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

by Deborah Davitt

  It was a platitude, and he knew it. But he wanted—no, needed—to try to lift that empty stare from her eyes.

  A ripple of voices, as he walked away from Livorus’ sword. A sword that surely, inside of thirty years, would be a rusted ruin. But then again, the blade, made of simple, high-carbon steel, shouldn’t have cut through poured-stone, either.

  “I thought,” Kanmi said, after a moment, to Trennus, “that there was only one Caliburn, the sword that cuts stone.”

  “So did I,” Trennus admitted. “Maybe we’re going to need it.”

  God, Adam thought, grimly. I really hope not.

  Chapter 8: Swells

  Fluid dynamics isn’t my primary field of study, but it can provide surprisingly helpful analogies for social events. After a major storm, such as a typhoon or hurricane, waves spawned by the storm move out in all directions, sorting themselves into groups that move at similar speeds and wavelengths. They may travel thousands of miles until they encounter an obstruction, such as the shoreline of an island or a continent, and then shatter themselves into breakers on that distant shore. But through the course of their travels, they maintain constant speed and bearing and release little of their energy until they reach the point where they can go no further.

  The ripples of a storm in the North Sea might well traverse the Sea of Atlas and touch the beaches of Caesaria Aquilonis. They may have expended some of the storm’s initial energy in their travels, but a surprising amount will break itself against the shore where the waves come to land. But they may not arrive for weeks or for months.

  Aprilis 27, 1970 AC will live in the popular imagination for centuries to come under a variety of different names: the Day of Transition. The Day of Hel’s Demise. The Day of Loki’s Exile. The storm swells from this event are less physical, than social. And they have reached as far as Nahautl and Judea and the shores of the Pacifica. Some of these waves have even brushed the outer regions of Qin itself. Because the violence done to the people there has brought waves of refugees to every province of the Roman Empire, and displaced people need jobs. Need money. Need a way in which to live. And those around them in their new homes may be displaced, in turn. Entire economies have shifted. Supply chains. The demand for bread in certain regions has gone up, and with the growing fields of northern Europa largely unavailable, the price of grain has increased, in turn.

  And still, the swells are not done beating against the shore. There is only the pause between each wave, the trough, as we wait for the next wave’s crest to crash down. We must consider how to use the time in between waves to mitigate the energy of each wave, to reduce the damage to the shoreline, while remembering that all these waves are people.

  —Frittigil Chatti, speech before the Jerusalem City Council, 1978 AC.

  ______________________

  Maius 3, 1970 AC

  In Maius, just a scant week after that infamous twenty-seventh of Aprilis—the Day of Transition, as the jotun and fenris came to call it—the scale of the destruction was only just beginning to unfold for the lictors. All of them had had trouble sleeping after Tawantinsuyu, where thirty thousand people had died in the earthquakes and volcanic eruptions. Sigrun wondered if they were becoming callous, or numb, at first, and then had to acknowledge, yet again, that some numbers simply didn’t impinge on the human consciousness. But seeing the pictures on the far-viewer did, as ornithopters and helicopters took to the skies to get footage of the various towns, only to have cars thrown at them by insane grendel and ettin. To be harried, by lindworms, cruising high in the skies. All air traffic now required a military escort of some kind, and Judea immediately began sending planes, as well as supplies. The provinces and subject kingdoms of the Empire opened their doors to a seemingly unending stream of refugees. Germania itself took the most in; they were right next door to the kingdoms of the north, after all. Shared a common language and religion, as well. Nova Germania opened its doors and began sending troops and supplies immediately, and Novo Gaul and Nahautl began accepting refugees, by the plane and boatload.

  Rome took in refugee flights. The Gallic provinces of the Iberian peninsula—Tarraconnensis, Lusitania, and Baetica, all opened their doors. The Gallic subregions of Aquitania and Belgae accepted refugee buses. Dalmatia, Macedonia, Moesia, Thracia and Hellas accepted refugees, as did Britannia, Tyre, Judea, and Egypt. It was, in no uncertain terms, a diaspora.

  And while thousands were displaced now, and everyone chattered about how this was merely a temporary measure, Sigrun had an ugly feeling that while hundreds of thousands would be displaced within the first months, eventually, there would be a million Goths, Jutes, and Cimbrics in Rome. Another million or so in Judea, in a new sector of Jerusalem that would undoubtedly be called Little Gothia. A million here, a million there. Seeded like dandelions.

  A population of Jutes, displaced to refugee centers in Novo Trier, would blend in with the local population within a few years. Similar language. Same culture. Same gods. Similar appearance. But that same population, sent to Tenochtitlan, would be outsiders, for a generation or two. And she didn’t see any possibility of the people being able to re-colonize their own lands. Not until the lindworm population was put down, and the ettin and grendels were beaten back.

  After two weeks of non-stop work, setting up a defensive perimeter around Turku, and getting Vidarr’s people situated there, Sigrun and the other lictors needed to return to Rome. She, in particular, needed to take a leave of absence from the Praetorians. She apologized to Livorus, but her old friend waved it off. “They’re your people,” he said, simply. “You may have been born in Cimbri-by-the-Caestus, but your people came from Cimbri-on-the-North-Sea. The journey may have taken hundreds of years and thousands of miles, but you are still, fundamentally, one people, bound together by gods and language. Of course you must go, my dear.” He smiled up at her, and added, unexpectedly, “I am, incidentally, taking your advice.”

  “My . . . advice?”

  “I delivered Poppaea her divorce papers, as well as a rather handsome settlement, including a house near the spa she likes so much near Pompeii. I think she is, truthfully, as relieved as I am.”

  For some reason, the words sent a chill through Sigrun, but she recovered enough to force a smile. “I . . . am glad, my lord. You are better, and happier, when you are with Marianna. I like her. I enjoy her company, and her conversation.”

  “So do I. Imagine that.” Livorus quirked a brow at her, leaning on his cane. “What can you tell me about what transpired up there? And don’t think for an instant that I don’t suspect that you all were at the epicenter of this . . . insanity. The technomancers are all reporting an energy surge greater than that of a nuclear reactor melting down, and we have people falling over dead in the street, but not from disease. We have mass transformations. Mass insanity. What in the name of all the gods happened? More importantly, can it be done again? Is this a weapon that could be used against the Empire?” He thumped his cane against the floor.

  Sigrun lowered her eyes. Found a seam in the tile to regard, for a moment. “Valhalla has directed me not to offer any explanations until they are content with the explanations that they have to give,” she parroted, dutifully, her voice empty. “However, I am free to tell you that this was not an external attack, but one directed at us from within. So long as the gods of Rome are . . . not threatened . . . I cannot see this precise scenario occurring here, sir.”

  Livorus gave her a long, steady look. “I shall have to inveigle the full story out of the others, then?”

  “I cannot say what the others will divulge, but I will note that they are not bound by the directives of Valhalla or the Odinhall.” Colorless tone. Expression as blank as the tile she now studied.

  Livorus startled her, by catching her chin in his fingers. Papery-dry with age, but still surprisingly warm. “Did you at least find the answers you were looking for, my dear, before everything went . . . awry?”

  Sigrun met his blue eyes for a moment
, and then simply shook her head. “I found answers, but not the ones I sought.”

  “And it does not seem to have left you happier.”

  Sigrun looked away. “Ten years ago,” she said, quietly, “I defied fate. I clung to hope because a life without hope is meaningless, even for a god-born.”

  “And now?”

  “I still defy fate. But I think that hope can die, old friend.”

  After Rome, and formally taking her leave of Livorus’ service—a hard, hard day, on which she and Adam both kissed their old friend’s hand, and received the ceremonial gift of twelve aurei from him, gold coins that represented two months’ salary for her, even at her current level of seniority (Adam, as leader of the detail, currently made about one aureus more a month than she did)—she reflected, glumly, that she had served Livorus for twenty-one years. And then they took flight for Judea, in yet another airplane, and she sat, staring out the window, motionless. Lost in thought. Until Adam took her hand. “What’s wrong? I mean . . . other than millions of people dead.” His voice was troubled.

  She looked at him, and shook her head. “When we get home,” she told him. “Not . . . not in public. Please.”

  Of course, she’d forgotten, partially, that their house in Judea was filled to capacity with people. Sophia, naturally, knew precisely when they’d arrive, and had rousted out all of the children, Fritti, and her son, and had even gone across the street to get Maor and Abigayil up to welcome them home. Sigrun looked at her sister, and wondered, bleakly, how much of this had been done to please them, and how much of it had been done because Sophia had seen them all present to welcome the travelers home.

  Latirian, Inghean, Solinus, Deiana, and Linditus all charged directly for them as they climbed out of the motorcar. “Aunt Sig! Uncle Adam! Are Mother and Father all right? Did they turn into monsters?” Piping voices, all five of them chattering at once, expressions of concern. Sophia was holding Tasalus by the front porch, and Fritti was hanging back, Rig close up against her legs, while Maor and Abigayil had taken a seat on the steps. “They are fine,” Sigrun told the children, crouching down. “Your father should be here tomorrow, and your mother, as well. Your aunt Sari’s going to be really busy for a while, though. And so will I.”

  “Does that mean we don’t get lessons?” Latirian asked, looking woebegone. “I still think I could learn how to fly, if I really tried hard.”

  “Perhaps you should get your pilot’s license,” Sigrun told her, equitably, as Adam hefted both Solinus and Linditus, one in each arm, and carried the boys, like suitcases, towards the house . . . which resulted in mad giggling from the children. “That’s how your Uncle Adam flies, after all.”

  “But your way looks like more fun.”

  Sigrun reflected, for a moment, that the only times she could recall flying for fun had been with Adam during his flight training, with these children, during their lessons, and with Niðhoggr, in the Veil. All relatively recent events. “Most of the time, it’s just another way to get around,” she told Latirian. “No different for me than walking or running is for you. Let’s get inside, shall we?” Her diction often slipped when she spoke to the children. She used a gentler, less formal mode of address, and they rewarded her with smiles that usually warmed her heart. She wasn’t sure if all of these children held a little of her genetic code, and in the end, it didn’t matter. She loved them as if they were her own. That mattered.

  At the door, after greeting Maor and Abigayil, Adam helped the older couple to their feet, and through the door, Sigrun looked at Sophia. Her sister dimpled at her, her curling hair waving in the breeze. “So. Loki has left the world, and Hel is dead.” A shocked inhalation from Fritti, who immediately shooed an extremely interested Rig in through the front door.

  Sophia went on blithely, still rocking a drowsy Tasalus in her arms. “But you listened to me. I mean, you’d have made new friends even if you didn’t listen to me. But it . . . really makes me happy, Sigrun, that you did what you did, because you listened.” A radiant smile. “Of course, I know you’re not happy right now. You’re not happy with me, you’re furious with Freya, and the world. And I’d be lying if I said I ever saw you getting over that.” Sophia considered that. “At least, not before I die, anyway.” Another sweet smile. “You’re so stubborn, Sigrun. That’s entirely what makes you, you, you know. You’ll fight until there’s nothing left to fight for, and then you’ll keep on fighting, because that’s who you are.”

  Fritti’s eyes, just over Sophia’s shoulder, were wide and horrified. It was one thing to have gotten a mild dose of Sophia’s ability to see things before they happened, as Fritti surely had in the past two weeks. It was something else entirely to hear the full weight of the Voice of Prophecy laid on someone. Sophia was . . . heart-stoppingly beautiful. As hard to say no to, in her own way, as Lassair. And Sigrun had been saying no to Sophia since her sister was eighteen, and had first gone to Delphi. Longer, if she counted that first vision when Sophia was ten. “You know, you could choose not to look,” Sigrun told her sister, wearily. Eightieth verse, same as the first. “You could choose not to see. And you could certainly, failing all else, choose to keep your mouth shut.”

  Sophia sighed. “And cut half or two thirds of myself away, and throw it in the midden, the way you do? I’m trying to help you, Sigrun. I really wish you’d see that.”

  Behind both Sophia and Fritti, Adam had just come back to the door. Sigrun met her husband’s eyes, and realized, that while he normally put on a very careful air of distance and politely noncommittal disinterest in dealing with what remained of her family, he was, this once, furious with Sophia. “Help me?” Sigrun said, quietly, not even sure what in the name of the gods the first half of Sophia’s statement even meant. “How is it even possible to help me, sister? You insist that I’ll be there for the end of the world. That there’s no avoiding or evading it. That I’ll see everything and everyone I love, die. How can you possibly help me with that?”

  Sophia looked blank for a moment. “By getting you to accept it, of course,” she said, after a moment. “Life’s much more peaceful when you just accept that it’s all going to happen the way it’s going to happen. Of course, I also know you’ll never listen to me about that. But I have to keep trying. You and I have that in common!” She freed a hand from Tasalus, and patted Sigrun on the cheek. “Stubborn!”

  Sigrun closed her eyes on a vision of her hand slapping Sophia’s face. With a slightly strangled sound, she took Tasalus from Sophia’s arms, as gently as if the toddler were made of thistledown, and as apt to blow apart on a puff of air. Looked at her sister, and said, with rigorous politeness, “Thank you for looking after the children. It was very kind of you. Trennus and Asha are in your debt.”

  “Yes, they are. But that’s all right. I was just happy to be here, in this undying land.” Sophia glanced at Fritti, and added, cheerfully, “And see? You have plenty of work to do here now. They’ll be opening a refugee center out at the convention hall in the next week. Busy, busy, busy, you’ll be.”

  “Sophia, might I have a word?” Adam said, from between his teeth, and his hand fell on his sister-in-law’s shoulder.

  “Oh, of course. How could I possibly say no to the Godslayer?” Sophia dimpled up at him, and Fritti’s mouth dropped open in shock as Adam moved Sophia, pointedly, out of the doorway.

  Sigrun exhaled, and eased Tasalus up on her shoulder carefully. “I have a message for you, Fritti,” Sigrun told the younger woman, quietly. “You might want to be sitting down when I relay it, though.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?” Fritti said, once they’d reached the atrium, and after Sigrun had paused inside to put Tas on a little cot in the living room. “The far-viewer reports have been horrible. Far, far worse than Tawantinsuyu. I could . . . I could hear Baldur calling to me. Calling all the god-born, all the god-touched, to come to the north and help.” Her lips compressed into a thin line, and her hands twisted, slowly, in her lap.


  Sigrun had not used othersight in two weeks. She was concentrating as hard as she could on making herself blind to it. But she didn’t need it to read the guilt in Fritti’s face and eyes. She sat on the edge of one of the planters, and slipped her hands into the pockets of her jeans, feeling the cross-tied laces stretch a little as she did. “It is your decision, to go, or not to go,” she told the girl, calmly. “I will not push you in any direction. There is work to be done for our people, no matter where in the world you are. I personally see no need for you to leave Rig behind and race into the north, where you . . . have no fighting experience, and might, at best, bandage wounds. You can heal people here. You can heal people in Rome. You can provide safety and succor and hope anywhere you choose to do so. You can even choose not to be involved. As you have said, you asked for none of this. I will respect your wishes if you live quietly and away from all eyes, as you have chosen to do for all of Rig’s life so far. I will not tell a living soul where you are.” I am not Freya. I free you, Fritti, because it is the right thing to do. Loki saw much, and all he wanted for you, for Rig, and for himself was freedom. There are slaves, servants, and free men and women in this world. Let you be one of the free, Fritti. The universe owes you that much.