Níðhoggr was the son of Hel. The grandson of Loki. Legend had it that Hel’s favorite pet gnawed on the root of the world-tree, just as Jormangand, the greatest of all wyrms, wrapped around the fiery core of the planet. Sigrun was receiving a certain object lesson that Níðhoggr was . . . definitely not trapped under a tree. It’s probably a metaphor, she thought, distantly, as she dove again, and claws made of diamond missed skin by inches, slicing through her hair instead. He’s probably eating away at this dimension. Or something. Oh, gods, I wasn’t late for my appointment. I know they’re probably angry with me, but I’m not sure what I’ve done that deserves being fed to a dragon capable of destroying the world.
A blast of icy breath caught at her heels, barbed wings tore at the air over her head, she dodged a set of black diamond claws, and slammed into . . . something. Sigrun shook her head, dazed. From her perspective, her feet were pointing down into an abyss and she’d run face-first into an invisible wall. She could still clearly see sky and clouds past it, and she could hear the scream of Níðhoggr’s wings tearing the air behind her, the surge of air through the dragon’s lungs, the first indrawn hiss as he prepared to use his breath on her. Sigrun flipped around, putting her back to the wall, and called lightning from the sky around her, sending it arcing and coruscating over the silver-black body. Níðhoggr exhaled, and white clouds of deathfrost poured over her. Sigrun flinched and started to scream, only to cut the sound off weakly.
It should have hurt. Instead it . . . tingled a bit. Her perceptions skewed, as the dragon landed above her, and she realized that she was now lying on her back, on a perfectly white and glowing floor. Three-foot-long black diamond claws had extended out from his paws, like a cat’s, and were now inches from her face on either side of her head as she looked up into a maw larger than her own body. Níðhoggr’s teeth, like his claws, were also diamond, but cloudy and white, the color of bone, but more brilliant. Trickles of white gas curled out of his mouth . . . and the maw dropped down. Nostrils larger than her head flared, inches above her breasts. Two sharp inhalations.
And then Níðhoggr licked her, with a black and sticky tongue.
Sigrun swallowed. Hard. Don’t be afraid to make friends, she thought, and, very slowly, reached up a hand. It’s going to be bitten off. I’m a daughter of Tyr One-Hand. It’s going to be ironic and very painful.
She rested her palm against the scales. Felt cold so intense it burned beneath the glistening, gem-like scales. Silver eyes that glowed like the moon on snow stared down at her. “You are beautiful,” Sigrun said, and realized that she meant it. Níðhoggr moved like an oiled shadow of night. Beautiful. Cold. Deadly.
The dragon lifted his enormous head and looked around. Shook his wings in what Sigrun understood suddenly as . . . disgruntlement.
She sat up, hesitantly, and looked around. “Someone took our sky away,” she said, feeling stupid. It was true, though. The anteroom was . . . blank. She couldn’t see any walls at all.
Níðhoggr snorted, and leaned down. Exhaled right on her again. Sigrun shuddered and grimaced. “Stop that,” she said, and shoved his nose away. Or tried to, ineffectually.
The beast raised his head, and looked around. Then back down at her, the glowing eyes very intent. “You . . . want me to make the clouds come back?”
A rumble, which she took as assent. “I do not understand why they went away. It has always been clouds here, every time I’ve . . . ” Another rumble, this one accompanied by diamond claws flexing into the floor. Sigrun swallowed. She had no idea why she seemed to understand the beast, but if it sat on her, power of the gods in her veins or not, she would be quite, quite dead. Also, probably no more than a half inch thick, anywhere. “All right. Let me try something.”
Though every instinct told her not to do it, Sigrun closed her eyes. Concentrated on the usual feeling of warmth and safety she had in the Odinhall. Thought about wind, and the gentle kiss of the kind of rain that fell from a sunny, cloudless sky. A breeze drifted past her face, and she opened her eyes cautiously, to see sky and clouds, once more.
Níðhoggr rumbled, and spread his wings. Nudged her with his nose, where she hovered, seated, in mid-air once more. This meant that she was shoved a solid ten feet through empty space, and had to exert herself to stop moving. “You . . . you are bored, aren’t you?” Sigrun asked, after a moment, staring at the vast creature. A smile quivered on her lips, and suddenly broke through. “You are pleased to play with me?”
The beast bared his fangs, and dove at her again, and Sigrun, laughing, ducked out of the way.
That is quite enough. The thought was icy—far colder than the dragon’s breath. It stole the smile from Sigrun’s face as she and the beast tumbled to an abashed halt. Níðhoggr. Come to me.
Figures emerged from behind the clouds, and Sigrun recognized each. Hel still bled from beneath her eye-mask, and beckoned to Níðhoggr, imperatively. The dragon slunk to her heel, lowering his head submissively. Sigrun didn’t dare look at the goddess of the land of the dead directly. She split her gaze, instead, between the other two figures—Tyr, and Freya. Freya, as usual, wore a very modern and lovely dress of amber silk, with her fabled golden necklace wound around her throat . . . and a cloak of hawk feathers over her shoulders. Hel’s eyes were cold behind her mask as she stared at Sigrun. Would you seek to steal my dragon now, valkyrie? You overstep your place.
Sigrun ground her teeth together. She’d been kept waiting for over two years for this meeting, and now she was being chastised for having run for her life from, effectively, an oversized pet who’d pulled free of his leash? And yet, looking at the massive beast, who stood behind the comparatively tiny figure of the eight-foot-tall goddess . . . she saw intelligence in Níðhoggr’s lambent eyes. He had a mind of his own. He was, in his own way, god-born. He’s like me, she realized, dimly, and that was what gave her the courage to speak. “I would say,” Sigrun replied, very quietly, but deliberately, “that as one can only steal a slave, it is likewise impossible to steal a free creature. Which is he?”
Hel hissed, and Sigrun’s soul shuddered. Freya raised a finger, and Hel fell silent. You have had your opportunity to test the valkyrie, Freya told Hel. The results were intriguing. She turned to address Sigrun. I have never seen a mortal who could reset the room from a blank state, as you just did, and only one other god-born. Her gaze fell on Hel once more. You may leave for now, Hel. I will call you when I require your presence.
Sigrun winced at the clear dismissal in Freya’s tone, and Hel hissed again, before turning and walking away, Níðhoggr at her heels. Perceptually, both strode on thin air, but the massive beast swung his head around on his neck to look back at the three who remained in the room, before he and his mistress both vanished. Sigrun hadn’t even realized that she was holding her breath until Hel’s form dissolved into the clouds once more. She looked back at Freya and Tyr, and didn’t dare say a word for the moment.
Follow me, Freya told her, not unkindly, and Sigrun obeyed. She couldn’t escape the feeling that she’d just seen the tail end of an argument, and when the gods argued, it didn’t bode well for mortals.
Freya’s rooms in the Odinhall, Sigrun had gotten to know during her ‘apprenticeship’ to the goddess, learning at least a bit about seiðr as she struggled to control what she’d dubbed her ‘othersight.’ The goddess’ chambers were connected to Odin’s through an archway; the door under the arch was never the same twice, sometimes bronze with faces, sometimes plain oak with leather hinges. It always changed form when Sigrun wasn’t looking at it, though she sometimes caught the movement as it shifted out of the corner of her eyes. No bed; the conjugal couch was in Odin’s chambers. Freya’s rooms were for her work. The goddess created the clothing of most of the other gods, she tended to the gardens of Valhalla, and a tree with golden apples actually grew in the center of her spacious chambers. No matter what the weather outside in Burgundoi really was, or what time it was in the mortal realm, there was always sunlight
streaming in the western windows, with their view of the sea and the bridge over the bay. The apple smell haunted Sigrun’s dreams, and Adam always claimed that she carried their aroma for days after she’d visited with the goddess of magic and fertility.
You wish to have children, and cannot? the goddess asked, immediately, taking a seat on a long, low couch. You have asked of natural philosophy, and natural philosophy has said no. You have asked of foreign gods, which displeases me, verging on apostasy as it does, and the answer was no. Why do you only now turn to me? Freya’s golden eyes were a little cold.
Sigrun flinched at the incipient ire in Freya’s tones, and swallowed, hard. “At first, I wished to resolve the situation myself,” she began, quietly. “If it were a natural occurrence, I would accept it, my lady. But it does not appear to be natural. When Lassair discovered this, I petitioned the Odinhall for this meeting immediately, but heard nothing. In the meantime, Mamaquilla determined that I had been cursed. Made barren. And neither she nor Lassair have the power to lift it. I hope that you do.”
Freya actually frowned, her eyes suddenly concerned. Cursed?
“I said as much in my petition for an audience with you, two and a half years ago,” Sigrun replied, not quite daring to feel impatient, but carefully stressing the words.
Over two years ago? Freya sat upright, suddenly angry. Look into my eyes, valkyrie. Speak your words again. The entire room suddenly seethed with power, and Sigrun swallowed. Looked up, and met the goddess’ eyes.
She held that gaze for a full ten seconds, and repeated, shaking a little, “Lassair detected signs of a curse several years ago. Signs of tampering from the Veil. Mamaquilla, two years ago, stated that she did not have the power to remove such a curse. I made my second petition immediately on returning from Tawantinsuyu.”
This cannot be. And yet, there are no lies in your eyes. Freya stood, and a paper appeared in her hand. She studied it for a moment, carefully. This is the paper I was given a month ago. Your only petition. Marked as having been given to the Odinhall two months ago. Not two years. DVALIN! That made Sigrun’s head ring. Keeper of the writings, I would have an account of you!
The dwarf appeared, instantly, looking harried, to say the least, as Freya said, sharply, Everything concerning this daughter of Tyr was to be expedited to our attention. Explain to me how there is such a disparity between the dates on which she says she made her petition, and the dates in your archives, Master of the Runes.
A silent and urgent conference followed, which ended when Dvalin once more vanished, looking deeply troubled. Freya sat back down into her chair, and beckoned Sigrun to her. Sit at my feet, child of Tyr, Freya invited her, and Sigrun did so, immediately, sinking to her knees. Someone has altered the record of your requests. The first one appears to have been removed entirely from the archives. It is only a wonder that the second request was not lost for all time . . . and that it has been changed is very troubling. It suggests that someone did not wish you to speak with me. It will be investigated. Now, let me see this curse.
Sigrun closed her eyes as a gentle hand touched her forehead. Warmth, a benediction, seeping through every cell in her body. She was the soil in an orchard, she was the trees themselves, bearing fruit, the sunlight pouring down over earth and leaves. She was the roots, scrabbling in the earth, drinking water, breathing in carbon and fixing it into the soil. Sigrun swayed for a moment, as Freya withdrew her hand. “I don’t . . . feel any different,” she managed.
I cannot remove it, Freya said, simply. Only the one who placed it can remove it . . . or it might undo itself, when its conditions are met. It is dark, shadowed, and secret. Veiled in layers of illusion. It is not visible on first looking at you, child of Tyr. I did not see this in you any of the times that I interviewed you after the Supay incident. Nor in the many hours in which I trained you with your othersight and . . . other matters. Freya sounded horrified. And for that, child, I must beg your forgiveness.
Sigrun’s eyes widened. The concept of a goddess begging her forgiveness was . . . unnerving. But it didn’t quite distract her from the mention of the training. Of course there had been the time Freya had spent teaching her to repress othersight. Sigrun had considered the synesthesia to be a damnable nuisance, and a potential distraction in combat. She’d begged the goddess to remove it from her, but Freya had told her that such wasn’t possible. But something else flickered at the corners of her mind. A fleeting thought, a glimmer of memory, but she couldn’t quite pin it down. The smell of apples. Warm light through a window. A voice whispering in her mind. But she couldn’t for the life of her recall more than that.
After a moment, she managed, “You . . . you can’t remove it? But . . . this isn’t like the othersight.” The power of each god was variable, but Freya, in the realm of fertility, should have been unmatched. Odin was the most powerful. Thor and Tyr, mightiest in battle. And Freya and Loki were equals in magic.
This is not like the othersight. That is part of you, now. This curse? I cannot even begin to see where to start. It shifts, child. It moves in time and I cannot follow where it goes. It is tied to the future, and I cannot reach there. Or . . . that may be an illusion, too. Freya shook her head. There are few beings with the power and the ability to craft an illusion, and a curse, so complete. Coyote is one, but he has no reason to hate you. Mercury is another. But of those beings, there is only one who could have altered the records in the Odinhall.
Sigrun stared up at Freya, feeling her entire body go numb. “Loki?” she asked, her voice small.
Him, or his servants. Freya’s tone was stark.
“But . . . but why . . . why would he even care if I had children or not? It seems . . . insignificant. Well, not to me, not to my husband. But . . . “ She faltered, at the expression on Freya’s face, and bit her presumptuous tongue.
Think, child, and carefully. I will aid your memory. Have you ever heard something that rang untrue, that perhaps you did not pursue? A sense of coldness, that you could not shake? Any detail. No matter how small. Think!
Sigrun swallowed, and she could feel the enormous weight of Freya’s will being laid into her. A burden that probably would have snuffed out an ordinary mortal’s mind, it pushed Sigrun’s sense of self to the very edges of her consciousness. She was Freya’s will, and she was the flow of memory. Nothing more.
1956. Her wedding, right here in the Odinhall.
At Sophia’s word of warning, Sigrun blinked, looked up, and ducked, as a tall waiter walked by balancing a tray full of drinks. She dodged, but one cup fell anyway, and splashed white wine all over her swan cloak and the front of her armor. “I’m terribly sorry,” the waiter told her, and caught up a towel out of seemingly nowhere to dab at her cloak. “I thought I had it, and then I didn’t. Can you ever forgive me?” He kept dabbing, ineffectually at her, and Sigrun felt oddly cold. For some reason, the chill of the wine seeped right into her.
“It is of no moment,” she told the waiter, staring at his face. Nondescript. He could have been Burgundian, or Frisian. Pale hair, watery blue eyes, and a fussy demeanor. “Please, do not trouble yourself any further.”
And she was shocked at the tears in her sister’s eyes when Sophia turned away. Sophia was mad, of course . . . but the chill simply wouldn’t leave Sigrun. She ignored it, as she did any hurt, and eventually, she no longer noticed it.
But it was still there, she realized now. Like a canker in a rose.
Minutes after the spilled drink . . . “You know, I think I saw the bear-warrior who’s been mentoring me this year, but when I turned to look for him, he was gone.” Fritti made a face. “I didn’t think he was going to be here today.” She flushed a little. “He’s taught me so much, Sigrun . . . . He told me that god-born haven’t been born in such numbers as are being born today, for over a thousand years, and that it means that a great war must be coming, and that we all must be ready. And that I was to remember that none of the gods truly wishes Ragnarok to happen. There is no vic
tory, in Ragnarok, he said. Only destruction.”
“What did you say his name was?” Sigrun hadn’t turned to look at the time, but now, she did, canvassing a room she hadn’t realized she remembered this clearly. Everyone stood still in the memory, like a photograph. Letting her search the faces as Fritti answered:
“Radulfr Ecgwine.”
“I don’t know anyone by that name,” Sigrun murmured. There were somewhere around twenty-five thousand god-born of Valhalla, all told, spread out between two continents. It was a very small community, smaller than that of the Praetorian Guard. “You’re certain that the Odinhall sent him?”
Fritti’s eyes had gone wide. “Oh yes,” she said, and her parents both nodded, emphatically. “He healed, just as you do, whenever I actually managed to mark him in practice. I never saw him rage, though.”
The Goddess Denied Page 8
