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

by Deborah Davitt

  The dragon lowered his head, clearly trying not to look aggressive. The sun-god grimaced. Very well. I will take the memories from your mind, if you will not speak.

  Tyr moved directly for Sigrun, and most of the wolves gave way, tucking their tails and lowering their ears, but Ima remained precisely where she was, keeping Trennus and Sigrun warm. Tyr set his spear down on the ground, and put a hand on the fenris—cautiously. Very cautiously, Adam had to admit. Of course, if your name was Tyr One-hand and everyone knows that a wolf will bite off one of your appendages, I’d imagine you’d be a little cautious, too. No matter that she’s mortal and he’s a god. Then the god reached out and put his other hand on Sigrun’s forehead, even as the heavier-set god with the hammer reached down to put a hand to Brandr’s shoulder, and Freya moved around to touch the unconscious Erikir.

  . . . peace. Walking through glorious green woods with a good friend. Only one thing would have made it better, and that was having the others there with them. Steelsoul would love this place, she thought. And she wished Saraid were here, for the forest-spirit’s heart seemed both akin to her own, but gentler, nobler, and truer. Emberstone’s wicked sense of humor would be blunted by the peace of this place, and Truthsayer would probably scarcely recognize her beloved here. Brandr and Erikir . . . she did not know their Names. But she wished for their presence, too. If there’s an afterlife, I would gladly forgo the feasting of Valhalla for this. Just this. The people I love, and simple peace.

  Then her eyes snapped open, and Sigrun groaned a little as mortal reality hit her. Every part of her body hurt. The brief respite from pain had only served to intensify it. She was aware of weight across her legs, a hand holding her own, pain in belly and chest, a night-black shadow overhead, and Tyr’s eyes looking down into hers. Daughter. I would know what passed here.

  Sigrun opened her mind, without question, hesitation, or reservation. She would accept her god’s judgment on her for any perceived disobedience, but it seemed likely that if she and the Praetorians had not been here, that Brandr and Erikir would both have died, that Hel would have arrived to take Loki’s life and powers with the full acquiescence of the Aesir behind her.

  That was the important point, really; Hel could have been brought there at any time, but the goddess had wanted it to look . . . somehow legitimate. She’d wanted to disguise her patricide. And of course, Reginleif wouldn’t have permitted it anyway; her plan had been to bind and use Hel, as they had bound Loki.

  Images fleeted through her mind, things she’d barely been conscious for, and things that she truly wished she could forget. Hel’s death, at the hands of Adam and the teeth of Niðhoggr. The surge that had propelled Loki into instability, and from there, into sacrifice.

  I see it. I see it all. Tyr’s voice was sad, as Thor knelt, trying to restore Brandr, which took . . . a much longer time than it should have. Finally Brandr sat up, with assistance, and tried to speak, but the words failed on his lips. Sigrun winced, inwardly horrified. Their bodies were tools. Instruments. For them not to function as they should was more than just an affront; it went deeper even than shame. It was . . . personal failure. She tried to reach out for Brandr’s hand, but he was too far away, and with Tyr’s hand on her shoulder, she couldn’t stand and go to her old teacher.

  You are certain? Freyr asked Tyr. It is not an extravagant deception, used to deceive them, so that they could deceive us?

  I am certain. Tyr’s voice was heavy. He should have come to us. Should have come to me.

  Would you have believed him? Freya now, the goddess moving among the wolves, her expression stricken.

  I know the truth when I see it. Tyr put a hand to Sigrun’s shoulder, and warmth flooded through her, finishing the healing process, and taking the pain away.

  She lifted her head, and dared to ask, “Father . . . you would not have come all this way . . . .” Sigrun closed her eyes. “You came here, thinking Ragnarok had begun. How bad are the effects?”

  Look, if you would know, Tyr replied, simply, as Trennus now sat up, as well, with Lassair’s help. See what we have seen. I could put it into words . . . but numbers, past a certain scale, are meaningless to the mortal mind. Thirty million are dead, however. They died the instant Hel’s power touched them, for they were . . . not strong enough to bear it. The others have been more affected by Loki’s . . . dispersion. Tyr’s voice held quiet horror, and he showed them all an entire stretch of highway where people had been driving in ley-powered automobiles, and every driver but one had collapsed at the wheel. That one, lone driver, somehow survived having his motorcar rammed, got out and walked along the bridge, looking into each car as he passed, and Sigrun could see the terror in the man’s face and eyes as he began to run along the shoulder, breathing harder and harder as he began to wonder if he were the last man alive on the face of the earth . . . until a valkyrie swooped down, caught him in her arms, and carried him away, in spite of the fact that he screamed and struggled and then finally sagged in relief. There are those who remained completely untouched. As many of them, as those who died outright. Thirty million or so. But they are surrounded by fifteen million who have gone insane, who attack them on sight, or throw themselves from tall buildings. And there are those who stayed sane, but whose bodies were crazed. Far more of them, in fact, than those who were untouched. Some have only small changes. Others . . . scales. Fur. Jotun. Wolves.

  There are over a hundred million lives affected, Freya whispered. We cannot save them all.

  Sigrun put her face in her hands and shook. Saraid spoke then, quickly, Loki gave me a task, and a gift to ensure that it would be possible. I will do as he bade me. I will help the wolves, with my sisters’ aid.

  Freyr laughed, but it sounded bitter. There are not quite eight million wolves, little sister. If it took you only twenty minutes to heal each of them, and you worked around the clock, beginning at the start of the line, and ensuring that none of them whelp before you reach the end? You would be done in around two hundred and seventy-seven years.

  Sigrun realized, dimly, that Tyr had been right. Past a certain point, numbers really were meaningless to the human mind. Freyr had just put it into perspective, however. “No one person . . . can solve this.”

  No. Not even one single god. We are limited by time in this world. Our children must aid each other. They must help themselves. As we have ever taught them to do. Tyr rested a hand on Sigrun’s shoulder. What would you do, daughter?

  Sigrun turned, looked at Adam, and then back at Tyr again. “Help them,” she said, her voice barely audible. “It is our fault that so many now suffer.”

  If you had not been here, Freya said, with force, Loki’s power might have been distributed more gradually. But Hel would have fought her confinement. Events may have transpired precisely as they already did . . . except that Loki would not have been able to escape to the Veil. That was well done, summoner. Her eyes fixed on Trennus for a moment. And his power would have found no receptacles. Her golden eyes focused on Saraid for a moment, and then moved to Sigrun. You halved the destruction. His power was . . . immense. It would have reached across the sea. Passed over Britannia. Touched Iceland. It would have reached the Raccian steppes. Passed as far south as Rome, covered half the Caspian. The boundary of the effect would have been within an easy day’s travel of Tyre, or Jerusalem.

  Sigrun could feel all the others reacting, as if to body-blows. At the moment, none of this was affecting their people . . . though she could clearly envision waves of refugees immigrating to Britannia, to Rome, to Tyre, to Jerusalem. But while she had been born in Caesaria Aquilonis, these were her people. And this was her fault. “How do we even begin to help?”

  Erikir nodded, raising himself up. “I’m well enough now to help anywhere I’m needed,” he said, simply, as if he hadn’t been knifed in the gut a half an hour ago. Then again, with Freyr’s aid, he was wholly healed, though it looked as if Brandr would be paying for the day’s events for a long time to come. “Ju
st tell me where I’m needed most.”

  Freyr’s eyes were proud as he looked on his descendant, and Brandr again tried to speak, but no words came to his lips. He sighed and reached for his hammer, but Thor shook his head, slowly. When you are able, Thor told Brandr, whose face settled into tired lines. That will not be soon. The damage to the brain was extensive.

  I might not be able to assist every fenris, Saraid said now, with a certain determination. But I will help the ones I can. Wolf-sister. Come here. The spirit nodded her own lupine head at the ground between Sigrun and Trennus, and Ima slipped off of Sigrun’s legs . . . letting blood flow return, in prickles, below Sigrun’s knees. Lassair. Stormborn—

  Sigrun held up her hands defensively, and sat up, cautiously, darting a sidelong glance at Trennus as the Pict, too, levered himself up. The Veil memories were so peaceful, and just going there and hiding forever sounded like such a good idea. But that would mean ignoring duty forever, too. “I have no idea what you wish for me to do, Sari—”

  Listen. Watch. Show me where the human parts reside.

  Sigrun leaned back against Adam’s shoulder, pulling her legs up to her chest, and watched as Saraid shifted her form to a more-or-less human state, put her ephemeral hands on Ima’s head, and Lassair moved up beside her. Felt them working and unknotting and untangling, as Freya tipped her head to the side and examined their working with interest. Sigrun, for her part, was doing her best not to use othersight at all. She’d gone blind in the middle of the fight. She couldn’t afford to do that again. Stormborn, you must help, or I will mar this. Saraid’s tone was patient. Would you cause me to give our friend pain?

  How? Sigrun demanded, feeling every muscle in her body go rigid. If you need a human female body to emulate, use Minori’s. If you need a human mind to emulate, use Trennus, to whom you are bound, anyway. Why do you need my assistance?

  Because our friend is god-touched now, Saraid whispered, her tone gentle. So are all the jotun. So are all the grendels and ettin, though less pleasantly so. Truthsayer is not god-touched. Trennus is . . . touched, but by me, and by Lassair, and that does not give me an adequate model. And you have gifts, sister. Your touch will aid us.

  Put that way, Sigrun couldn’t refuse. She had just asked how she could help, after all. And Ima turned her all-too-human eyes towards the valkyrie, and panted, until Sigrun grimaced and peeked at her in othersight. She couldn’t even begin to understand what Saraid and Lassair were doing, but the Lassair explained the entire process to Ima as she worked, and let everyone else hear, as well. Like a good doctor, removing a splinter of glass from a patient’s hand. I’m going to switch your nerve inputs around a little, dear. Like what I do for birthing mothers. So pain will actually feel like pleasure, but the impulses will be strong enough that I can tell when we’re doing something that’s not working. You won’t feel pain. That much, I can promise. And then she and Saraid began to work, and Ima’s form began to melt and distort and shimmer.

  Kanmi winced. “Principle of mass conservation, Asha.”

  I am aware. I cannot do anything with her additional mass. It is present. It is part of her. She will be a jotun . . . perhaps for the best, anyway. Lassair sounded distracted, but she flashed Vidarr a quick, merry grin, and Sigrun actually saw the giant flush.

  Sigrun did her best to point out nerve connections and patterns and symmetries to the two spirits, but she didn’t understand what she was seeing. Not at first, anyway. And then, it was like a key turning in a lock in her mind, and she had dim memories of Freya, whispering lessons into her mind when she’d half-drowsed in the Odinhall, and Sigrun clenched her teeth. Tried to drive them back away. But they wouldn’t be denied, and . . . the information might be useful. “Sari . . . Asha. . . ?”

  Yes?

  “Can you make her so she can freely shift back and forth?”

  What? Ima, who was almost entirely assembled into a humanoid form, but her body was still soft as wax between the two spirits’ hands, tried to turn her head to look at Sigrun.

  “You . . . you like the wolf senses, do you not?” Sigrun closed her eyes, the lessons beating at the inside of her head. “And the fenris . . . you will never be able to transform all of them, will you? Some of them are more . . . wolfish. They have lost too much of what made them human. Ima has more self left than Sikke. The puppies . . . will need educating, either way. My point is, however, that there will always need to be . . . someone who can talk to all of the fenris.” Sigrun opened her eyes, and looked directly at Ima. “God-born are intercessors. We are meant to be a bridge between gods and humanity. Would you be willing . . .” Sigrun exhaled. It was a horrible thing to ask, but. . . “to be a bridge between the packs and humanity?”

  Ima’s head swung, formless besides those all-too-human eyes. Looked at the seventy or so fenris in the room, and Sigrun could only imagine what was going through her mind. The form had been forced upon her. And Sigrun was asking her to consider remaining bound to it, in part, for the rest of her life. It was a horribly unfair thing to ask, and she hated herself for the words. Yes, Ima said, suddenly. If I could choose when to be a woman, and when to be wolf? Yes. Not all of my people will have voices. Not all of my people will be . . . freed. Someone needs to help.

  Sigrun closed her eyes again, feeling sick. As if she’d just trapped a good person. All right, she thought, going cold. Lassair? Saraid? There’s a switch you need to build. She did her best to ignore the way Freya raised her brows and folded her arms across her chest.

  A . . . switch? Saraid sounded confused.

  I don’t understand it. But it looks like this. Sigrun pretended, for a moment, that she was a book. Let the two of them read her, and stared at a shattered wall. Can you do that?

  Not without help. Lassair’s tone was unexpectedly sly. Move the strands, Stormborn. Just as when we wove their minds back together.

  That gave me a nosebleed, as I recall. It’s not easy, Lassair. And I don’t understand why it works.

  Why do you need to know why it works? You have spent too much time with Truthsayer and Emberstone.

  Because if I understood it, the chances of me destroying someone by accident would be substantially lessened.

  And yet, you have faith that we will not damage her with this? I’m touched. Shape the strands, sister. It is your knowledge, not mine.

  Not mine. Freya’s. And I will ask her to take it back.

  She worked with it. Shaped the strands, braided them. Looped them back into each other, so that one process fed into the other, world without end, the world-serpent devouring his own tail. And then stepped out of the way as Lassair told Ima, gently, Try to picture what you remember your face looking like, dear.

  . . . I can’t remember. Just give me a good one. No matter what face I see reflected in a pool, it will . . . be better than only seeing the wolf.

  Her form shimmered. Transformed. There was a gasp of almost carnal pleasure from Ima as her body solidified, but she remained tucked in a tight crouch, her head in her hands, knees to her chest for the moment. Her skin was bare, and she was . . . well, jotun-sized. Vidarr immediately removed his own cloak and draped it over her shoulders.

  Lassair nodded to herself but looked a little troubled, and weary. It is not, perhaps, how you thought you would look.

  “Every magical process has losses,” Minori said, simply. “There’s only so much energy to be had. I would have said a shapeshift like this would be impossible, a few hours ago.”

  Saraid tipped her head to the side. I think you are beautiful as you are. Let your friend’s eyes be your mirror, first, before you look upon your own reflection in a glass or in a pool.

  Sigrun watched as Ima slowly uncurled, moving as if unused to her own limbs . . . which, of course, she was. The last time she’d been a woman, she’d probably weighed less than two hundred pounds; now, she weighed over seven hundred, at least. Her waist-length hair was as white as her fur had been, and to Sigrun’s surprise, two lightly furred, tr
iangular ears poked up at the sides of her head, twitching a little at the sounds around her. A long, white tail still swung back and forth, swishing the folds of Vidarr’s cloak, but her legs and feet looked entirely human, if abnormally large. Her blue eyes were round with a little fear, but her face didn’t have the underslung jaw of some of the jotun.

  “Say something,” Vidarr encouraged her. “Would be nice to know if your voice works now.” Hint of a smile, though it bared his fangs.

  Ima’s mouth worked, and she smiled back, which revealed curving canines under her lips. Invisible until bared. “Not . . . sure . . . what to . . . say.” She paused. “How bad is it?” She reached up and explored her face with one cautious hand . . . and then stopped and looked at the hand itself. And suddenly whooped and began to laugh and cry at the same time. “I have hands. I have hands and a voice. The rest doesn’t matter. Oh, thank you, Asha, thank you, Sari!”