The Goddess Denied

by Deborah Davitt

  You fool. Only those with will, with ideals, with purpose, with self-sacrifice, would survive the process intact! How many have you put into the earth, only to raise them up mad, or have died in the ground, never to be reborn? How many lives have you wasted? Loki’s fury howled through the building now, building on the chill winds that already had leaked in through the broken walls—Sigrun blinked. Yes, the walls had broken places in them now, visibly patched, here and there, with crude plaster seals, already weather-eaten. Reality kept re-aligning around her, and she had no idea what was illusion, and what was truth. You put men together in the same tombs, to distill the best from each person’s body and soul? You put wolves and men in the same wombs, to give intelligence and reason to the packs I bade you birth, when the process alone should have been enough, uncontaminated! Why would you do such things?

  Erikir held up a hand. “Wait. Hold, I beg. How did you not . . . you are a god, Loki. How do you claim not to know what your followers do? How do you not know what goes on, a hundred feet from your stronghold?” He waved at the building around them, and Sigrun wondered, briefly, how the bear-warrior saw the place. “How do you expect any of us to believe your words?”

  Loki’s head swiveled, and for a moment, Sigrun saw a snake’s supple, inimical smoothness in the god’s movements. Believe my words or not, Freyr’s son, Loki said, his voice the hiss of sleet against a windowpane, It is of no import to me, except that I, too, would know this. I would know how it is that I have been deceived. I would know who has betrayed me.

  Sigrun looked away from Loki’s brilliant eyes, and suddenly savage countenance . . . and the room rippled for her, again. She strained with every bit of her othersight, and felt as if she were making headway. The ruined equipment against the walls shimmered. Shifted. Became intact cylinders, each taller than a man, which hummed, softly. Awareness, suddenly, of heat in the building, as well as the death-cold from the outside winds. Snow drifted around the cylinders, blown in from outside, melting into puddles around the equipment. Cables all over the floor, run through channels cut into the poured-stone. Runes, etched into the poured-stone, all along the channels.

  Flicker, and then gone again. Just a hint at an underlying reality. Or another illusion.

  Laughter, in the meantime, from Hel herself, sharp and cold as flensing knives. Would you know who has betrayed you, Father? Would you truly know? A flash of a smile. Look no further than your own kin. Reginleif has been my servant for over a decade now, bound to me. Come to me, little valkyrie. Come and sit at my feet. You have failed me before. You should have been on the mountain in Tawantinsuyu, to draw in the power of the dying gods, and siphon it to me. But since then, you have been far more successful. Weaving your web of lies around my father. Ensuring that he bound himself, willingly, to this human enterprise. And now, Father? Your power is mine for the taking. You cannot stop me.

  Reality stuttered like a candle about to burn out. The room reformed itself, snow drifting around the cylinders that lined the walls, melting into puddles. Not Tholberg coils, like in Nahautl or Tawantinsuyu. Something else. “Batteries,” Kanmi muttered, suddenly, his head snapping around, as if seeing the room for the first time. “Molten sulfur batteries. Enough to store enormous amounts of energy. Without pumping it into the ley-grid.”

  “No seismic disturbances,” Minori agreed, tightly, as she and her husband moved closer together. Sigrun could almost smell the spells they were starting to pull around themselves, in reflexive defense.

  Sigrun had been trying so hard to see through the illusion, that now that it was starting to crumble, othersight persisted. Nagged at her. Revealed a warp in the air around Loki himself, and his throne. Sigrun slapped a hand over her eyes, trying to make the warp go away. Either resolve itself into clarity, or vanish entirely. It was as if the air itself sucked into the space around Loki, a yawning disconnect with reality that made her nauseous to look upon.

  Loki tapped his distaff against his knee, and chuckled, but there was a hint of bravado in the tone. Oh, come now. Did you really think, my daughters, that I would agree to any contract without ensuring that there were ways for me to escape it? I am bound, yes. I am as bound to this endeavor as any of the humans. But I am not Prometheus. I ensured that I held onto a key.

  Reginleif laughed now, herself. Savage joy, suddenly in her eyes and face. “Oh, but Father, your escape route is cut off. You cannot assume the body of your son by Frittigil as your new avatar. You cannot slip your chains. You are bound, and bound you will remain.”

  My son is hardly my only escape route, Reginleif. A woman’s body would do as well for me. I do not . . . discriminate . . in that fashion. A sardonic smile from Loki. Any number of human poets have written about my supposedly unmanly proclivities. I am what I am, but I must admit to enjoying a woman’s fine bosom. Were I to possess your body, I would merely have the opportunity to examine your breasts more closely. Though I would, I think, have to make some modifications, that I might pleasure myself properly while looking down upon them. At least, until I chose to form an avatar out of raw matter, and left your body behind. Perhaps I’d leave you male. Perhaps I’d leave you both. Perhaps you should think better, child, before you taunt one who has dealt with the empty boasts and flyts of Thor since the dawn of time. Loki smirked. But even so, I promised my son’s mother, that I would never harm him. And that is a promise that I hope to keep.

  A flash of hatred in Reginleif’s eyes, as she crossed to stand closer to Hel now. Still a solid ten feet away, however. “And where was this mercy, this compassion, this love of family, when my husband first took ill? Where was your love when he lay dying?” She spun and gave Sigrun a look that mingled dislike, disdain and . . . unwilling empathy, all at once. “You demanded justice, daughter of Tyr. Where was justice when I pleaded for my Joris to be made my equal? When I begged that some of my divine spark be given to him, even if it diminished me? I offered everything I was in bargain for that. Even the gift of illusion that lets people look upon me, and not see a monster.” Her face shimmered for a moment, and Sigrun winced, but did not look away. “Not for those of the line of Loki, are there pretty rune-marks to decorate the flesh,” Reginleif added, grimly.

  Once, long ago, Sigrun had told Adam what she imagined she would look like, if her scars were scars, in truth. No hair left, she’d been certain, every follicle removed by Tlaloc’s fire. Slabs of shiny, thick skin, without pores left to allow her to sweat when overheated. Red-tinged, here and there, melted looking. And wherever the fire hadn’t touched, Sigrun knew all too well what every rune-mark on her body meant. This one, a bite. That one, the pazuzu’s claws. These, the arrow wounds she’d taken from Fritti. Those, the bullet wounds taken from Adam. Knives, swords, spears, bullets, arrows, fire, claws, teeth, and, from one enterprising technomancer, two decades ago, acid. Sigrun’s lineage allowed her to heal herself, and heal others. Bear-warriors were expected to wear their scars, but their abilities allowed them to heal far, far better than any human could. Their scars were badges of honor, but minimal.

  Reginleif’s were not. Like all valkyrie, she healed from everything other than a mortal wound to the head or the heart, but . . . as a human would. Half her hair was, indeed, missing. One ear, gone, the flesh over one eye a drooping, scarred mass that almost didn’t allow her to look out at the world. Her teeth were perfect, but her lip twisted up in another mass of scar tissue. Her throat showed bite-marks, smooth with age. Her hands—parts of her fingers were missing, malformed, eroded. Sigrun could only imagine what the rest of her body looked like, after over two hundred years of combat, and she could hear Brandr inhale sharply. She darted him a glance that revealed the naked distress on her old mentor’s face as he took a step towards Reginleif. “Even if Joris could not bear to look on me like this, I was willing to give it all up, just to let him live,” Reginleif said, quietly. “You’ll understand, someday, daughter of Tyr. All too soon, in fact.” She turned back to Loki, her eyes cold. “So where, again,
was your mercy, Father? I went to Hel, and she laughed, at first. Then to you, and you told me no, and no, and again no. And finally, Hel relented, or seemed to do so.” Reginleif smoothed her illusion back over her face, and smiled a bright and bitter smile. “She swore that if I bound myself to her, she would extend Joris’ life. And when I failed her, in Tawantinsuyu, Joris’ death was my punishment.”

  Sigrun’s breath caught in her chest as she pictured Adam’s life being her punishment for disobedience. Oh, gods. No wonder she hates me. She has . . . almost every right to do so.

  Reginleif’s eyebrows lifted now, as she went on, pacing away from Hel now, standing equidistant between Loki and the goddess. “She used me to bind you, Father. And I used my bond to her, to be able to lie to you.” She laughed, a silvery little sound. “Of course, the supreme irony is, that because I remained bound to you, Father, I could also lie to her.”

  Loki closed his eyes for a moment as Hel’s mask swung towards Reginleif. What? Hel demanded. How have you lied?

  Sigrun wasn’t sure if she knew up from down at the moment. Too many secrets. Too many lies, she thought, tiredly, and crouched down, touching the ground with one hand, her spear held loosely in the other, as if touching stable earth would make the world spin less.

  Child of mine, Loki said, raising a hand to stay Hel. His voice held a terrible gentleness, When I said no, that was my mercy to you. For the same reason that I required that all my volunteers have no family. For the same reason that I placed my curse upon my brother’s daughter. His glance took in Sigrun, for an instant. Ragnarok is coming. From the moment that the Pythia of Delphi, who is young Sigrun’s sister, made her first prophecy, and Sigrun spoke the words of it to Tyr, we knew it was at hand. The others thought they understood, and have watched me carefully for the past forty years, to see when I would betray them. But I knew I would never begin that war. I knew there had to be something else. So I have watched and waited and prepared. And I know that in that war, people must be ready to sacrifice everything they have. Everything they are. And it is far easier to ask that sacrifice of someone who has nothing left to lose. A human with a family will hesitate to leave them, to go to the ends of the earth and fight for others. This is not shameful. It is merely in your nature. He turned and looked directly at Sigrun, whose stomach dropped into her boots. Tyr did not understand the prophecy, as I did. My curse will remain upon you, until the end of the world. In a very real way, my curse on you might even help forestall it. Naglfar, I name you. The boat that will carry our hopes at the end, and beyond. But until that day, anything I can do, I will do, to hold Ragnarok at bay. You do not have to like it. You do not have to approve of it. It simply is what it is.

  Sigrun covered her face with one hand, and rocked in place on the ground. The words of the others, raised voices, drifted above her head like clouds. She was, in a very real sense, Tyr’s daughter. She knew the truth when she heard it. And Loki’s words were true. Horribly, terribly true. He defies fate. So do I. And to avert that future . . . the future that Sophia thinks is inevitable . . . isn’t a little sacrifice acceptable? She swallowed. Even if that sacrifice is my future. Sigrun considered it dispassionately, ignoring the shouting around her. In truth, what future do I even have, except service to the gods? Adam is human. Adam can change his wyrd. He’s still young. He could . . . walk the road with someone else. Have children, have the family he’s always wanted. Sacrificing my future doesn’t mean that his needs to be sacrificed, as well.

  Distantly, words began to filter back into her awareness. Sigrun raised her head, and her othersight finally pierced the veil of illusions around her. Othersight as truthsense. What was an illusion, but another form of lie?

  She could see them all, like fretwork made of the northern lights. Some were clumsy, crude crafts, the lumpen work of human hands. The outer wards, the ones that had hidden the buildings . . . human-made, crafted by dozens of hands and sustained by devices. The bulk of the illusions inside the building . . figments. Crafted and perpetuated inside each person’s mind, with exquisite artistry, by Loki’s own hand. Using their own expectations against them. But there were also shimmering shields, like Kanmi’s invisibility bubble, cloaking a dozen groups of humans, all of whom were all filtering into the building through the eastern and southern doors. Sigrun’s dazed awareness registered them, and she awoke to them as a threat. Lassair!

  I see them! I see them through you!

  Every guard and technomancer in this place must have regrouped, and come here. Show the others. Call Saraid, and the fenris. Call the jotun. Sigrun swallowed. This doesn’t have to come to blows, but they’re readying for an attack—

  Saraid calls the pack! Lassair’s tone was fierce. I call the jotun, and the others hear me. If they attack us, they will regret their actions.

  And then, as Sigrun looked away from the masses of humans moving into the old ley-facility, Loki’s final illusion crumbled before Sigrun’s eyes. He did not sit upon a throne made of ivory. He was not tall and sure and in control. He hung from the ceiling by long iron chains, his arms stretched up and behind him to an agonizing degree. His tall godly form was suspended from those chains in mid-air, but his feet did not dangle; they, too, were caught in iron manacles attached to the floor holding him almost spread-eagled. No shirt; she could count his ribs, just as she had been able to count the ribs of the avatar of Inti in Tawantinsuyu. Dozens of copper wires, shielded with black insulation, dug into his flesh, sprouting from every vertebrae in his spine and along his neck. Trickles of vividly blue blood leaked down from the always-fresh wounds, and splattered onto the ground. Into the runes carved there, the channels designed to carry the blood away, into a circle around him. Bound with his own blood. His own will. His own intention. His long hair was black and matted, and his silvery eyes were weary as he raised his head, and met her gaze. Vanity, the god murmured. I do so love a good show, and yet, my dignity has always ever been the first thing stolen from me.

  Communication, between heartbeats. Sigrun had hated Loki, been furious with him, and yet, seeing him in this manner, with the changes and shifts in perspective of the past ten minutes . . . You entered the trap willingly?

  Words swirling around her. Raised voices and rage. You dare betray me, you ungrateful harlot—

  “You earned my betrayal the moment you inflicted a slow and torturous death on my husband to punish me for my failure—” Reginleif’s furious response.

  Loki’s weary eyes, meeting Sigrun’s. I did not know it was a trap when I entered it. But I gave of myself to aid our people. To aid the world. Reginleif is far more skilled than I gave her credit for. She spun figments into my head. I did not realize . . . how starved I was . . . until this moment. The moment I saw myself through your eyes, daughter of Tyr.

  Sigrun’s head swiveled towards Kanmi and Minori. Flickers of old information, assembling in new configurations. “They’ve been draining him!” she said, sharply, out loud, in Latin. “They’ve been draining him, into the batteries, as you said—not just enough to make the jotun. They’re draining him as completely as they can!” She was staggered by the scale, and her head spun for a moment, her vision pulling back as if she could, for an instant, see through the walls. For a dizzying instant, she was certain she was looking through Loki’s eyes, as her vision moved to and through the molten sulfur batteries in this room, and then out, into and along copper wires outside, which had been cloaked with illusion before. For a dizzying instant, her vision skated along those wires, which raced all through the northlands, to dozens, hundreds of nodes, across thousands of miles of frozen land. Every direction at once, more than her mind could handle, landing at nodes made of batteries, transformers, and other apparatuses, and then following the wires out further. An intricate web, with Loki at its central hub. They’ve spread you across the whole of the north.

  Like an espaliered tree. Distant, grim amusement, as Loki assessed his own condition. I am Yggdrasil, it would seem.

  Kanmi an
d Minori, reacting, almost in slow-motion, their heads spinning towards the technomantic devices in the room. Assessing. Testing for power yields. Trennus, reaching down for the ley in the earth. Adam’s hand moving to the small of his back. Everything seemed incredibly slow, and inhumanly sharp to Sigrun, and she could only attribute it to adrenaline, and the overabundance of energy in the air.

  Loki’s voice, soft in her mind. Reginleif is a clever girl, and her technomancers are cleverer yet. But they do not yet have my heart.

  Reginleif and Hel both turning towards Sigrun. But Hel’s narrow gaze slid back to Reginleif, and the goddess smiled beneath her mask. And what, precisely, do you think that you have accomplished? Nothing, except to make my father ripe for the plucking. Just as I ordered you to do. And I will take now, what is mine.

  Her fingers hooked into claws and Loki swayed in his chains, but fought. A clash of wills, and Sigrun could see raw seiðr sparking in the air between them. Loki bared his teeth in a ghastly smile. A good effort, daughter, but you’ll have to work harder to be the eagle that plucks out my liver.