The Goddess Denied (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 2)

by Deborah Davitt

  For instance, the war with Persia and Mongolia finally ground to a halt for Rome in 1967, though the Khanate and Persia continued to fight with Qin on their eastern front. Chaldea, Media, and Eastern Assyria were formally recognized as subject kingdoms of the Roman Empire, and Eastern and Western Assyria were re-integrated for the first time in close to five hundred years. However, by treaty agreement, Domitanus’ Wall could not be expanded around them for another fifty years. “Not that I’m sure how we could expand it,” Adam grumbled. He was forty now, and the war had officially begun between Persia and Rome in 1958, eleven years ago. It made him feel . . . annoyingly old, actually. “We’d have to build a second one, one that runs from the Caspian, past Rhagae and Ecbatana at a very steep angle, and then it would cut off at the Gulf of Persia, anyway. On the other hand, not having a wall there is going to make protecting the new provinces much more difficult.” He rubbed at his chin, irritably.

  “Leave the office at the office, please,” Trennus told his friend, peaceably. They were sitting on a khaki-colored beach, and none of them knew what to do with themselves. Far out on the inland sea, fishing boats went about their business, dropping lines and nets for the massive sturgeon for which the region was famous. The clang of their bells drifted over the waves, muted by distance.

  At least it was a working vacation. Or would be, once they’d finished their three-hour stint on this beach this afternoon. Lady Erida had been quite specific about not letting them see the Magi Archives until after they’d relaxed. Adam inhaled. There was only a faint tang of salt in the air here. The Caspian’s southern end had only about a third of the salt content of the Sea of Atlas or the Pacifica. He could smell food cooking in a restaurant in one of the nearby hotels, and the cloying scent of suncream on the skins of those around him. He caught the aroma of Sigrun’s apple shampoo powder and a hint of her sweat, as she hunched under the red umbrella that was all the shade their group had. Adam himself lounged back, relaxed, on the blankets beside her, and ran a hand up and down her bare back, watching the other people on the beach.

  Most beaches around the southern end of the Caspian Sea were held by resorts and private land-owners, like Lady Erida Badal—formerly Lelayn—and her husband, who had been inviting them to come for a visit for years now. That being said, there were no walls or fences between private and public land, to ensure that everyone had abundant access to the water. That made it harder to relax. They all scanned their surroundings, out of habit. The more so, because Trennus, Lassair, Minori, and Kanmi had their children along with them on this vacation.

  All the bathers on the beach, from the oldest to the youngest, were nude. Public nudity wasn’t a crime, after all. Unlike the baths in Rome and Edo, however, the beaches here were not gender-segregated. It made for interesting people-watching.

  Trennus, for example, still tended to be uncomfortable in the baths in Rome. Yet Adam had seen his friend strip to the skin and dive into icy mountain streams in Caledonia, at the northern end of Britannia, whooping and laughing. That had been their last vacation . . . god, was that really three years ago already? . . . when he and Sigrun had been introduced to Trennus’ sprawling Pictish family. They’d gone hiking in the Caledonian Forest, and Sigrun had commented on the beauty of the woods, which had just made Lassair smile and tell her, If you think these are beautiful, then you should see the ones that Trennus is planting in the Veil. At which Trennus had flushed and changed the subject. Saraid, however, had manifested, and rested her ephemeral, hind-like head on Sigrun’s shoulder, shyly thanking the valkyrie for the compliment. As if Sigrun had complimented the spirit’s hair or attire.

  Here, in another natural setting, Trennus, now forty-one, wasn’t flustered by nudity at all, and was actually out, shoulder-deep in the water, one hand under each of his six-year-old twins’ bellies—Inghean and Solinus—as he taught them how to swim. None of their children had Lassair’s fear of the water, and all of them seemed to be immune to fire. His oldest daughter, Latirian, was eight now, and was helping her mother ride herd on a second set of twins, Deiana and Linditus. And Lassair was currently pregnant again. Adam had just raised his eyebrows at Trennus and told him, “Trying to outdo your parents?”

  “Not intentionally, but this one will make six, yes,” Trennus had returned. “I’d be fine stopping now, but it’s not my choice. Lassair decides when she wants to be pregnant.”

  Adam had fought the urge to ask Trennus if he’d considered using a condom. It wasn’t his business, and, on sober reflection, he realized that sheathing oneself in rubber before sheathing oneself inside a spirit of fire-and-fertility who might be offended at that, could be a one-way ticket to the burn ward.

  At the time, Lassair had only said, I enjoy making life. But not another set of twins this time. She’d had a peaceful smile on her face, but a shadow of sorrow in her eyes as she glanced at Sigrun.

  Every time Tren and Lassair had another child, Sigrun seemed to curl in on herself, and Adam didn’t know what to do to stop that. He’d volunteered to see a specialist in 1965, after four years of trying to conceive a child had ended in failure. In that same time-span, Trennus and Lassair had had three children and Kanmi and Minori had had a little girl. “It’s a little less invasive for me,” he’d told her, keeping his voice light. “I just have to go mildly sin into a cup.”

  The problem was, his sperm count was just fine. The swimmers all knew how to swim, no deformities—something he’d been mildly concerned about, having been at Ground Zero for the death of several entities so far, and Kanmi did keep bringing up the words cancer and mutation. Though Kanmi and Trennus had been there for both events, and didn’t seem to have any problems siring offspring. At least I know I’m not firing blanks, Adam had thought, staring at the report. The problem is, I’d almost rather it was me. Sigrun’s not used to her body not performing optimally. I think this is either going to offend her, or depress her. And god help anyone who tries to tell her that this is the stuff that mortals have to deal with all the time, and that she’s the one who wanted a mortal life. I think she might break them.

  Sigrun had then ventured to a specialized clinic in Judea, herself. And the doctors had no idea what to do with her. She informed them that she had not bled since stopping her birth control in 1960, and that had sent the specialists into a tizzy. They’d apparently asked her age, to determine if she was menopausal, and Sigrun had refused to give them that information. “You’re a difficult patient,” Adam had chided her, gently.

  “My age is irrelevant, Adam.” Sigrun had gestured down at herself. Adam had appreciated the view, but was all too aware of the white hairs that had appeared in his beard, and that had popped up here and there in his hair. Give it a decade, and people are going to be calling me a cradle-robber, in tones of jealousy. Give it two decades, and people are going to be calling her a gold-digger, in tones of disgust.

  In spite of his thoughts, he’d clasped her hand, and told her, “Well, maybe medical science doesn’t know quite what to do with you. Let’s . . . cultivate our other resources.”

  But before they could make it back to Rome and their contacts, there had been one more family gathering to attend in Judea. Sigrun had, over the years, taken to helping Adam’s mother with the altogether homely chore of baking bread in the kitchen on these occasions. Adam suspected that it was, in part, because it kept her out from under the feet of his very large and vocal family, and also, in part, because it let her establish a bond with Abigayil.

  Adam had found himself sitting and playing with Rivkah’s children, and watching the rest of the gathering out of the corner of his eye. And it was, of course, his older brother, Mikayel, who finally leaned over, and told him, soberly, “You know, you’d have children of your own by now, if you hadn’t married her.”

  Adam had looked up from the game board, and looked, steadily, at his older brother. “What do you mean?”

  Mikayel sighed. “I’m sorry, Adam, but it’s fairly obvious. You’ve been mar
ried for what, ten years now, or close to it? Childlessness is a common punishment for sins. And just as obviously, marrying a foreigner, an unbeliever, was a sin.”

  The flash of temper was instant, and Adam forced himself to remember that he was sitting in his parents’ living room, surrounded by Mikayel’s wife and children, Rivkah’s children, and half-dozen of the neighbors. “Mikayel,” Adam said quietly, smiling. He knew it wasn’t a good smile, by the way everyone around him went silent. “I think my sins—which include killing people and the occasional lie spoken in the service of our people and Rome—are far worse than marrying the woman I love. But those sins, brother, are between me and our lord, and are none of your concern.” Every word was spoken softly. Ripples of silence were expanding out from him, he realized, dimly. The children, sensing anger, backed away. “But if you like? We can continue this conversation outside, where there’s much less furniture to break.”

  “You don’t scare me,” Mikayel returned. “You can make all the threats you want, it doesn’t change the facts—”

  “Mikayel, you’re a damned fool,” their father had said, abruptly, from the door of the living room. Adam’s vision, which had defocused slightly, allowing him the wide-angle view he used in combat, looking at nothing in particular, but responding to everything, snapped back into proper focus. “Adam could kill you with his bare hands, but probably will settle for humiliating you in public and ensuring that you don’t have any more teeth before he’s done with you. But you’re also a fool for presuming that you know the mind of god. You’re arrogant, Mikayel, when we are meant to be humble. I suggest that you go home and reflect on this truth.” Their father paused. “I’ll see you next week, my son.”

  It was a clear dismissal, and one meant to separate the two brothers. Sigrun stepped in from the kitchen, wiping the flour from her hands, and from the look on her face, Adam wasn’t surprised to open the front door to see rain pouring down in an angry squall, accompanied by a first, distant peal of thunder.

  When they’d finally gotten back to Rome, Lassair had been mildly offended that they hadn’t come to her first. I have been assisting other women in the neighborhoods in which we live as a midwife, she pointed out, crossing her arms over her chest. She’d been pregnant with twins at the time, so her belly had provided a shelf on which she’d rested her arms. I will need to examine you from the inside, Stormborn.

  They’d all been sitting in Trennus and Lassair’s Rome apartment’s small living room at the time, after the children had finally fallen asleep. Adam’s eyebrows had risen, and Trennus had choked back a laugh. Sigrun’s eyebrows rose fractionally. “Ah . . . right here?” she asked, sounding uncomfortable. “You’re not going to ask me to undress, are you?”

  Only if you want to, Lassair teased. It would be more fun for everyone that way.

  Adam had turned his laugh into a cough. Sigrun put her face down in her hands. “All right, I thought that the serious and sober physicians of Jerusalem asking me if I were too elderly to have a child was as embarrassing as this could get. I was wrong.”

  Lassair’s laugher had echoed in their minds. No, no, you don’t have to get undressed. I just need to get inside of you. That’s all.

  Sigrun regarded Lassair, warily. Lassair had, after all, kissed the reluctant valkyrie quite passionately in greeting this evening. Even after years of Sigrun’s complete lack of response, Lassair had persisted in greeting her in that fashion. Adam often thought that only the fact that Lassair meant no offense by it, and the fact that she was Trennus’ beloved, had kept Sigrun from punching the blithe fertility spirit by now. Sigrun cleared her throat. “And by inside, do you mean how you normally heal people? I ask this solely for clarity’s sake.”

  Lassair had lifted herself from the couch in one smooth movement, unburdened by the weight of her own flesh, and moved over to the chair where Sigrun sat, curling up beside her and wrapping her arms around the valkyrie. Sigrun didn’t move, other than to stiffen. I would give every one of you joy if I thought you would let me, and if I thought it would not hurt Trennus’ feelings. I would make myself male or a hermaphrodite for you. A flicker, and a second Lassair stood there, in front of Sigrun now, smiling, and slowly turning distinctly male. Still the red eyes, and coppery hair, but built like a damned bear-warrior. A solid seven feet in height, and broad in proportion. Beard sprouting, downy at first, against the cheeks. We could have such joy together . . . but it’s not my child you seek to carry. And I would not make myself look like Steelsoul for you, or like you for him. Well . . . not without your equal consents. A little pause for amusement. You know that.

  Her female self picked up Sigrun’s braid, and waved the end at Adam, smiling merrily. Adam did his best not to picture Lassair taking on Sigrun’s form, identical in every way but for the red eyes, and both of them smiling at him. Brain, shut up. Libido, you too. He found a portion of the ceiling to stare at for a moment, and then looked back down as Lassair’s second-self shifted, becoming outwardly a non-pregnant woman, slender as a maiden, but with a slightly different cast of face than Lassair’s normal expression of self. That form smiled, reached out, and slid her hands into Sigrun’s belly, and then poured herself inside of Adam’s wife in a rush of flame, vanishing entirely.

  While I’m checking things, Lassair-without added, cheerfully, let me verify that you’re doing things properly. You are using the right hole, yes, Steelsoul?

  Adam had choked, and had actually felt his cheeks go tight with a flush of embarrassment. Trennus put his hands over his face and roared with laughter. “Gods, Lassair, what a question!”

  “I feel as if I should be offended,” Adam replied, resignedly, looking at the ceiling again, “except that this is so surreal that I’m not sure I could be offended if I tried.”

  Just answer the question.

  “Yes, I’m using the right one. I’ve mastered basic anatomy.”

  Sigrun laughed, though she was squirming in the chair, as if she were being mercilessly tickled from the inside.

  Finally, Lassair-within had emerged, and, frowning, rejoined her sister-self, who frowned identically, once the two rejoined. Stormborn, she said, quietly. This isn’t a matter of hormonal balance. I could correct that. Your life-giving parts, the place of seed, and the garden itself? They are . . . suffused with the Veil. They are outside of time, but they remain in this physical reality. Her tone was confused, to say the least.

  Sigrun’s mouth had dropped open. “What?”

  Adam’s mouth had opened, and then clicked shut. “Gods,” Trennus said, sitting up. “Didn’t . . . didn’t Cocohuay say something, years ago, the first time she met you . . . shit. I can’t remember.”

  She said that she might offer her assistance to Stormborn at some point. Lassair sounded angry. I could not see this from outside of you, sister. I am so sorry that I did not see this before. Who has done this to you? Who has the power to do this?

  That had been two years ago. Time enough for Sigrun to petition the Odinhall for a meeting with Freya. And Freya, who had been perfectly available to help Sigrun train what Sigrun had come to call ‘othersight,’ was unaccountably unavailable at the moment to talk to her about the evident curse causing her barren condition. As such, after a year of silence from the Odinhall, Sigrun had arranged to visit Mamaquilla in Tawantinsuyu. Very quietly. It wasn’t lightly that one made a petition to see the new head of a major pantheon, and she’d had to do it in between interviews with Reginleif at the Odinhall, and genuine lictor work. Trips to Raccia, Qin, and even into the Mongol Khanate, as Livorus tried to broker a peace treaty.

  Adam had asked Sigrun if she were sure she wanted to talk to the moon goddess, and not her own gods. “It’s been a year,” Sigrun had muttered. “At the moment, I am apparently still much distrusted by my own gods. I will ask of Mamaquilla. She may well consider that she owes us a favor, Adam. And if Reginleif has anything to say about this being my substituting my wisdom for that of my gods, I can tell her that their wi
sdom was withheld from me, in spite of my requests.”

  He hadn’t been able to go with her. One of them going, they could cover up, fairly well. Both of them . . . someone would have noticed. And when she’d returned from that visit to Tawantinsuyu there was death in her eyes, and her anger could have leveled a city. “She said she had not the power to undo a curse like this. She is almost the sole focus of thirty-six million people’s worship, but I am not bound to her, not subject to her, and whoever did this had six or seven times her power. At her rough estimate.” Sigrun had bitten off the words, pacing back and forth through their living room. “I will petition the Odinhall for another meeting with Freya. A curse of this magnitude should get some sort of priority.” She’d turned away. “Not that I expect it.”

  He couldn’t comfort fury. There was no outlet for the rage. It was too big, a sense of injustice that grated on his wife like a thorn that had worked its way to the bone. It had sunk so deeply into her that most days, he couldn’t see it. But he knew it was still there. Someone had done this to her. And that someone was, someday, going to pay.

  Adam’s own anger was powerful, but it was a helpless sort of fury. This had to be the act of a god, and there was little he could do about that. He was aware that most of the time, when someone prayed, the answer was no or do it yourself, foolish child. This wasn’t a no. This wasn’t a natural occurrence of the clockwork physics of the universe. This was an I/we prevent this, and I/we have gone to great lengths to conceal this fact. It was the latter, Adam suspected, that infuriated Sigrun as much as anything else. If a god had come to her and told her, You can’t have children, and this is why or if Tyr himself had simply commanded, No issue from you, Sigrun, she would probably have accepted it without much question. A curse implied that a judgment had been rendered against her, a judgment without trial, and even, as far as they could tell, without a crime.