Adam shook his head. “Now that I would pay to see, I think.”
Trennus scooped up another handful of water. “There might not be anything to see. A contest can be about willpower, about physical strength, about courage, about wits . . . I’ve heard of one that got a summoner to agree to a duel, and then chose music as the contest. You’d best know ahead of time what you’re agreeing to, or you’ll come out on the worse end of the bargain. You invoke them, you bargain with them or fight them, and then you bind them. And, in every binding, you, too, are bound. So you’d better be damned careful what you bind.” He shrugged. “Like every other promise you make, you put a little of yourself into it. It’s just a matter of degree.”
“You said wrestling,” Sigrun asked, glancing between the mage and Adam. “This wasn’t much gone over in my training, I’m afraid. Sacrifice and bargaining, yes. Wrestling . . . not as much.”
Trennus shrugged. “Yes. Some of them will just . . . incarnate themselves, and you really do have to wrestle them into submission.” Trennus exhaled. “And that’s a principle means of banishing them. It’s much easier if you know their Name, however. A minor spirit can be thrown out of the world by using its Name. A major spirit? You have to be ready to fight them. Bind them with words, with power, your own strength, and put them into something that they can’t readily escape. Blood’s a last-ditch solution—”
“It’s not a solution!” Sigrun said, sharply.
Trennus held up a hand. “It’s not my first choice. It’s got drawbacks. But I’m being honest here about the solutions available. Once it’s bound, you’ve got to make sure it never gets unbound again. Binding it in this world is risky, but if all you do is banish it, it can just be summoned again.” He shrugged. “Everything’s a tradeoff. That’s why most people don’t like dealing with summonings. I’ve got a natural advantage in summoning, though. I can hook into a ley-line and use its energy to augment my own natural will in dealing with spirits . . . but that’s of limited help when they want to wrestle in their incarnate form.”
Adam half-snorted. Kanmi looked amused. “I’ve sat through seminars on the topic,” the sorcerer said, looking at the ley-mage, “but I can’t say I believe it.”
“Is it really so hard to believe?” Trennus said, looking surprised. “History and legend are filled with examples. Heracles had to fight Antaeus, who was much more than just a god-born. He was a spirit, and stronger in connection with the earth, yes? They wrestled and fought until Heracles lifted Antaeus free of the earth. Then he was able to kill the spirit—bind and banish it, out of the mortal form it had taken. And of course, there’s the Judean tale of the angelic spirit and Jacob, wrestling all night, a contest of strength.” Trennus stopped and gave Adam an apologetic, embarrassed look.
Adam’s eyebrows had gone up, nearly into his hair. “That’s . . . an interesting interpretation,” he said, trying to decide if he were more amused or more offended. His reaction was hanging exactly at the mid-point between the two.
“You should hear the priests of Heracles from Hellas on the subject,” Trennus told him, with a sigh. “Of course, to their way of thinking, Heracles was a god-born who had his mortality burned away, and ascended to become a god. So what any summoner has to say on the matter, is irrelevant to them.”
“That,” Sigrun said succinctly, and without changing expression, “would hurt.”
Adam turned away to cough into his hand. Trennus and Kanmi blinked a little at the apparent non sequitur, and then Trennus nodded and continued with his commentary. “But, to my way of thinking, it’s all perfectly analogous. The spirit and your Jacob wrestled, until the spirit saw it couldn’t defeat him. The spirit struck him in the leg, making him lame, and marking the start of their bargain—don’t eat of the meat of this part of any animal, where I’ve struck you. More of a symbol than a real energy transfer, but the spirit already knew it couldn’t beat him. But there needed to be an exchange. And then your Jacob demanded a favor in return, and the spirit gave the human a new Name, and a blessing.” Trennus raised his hands. “I personally would have asked for slightly more specific terms, but spirits have been growing and developing at least as long as humans, if not longer. They might have been more trusting, so long ago, and less . . . canny . . . about bargains. The same applies to humans. It was a more trusting age, perhaps.”
Adam rubbed at his face, amusement winning out. Trennus clearly didn’t mean to be offensive at all. He was almost childlike in his enthusiasm and interest, but he also clearly knew more about this topic than Adam ever wanted to. “You don’t raise ghul?” he asked, point-blank.
Trennus’ face twisted. “Gods. No. You can ask a spirit to enter a lump of clay shaped like a man—a golem—and you’ll get better results. Telling a spirit to enter into a dead human body . . . damages the spirit, more often than not. Indifferent or good ones will start to become malefic . . .”
“That’s arguable,” Kanmi said, sharply. “It’s just as possible that it’s not the act of entering the dead that does that. It’s just as likely the close affiliation with an evil-minded human—”
“Certainly, but either way, it’s clearly evident that an elemental spirit put into a dead human body tends to go mad, and if they kill their summoner, afterwards, they’ll just stand there and try to break the body. Poor things. They’ll stand there slamming their heads against a wall, trying to release themselves.”
Poor things? Adam thought, staring at Trennus. That was not any sort of compassion he’d ever thought to hear.
Trennus had paused. “Though, if you absolutely have to, I understand that earth elementals are the least badly affected. I can’t imagine any circumstance that would make me do that, though. And of course, malefic spirits are all too eager to get access to a human body.”
“It’s postulated that they use access to dead bodies as practice for infiltrating living ones. Possession,” Kanmi offered.
“It’s certainly possible, but there’s not a lot of evidence, either way.”
Sigrun finally held up her hands in surrender. “I . . . think we’ve heard enough,” she said, and looked at Adam, inquisitively. “At least, I have.”
Adam nodded, slowly. “Do you have any other spirits bound to you . . . or should I ask, are you bound to any other spirits?”
Trennus looked down. It was the first time he’d done so in the entire conversation. “I . . . well, yes. One other. She’s . . . small. She was very damaged by the summoner she was unwillingly bound to before, I, er, dealt with him. I’m sort of keeping her safe till she heals up.” He shrugged.
“It’s not a stray kitten,” Kanmi said, sharply.
“No, definitely not. But she’s injured. And probably will be for a long time. Spirits don’t heal easily. I mean, they heal when they return to the Veil, in terms of energy loss. But she had . . . parts of her essence, her being, torn away. It’s like having an arm amputated, for us. They don’t grow back.” Another quick shrug.
Adam nodded slowly, and filed it all away for the time being. He looked at Kanmi now. “We’ve spent most of tonight grilling Matrugena,” he said, dryly. “Hope you don’t feel left out.”
“Practically a nonentity,” Kanmi said, his eyes narrow, but a faint smile playing on the corners of his lips. “I take it you don’t have any reservations about me?”
Sigrun shrugged. “More of a concern about how you’ll interact with the other people on the team,” she said, quietly. “You were born in Tyre?”
“I was a dock-rat, yes. My father served on merchant boats. His father was a fisherman.” Kanmi’s eyes were still narrow. “What of it?”
“Your file suggests that you’ve had a few altercations with people who are high-born.” Sigrun’s voice was neutral.
“Only when they acted as if an accident of birth actually made them better, smarter, and naturally better-looking than me.” Kanmi bared his teeth for a moment. “What does it matter? There’s no one on this team who’s a noble.”
Kanmi turned and gave him a pained look. “Eat shit and die. You’re not a noble.”
“Well, only so much as being the son of a local king makes me.” Trennus looked up, clearly uncomfortable. “I was apprenticed to a ley-mage young, and expected to earn my way, same as all of my people.”
Another long, steady look. “I can’t hate him,” Kanmi announced, after a moment. “It’d be like kicking a puppy.”
“Hey!” Trennus looked mildly offended.
“If he’s the worst of our nobility, then I think I won’t have any problems.” Kanmi looked at them all, a bit challengingly. “I don’t suppose you’re next in line for the throne of some petty kingdom, Caetia?”
She shook her head silently, looking mildly amused. “No.”
“It’s getting late,” Adam muttered to Sigrun, looking back up at the stars.
“I know.” She sighed. “What do you think?”
Adam rubbed at his jaw for a moment. “I think I can work with them,” he agreed, much to his own surprise. “Of course, can they work with you?”
“I’m not nearly as bad as Ptah always made me out to be.”
“No, but you’re definitely full of surprises.” He chuckled at the dark look she sent him.
Sigrun turned to look at the other two. “Final approval is the propraetor’s, of course, but, for myself . . . welcome aboard.” She regarded them both. “Livorus lives on Palatine Hill. Make your way to his villa at eight antemeridian tomorrow, and we’ll see about getting you both to work.” She looked at Adam. “Looks like we might be heading back across the Sea of Atlas.”
“That problem in Nahautl? Tenochtitlan?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Adam nodded.
“You don’t like Rome?”
“I like a few more time zones between me and my family.” He chuckled under his breath. “Matrugena? Eshmunazar? Nice to meet you. See you in the morning.”
“Wait,” Kanmi said, his eyes narrowing again. “You know everything about us, from our dossiers. Do we get to ask anything about the two of you?”
“That does seem a fair bargain,” Trennus said, looking into the fountain’s ley-lit depths.
“That does seem fair,” Sigrun allowed, quietly.
Kanmi stared at them for a long moment. “Matrugena and I are both magic-users. What are your specializations?”
Adam snorted. “You want to know how you fit into the big picture?”
“In a word? Yes.”
Adam looked at Sigrun. “She kills things. I carry her bags.”
Kanmi snorted. “No. Come on. Speak truth.”
“I am,” Adam protested.
Sigrun gave him a remarkably dirty look. “Fikkest thu, Adam ben Maor.” She looked at Kanmi. “He handles Judean, Hellene, and Nipponese weapons, and can plant and defuse explosives of all sorts. I believe he has even worked with one of the punch card adding machines.”
Kanmi’s face actually lit up. “A calculus?”
“Yes,” Adam acknowledged. “It did a multiplication problem involving a number eight digits long in about a quarter of a minute. But it took up an entire room.”
“Oh, then we will have things to talk about, then, my new friend.” The sorcerer grinned at him. “But what about the mysterious and redoubtable Caetia?”
She sighed, and relented. “I’m god-born,” Sigrun admitted, shrugging it off. “I am a valkyrie, born of the line of Tyr.”
Adam could see that the specifics were meaningless to Kanmi, though the man’s face tightened slightly at the word god-born . . . and a look of narrow-eyed appraisal crossed his face. Trennus’ eyes, on the other hand went wide, and he said, “A swan-maiden, then? Like Morrigan’s raven-children?”
“More or less. I can summon lightning, so long as I have access to the sky. I fly, I can heal. Lying to me generally is not an option, though people try it anyway.” Sigrun again shrugged. “I think, judging by your dossiers, that we’ll all fit well together on the team. Everyone will have a place where they excel, and where the others will be weaker. It should work well.”
After a few more moments of conversation, Adam glanced over at Sigrun. “May I walk you back to your apartment?”
She gave him a faintly amused glance. “I doubt anyone in Rome will accost me, Adam.”
Kanmi shook his head. “I don’t think Rome is that much more civilized than Tyre, Caetia. A woman walking alone, at night, is a target. Then again . . . ” he gave her another appraising glance, “perhaps they would be fools to try.”
Sigrun just raised her eyebrows. “They would indeed.”
Adam pictured the likely results, and winced. “My way of dealing with them will result in less paperwork than your way. Come on. Let’s go.” He slid a hand under her elbow, lightly, and then let her set the pace as they walked away from the other two.
“You say that as if I can’t control myself,” Sigrun told him, once they were out of earshot. “I do have other options besides lightning.”
“Yes, but how many of them are non-lethal?”
A pause. “I could just punch them. Carefully. Being mindful that their teeth do not grow back.”
“Yes, and so can I.” He squeezed her elbow lightly. “But, fair or not, just by virtue of me walking with you, it probably won’t even come up.” Adam paused. “So, no plans on having your mortality burned away, like Heracles?”
Sigrun shuddered, and he could feel it run through her whole body. “Burns hurt worse than any other wound, and Heracles was supposedly burned alive, because he was already dying of slow poison. I can’t imagine a pain bad enough to make me consider throwing myself into a pyre, Adam. I don’t want to.” She glanced up at him; their eyes were almost at the same level, something he rather enjoyed. “And no. No desire at all to shed my mortality and become a god. I am what I am. That’s my wyrd. I walk my path, and I have good people alongside me. What more is there?”
“There’s always a way to improve,” Adam told her, as they climbed into a trolley car bound across the nightscape of the city. “If you’re not reaching for the stars, what good is life, anyway?”
Sigrun smiled, but it was a rueful look. “It’s a good thought, Adam, and I like it . . . but I’m not convinced it really applies to me.” She sat back in the seat of the trolley, the street lights outside flicking past, briefly illuminating her face and then casting it into shadows again. “I don’t think I’m capable of being anything more than what I am right now.”
“Shtoyut.” The word was harsh. “Of course you are. You’re human, aren’t you?” There weren’t many people on the trolley at this hour of night, and none within earshot.
“More or less,” Sigrun told him. “Sometimes, a little less, than more.”
Part II: The Tears of the Children
Nahautl, 1955 AC
Chapter V: Ripples
Sargon of Akkad was one of the greatest kings of antiquity, and one of the first who composed an official autobiography in a form that was not mere oral poetry. Chiseled in rock, he proclaimed, as best anyone has been able to translate to date, “My mother was a changeling, my father I knew not . . . My changeling mother conceived me, in secret she bore me. She set me in a basket of rushes, sealed with bitumen, and cast me into the river, which rose not over me. The river bore me up and carried me to Akki, the drawer of water, who took me as his son and raised me. Akki appointed me as his gardener. While I was his gardener, Ishtar granted me her love, and for four and fifty years, have I exercised kingship.”
Most scholars currently agree that to would seem that Sargon meant that he was conceived and borne by a desert spirit, along the banks of the Euphrates. A changeling could be a djinn, but it is more likely to have been a lilitu spirit of the wastes. These female-seeming spirits embody both death and fertility, and are said to be able to change their appearance on a whim, and can incarnate themselves, adopting flesh with which to tempt mortal men. However, for one of these
creatures to bear a child would be highly unusual.
It is impossible to say if this birth was the result of a bargain made in good faith between spirit and mortal, or if it were in some manner forced on the spirit, but the resulting offspring was certainly cast off, and adopted by a king, or a ‘drawer of water.’ And the offspring was apparently striking enough of a spirit-born to have drawn the attention of the fertility goddess, Ishtar, making him both spirit-born and god-touched at the same time. It is said that he was so beloved of Ishtar, that she even gave to him one child, conceived and borne in secret, named En-he-duanna, later High Priestess of Ishtar. It is therefore no wonder that Sargon of Akkad felled hundreds in battle, toppled teetering Sumer and established the laws and disciplines of Akkad in the place of the old Sumerian ways. With boundless energy and determination, he carved out a place for himself and his dynasty in history.
Sargon’s grandson, Naram-Sin, however, held little reverence for the gods, though he himself was named for the moon-god, Sin. Records on cuneiform tablets hint that his god-born aunt, En-he-duanna, warned the young and heedless king not to attack the city of Nippur . . . or at least, if he did, to spare the temples there. There is one tantalizing hint in these tablets that a foreigner had come to Naram-Sin, and told him that the gods had no right to rule over men. That men of such lineage as Naram-Sin could be as gods, themselves, and if he had the power of the gods, why should he not take up what was rightfully his?
Naram-Sin sacked the temple of Enlil in Nippur, and took up the idol there, shattering it on the ground for all to see. This first attack apparently was followed by wide-spread famine and disease in the whole of the lands claimed by Akkad. Naram-Sin attacked more temples, for the grain stored inside of them, and disbursed some to loyal warlords, and kept the greater part for his court’s use. Tax records from this time period indicate that many people had difficulty meeting their dues, whether in measures of grain or wine.
The Valkyrie (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 1) Page 20
