Zafir, only three years old, stared at the impromptu father-daughter dance, his golden eyes intent, and one of the flowers from the garden clutched in one chubby hand. Well, don’t just stand there, Illa’zhi told his son. Join us.
The boy grimaced. His body trembled. And he hesitantly lifted himself into the air, following after his father, a puff of blue-gray smoke wreathing his body. He tossed the flower into his father’s pillar of flame and wind, and the blossom swarmed up through the ethereal winds, until it was pressed into Zaya’s hand. A single glowing ember nestled in its heart, not burning the petals at all, as the girl was deposited, once more, on the ground.
“Very good!” Erida called to Zafir, as he shrieked and tried to fly through his father’s winds now, only to be caught and redirected back down into the garden, again and again. “You almost got him that time.”
“Mama,” Zaya said, coming over to take her hand and lean against her, looking up at her and at Athim. “I wish I could fly.” She looked down at the fire-touched bloom in her hand, and pouted.
You cannot, little one, Illa’zhi told her, catching Zafir and shrinking back down into his smoke-and-fire body, carrying the boy on his shoulders now. That means nothing, however. He put a hand on her hair, which was so dark a garnet as to be almost black, but shot through with blond strands. Like living fire. The only mark of her heritage on her.
“It means I can’t fly with you and Zafir.” The pout deepened.
It means that you are perfect precisely as you are, Fireflower. And that I will not permit anything to hurt you. Ever.
Athim shook his head at his mother as Zhi passed Zafir over to her, and she held her garnet-haired little boy close. “There are days when I wish . . .” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
Oh, by all means, make your wish. We can bargain for it. Illa’zhi’s voice held amusement.
“Make me really your son.” Athim said, smiling faintly. “Make me not born of an evil man.”
Oh, as to the first, already granted. I have had the raising of you. You are my son. The second, alas, is beyond even my power, but it is also . . . irrelevant.
They headed indoors, laughing a little, and Erida could not remember when her heart had ever been so full. The prospect of war with Persia always loomed over them, but in this moment, she could forget it.
Inside, a servant rushed to Erida. “There is a phone call for you, my lady. The satrap bids you to turn on your far-viewer. There is very bad news from Rome.”
Erida frowned, and headed for their drawing room, where the large sphere lit up at a touch. Every station seemed to be showing footage from a Palatine Hill neighborhood in Rome. Erida herself had only been to Rome once or twice in her life, and now, she could see emergency vehicles all clustered around a palatial villa, their lights swirling. The news ticker at the bottom began to spell out a message, as the commentators appeared to be too affected to speak.
. . . at 12 postmeridian Rome time today . . . . Propraetor Antonius Valerius Livorus (Ret.) . . . Assassinated in his home . . . unknown assailant . . . . Manhunt canvassing the city . . . Rome itself locked down, no traffic in or out . . . .
Erida’s world rocked on its axis, and she sat down on the sofa, and stared at the far-viewer, her throat suddenly raw with tears. She’d respected Livorus. He’d been a canny negotiator, and had had those most startling of qualities in a career politician: integrity and vision. He’d understood that the old policies of Rome had been fine for creating a global empire, but dreadful for maintaining it. He’d been willing to make peace. He’d been willing to negotiate, and not merely send the legions in, with fire and sword. “Who would . . . who would do this?” she said, quietly. “He was an old man. He was . . . retired.” Those who are lucky enough to retire from the service of nations should be allowed to live out their days and die in peaceful obscurity. Almost no Magi die in bed, and for a reason.
At Delphi, Sophia Caetia finished her afternoon swim, in time to see her fellow sibyls gathering around a far-viewer, once she left the frigidarium for the tepidarium. She’d wondered why she hadn’t seen herself getting a lovely massage in the tepidarium today, perhaps from the altogether delicious young Gallic woman who’d helped her relieve the tension in her neck and shoulders last week, as well as any number of other kinds of tension . . . no, that hasn’t happened yet . . . . Sophia rather liked the Gallic servitor, or at least, looking at her. Her death in 1993 would be painful—dysentery in a refugee camp—but at least it wasn’t going to be horrific, and they’d put her on a pyre before she rotted. That was something, wasn’t it?
Now, what’s going on, that I won’t get my afternoon massage in? she wondered, wandering over to the other sibyls and priests, still naked from her swim, and patting herself dry with a large, white towel. Her eyes widened, as she took in the reports. “Oh . . . it’s Martius fifteenth, 1980, already?” she said, out loud, her voice small, almost lost in the rush of the other sibyls muttering about how they hadn’t seen this coming, how ironic it was, that this was the middle of Martius, the ides of Martius, which was when the attempted assassination of Julius Caesar had been staged, close to two thousand years ago.
Sophia wandered away in a daze, letting the towel drop from her hands, carelessly, to the floor. Tears burned hotly in her eyes. This is the beginning of the end, she thought, numbly. Even though I knew it was coming, I never realized it would feel . . . this soon. She went to her room, and sat down on the bed, wrapped her arms around her knees, and just rocked there, still naked, and listened as the phone on the table beside the bed shrilled at her. She didn’t see herself answering it. Not until the Godslayer calmed down a little. And what, in truth, could she tell him? It’s the man who hated his roof. Just like I warned him, years ago. Don’t take his hand, or he’ll boil the blood in your veins. But of course, I knew the warning was useless.
It’ll be a long time before my sister forgives me. And I won’t even tell her that I need her to come and fetch me until it’s too late. I have my mountainside appointment, after all, in eleven years. I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to be there. I don’t want to go mad . . . madder than I already am, anyway . . . Sophia was all too aware of the way time . . . slipped for her. For everyone else, it was a neat and linear progression towards the heat-death of the universe. For her, it was a child’s kaleidoscope. In her steadier moments, she even understood why this was so. Her psyche, fragile and unformed at the age of ten, might have been resilient enough to stretch around the gift of prophecy . . . but she’d simply received too much of it. It had broken her mind—Lassair called her a broken mirror, reflecting truth, but in shards. And it was true.
Gods. I see myself starting to take those walks now. I’ll climb the mountain trail every day between now and then. I’ll call it my daily constitutional, and smile. In time, I’ll come to enjoy it, and the terror of knowing what will happen will commingle with the pleasure of hearing the birds sing and the insects buzz along the road. And if the gods are merciful, I’ll be disconnected just far enough from time in 1991 that I won’t realize what day it is, when the day finally comes.
Of course, when have the gods ever been merciful to me? Oh, sister, how I wish this gift had never come to me. That I could turn it away, make it sleep. Encyst it within myself. But I cannot. I have to keep looking. Deeper. Further. Because I have tiny reasons for hope. I know you’ll live. And if I keep true to the path, I’ll . . . get to see it, through you. That’ll be enough, won’t it? Tears ran down her face. Why don’t I get to be one of the ones who will live? Have I not done everything that could ever be required of me? Why must I taste only of the bitter cup of poison, and never of the sweet?
But as the phone rang again, she calmed. Because she knew that there was no answer to that question, beyond what you’ve seen, you’ve seen. There is no why. There is only how things will be.
In Judea, yet another lunch meeting. The intern chafed at the door, peeking in through the conference room’s window
s. There were blinds in the way, but she could just see them in there. There was the commander, of course. Fifty or so, still in excellent shape, for a man his age. Dark eyes, dark hair, gray at the temples and streaks of it through the length. Judean, so he wore a skullcap, though from the pictures in his office, he didn’t always wear one when he went out of country. Only a short beard, and only around the mouth and chin, too. One hand curved around a cup of Tawantinsuyan coffee, as he laughed at something the younger man, the Britannian, had just said. Long brown hair, dressed in braids, not a line on his face, dozens of tattoos in blue ink, and an outlandish blue-green kilt over bare legs. Everyone in the office said that they’d been best friends for decades, but that simply did not seem possible . . . until you looked at the pictures in the offices of either the commander, or the head of counter-summoning. And there they both were, in clothing that had last been in fashion a decade or two ago.
Behind her, she heard a voice. “Are you just going to stand there all day, or are you going to go in there?”
She looked over her shoulder at the speaker, a Nahautl agent a solid fifteen years older than she was, his hair shaved at the sides of his head, and spiked into a fetlock at the center of his head. Just as covered in tattoos as the Britannian, though his clothing ran more to burgundy. “I . . . didn’t want to interrupt.”
“Just give me the note, and I’ll go in for you.”
She handed him the scrap of paper, and fled. She really didn’t want to be the one to give them this message.
Inside, Trennus shook his head again. “This is a very damned morbid conversation, Adam,” he chastised his friend.
“No, it’s really not. I’ve had a will drawn up since I first went into special forces. I revised it when Sig and I got married, I made sure I carried life insurance . . . and now that I’m getting older, I need to change a few things. For example, I’ve been lazy about it, and my father was the executor of my estate for the longest time, so that Sig wouldn’t have to deal with anything.” Adam shrugged. “Not an option, anymore, and I’m fairly sure that you’re going to outlive both me and Kanmi, so . . . you’re it.”
Trennus shifted, uncomfortably. “I don’t know about that. One wrong move with a djinn and I’m as dead as anyone else.” He flicked his braids back, irritably. “What do you want me to do, precisely?”
Adam grimaced. “Took out another life insurance policy. Passed the physical. They’re not expecting me to fall over any time soon. My goal is to make sure Sig doesn’t actually have to work for a year when I go.”
Trennus shook his head. The topic was not the one he’d thought they’d be discussing. “I doubt she’ll let herself sit around and do . . . nothing. Even if her gods let her have that year, I don’t think she’d take it.”
Adam exhaled. “I’m aware. That’s why I also want you and Lassair and Sari to take care of her.” He pushed his salad away with an irritable flick of his fingers. “Kidnap her over into your house, if you have to. Have all the kids sit on her. Sari and Lassair have been calling her sister for twenty years now, so you can’t tell me they don’t feel something for her. Remind her of all the ways she’s . . . bound to every one of you. And don’t let her fall on her spear.”
Trennus’ eyes had gone wider and wider through this expostulation. Now, he blinked rapidly. He loved Sigrun, for all her prickly nature and cool demeanor, and he knew Lassair and Saraid did, too, but he didn’t think Adam had thought through some of the underlying implications. “Adam, I have my hands entirely full, between Sari, Lassair, the kids, an apprentice, and the five million other projects.” How much of this is the fact that you’re getting old enough that you’re afraid of the first time someone tells you that you don’t look much like father and daughter? How much of this is watching some of the new young agents try to flirt with Sig—not that she even notices them doing it—reminding you of your own mortality?
“You probably won’t even notice that Sig’s living there, once you take her spear away the first two or three times. She’s quiet at the best of times.” Adam’s faint smile wavered, and fell away. “Look, I’m not saying to marry her. That would be between . . . god. All four of you, and I’m not sure Sig would be able to make that kind of mental transition.” Adam grimaced. “I’m not trying to control her future. I’m trying to make sure she has one. Her culture is in love with death, Tren. No better end than a death in battle, and failing that, suicide. Dying in bed, of disease, or old age . . . well, none of those are going to happen to her. I don’t want her throwing herself headlong into battle and trying to get herself killed, or falling on her spear. And the only thing that’s going to stop her from that . . . is all of you.” He shrugged, looking down at his desk. “I know her, Tren. The new people, the new agents . . . they’re children to her. She’s a good fifty years older than they are, and they’re mostly normal people. So she takes care of them, because that’s her job, but there’s very little . . . attachment.”
“She’s a caretaker. A guardian. A teacher.” Trennus nodded. It was hard not to feel much the same way in his own department, at least with the younger agents. That tended to happen, once you hit your forties and fifties. You started passing on what you’d learned. And while a good teacher had to care about their students . . . there also had to be a certain amount of distance, and dispassion. Because sooner or later, you were going to have to kick the unwilling student off the tree branch, and watch to see if they managed to fly on their own, or not. “You can’t see students as peers, Adam. You can’t. Not and be any damned good as a teacher. There’s not talking down to them, which Sig doesn’t do. But there’s also recognizing that there’s an experience gap, and respect for it needs to go both ways.”
“I know. I know. I just . . . I don’t know.” Adam sounded aggravated. “I don’t want her to turn into Reginleif. She was a teacher, too. But . . . no peers. No friends. Nothing and no one left, so she said let it all burn.”
The thought was familiar, and haunting enough that it gave Trennus pause, but he pointed out, quietly, “Actually, Sig’s got quite a few peers, Adam. Other valkyrie and bear-warriors. Admittedly, to ninety percent of them, she’s the youngster and to the others, she’s the revered teacher . . . but if you, Kanmi, Minori, and I all somehow happen to die? There’ll still be people there for her. Now, the whole world explodes, and she’s somehow the only survivor? I think anyone would have problems then.” Trennus chuckled, but sobered, watching Adam’s face shut down a bit. “Hey, come on. Sophia’s prophecies haven’t come true yet. And, gods know, as long as Loki’s curse on Sig persists? I’m not going to worry about the world ending.”
“Sophia told me, the first time I spoke with her on the phone in Nahautl, that Lassair used to be a fertility goddess, and that she wanted to tell Kanmi she was sorry about his wife.” Adam’s expression was grim, and Trennus’ cup slipped in his hand, spilling coffee on the conference room table. “Admittedly, I just don’t see the whole ‘your wife will be your widow before you meet her again’ thing coming true, but . . . better safe than sorry.”
Trennus mopped up his spilled coffee before any of it could reach Adam’s stacks of papers. “Morrigan’s mercy. . . . What else did she say?”
“That she wanted to tell Livorus not to shake hands with the man who hated his roof. That he’d have his blood boiled, if he did.”
“. . . you know, I’d move into a tent, permanently, with that kind of a prophecy hanging over my head.”
“I’d stop owning property, that’s for sure.” Adam shrugged. “But Livorus isn’t the type to change the way he lives or who he is, for anyone.”
There was a knock at the conference room door, and Trennus turned, eying Mazatl Itztli curiously; the former Jaguar warrior was now in his early forties, and a damned good agent, particularly for surveillance details. The Nahautl man had a slip of foolscap in his hand. “Commander? Main switchboard has an encrypted call for you, direct from Rome.”
“I’ll take it in my office, tha
nk you. Are you my intern today, Itztli?”
“Your intern was rooted to the carpet in the hall. I think Agent Matrugena scares her.”
Trennus shook his head, unable to wrap his head around that concept at all. Adam snorted and waved Trennus along with him to his office. “Your clearance is good enough to hear . . . pretty much anything I hear,” he said. “Saves me having to repeat it five minutes later, anyway.”
Trennus’ answering smile faded as Adam took the waiting call, and sat down, abruptly, as if his legs had been scythed out from under him. All amusement, and all color, drained from his friend’s face. Trennus, who hadn’t sat down yet, went on high alert, and moved to the door, peering through the small window panel beside it, out into the hall, blessing and cursing Adam’s stubborn refusal of an office with an outer window. And he’s two stories off the ground here. At least my office is in the basement, where I like it . . . . Ley-energies coiled around his body, pulled from the ambient, ready to be unleashed.
Adam finally spoke into the mouthpiece. “I understand, sir. I’ll pull in all his old lictors. We’ll start compiling a list of potential suspects.” His voice was empty. “It’ll be extensive, and highly political. Can you at least tell me how . . . really.” Adam closed his eyes, and a look of fury and pain crossed his face at once. “Yes. I’m sure my repeated notes of objection on that topic are still on file. Thank you. Yes. I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”
The Goddess Denied Page 63
