The Goddess Denied

by Deborah Davitt

  Worldwalker looked up. Pre-memory. As in, if you enter the Veil in the future, the memories you have then, should resonate down along your entire being. So you should ‘remember’ now, what you will know then. Tenses were so difficult in the Veil. The concepts were so large, and he had to wrestle with them.

  I should, yes. But for me, it is . . . usually only to do with personal things.

  Such as? He was curious now.

  The wolf’s leaf-dappled eyes considered him for a long moment. I knew when I first saw you, as a child, the man you would grow to be. What you would mean to me. That you could be trusted with the secrets in the dark writings. I did not foresee the fireling. I only saw us. I left you to grow on your own. To become the man you would be. And I never doubted for a moment that you would become one who could walk between the realms. Who would help protect my forest and my people, and be one with me.

  Worldwalker lowered himself to a crouch in the shattered square, and buried his face in her ruff, his mind racing. His own perception of events was different. He remembered the white hind appearing at the corners of his vision on hunting trips, and being ridiculed by his brothers for claiming to see her. And then, the whole business with Senecita and the summoner whom the Praetorians had been hunting . . . . It was overwhelming to think that Saraid had known it all, in advance. Then why . . . he floundered. Why did you wait until after Lassair. . . ?

  Because you were not ready for me, and you had so much more to do and see and experience. And then you found her, and chose to keep her alive, and events progressed. In the end, it does not matter. You will protect my woods and my people, when the time comes. I do not know how, but all I see is fire and smoke in the future. And you love me now, as I have always loved you. Her tone was calm and affectionate, but there were very faint tinges of regret in it. For me, pre-memory is knowing the shape of things to come. Not the color or the taste or the smell.

  Wild-heart . . . I’m sorry. I did not know. I was a fool when I was young.

  That is, as far as I can tell, the purpose of being young, for humans. If humans knew the future, they would all be as mad as Stormborn’s sister. And even for me, the future holds surprises. She touched her nose to the side of his throat. That is the most delightful thing about you, Worldwalker. You surprise me every day.

  Forgiveness and understanding flowed between them. Saraid’s patient acceptance. His own regret, at having hurt her. Uncertainty, as to what his future in the mortal realm should hold. Finally, he sighed, and focused again on the realm around them. These spirits who dwell here . . . they were once humans, weren’t they?

  I believe so, yes. They are fragments, however. They found a way into the Veil. But they don’t have the strength of will to hold their sanity. Or any allies to assist them.

  How did they come to travel here, I wonder? Worldwalker wondered, and tried to question one of the fleeting, fragmentary spirits. It didn’t remember, however. Most of its personal memories were gone, dissolved like salt in the sea. Most of its self was gone, too, and it fled from him when he pressed too hard for answers. He sighed, and fell back on supposition. So, they came here, perhaps by chance, or by intention, ripped the walls between the worlds to escape. They have created this realm. They cling to its remnants, a fading memory. And only their memories of this place let it continue to exist here. A monument. And when they all forget, they’ll no longer shape this place. Though it would always have been here, it would always not have been, too. At one and the same time. And while everything in the Veil is eternal . . . they are dissolving into the Veil, all selfhood lost. They have no bond with a spirit to help them hold to themselves.

  There are humans who would say that losing the self is perfection.

  The fear I sense in all of these fragmented, tormented minds, is enough for me to hold very tightly to my self indeed, wild-heart.

  Can we help them, Worldwalker?

  There is nothing left of them to help, I think, Saraid. While they should not be able to change in the Veil, they can forget. And forgetting themselves . . . they may even distort the reality that they try to cling to. Who knows what their world really looked like? If it really is as dead as this one appears . . . or if this is just their madness, made manifest. He paused. And in the end . . . this place doesn’t matter. It’s not our world. It’s the vision of a few spirits who slipped through a crack into a quantum reality. It has no bearing on us. He stood, and gestured. This place will fade. It will never die, but it will . . . recede. Distort, as they forget themselves. Or perhaps it will grow, as more spirits join them, but they will shift it to something else. It will always exist as it is right now, but it will also be subject to change. He shook his head. We’ve deviated. Let’s find Truthsayer.

  They left the desiccated memory of a place that, for him, had never been, and loped through the Veil once more, following Saraid’s nose, and Truthsayer’s scent . . . .

  And then he was through, and for the moment, jarringly alone. Trennus took a deep breath of real air and almost staggered. His first dazed impression was of a hotel room. He spun, dizzily. . . and Minori, sitting up in bed, was behind him, her hands up in a defensive casting position, her eyes wide. “That . . . took a little longer than I anticipated,” he said, shaking his head. “Sari was having trouble picking up your trail.”

  “I only called an hour ago,” Minori said, lowering her hands to pull the sheets up to her neck, instead. Trennus blinked, and lifted his eyes to a wall. Like most people in the world, she slept in the nude; some people in extreme northern climates wore clothing to bed, but between modern central heating and blankets, even that was rare, in Trennus’ experience. “I wasn’t expecting you in my room at . . .” she squinted at the clock, “. . . five antemeridian.”

  “I’ll . . . ah . . . let you get dressed,” he said, and turned his back, finding the room’s tiny kitchenette and getting hot water for tea started. “Truthfully, I wasn’t expecting it to be five when I came through. It . . . felt like a much longer trip.” He paused. “No offense, but where in the three names of the Morrigan are we?”

  “Llasa. It’s in the Tibetan Protectorate of the Qin Empire.” He could hear rustling behind him as Minori slipped out of the covers and pulled on her clothing.

  “Er . . . .”

  “You know every hill of your own island. You’re conversant with Europa, and if Sigrun mentions a place in Novo Gaul, you know precisely where it is, and even the Names of some of the resident spirits, but once you leave the Empire, even mentally, you’re adrift.” Minori’s tone was dry. “If you were one of my students, I’d call you parochial, Trennus.”

  “I’m as cosmopolitan as the next man, but only so much time to study so many things, and East Asia has never been that interesting to me. No offense.” He shifted. “How’d Tibet become a protectorate?”

  “In much the same way as Carthage and Judea became subject states to Rome. In the seventeenth century, the Qing dynasty came to power. The Manchus allied with the Mongols to pacify those parts of Qin who preferred to hold to the old Ming dynasty’s ways and authority, but permitted people to retain their traditional garb and culture. Tibet and Outer Mongolia came under attack by the Zunghar Khanate—yes, somewhat related to the Mongols. Further south. Persia and Raccia fight back and forth over their lands to this day.” Minori moved around into his field of vision, her face composed. “Qin sent troops and helped hold off the invaders. As a result, Tibet became a protectorate. It’s a primarily Buddhist region. They still govern themselves, just as Carthage or Judea or even Britannia govern themselves. They pay taxes to Qin, and Qin keeps an army at the borders.” She shrugged. “It’s been that way for over two hundred years. There are rabble-rousers, just as there were in Carthage,” and her lips twisted, her expression bitter, “but so long as there’s no interference in local customs or beliefs, and they still govern themselves in most ways, I don’t, personally, see the point.”

  There was a muffled series of whumps in the distanc
e, and Trennus’ head came up. “That sounded like bombs,” he said.

  “They’ve been exchanging bombing runs with the Indian army.” Minori pinched the bridge of her nose. “Both sides have some truly agile ornithopters that can manage the altitude and can dodge around the jagged terrain. They drop their payloads on this cluster of troops, that village, and leave again. But that’s the closest I’ve heard them attack. They’re really fighting over Kathmandu at the moment, in Nepal.”

  Trennus blinked. “It’s hard being a border nation. Who’s winning there?”

  “Damned if I know. Technically, India and the Khanate invaded Nepal. Nepal begged Qin for assistance, and Qin marched in. The fact that I can’t get a flight out of here suggests that India and Mongolia are currently winning.”

  This makes my head hurt. “All right. Take me to the local officials. Let’s see if I can’t get something started here. Some sort of a trade. A rerouted flight. Even if it takes all of you from here to Australia, that’s still . . . progress.”

  Two hours later, Trennus was in a meeting room with Min and Qin and Tibetan officials, helping broker arrangements. He was, besides Sigrun, the last of them with Praetorian credentials. And Minori had applied for and received the lowest level of citizenship under Roman law as far back as her days in Lutetia. She’d become, on paper, a Gaul, before moving to Rome, and then Judea. Which made her a citizen of a subject state of Rome, and thus, she fell under the aegis of the Empire. That gave Trennus a little extra maneuvering room, though he wasn’t there officially. He got most of the refugees on a train headed back into Qin, proper, and a promise for them of a flight to the Roman enclaves in Australia. From there, they could be re-directed across open, relatively safe ocean to the southern tip of Africa, and then north. The flights would be long and tedious, but they couldn’t travel west via Hawai’i at the moment; the islands, once united under a single petty king, had been under a Roman travel interdiction since the thousand or so small Polynesian gods had been attacked by the mad godlings. Many natives of the islands had fled to Caesaria Aquilonis and taken refuge in cities like Nimes and Burgundoi.

  As they left the meeting room, Trennus asked one of the officials, through an interpreter, “The Khanate must be having difficulty with the terrain. These mountains aren’t friendly to horses, nor to many tanks.”

  A pause for the translation. “Yes, they are resorting mainly to battle-magic, ornithopters, and infantry.”

  “Are they summoning at all?”

  “They are not, but at the moment, neither are our people, if it can be avoided. Such seems to be an invitation for a mad god to appear and feast.” The official shuddered, and straightened his robe and hat.

  “I’d have thought that your people would have considered bringing your terra cotta army out of retirement,” Trennus said, hesitantly. The cache of statues had been re-discovered in 1935 AC, and represented a treasure trove of over eight thousand warrior figurines, slightly smaller than life-size, which had been interred with the first Qin Emperor, in the third century before Caesar. “A single spirit in each, and you have a brigade that won’t fear the terrain. Arm them with modern weapons instead of bows and swords—spirits can be trained to use such things—and I don’t think the Khanate could do much against them, besides counter-summoning.”

  “We have considered it, but our current preference is for metal golems,” the interpreter responded with a patient smile, after a long string of words in Qin. “They are more difficult to break than ceramic ones, of course, though the electronic components our technomancers are employing to supplement the sorcerous ones are more expensive. Clay is, of course, nothing more than dirt.” A shrug. “We have spirits who are conversant with modern armaments, as well. But again, the real danger is in having so many spirits in one place . . . .”

  “Understood,” Trennus said, nodding. It didn’t help that he was feeling increasingly useless in this modern world. He was one of the most powerful summoners and ley-mages of his generation, but he hesitated to tap ley at the moment, because of how unstable the energy currents were, thanks to the mad gods, and most of his spirit contacts were staying firmly in the Veil, where it was safe, right now.

  Outside the meeting room, Trennus turned to Minori. “Come on,” he told her. “Find your magic-users and god-born. I’m taking you straight to Judea.”

  “Trennus, I cannot leave the others—”

  “I’m not leaving without you. Kanmi would jump up out of his grave and strangle me if I did, and Asha will kill me if I’m not home to help with the children by dinnertime. Please don’t make me choose between which horrible fate I’d rather face, and just come along quietly.”

  Minori chuckled faintly, but looked torn for a moment. “All right,” she surrendered.

  She gathered her people together, and Trennus told them, “I need all of you to hold hands. If one of you comes loose, there is a very good chance that I won’t be able to find you again.”

  “Where are we going, please?” One of the sorcerers was raising a hand, politely.

  “To Judea. Through the Veil.”

  “That is . . . impossible. Unnatural.” A round of startled blinks and nods.

  “It’s not impossible, really. And nothing is even unnatural, so long as we can do it. Since, well, we’re all natural creatures. More or less.” Trennus caught Min’s hand in his own. Saraid, Lassair, dear ones, could you open the way, please?

  . . . slogging back through the Veil, Saraid leading the way once more, Truthsayer clutching his hand like a lifeline, a convulsive grip. Trying to keep an eye on the people behind them, who started off single-file, and then crowded closer and closer, plainly terrified of their surroundings. Unable to reassure them that nothing was real, because, well, everything was. Truthsayer held a wall of force around them as spectral hounds and monkeys in a forest of the mind tried to reach in at them. More creatures; this forest became, suddenly, kelp-like, and the kelp was alive. It had eyes, and tried to entangle them with long ribbons of itself. Hungering for the experience in the mortal minds. For the sensation of touching the mortal world.

  Worldwalker lifted his bow off his shoulders, and set arrow to string. He wasn’t a ley-mage here; there were no ley currents here, no cosmic strings. He was a bargainer, still, but the bow was something else. A manifestation of his will. Part of him, an extension of his self. He began to fire on the creatures around them, whether hound, monkey, shark, or eel, cutting a road ahead of them with green-fletched arrows that burned with hidden flame. The others, all battle-hardened magic-users of one type or another, began to do the same. Fire and ice spun out of Truthsayer’s protective shell, lightning and arrow-shafts, and the creatures turned and ran—or swam—away. The kelp forest vanished, and then . . . .

  . . . home.

  Minori exhaled in relief, and released Trennus’ hand, turning to look at the other refugees. “Welcome to Judea,” she told them all, looking around the familiar confines of the Matrugena home. Her fellow travelers looked dazed, and no wonder at that; she’d been told that this was possible, but it was one thing to hear what Zhi had done, and another to experience it. She paused, turned, and threw her arms around Trennus. “Thank you. What were those places?”

  “Realms,” Trennus said, simply. “Places created by various spirits, bastions of their power. I’ve explored the Veil every night for over twenty years, and I know I’ll never see all of it. It took me the first decade to create the Woods, and to learn to carry time with me. I think anyone could do it, if they had enough willpower . . . but for most people, the first instant is overwhelming.” He gave her a troubled look. “I saw something new today, that I wish I could talk to Kanmi about. It gave me a few new concepts I’d . . . love to try out on him.”

  Minori’s shoulders sagged a little. “I wish he were here, too.” Her voice was forlorn. “But . . . you could talk to me.”

  He reached out, and took her hand. “Of course I will.” Trennus looked down. “You have a world-clas
s mind, Min. I’d never put you down.” He shrugged a little, clearly at a loss. “But it’s not the same.”

  Minori shook her head. She knew it wasn’t. She missed the sensation of her mind and Kanmi’s, running along the same problem, sometimes in opposition, sometimes so fluidly alongside that one of them could speak each other’s argument before the other could give it voice. And she knew, with sudden acuteness, that Trennus had that same sensation of . . . missing a wheel in his own mind. Kanmi had brought much to them each, which now was lost. “I know,” she finally said, her throat aching, and he squeezed her hand, tightly.

  Saraid shifted into her humanoid form, and looked down at Minori, her eyes frankly appraising. If you will excuse the intrusion? I did not wish to speak before, but are you bound to someone? I can barely sense you, Truthsayer.