The Goddess Denied

by Deborah Davitt

  Rusting, ruined equipment around the periphery of the enormous, warehouse-like structure. Few internal structures—a control room, perhaps, off to the right. A catwalk that ran around the second-story level of the building, so that people had once been able to access tall transformers . . . none of which remained. Just scraps. And, at the far northern wall, amid all the pieces of twisted, broken metal . . . a throne? Perfectly clean, and made, apparently, of ivory, Loki walked to it, straight-backed, and took a seat there, spreading out his cloak and regarding them all with a quizzical stare.

  The splendid throne, amid the rubble, was a disconnect. Sigrun glanced to the side, wishing she could poll the others. Lassair? What does Trennus see?

  Splendor. Wooden walls, gold-leaf furniture. Riches. I do not see these things. I see . . . desolation and dust. The spirit’s voice was deeply confused.

  I wonder if any of us sees the truth, Sigrun thought, dismayed. I do not even trust what I perceive. Inwardly, she seethed a little. She wanted to ask her questions, demand her accounting, but . . . in the face of everything else, her problems, and even Fritti’s, seemed small. She glanced towards Vidarr and Ima, and sighed. They have precedence, she decided. Then Fritti. Then me. If we’re even permitted to have a voice here.

  Loki brushed his long hair back from his face, and settled the distaff across one knee. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, daughter? he asked Hel, and then glanced at the rest of them. And you, too, of course?

  Hel’s eyes glittered behind her mask, but she did not answer, at first. Brandr and Erikir looked uneasy, and Sigrun understood why. If Hel had been dispatched from Valhalla to call Loki to accounts, she should have been issuing a challenge, right now. Flyting was an exchange of insults. Sometimes these were done for the sake of amusement; the wittier or more creative the insult, the better; best of all, was an insult couched, off-the-cuff, in verse. Kings had been known to flyt with their jesters. When it was done in good humor, it was a way for those of lower rank to air their grievances without repercussion or true offense, and the winner bought the loser beer or honey-mead; when done in earnest, it was a precursor to a battle. List the reasons for the affray, the grievances, the inability to seek restitution in any other way, and then commence to fight. There were reasons for the code.

  And still, Hel remained silent.

  Humans began to file in from a set of doors at the eastern edge of the building. Most wore white robes, like doctors, but a few wore machinists’ coveralls. Sigrun she could hear Ima and Vidarr both growling. She squinted at the humans, trying to use othersight now, as urgently as she usually suppressed it. Faint gray sparks, most of them, but several burned with the power of sorcery. Two were almost as bright of presences as Kanmi and Minori, but their auras were a sickly, pus-green glow; one male, one female. “Lagunov,” Vidarr rumbled.

  “You’re sure?’ Adam asked, softly.

  “I couldn’t forget that face if I tried. It’s haunted my dreams for a year.”

  The byplay was quick, and Sigrun glanced from the humans, all of whom were armed, and watching the tableaux in the building warily, to Vidarr, who still held Reginleif in a full neck-lock. Then she looked at Ima. Met Adam’s eyes, swallowed, and stepped forward. “Well met, Loki, lord of magic and illusion,” Sigrun began, in the most formal mode of address at her disposal, bowing her head, very slightly. Even if he had done her wrong—and he had!—Loki was still one of her gods. “While I have not been addressed, I beg leave to speak here for others who have grievances with you, and to make my own plaint, as well.” Her voice sounded thin and frail in the echoing cavern of the abandoned facility, and she was uncomfortably aware of all the eyes suddenly on her.

  Loki smiled, faintly, and gestured. Speak, daughter of Tyr. Make your claims against me.

  Inhale, exhale. The seething anger and sense of injustice boiled up inside of her again, and Sigrun caught at it. Used it. “First, by your own words, you recognized this man, Vidarr Lindgren. You said that he is precisely what you hoped he would become. Do you deny that you have, through warped seiðr and technology, forced him into this unnatural shape which he now wears? That you have pushed him, and others like him, beyond sanity, beyond humanity, have made of them monsters, and for no better reason than your own twisted amusement?” She saw a tiny flicker of expression cross Loki’s face, swallowed, hard, and went on. “Do you deny that ettin have been made, at your order, combined from the bodies and minds of two men, resulting in abominations with two minds in one body, neither able to agree with the other, to the madness of both? Do you deny that you have combined beasts with humans, resulting in the fenris, like Ima here, the mind of a woman in the body of a giant wolf? Do you deny that this is all preparation for Ragnarok, Loki, lord of illusion? Can you deny it?”

  Awareness, now, as the humans to the side of the room began to fan out, lifting their guns. Still, they all looked wary, and froze in place as Hel turned her baleful visage towards them and hissed, Stay where you are, mortals. This is no concern of yours. A twisted smile curved the lips under the mask, and the goddess turned back towards Sigrun. So touching, your concern for these creatures. How convenient, too, your plaint for them, when your true reason for being here is selfish and self-interested, and no more noble than that of a bitch in heat, who only knows that she must breed.

  Adam took a step forward, and Sigrun slapped a hand out, not looking, catching his shoulder. “Flyting,” she said, sharply. “She baits us. Me, in truth. And I am not finished yet.” She raised her head once more, and said, more loudly, and with more force, “No, indeed, lady of the nameless dead—thus I name you, for those who come to your halls have no glory in death, no renown, and who they were is forgotten within a generation of their passing—I had no knowledge of the plight of the jotun when I came to these lands. But the injustices done to them are so severe, that they must take precedence over the other reasons I have come to hold your lord father to account.” She turned back towards Loki. She caught a glint of . . . humor? . . . grim and bleak, as the god looked at Hel, but his expression shifted back into a blank mask as he returned his eyes to Sigrun. “I did not come here solely for myself,” Sigrun went on, purposefully, “though that was how the journey began. No, now I would accuse you on behalf of Frittigil Chatti. She was a child when we two—” Witan, the word was, and a nod at Adam, “found her and saved her. Her life became our responsibility that day. You have trespassed against her, Loki, lord of lies. You took the form of a mentor, a teacher, a friend. Gained her trust, and then used her. Got her with child, and then abandoned her, but told her that she and her child might yet be of use to you, when Ragnarok comes. Liar, I call you. Breaker of kin-oaths, seducer, and knave, I name you. And yet, this is not all.”

  Uproar of voices now. This had, apparently, surprised many people in the room. Brandr had not been happy with Sigrun when she’d told him that she’d moved Fritti and Rig out of Novo Gaul, stating emphatically that a first-generation son of Loki belonged in the Odinhall for training, but she’d told him that such decisions were for the child’s mother to make, not for them.

  Hel’s face had snapped around to face her father, and Sigrun could feel waves of hatred, almost palpable, oozing from the goddess. Reginleif, however, began to laugh. Peal after peal of laughter, glorious and cold, rang out from the captive valkyrie. “Oh, how precious,” Reginleif said. “Our father has begotten another twisted wretch to join the rest of us in our misery, and one of his first-born is jealous.”

  It was the look on Loki’s face, however, that had caught the valkyrie’s eye. Regret, she recognized, with a certain amount of shock. Grief. But is anything that Loki chooses to show us . . . real?

  The god raised a hand, and the room fell silent. “I am not finished,” Sigrun warned, her heart hammering in her throat.

  Yes. I can feel the words beating upon your tongue, daughter of Tyr. Indulge me a moment, however. Are Fritti and Rig safe and well?

  “They are safe, and outside
the reach, I think, of any here assembled.” Sigrun swallowed, hard.

  Truly outside the reach of the rest of the Aesir, Vanir, and even my own kin? A flick of the silver-gray eyes at Hel.

  Fritti said that he told her it wasn’t all a lie. This does sound like concern. Even love. But it could be a lie within a lie, too. Sigrun cleared her throat. “Unless any of the gods of our people wishes to challenge the god of Abraham within his own lands? Yes.”

  A hiss of displeasure from Hel herself, and Sigrun spared a glance towards her, and Reginleif, reading chagrin in what was visible of the goddess’ face. And no expression at all on Reginleif’s, her face a smoother mask than even Hel’s own.

  Not today, I think. Loki settled back into his chair with what looked like perfect insouciance. Continue in your complaint, daughter of Tyr. But know that I will answer.

  Sigrun swallowed, her mouth and throat dry, and looked into her heart. Her own anger and pain were . . . such trifling things, compared to what had been done to the jotun. The fenris. To the personal betrayal of Fritti. But it was still . . . unjust. She wasn’t bound to Loki, she was bound to Tyr, and he had placed his hand upon the servant of another god. Tyr would have been within his rights to challenge Loki directly for the insult. But such things were not done in these times. Too much destruction could rain down on earth, from the direct battle between two gods. Just look at Tawantinsuyu, Sigrun thought, bleakly. That was why the gods sent their mortals agents here and there, to act as intermediaries. Intercessors. Mortals did . . . less damage. “My last reason is personal,” she said, slowly. “And because it is personal, it is last, and least. You have placed your curse upon me, Loki. I am the bound servant of another god. You have no right to touch me, or mine. I have never done anything to you, or yours, that would require vengeance. You placed this curse on me in 1955, long before I was called to account by your agent, Reginleif. You set her to falsify records in the Odinhall, to make me look a rebel and a traitor to the gods, as well. Do you deny that you have placed an unjust curse upon me? Do you deny that you have set your own to perjure and to lie before all the rest of the gods? I would have you lift your curse, Loki, and I would know why you have presumed to touch that which is not yours.”

  Chill fingers of wind reached out and ruffled her hair, lifting it away from her face. She was dimly aware that the cold air gusted in from the seals around the old windows, cracks in the walls. It carried with it the taste and smell of fresh snow, and she wondered, absently, if there might be a late blizzard outside at the moment. It seemed, somehow, appropriate.

  The more so, as Reginleif, once more, began to laugh. “Oh, gods,” the older valkyrie said, almost convulsing. “Your presumption knows no bounds, child. You demand answers! You demand an accounting!”

  Sigrun’s vision grayed a little around the edges at Reginleif’s razory laughter. “I have as much right to seek redress of wrongs done to me, as much right to justice, as any other of our people,” she managed, trying for evenness in her voice, and only managing ice. “If a mortal can demand justice, the least a god-born can do is ask for the same. I do demand an accounting, Loki. For the sake of those imprisoned here. For the lives lost in sacrifice in the bogs. For the lives lost to torment and madness. For the betrayal of Fritti. For the pain inflicted on myself and my husband, without reason or cause.” She lifted her head. “How do you respond?”

  Loki’s eyes narrowed, and he looked around the room. Studied Hel. Reginleif. The mortal doctors and sorcerers who were, at the moment, trying their best to look invisible against the eastern wall. Kseniya Antonovna Lagunov. Aapo Jaatinen. Step forth. There was a certain indefinable pressure in the air, and the female and male technomancers at the far side of the room looked . . . nervous. Their eyes darted back and forth, and Sigrun could see them looking at Reginleif, and realized, abruptly, Something is not going according to plan.

  “Yes?” the Raccian sorceress said, edging closer, but not anywhere near to Vidarr or Ima. Ima’s hackles were up, and the wolf was emitting a steady, continuous growl, her blue eyes fixed on the Raccian woman. “What would you know, my lord?”

  We had a bargain, you and I, contracted through my beloved daughter, Reginleif. There was as subtle hint of sarcasm in Loki’s tone as he sat on his throne, apparently relaxed, tapping his distaff against one knee. I told you, only volunteers. You brought me the volunteers. I spoke with them. Made sure that they had no family. No kin. Nothing to leave behind, no one to miss them. Loki turned and stared at Vidarr. You remember our conversation, Vidarr Lindgren.

  Vidarr’s arms, wrapped around Reginleif, went slack, and the valkyrie slipped away from him, as he now raised his hands to his face. “Yes. I remember. I did not know it was you. But I remember. You asked why I would volunteer. And I said I wished to protect our people.”

  For that was all you had left. Yes. Precisely the type that I wanted. That I required. Loki’s tone carried with it an edge of oiled ice. Leashed rage, that might break free at any second, and pull the misguided down into the frigid depths of some dark ocean. We agreed, Lagunov, that we would only use volunteers. And that if they did not survive the process, their sacrifice, while terrible, would not be in vain. Would not be wasted. That their lives would empower the others.

  “Why?” Brandr suddenly snarled, his first words in several minutes. “So that you could build an army in secret to fight by your side, in Ragnarok? So that you could launch a pre-emptive strike on the Aesir, and destroy Valhalla?”

  Don’t be absurd, Loki snapped, raising his head, his eyes suddenly blazing so fiercely, that Sigrun winced and covered her eyes, as did all of the mortals around her. Only Hel seemed able to meet that gaze. In every prophecy there is, the words are clear. Loki the deceiver begins Ragnarok, and loses. And dies. Why would I ever wish to begin a war I cannot win? Has anyone ever considered that? Hmm? Have you, you thick-headed, stubborn son of Thor, ever considered that I am the repository of every ‘unmanly’ trait that your warrior culture disdained in your Iron Age? Magic? Cunning? Intelligence? Stealth? Ingenuity? So what if I do not meet my foes on the plain of battle. I’ve already won. This modern era is entirely to my liking, and my brothers and sisters among the Aesir rarely laugh at me anymore. I like humans. I like your far-viewers and your dramas and your comedies. I like your absurd lives and your noble dreams. I like seeing humanity walk on the moon. I want to see what happens next. Why would I ever seek to destroy all of that?

  Sigrun’s eyes went wide, and Brandr’s mouth clicked shut. Facts reassembled themselves behind her eyelids in complex new configurations. Seiðr had always been considered a woman’s art, hence the use of the distaff as its symbol; that, and its connection with the Norns, the Fates, and the spinning out of fate’s threads on a distaff. Freya used seiðr. She had taught it to Odin, and Odin was never considered emasculated by its use. But men who used it were often considered overly feminine. Argr. Ergi. Stroðinn. The words were the worst anathemas in her native tongue, and required a duel to the death in order to bathe away the insults in blood, and meant, more or less, coward who plays the part of a woman for other men.

  Loki had always been considered an anathema for being what Kanmi was: a user of magic. And Kanmi had always commented, grimly, on the fact that his brothers didn’t consider him much of a man because he didn’t have a man’s job. Loki had been, for the ancient Goths, the scapegoat of the pantheon. The outcast. The one who represented the other, the nithing. But all Sigrun could think, at that exact moment, was of the story Erida had recounted to them, from the lost plays of Aeschylus, years ago. Of Prometheus, being bound, and for no more cause than having brought fire to humanity, and for having defied the will of Zeus. Times change, Sigrun thought, as paradigms realigned inside her mind. Gods change with them. But is Loki himself capable of change?

  A pause, and Loki went on, silkily, So yes, my dear son of Thor, I seek to build an army. But not to fight my fellow gods. I build one to prevent Ragnarok, if it is possible. And if it
cannot be prevented, then an army to fight in it, for the preservation of this world I find so dear.

  Brandr staggered at the weight of godly attention, and slowly sank to a crouch, holding his head. Loki turned his attention back to the sorcerers now. I am waiting for your answer, he said, with a terrible sort of patience. While we are on the subject, what of this wolf, which I see here before me? I see in her the mind and spirit of a human. This was not intended! I wished to raise up wolves like Fenris, yes, and lindworms in the form of Niðhoggr, but never with the minds and spirits of humans bound within them, as prisoners. What have you done, mortals?

  Part of Sigrun’s heart quailed at the raw fury suddenly in Loki’s voice, and Lagunov and the Fennish man at her side both dropped to their knees, hands to their heads, as if a terrible pressure suddenly gripped their skulls. “We . . . we did not have enough volunteers,” Lagunov admitted. “I had been sent to Siberia, years ago for political reasons. I knew convicts there. Murderers. Thieves. Political prisoners. I suggested to my konung that he send us these people. That they would surely volunteer for this, over years of hard labor there.”