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

by Deborah Davitt

  So out loud, all Sigrun told Minori was, “We will all work towards that end.”

  “That’s for damned sure,” Trennus muttered, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, as Lassair manifested, and curled up beside him. “He sounded . . . gods. I’ve never heard Esh sound that disoriented before.”

  “Indoctrination does that,” Adam said, curtly, still staring out the window. “At this point, I’m actually amazed he’s kept so much of himself. He’s had an entity hammering on his psyche every day for three years, not to mention every single person he’s surrounded with. And they have him regurgitating their poison into other people’s ears, for added reinforcement. I don’t even know what he’s holding onto, that’s let him hold onto himself.” He took a more cautious sip of his drink, and his voice was hoarse as he added, “But only Esh could do it. I know I couldn’t.”

  Sigrun looked around the room, and realized, with a shock, that Adam wasn’t in the right mental condition to lead. He was as inwards-turned as she’d ever seen him, and the slump in his shoulders was defeat. Trennus looked deeply troubled as he looked from Minori to Adam, and back again. Trennus was a builder. A caretaker, a guardian, an explorer of worlds beyond any of their ken. He was certainly capable of leading; he’d been prepared for kingship, just as all his brothers had been, back in Britannia, and he’d taken point on many occasions when Adam had been incapacitated, one way or another. But he’d been content to follow Adam’s lead in the mortal world for years, while developing his leadership far more in the Veil. And now, he looked uncertain.

  Minori was in no better shape than Adam; she was an unfocused blaze of energy, ready to fight, ready to resist the entire world, but . . . she needed direction. Sigrun grimaced and found a wall to put her back against. She’d take the reins for a while, and then pass them back when the others were ready. “Our first consideration,” she said, quietly, “must be to give Kanmi a stable center. He expressed a desire for Minori to visit. If Lassair goes with her, each time, to maintain the illusion of youth, and to provide a mask for Minori’s identity, so that other spirits cannot detect who she is? No one would even suspect that it is Minori Eshmunazar with him. Everyone who knows Kanmi, knows that Minori is close to his age. The disguise is excellent, if unexpectedly so.” She gave Lassair a glance, and the spirit looked downcast. “This will give us a way to help bolster his will and identity against the indoctrination, and will allow him to pass information to us. We won’t be able to act on a good deal of it, for fear of him being found out as a mole, or for fear of Minori being attacked on her way to and from him. But we might be able to break the CPL before what he fears, comes to pass.”

  Adam raised his head. “You’re saying that if Kanmi gets us word of an imminent threat, we should consider not acting on it? So his disguise is . . . more complete?” His voice was dull.

  Sigrun winced. “Rome has allowed convoys to fall into enemy hands before, lest the Persians or the Mongols realize that cryptographers had unraveled their codes,” she said, quietly. “I suggest that it be taken on a case-by-case basis.” She exhaled. “And we also need to decide, here and now, if we take this further up the chain of command. The more people who know about what started as a highly-classified investigation handled solely within the Judean branch of the Praetorian Guard, the greater the chance of leaks. But since we are, unfortunately, back into the realm of gods once more . . . .”

  “I can’t pick up the phone and call Caesarion directly,” Adam said, grimly. “He calls me, not the other way around.” He exhaled. “Livorus used to be my first phone call.”

  Trennus nodded. “You’re in luck, though. You have a couple of other politicians you can call. Ones we can trust.”

  Good. Trennus is already recovering. He’s gotten his feet under him, and he’s leading. Sigrun watched the others now, silently.

  “I do?” Adam sounded surprised.

  Trennus shook his head. “Marcus and Aquila, Livorus’ oldest son and daughter. Marcus retired from the Legion and came home to assume Livorus’ seat in the Senate, remember? And Aquila’s been active in politics since she was twenty. Two divorces later, and she’s still going strong.”

  “Even better,” Sigrun murmured, “Caesarion’s third son, the one actually named after him? He’s on divorce number three, himself, and he and Aquila finally look to be negotiating a marriage.”

  Every head in the room swiveled, and Adam’s eyebrows rose. “You don’t read the scandal sheets when you’re home, Sigrun, let alone on the front lines. How in god’s name do you know that?”

  Sigrun shuffled her feet slightly. “Marcus found his father’s correspondence with me. Apparently, he’d read enough of the letters to ask a few questions about the early years. We’ve been corresponding for three years.” She looked away. “Everyone’s grandmother, you know.”

  The others retreated to their own rooms about an hour later, Lassair tucking an arm through Minori’s and leading her, gently, down the hall, her mien that of someone in earnest conversation. Sigrun closed the door behind them, and turned back towards Adam, who hadn’t moved from his chair by the window—a seat he’d normally have avoided. Sigrun sighed and knelt behind his chair, wrapping her arms around him from behind. And just tried to be there, as best she could, comforting without words.

  After about ten minutes, he finally spoke. “It’s my fault.”

  “No, it is not.”

  “He’s a dead man walking, he knows it, I know it, and you know it, too. Everyone in the room knew it, even Minori. It’s just that she won’t accept it.” His voice was still dull.

  “And neither will you, once the sun rises,” Sigrun said, quietly. “He’s not dead yet, Adam. Three more years to try to fight my sister’s visions of him. Who knows. If we manage to shift the world far enough, maybe she will wake up, and the future will always have been different for her.” She leaned her head against his shoulder. “And would that not be a wondrous thing?”

  The problem was, she was trying to give hope to others, when she no longer had any for herself.

  September 19, 1984 AC

  “I don’t understand,” Zaya asked her mother, her tone plaintive, as she watched books sail off of shelves and cascade, neatly, into another trunk. Each book was actually being placed, with exquisite care, by a spirit that she couldn’t see, and it drove her mad. “If the Mongols are signing a peace treaty with Rome and with Persia, isn’t that a good thing? Doesn’t that mean they’ll go away?”

  Her mother turned away from directing traffic as books jostled into each other to get into the trunk. “Yes, and also no, Zaya. You need to see the whole picture.”

  Zaya hopped up into an antique chair far too large for her, and her legs dangled. “All right. What don’t I see?”

  Her mother sighed, and brushed her curls of dark hair back from her face, and gestured. The big globe that Zaya loved floated down from a high shelf, and landed on the cherry-stained table beside her. It was made of a variety of semiprecious gems; the oceans were lapis lazuli, and Chaldea was marked out in tiger’s eye. Zaya loved to touch the smooth surface, and feel the coolness of the stones under her hand. “The problem,” her mother said, and showed her how the Khanate had been pushing down from the north, while Persia had been invading from the east. “is two-fold. First, with the Mongols retreating, that means that Persia is free to concentrate on Rome. On us.” She sighed. “We have yet to face the full force of the Empire. They have not yet fielded the Anauša against us. The Immortals.”

  Zaya’s eyes went wide. She’d learned about the Immortals just this week, as her pedagogue had gone over the Battle of Thermopylae. “They were the honor guard of the Achaemenid kings,” she said, sounding out the word carefully. “Chaldean Magi . . . my ancestors . . . bound spirits into their living bodies, correct?”

  “Summoners still do so, to this very day,” her mother told her, her face settling into tight lines. “The Anauša were the sworn companions of the kings. Of Darius, of Cyrus, and of
Xerxes. They willingly gave up their very selves to protect the king. And it is an absolute fact that unless the heart is destroyed, or the head is removed, they just keep fighting. They are not ghul. The body remains technically alive, so this is the possession of a living creature, not the motivation of dead matter. And because the spirit is tied to a living body, and not a dead one, the spirits do not go mad. They have had some three thousand years to practice working a living body. They are very good at it.” She paused, and chose her words carefully. “The brain is left mostly intact by the modern process. Some memories remain. Useful skills. The human spirit is sacrificed and used to power the connection between the body and the Veil spirit it now houses. When a man becomes an Immortal, his family holds his funeral for him the night before the process, so that he may say his farewells, and enjoy one last feast. Because when he next sees his friends and family, he will not know them. There will only be the bargain. Living and dying for the Emperor. Nothing more. Those of the west call the Immortals manufactured god-born. They are in error. There is nothing human left.” Her mother sighed.

  Zaya swung her legs. She didn’t really understand a lot of this, but her mother looked sad. “There are ten thousand of them at a time, right?”

  “Correct. When one is killed in battle, a replacement must be found, immediately. The spirits who bargain for these bodies are always re-used, assuming they are not slain by god-born. They have, after all, prior experience with the bodies. I have . . . been present for the death of the human’s spirit, several times.” Her mother turned her face away, as she leaned against the table, one hand idly spinning the globe. “We always believed these sacrifices to be necessary, for the good of the Empire.”

  “They . . . they were heroes, right? They fought for the Empire.” Zaya frowned. “Except now the Empire’s bad.”

  Her mother made a face. “There are nuances you’re missing, dear. But, never too young to learn about geopolitics, as my father used to tell me. Suffice to say, the Immortals were heroes so long as we were on their side. At the moment, they are an implacable enemy force that has, so far, been held in reserve against us. The Khanate, the giants, and the Raccians have been a higher priority. With the Khanate moving away? The Immortals can be directed at us.”

  Zaya swallowed. “That doesn’t sound good,” she admitted, and her legs stilled for a moment. “What’s the other problem? You said there were two, right?”

  Her mother spun the globe a little, and touched the jade expanse that was Qin, just above the orange agate that was India. “Yes. You see, the Mongols need somewhere to go. They’re being displaced in their own lands by the giants and the Raccians, and many of their people are still largely nomadic. They have historic claims to some of the lands held by Qin.” She sighed. “And they’ve just signed an alliance with India.”

  Zaya’s head tipped to the side. The Khanate and India weren’t even neighbors. “Why would they do that?” she asked, blankly.

  “Because India and Qin don’t get along, dear. They’ve been pushing each other back and forth along their border for centuries. Qin will undoubtedly fear that the Mongols will push east, and India will push north. They’re already seeing Siberia, to the north of them, fill with Raccian refugees from the west. I fully expect a pre-emptive strike from Qin, directed at either the Khanate or India. Persia will see this as a very good thing for them, because it means that their north and eastern borders are, for the moment, secure. And so, the Immortals will come, very likely in tanks.”

  Zaya swallowed. “But you and Father can take care of those, right? Like the other efreeti were throwing the Mongol tanks in the air, that one time?”

  “Five or six efreeti can add chaos to a battlefield,” her mother told her, quietly, and ruffled her hair. “Fear. Terror. They can make troops run, who might otherwise stand steady. Summoned in the dozens, as I’ve only seen done once before? Almost as dangerous to their allies, as to their enemies. One efreet and one Magus aren’t going to be enough to hold off a hundred tanks. That’s why we need Rome and the adjunct forces, like the jotun landsknechten, to defend this province. Before people start thinking it would be easier just to go back to being part of Persia again.”

  Zaya didn’t understand. Her father was an efreet, and her mother was of the Magi. There was nothing her father couldn’t burn, and her mother could shape air, create a vacuum, or tear the blood from a man’s veins. With a fair amount of patience, her mother went to a cabinet, as the books kept flying from the shelves and packing themselves, and took out a stack of small wooden discs used as game markers, and tossed them to the floor. Controlled by her mind, they formed up in neat ranks and rows, advancing on Zaya along the floor. “Pick them up, before they hit you,” her mother invited her.

  Zaya eyed her mother. This sounded like it was going to be one of the uncomfortable lessons. “Go on. But you had better hurry. They’ve already spotted you.”

  Sure enough, the discs were . . . uncoiling from their neat column, and sidling off to either side. Zaya hastily ran forward and started grabbing them off the floor. “Behind you, behind you,” her mother counseled, as Zaya could hear the wood scraping lightly over the marble-tiled floor. She whirled, and managed to stomp on one of the discs before it could tag her, but three more were shifting towards her from her left now. Zaya frantically stuffed her existing discs in her pockets and practically danced in place, stomping on every coin that came near her, batting some of them out of the air, but there were always more of them, and they smacked into her. Not hard, but with a distinct plink each time, until they had her surrounded like a swarm of hornets. Zaya was panting, and tears of pure frustration ran down her cheeks. “It’s not fair!” she shouted. “I could do this if I weren’t—” Human.

  “Wrong answer,” her mother told her, and all the discs spun back through the air to land in their little wooden box. “The correct answer is, no one can fight two hundred and fifty of anything at once. Most normal people have trouble with two-on-one, Zaya. Once you get up to five or six on one? It’s just a matter of time before you die. Your father and I are no different from anyone else, except we have slightly more resources. If I’d been standing where you were standing . . . I might have been able to sweep all the discs away with a gust of wind. I couldn’t have managed that if they were people.” Her mother sighed. “Don’t cry, Zaya. It’s just important to realize that we never get anywhere entirely on our own. Go clean up. It’s almost time for dinner.”

  Zaya stomped out of the library, still furious, and still convinced that the entire exercise had been completely unfair. When she turned around to see if her mother had noticed her stomping, she realized that Erida’s back was turned, and she had, once more, gone back to the business of directing books into boxes.

  October 3, 1984 AC

  Arranging a face-to-face meeting with Marcus Valerius Livorus took some doing; the young Senator had an active travel schedule, and had also had the pomp and circumstance of an Imperial wedding to attend, as his sister, Aquila, finally married Caesarion, third son of the sitting Emperor. Marriage, in the patrician class of Rome, tended to be a highly political affair. Divorces and remarriages solely for alliances between various noble houses were still quite common. While the late Antonius Livorus had permitted his children to form alliances based on the rather plebian concept of married love, Caesarion’s first three marriages had all been politically-based, and none had lasted longer than four years. His father, Caesarion IX had, however, taken note of the steadfast affection between his third son and the daughter of his old advisor, and had given his consent earlier in the year. Both of them were in attendance that afternoon, at a small party thrown in honor of their marriage by Marcus. Lyre music plucked gently in the background of the triclinium, where guests reclined on their sides on gracious couches, and plucked morsels from the tables. Aquila, laughing, accepted a morsel from her new husband’s hand, and looked up, in time to see a shadow standing in a doorway, like a ghost from the past. Dark gr
ay tweed travel cloak, simple gray slacks, and a shirt. He couldn’t have been more different from the glittering company in the triclinium, where the men wore togas, and the women wore flowing evening dresses, beaded and embroidered. Her laughter faded. She knew the stance and the form, even shadowed by the doorway, and she sat up, immediately, looking for her brother in mild alarm. Our father’s head lictor? Here? Now?

  Marcus stood from his couch to go and greet the man who was surely Adam ben Maor with a wrist-clasp, startling to see given from a patrician to a foreigner. It was usually a gesture exchanged between equals. Then they stepped out of the room for a moment, Marcus returning to murmur to Aquila and Caesarion, “If you’d come with me? We have a few things to discuss.”

  They stepped out into the lobby, where the murals of Priapus and Flora were in the process of being restored; scaffolding hung all around the walls. Several hundred years of people entering and leaving the building, and slapping poor old Priapus right on the . . . head . . . for luck, had taken their toll, she supposed.