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

by Deborah Davitt

  Solinus nodded after a moment, looking bemused. “Can’t say I’ve had that as an issue. Most I’ve gotten is a couple of looks from very senior tribunes and a couple of questions as to whether or not I happened to be related to a retired lictor by the same name.” He paused. “Though . . . huh. Maybe that’s why the jotun tend to listen to me. My mother’s helped them out now and again, too.” He looked at Maccis. “You make your own decision. You have to be your own man. Though I was hoping you’d be in the legions, where Rig and I could keep an eye on you.”

  “Horseshit. I was hoping I’d be able to grab him for my unit, and family relationship be damned. I can see far too many applications for you in the field,” Rig told them, grinning. “Ah, well. I’ll just wind up requesting your landsknecht company. Which one is it?”

  “Vidarr’s Lindworms.” Maccis’ grin broke over his face at the expressions he was now faced with. “No, neither he nor Ima were there in the evaluation period. I wanted to be treated on my own merits.”

  “You’ll be fine in that company,” Solinus said, visibly relaxing. “Vidarr takes care of his people. Always has.” He patted Maccis on the shoulder. “Good on you. Now just keep it up till you’re out of school.”

  Maccis breathed a faint sigh of relief as they both headed off, finding their wives and children. And then he was off and making his way by foot and bus through the city to Erida and Zhi’s house, so he could take Zaya to the bonfires. He was kept waiting in the lobby by the officious butler, and then beckoned into a side-room by Zhi. The smoky humanoid form turned its head to regard him with eyes made of flame. I am informed that on a festival evening, it is permissible for you to bring her home later than usual. Time is an odd human concept, but I think that returning her home by eleven postmeridian would be acceptable to me and to her mother.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Fireflower informs me that you are under the impression that I could, and I quote, ‘throw you so far into the Veil that your father couldn’t find you with a radar telescope.’

  Oh, thanks for mentioning that, Zee. “That has been my general assumption for years, sir.” Maccis grimaced. “Of course, if you were to do so, my father would probably try to bind you, Lady Erida would try to remove my father’s skin, and my mother and Lassair would try to tear her apart. It’s just best if I don’t do anything that might start that unfortunate chain of events.”

  Yes. See that you don’t. There was definitely muffled amusement in Zhi’s tone, and then Maccis was finally able to take Zaya by the hand and lead her out of her parents’ mansion. “You’re wearing that?” he asked, after a moment, looking down at her.

  “Is there something wrong with it?” Zaya asked, quickly, looking down at herself. The black silk top had a high neck and cap sleeves, and was hand-embroidered in silver . . . and left her midriff bare, revealing how slender and taut years of dance had left her waist. Her skirt started low and stretched over her hips, and was in matching black silk with silver. The usual handful of magical rings, necklaces, and bracelets, and a light matching shawl.

  Maccis was all too aware that Zhi could probably hear every thought that went through his mind at that particular moment in time. “Let’s say that I didn’t think I was going to need to go to the bonfires armed. Gods, Zaya.” He put a hand gingerly on her hip, and was reminded abruptly by the touch, that her skin was bare under the thin skirt. I just got done swearing to your father that I was going to treat you with respect all night. His fingers tightened, and then he consciously slid them up to rest on her bare waist. “I’m going to have to go wolf-form and take myself for a walk before the night is done.”

  Zaya flushed and giggled, a faintly disbelieving look on her face. Maccis just shook his head, and played escort. I’m not sure if it’s a good thing or a bad thing that she doesn’t even notice all the other males trying to get her attention. At least I don’t have to elbow my way through the line. I can keep an arm around her, or hold her hand, and that’s . . . wonderful.

  She wanted to know all about his six weeks out in the desert, and Maccis obliged her with a few stories as they picked up food at a half-dozen stalls. The sun set, and the bonfires were lit, homage being paid to a half dozen Gallic and Gothic gods at once. “Your aunt Sigrun never comes to these, does she?” Zaya shouted over the noise of a people laughing and talking, and flute and a rebec warming up in the background.

  “No. She says going to a fertility ritual without her husband would be inappropriate.”

  “Well, your uncle is pretty old—”

  “My dad’s older! Has to do with Uncle Adam being Judean. Apparently, even being here is indirectly worshipping someone else’s god.” Maccis dismissed the topic and took Zaya closer to the bonfire, watching the sparks snap and rise up into the smoke, and he spun her out into the mix with all the other young people. Partners changing rapidly, hands clapping. He’d have been happy just to stay on the outskirts, but her smile was definitely reward enough, each time she swung back to take his hands again. Never closer than twelve inches, through all the circling, spinning motions, and then he had to release her to the next person in the circle again, and caught his next partner’s hands in his. Dizzying, and it was meant to be. People slipped, fumbled, were hauled back upright, and laughter spilled out through the air. The inner wheel got too crowded, so an outer wheel formed, circling the opposite direction. And then another. And then another.

  Part of the dance was being one with everyone else around you. Part of the community. And part of it, was being one with the gods. Re-enacting and participating with them. Most of the warrior-god observances had been suppressed; all the old human sacrifices to Lugus the Crafter and Taranis the Thunderer and Toutatis the Protector had been long suppressed, and likewise, the ancient custom of removing the heads of enemies, preserving them in cedar oil, and displaying them as trophies of warfare, had also been clamped down on, over the centuries. Sublimated into more ritualized behaviors, like sacrificing animals or tithes, and of course, tribal markings like the ones on Maccis’ skin. That left veneration for the crafting and poetry gods, by making art by hand or by word . . . and veneration of the fertility gods. And on the solstices and the equinoxes, every man was to allow himself to be filled by the spirit of the Horned God, Cernunnos, and every woman was supposed to be filled with one of the goddesses. Rosmerta for spring, one of the Matronae in summer or fall, or even the Morrigan, decked in her raven feathers and covered in the blood of the slain, in winter. Maccis didn’t, personally, believe himself to be a vessel for the gods on any of these occasions. He didn’t feel any different . . . but it was undeniably a much different experience, to be here with Zaya, rather than with just his family.

  Finally, Maccis caught Zaya’s wrist one last time, and leaned down to ask, “Tired yet?”

  “No, but thirsty, yes!”

  He laughed and then they ducked out of the inner circle to the edge of the firelight, where the people with young children were sitting and watching with the grandparents and great-grandparents. Out to the food booths, to find a cup to share. And then a bench, out in the shadows well beyond the light of the fire, a chance to share eager kisses. Dim awareness at the back of his mind that they weren’t the only ones in the vicinity. Vague realization, too, that if this had been a century or two earlier, or even if they were up in Gaul, today, he’d have had soft, cool grass to lay her down on, and not a plaza of hard poured-stone. And that in very short order, they’d have been working together to make the fields fertile. One of his hands slid up and down the bare curve of her spine, easing under the hem of her top to feel the softness of her skin between her shoulder blades, and Zaya was leaning into him as she kissed him back, and gods, you smell so good, you taste so good . . .

  “I missed you.”

  “Not as bad . . . as a full summer . . . in Britannia . . . .” Words were a little difficult to come by at the moment. He was trying to find things that she liked, different angles, different places that she’d let him touch
, without risking her pulling away.

  “No, but last time you went away, we weren’t . . . .” Her breath caught. “Oh, that’s . . . nice . . . .”

  Maccis looked up for a moment. He’d been lightly biting and kissing her throat, a substitute for where he really wanted to be kissing her now. Lower. He compromised, and kissed his way along her collarbones. “This?”

  “No . . . .”

  Back up to the throat, hands cupping her head. “This?”

  “I . . . don’t know. You were doing something else.”

  He couldn’t figure it out, and soon lost himself in the pure fun of kissing her, and the next time she gasped like that, he really wasn’t sure why, but he kept at it. Little soft noises that made his mind go blank and picture soft grass and the smell of green things all around them . . . .

  Zaya felt as if she were dissolving. Faint scratch of incipient beard against her lips, cheeks, and throat. Every inch of her skin trying to, somehow, melt into his. Effervescent warmth inside of her. Every kiss made it more intense, building in her belly, between her legs, shooting down her legs. And then Maccis blinked and lifted his head.

  “Don’t stop!” The whisper was heart-felt and urgent.

  “Your scent just changed.” He leaned forwards, puzzled, and sniffed just behind her ear. It was still recognizably Zaya. And her scent changed incrementally, day by day, anyway, in response to diet and normal hormonal fluctuations . . . and then he understood. And groaned, and felt himself flush under the moon’s light. “Oh. Damn it.”

  Zaya shook her head, confused. Everything had been going along perfectly, as far as she was concerned. But now he sounded embarrassed. “What’s wrong?”

  “You know how I can make flowers bloom when I, um, concentrate?” His voice was choked.

  “Yes . . .?” She paused. “Like Crysanthe was asking you about . . . oh!” She squirmed a little. “You . . . just made me bloom? Wait. I’m not a tree.”

  Maccis kissed her again, pulling her very tightly to him, and then sighed and made himself take wolf-form. Her scent was always enticing, and at the moment, it was driving him crazy. Zaya’s inarticulate sound of irritated protest was soul-satisfying, though. Not just bloom, he told her, resignedly. It’s a fertility night. My mother’s a wilderness spirit. I don’t know if it’ll happen every time I concentrate on you like that, but you only smell like you do now once a month.

  Zaya went rigid for a second, flushing. “You can smell when I . . .?” It was slightly unnerving. Personal details that most humans thought safely hidden, weren’t to a wolf’s nose.

  Yes. Sorry. When your body is most ready for mating, I can tell. And when you’re having your moon flows, the blood is noticeable, too. None of it is unpleasant. It’s just there. Part of you. Maccis tentatively wagged his tail. He’d never made a point of it before. He’d figured out when he was barely six that his brothers and sisters couldn’t track by scent. Vorvena couldn’t, but he thought the younger twins might be able to learn. They at least understood that every human and animal was a living tapestry of scents, and that these odors actually uncoiled in four dimensions. They wafted off of the skin of someone sitting still in a room, forming a shell where they’d been at their desk for hours, or followed them in a ribbon shaped like their body as they ran down a street. And that scent roiled outwards over time, dissipating a little, but could be traced back to that original shape, that original skin. He could tell when someone was healthy. When someone was sick. Pregnant. Happy. Depressed. When, as Zaya was right now, they were embarrassed.

  As she began to giggle, Maccis jumped down off the bench and laid his head in her lap. Wolf-form could notice the layers of odors on her, and the reaction was only mild curiosity and analysis, instead of an immediate urge to do something about those scents. If you ever want to . . . you know . . . I guess I had better make very sure I have condoms. It was a grumble, but only a mild one. At least I don’t have Solinus’ problem.

  She was still laughing, almost hysterically, and started stroking his ears and neck, and Maccis closed his eyes under the pure pleasure of her touch. “What problem is that?”

  His particular talent is turning himself into fire. You know that. And when he’s . . . you know . . . .

  “Oh, gods. You’re joking.”

  No. Fyriacus was telling me about it a year or so ago. Mostly because he was so glad his flame ability only works with metal and stone.

  “Wait, how do he and Masako—”

  She’s an amazing sorceress, and I will not ask any more. I like my teeth where they are.

  “Are you ever turning back?”

  Maccis weighed turning human again, and decided to give it another five minutes. This is one of the things I like best about you, Zaya. You’re practically the only human I’ve ever met who doesn’t . . . mind the fact that I’m a freak of nature. You don’t mind my family. My mother and aunt don’t bother you.

  “Wait a minute. Did you just call yourself a freak of nature?” Zaya’s tone was agitated.

  How many people do you know who are over six feet tall, quasi-albinos who can change any body part into an animal’s, or the whole body? Also, with improved olfactory senses! Maccis stretched back up into human form, cautiously. “You know what? We can probably go to the game booths for a while before I have to have you home.”

  “Maccis . . . .” Zaya didn’t know what to say. His tone had been mostly joking and dismissive.

  “I am what I am, Zaya. I’m just grateful you don’t mind it. And, gods know, I’m glad the landsknechten will accept me, too. Probably a lot more easily than the legions. I’m not god-born of whomever. I don’t fit into a nice neat category. I’m not easily definable as ‘spent five years at the College of Mars’ or ‘four years in the Odinhall’ or whatever.” He shrugged. “Let’s go have some fun.”

  Two hours later, they were back at her parents’ house, smelling of wood fire smoke and still chuckling under their breaths. Right as the neighborhood clock chimed eleven, too, much to Maccis’ relief. “The mistress bids you both to come to the drawing room,” the butler informed them, and Maccis groaned, mentally. I got her back exactly on time. What did I do wrong?

  Erida, however, didn’t look angry. She beckoned them both into the beautifully appointed room, where Zhi was pacing back and forth like a caged tiger. “I thought you might want to watch the news with us before you go home, Maccis,” she told him, quietly. “Did you have a good time, dear?”

  To that, Zaya nodded an enthusiastic yes. “I actually got to do some of the circle-dancing. It’s so much different than Chaldean dancing!” Her enthusiasm threatened to bubble over for a moment, until she perched on one of the low couches, and Erida turned up the volume.

  “. . . dateline, Iunius 20, 1991, Seorabeol, Korea. The Nipponese Shogunate and Emperor of Nippon, from where they have formed a government-in-exile in Seorabeol, announced that they have withdrawn eighty percent of the civilian population from Okinawa and Hokkaido, as well as approximately eighty percent of their troops. Stronger forces remain on Honshu, the most populous island of this nation. Refugees continue to flee in boats, most making for Korea and Qin. While relations between these nations have fluctuated over the centuries, at times warm, and at times chilly, Korea has taken in hundreds of thousands of Nipponese refugees in the past several years. Unfortunately, their own nation has been hit hard by ley-line disruptions and mad god attacks. In an acknowledgement that the islands are currently uninhabitable, due to the massive volcanic eruptions and continuous earthquakes, the Shogunate has ordered civilians to leave the island of Honshu, but millions remain. An all-volunteer military force has sworn to remain and defend their people, to the last man, if necessary. We here at the Imperial News Network were able to get an ornithopter close enough to the island of Honshu today to get this footage . . . .”

  Maccis stared at the screen. Sights like these were getting depressingly familiar. Fuji was erupting again in the background. The city of Edo, which shoul
d have been lit up at night by a mix of electricity and ley, and the harbor of which should have been bustling with ships, was, instead, dark and apparently deserted, and ash fell from the sky like snow. Everything was gray and desolate. “That’s a really big city to be that empty.”

  “It’s not empty, not yet. There were around nine million people in Edo. Honshu as a whole had over a hundred million,” Erida said, covering her eyes for a moment. “It’s only been two years since Fuji first erupted. You can’t physically move that many people off an island in that time. Not even with thousands of planes and ships. Minori told me few months ago that their largest airport, in Edo, usually moved thirty-five million people in and out of the country a year. Halve that, for the lack of inbound passengers. Not enough.” She removed her hand, and Maccis was startled to see tears limning her brilliant topaz eyes. “No. There are people still there. They haven’t been able to evacuate the eighty percent from there, that they managed to remove from the smaller islands. I would estimate that at least fifty million remain there, who are either refusing to leave, or unable to leave.”