Adam,” she said, trying to keep her voice even.
He looked up. The same brown eyes that she’d loved for forty years. His face could have been carved out of dark wood, the lines around his mouth and eyes incised deeply. His hair had long since turned white, but remained tied behind his neck with a leather thong. His hands, delicate on the paper he held, shook as he set the page aside. “Sig.” He set his hands on the arms of
the chair, and pushed himself up, slowly. The smile was the same, in a way, a white flash of teeth . . . but his eyes held so many regrets and shadows, that the smile couldn’t lighten them. “I haven’t seen you since Sophia’s funeral. Have you been holding up all right?”
Her lips quivered before she compressed them into a firm line. Gods, she wanted to put her arms around him, and feel his around her. Wanted to weep on his shoulder all the tears she couldn’t let herself shed for her brave, mad Sophia. For him. For the world. For all the children who wouldn’t grow up, for all the mothers who would see their children cut down, for all the fathers who would die protecting their families, and for what? For the hope that the gods might be able to avert Ragnarok? For the hope that someone might survive the storm?
She wanted comfort. The assurance that not all was lost. That the world, that fate, could be changed with a single decision. Or perhaps a hundred million people, all making the right decisions. It might even all start with him. “Adam,” Sigrun said, her throat aching, “I’m called to Burgundoi.”
Adam looked at her. “You’re called all over the world, these days.” His voice was uneasy. “Why are you telling me about Burgundoi in particular?”
“The gods of Rome are going to try to summon as many mad ones to them as they can, and meet them in pitched battle beyond the Alps. Many of us are going there, but some of us must help protect Mamaquilla’s realm, and our last major city.” Her lips felt stiff. How could she explain that she was death-touched? That she knew in her heart, that she wouldn’t survive the coming battle, and it didn’t matter what Sophia’s prophecies said?
Adam picked up his cane, and shuffled across the room to her, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Sig. Talk to me. What is it?”
“Burgundoi is the city that Sophia always saw me walking out of, with the entire city in flames behind me, overrun by monsters and madmen, and all the gods dead.”
His face hardened. “Then don’t go.”
Sigrun lifted a hand, touched his check, and saw him flinch at her cold touch. “I must.”
“You’re falling into the trap of prophecy. You don’t have to go. Stay here. You’re the one who’s been talking about breaking the back of that prophecy for years.” His eyes met hers, firmly. “Do it for real. Stay here. With me. Fight the battles that are here, and let Sophia’s prophecy die.”
The words hit harder than she’d expected. Let the prophecy die with my sister, you mean. Sigrun swallowed the words, replying, instead, “I should abandon my people. I should let them die, and cower here, waiting for the end to come?” She shook her head. “No.”
His expression hardened. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”
Sigrun shook her head. “No.” It was a whisper. “But I am here to ask you to choose.”
His eyes flicked back towards his piece of paper. Sigrun could read shame and guilt in his expression. “You’ve already decided, then,” she said, her voice barely audible. “You do not choose me. You choose, instead, a god who doesn’t even answer you.”
“A father is supposed to let his children grow to adulthood and make their own decisions—”
“It is a poor parent who doesn’t let the child grow up,” Sigrun acknowledged, tightly, “but worse is the one who isn’t there at all. A good parent is there even for grown children. To advise, to counsel, to help when there’s a need, and to stand back and be proud of their children’s accomplishments. All you get from yours is silence.”
A jag of temper crossed his expression, and his steelsheen soul, visible in othersight, shimmered with the red of anger. “That doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does—”
“No, it doesn’t, because you don’t choose me, Sigrun. You could stay here. You could protect our friends, our family, our home—not that you’ve called it home for years.” The last was a slap, and he shook his head, clearly recanting the words after they were spoken, but held up a hand to stay her words. “You could defend this city as easily as any other. But you choose not to.”
Sigrun turned her face aside sharply. “I am of Valhalla,” she said, her heart contracted down to a tiny, painful lump of cold-hot diamond in her chest. “I may love people who live here, but my loyalty is to my people, as a whole. This is the same duty I have had since I was born. This is the same duty in me that you accepted when we married. In that regard, nothing has changed, except your willingness to accept it.” She gestured at the city outside the windows. “But explain to me why I should abandon millions of my people to death, when they are in immediate danger, to protect this land, which has its own god, if a silent one?”
Adam’s mouth opened and closed. “There are millions of fenris, jotun, and nieten here, and refugees from the north—”
“I am aware of that.” Sigrun met his gaze, her voice toneless. “They will be protected. Taranis and the Morrigan will be in the Woods, and others will come here, as well. And if I survive the battle of Burgundoi, I will return here. I will protect this city, and its people. I will help evacuate any who wish to go, into the Veil.” Tears prickled at her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. “Will you go? Will you go to Trennus’ realm with any of your people who can be persuaded?”
Adam hesitated. Emotions flickered over his spirit, in colors that bespoke torment—reds, oranges, livid purples, and sickly yellows. “I want to,” he told her, quietly. “But I can’t.”
And once more, we’re back at this impasse. He wants to, but he can’t. Or won’t. “I’m sorry.” Her voice broke. “I would have given you eternity. I would have given you the stars. I would have shared every wonder I found with you.” She twisted her wedding ring.
“Sigrun!” His voice was agonized. “Is it so much to ask, that you stay here with me? For just . . . for just a few more days? Ten days. That’s all I ask. Ten days, till our wedding anniversary.”
Sigrun’s face crumbled. “I have no more time to give.” She shook her head, and let the tears fall. How could she tell him, that the date still mattered to her, but that the marriage itself seemed more and more a sham? That the man she had loved had chosen slow suicide every day for seven years, rather than be with her for eternity? And that this rejection had placed a wedge between their souls, and every day had been a hammer blow atop it, dividing them from one another? She’d tried to convey this, and all it had ever done was create torment in him. And while she could see that pain inside him, she didn’t understand it. “I am very likely to die in the coming battle. And if I somehow live?” She shook her head, tasting defeat in her mouth, dry as dust, pallid as ash. “I will take care of you until you die, or until I die myself.” Because you insist by your actions that I be a nurse, though your words and your eyes cry out for a wife or a lover, you will have the nurse. You will get what you want.
“Sigrun!” Both of his hands were on her shoulders now, fingers urgent with the need to explain, convince, persuade. “Please listen to me.” His throat tightened. She looked beaten. He’d done this to her. He couldn’t let it stand. He couldn’t let it all end, because of a lie of omission.
She stared at his shoulder. “I hear your words.” Her tone was dull.
God. How do I tell her? What will she believe, or at least, understand and accept? “Sophia’s prophecy. She said I would be a godslayer.” The words tumbled out of his mouth.
“You are one.” Her tone remained leaden. “Weren’t you the one saying to break the prophecy?”
Fair point. Adam wrestled with the burden of words. “No. I mean, I’ve wanted to break her prophecy about me, for decades. She meant that I’d be . . . one of them.” He gestured upstairs towards the mother-in-law suite, where they kept the image from the tomb of Nefertiti. And Sigrun went still, the light of horror rising in her eyes. “I don’t want this, Sig. But I don’t . . . .” He swallowed. “I translated a scroll from the Archives that Zaya found. And just as Sophia always said, his name is mine, and my name is his.” How in god’s name do I get away from that? “It might be the o
nly way we can save everything. I’m useless as I am now, Sig. And I . . . can’t let this fall on someone like Maccis, Rig, Solinus, or some poor young Judean soldier from the front lines whose name I don’t know. They’ve got their lives ahead of them. They’ve got wives and children—” Adam faltered, seeing that he had, again, inadvertently slapped Sigrun with his words. I just implied that I don’t have a wife.
Sigrun recoiled. And he could see from the tiny flickers of her expression that she was trying to assimilate everything that he’d just said. “You’re not useless,” she said, quietly, but her gray eyes had lost all luster. “And I don’t see how summoning a monster from the ancient past is going to save the world from the monsters of the present.” She stared at him, the frozen tears coursing down her face now. “I came here to try to save your life. And instead, you’re telling me that you plan to sacrifice it.”
Adam nodded, his heart twisting in him, numbly. “Maybe. This is . . . what I can do. I can’t just stand here, doing nothing—”
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