“Noted, ben Maor.” Livorus’ tone, as always, was austere. “I think the various reactions I have seen so far today have both been fascinating and instructive, as well. Do you mind explaining to me, in your own words, what transpired overnight?”
Ah. He’s looking for discrepancies between everyone’s accounts. Adam exhaled, and marshaled his thoughts. It was surprisingly difficult; he was still relatively numb, and his mind was hazy. “We went to the Pyramid of the Sun, having received information, as you know, sir, that it was a potential hiding place, a fallback point, for the two individuals who were of interest to us as potential adherents of a religious revival movement oriented towards human sacrifice.” He was almost composing in his head as he spoke, putting the words together as he would on a page. Formal diction, careful phrasing. “On arrival, it became clear that this was not just a fallback position, but the central location from which they were working to replace Roman and local sovereignty,” that sounds so much better, somehow, than ‘effect a coup using the rendered power of a god,’ he thought, and went on, cautiously. “They had entered into a power-sharing arrangement both with themselves and an indigenous, ah . . . entity.” Because we can’t say a god in a formal report. It will detract from our credibility when some bureaucrat in Rome reads it and promptly decides that we’re all absolutely insane. Adam looked up at the pale blue sky, and shook his head. “We were observed, and after I attempted to engage the conspirators in a diplomatic exchange, they attacked. Xicohtencatl, as far as I could tell, was trying to convince Eshmunazar to switch sides . . . without effect, I might add.” In retrospect, Adam felt ashamed of his concerns about Kanmi’s loyalties. No matter what hold Xicohtencatl thought he had on the Carthaginian’s psyche, his words had pretty much bounced off Eshmunazar. “We managed to get Tototl and Xicohtencatl down, at which point, the, er . . . .”
“Indigenous entity,” Livorus said, without changing expressions as he leaned against an air vent and used his walking stick to poke at a pigeon nest atop a chimney nearby.
“Yes . . . the entity moved its . . . consciousness . . . to Xicohtencatl’s body. I’d like to point out that Matrugena actually tried to, well talk it down.” It sounded absolutely futile, and a little stupid, but Adam felt it important to show that no one had really lost their head. That multiple avenues had been explored.
“At what point was the decision made to go for a kill on the . . . ah . . . indigenous entity?”
“Caetia indicated that she would attempt to engage it in a duel to allow us all to retreat. I told her that we would stand together as a team. The . . . entity . . . would just have hunted us down. And I did not feel that there was any way in which we conceivably could outrun him, sir. Not once he had . . . unbound himself.” Adam cleared his throat.
Livorus’ eyebrows rose. “Yes, the chances of outrunning the . . . entity . . . in a motorcar . . . do seem to be slim. And it is an open question if finding a Roman temple of, say, Jupiter, would have proved any sanctuary.” Adam felt the knot constricting his chest start to ease, only to tighten again as Livorus murmured, “For the record, however, could you explain to me precisely how the creature died?”
And now I find out if Livorus really is as loyal to us, as he always seems to be. Because I’m going to tell the truth here. God help me. “Ah, it was something of a team effort, sir.” Adam chose his words carefully. “Itztli was out of the fight. He couldn’t do anything to the entity, and he was having cardiac problems. Matrugena and Eshmunazar had helped establish that the creature could sense incoming magical power. It was fixed on Caetia, apparently considering her the biggest threat. It wasn’t, however, reacting to bullets until after I fired. So Caetia pulled it back, the other two kept it distracted, and I brought part of the ceiling down and impaled its head.” Adam grimaced. “Wouldn’t have worked if it weren’t so weakened by . . . all of the surrounding circumstances. I don’t think it could escape, sir. Not till we provided it with a body that it could reach . . . through the machines. It found a loophole, essentially.”
There was a moment of absolute silence. “So, this is the sort of thing that happens once in a lifetime.” Livorus’ tone was bland, as if killing entities was a commonplace occurrence.
If what that complete madwoman said on the telephone not twenty minutes ago has any bearing on reality at all . . . I certainly hope so. Out loud, all Adam said was, “I can’t imagine it happening again, sir.” After a moment, he dared to ask, “Propraetor? What are your intentions with regard to . . . informing local authorities about the . . . ah . . .”
“Disposition of their entity?” Livorus exhaled, and stared out over the glistening expanse of Lake Texcoco, all the silvery bridges and skyscrapers that made up modern Tenochtitlan. From the roof of this hospital, they could even see the central island, with the palace and the temples. “I am unaware of any process by which the rest of their gods might lodge a formal protest with the gods of Rome, ben Maor.”
Adam managed to choke the laugh back into a snort. He might be punchy, but this really didn’t seem the time to chuckle. Livorus eyed him for a moment. “I cannot control what the gods do, or do not do. I can only control what I do.”
Adam waited for it. Livorus moved at his own pace, and asking again, would only suggest to the propraetor that Adam had little patience. After a moment or two, Livorus went on, his tone meditative. “There is a tale, ben Maor, that when the Mongols invaded Raccia, and the northern portions of the Empire in Asia Minor, that they sacked a city up there, and the twelfth, sixteenth, and twenty-seventh legions caught them still in the ruins. The Mongols refused to come out, and there were still inhabitants alive. Some were those who had actually opened the gates of the city from within, in the partial hope of making the sack of the city less grievous for themselves and their neighbors . . . some were citizens who were still offering resistance.” The propraetor paused. “It is said that a somewhat overzealous legate gave the order to attack everyone in the city. No quarter given or taken. Kill them all, and let the gods sort out who was innocent and who was guilty.” He paused, and gestured at the glistening, modern city spread before them, in all its sunlit glory. “I propose a variant on this long-established route to victory. I propose to say as little as possible about the fate of their . . . entity . . . and allow the priests and the people of this good land to sort it out for themselves.”
Adam blinked. This was not what he’d expected to hear. “Sir?”
Livorus shrugged. “My dear boy, there’s no good face to be put upon a tale such as this. If we admit that Rome had anything to do with the death of the . . . creature in question . . . we ignite fires of rebellion everywhere in Nahautl, even among people who despise the old ways. There’s quietly avoiding embarrassing past behavior, and there’s desecrating cultural identity. Many people here still feel strongly about their warrior ancestry. They’re as proud of that as any Roman is of twins who may or may not have suckled at the teats of a bitch wolf in a cave. Can you imagine the rioting we would have all across the entire Italian peninsula if someone attempted to ban the Lupercalia?” Livorus shook his head. “No. We stay quiet as long as possible and watch to see how they spin it. I would put a golden aureus on it, that the priests will simply continue venerating the absent . . . entity . . . and simply never even mention to the general population that he’s gone. Certainly, that is what the Egyptians did for centuries after the reign of Akhenaten.” He paused. “And in the end, it is the right of the individual to determine what they believe. And if a god simply stops answering prayers? What difference will it make to most of the people here?”
Adam shivered a little at the second mention of the name Akhenaten in a half hour, and tried very hard not to think about the issue any further. “Thank you, sir.”
“It is the proper course, as I will inform the Imperator.” Livorus gave him an austere glance. “Dismissed, ben Maor. And thank you.”
Adam did his best to put all of it out of his head. To concentrate just
on whatever task was at hand. Getting Sigrun real food. Checking in on Trennus, post-surgery. Checking in on Ehecatl and Kanmi. Livorus was with him for the Ehecatl visit, and the Nahautl man was still a little ashen. “They’re calling it a cardiac strain,” he told them, quietly, from his hospital bed. “Not quite a heart attack. But there’s been some damage.” His dark eyes studied Livorus. “That’s the second time this year. I think it might be time for me to consider retiring.”
“You’re only thirty-five. You’re young,” Livorus said, quietly. “Many good years left in you.”
“Yes, but after what I saw yesterday . . . .” Ehecatl stared off into the mid-distance. “I saw monsters with the eyes of humans,” he finally said. “I don’t know whether they were human souls, twisted into those foul forms, or . . . what. But I saw them die. And I saw something greater than them die, too. I . . . it’s made me reconsider some of my priorities, propraetor. I’d like to be able to see my sons grow up. I’d like to spend more time with my wife. And no matter if I’m on your detail or not, the Praetorians and even the Jaguar warriors will keep someone like me busy.” He leaned back. “I’ll be submitting my letters of resignation as soon as they let me out of here. But it was an honor serving you, dominus.” He looked at Adam, squarely. “And it was an honor working with you, too, ben Maor.” He extended his arm for a wrist-clasp, in spite of the IV tubes hanging from it, and Adam wove his hand through them to return the gesture, carefully. He was grateful, too; there was no sense from Ehecatl that the man blamed him for the death of one of his people’s gods. Many people would have. Ehecatl did not.
__________________________
In another room of the hospital, Trennus opened his eyes, emerging from a haze of anesthesia. He reached, immediately, for the cords that usually hung from his neck; he had a clear recollection of arguing with a nurse in Latin about how jewelry wasn’t permitted in a surgical area, and him telling her, with a good deal more force than he usually employed in any conversation, For the sake of all the gods, you’re operating on my leg. How can something around my neck and under a drape possibly contaminate my knee?
For a blind instant, he thought they’d confiscated his amulets in spite of all his protests, and he inhaled, preparing to shout for a nurse . . . and then his fingers found what they’d groped for, and Trennus exhaled. Saraid? Lassair? Are you there?
I hear. Those were Saraid’s quiet, reserved tones, and Trennus smiled faintly.
You didn’t leave.
No. Though I hid. There was much . . . disturbance. Saraid still sounded terrified. There were tears in the Veil itself, from the energies loosed. Vortexes, from this side, and from the other, currents crossing. I held to the amulet you carry as to a lodestone.
Summoners were taught that there was a wall, or barrier, between the dimension in which the Earth and the rest of the physical universe existed, and the dimension in which the spirits typically abided. The dimension of the spirits was known simply the Veil, and summoners could part the barrier into the Veil for short periods. Tearing it did not sound like a good thing. Trennus shuddered. Is it repairing itself? Will spirits continue to cross?
I . . . do not know. Saraid’s voice was a whisper. Things that come through from our side of the Veil . . . son of my woods, not everything from our side is good or kindly. And if they are brought through unbound, without a bargain or a strong will to hold them in check . . . .
I know. Trennus’ stomach roiled. The monkey-dog creatures had been . . . spirits. He was fairly sure of that. Spirits that had been given a form that somehow suited them, but their eyes had been almost human. And, of course, Tlaloc himself . . . . Trennus’ mind rebelled. Lassair? Please, hear me.
Of course I hear you. The fragile fire-spirit’s voice was a thread of sound in his mind. I never left. I cannot leave. We are bound, you and I.
Trennus’ head actually rocked back in relief. Gods aren’t supposed to die, not any more than we are . . . Lassair told him, manifesting as a wan ball of pale light near his head . . . but it’s possible. We all come from beyond the Veil. If I can face dissolution, so, too, can they. Stark terror in her voice. I crawled deep inside your heart, Trennus. But the god’s power pursued me even there. I was still . . . open. I had been taking the fire onto myself, away from your skin. And when he . . . died . . . her tone was horrified . . . I felt him come into me.
Trennus sat bolt upright in the bed. “What?” he said, out loud, in his native Pictish. “He’s not—you’re not—are you all right?”
Outside his door, he could see a nurse stop and stare in at him, and he turned away, flushing a little. Yes, stare at the crazy man. Trennus shook his head rapidly. He was all too well aware of the ways in which Lassair had been violated by a human. She’d just described something that sounded uncannily like being violated by a god. Lassair . . . .
He wasn’t . . . him. He wasn’t himself. It was just . . . power. I didn’t want you to be damaged by it. So I swallowed it. She sounded agitated. Trennus . . . there’s too much of him and too little of me. I don’t know what to do with this. I think it might consume me. Raw, mortal terror of unbeing. Of her own awareness being snuffed out and replaced.
Trennus shook his head, vehemently, against the pillows. No. Take more of me, my strength. Balance yourself.
Trennus, the bargain was for only a little piece of you. Enough to keep me alive till I recovered—
Take from me!
If I take, I have to give. The ephemeral ball of light wobbled closer to him, and actually sank down into his chest. Trennus was rather glad that most humans couldn’t see this. Sigrun was, in fact, the first non-summoner he’d ever met who could. Lassair had liked that. Stormborn makes me feel more real, she’d confided. It’s nice to be seen by someone besides you.
Now, he could feel her inside his chest cavity, though she was surely not physical at all. Just a radiant warmth, tugging very gently at what made him, him. What a sorcerer like Kanmi would surely call his will, or what a philosopher would call his soul. Take what you need, Trennus told Lassair, as he had, just around a year ago. Feed from me, and live. I won’t let something so beautiful die.
They left you damaged, she whispered. The tendons are connected again. The muscles, too. But left untended, you might not walk again. May I fix what has been broken?
If . . . you wish . . . don’t exhaust yourself, though . . . .
Energy does not appear to be a real problem at the moment. Control of it . . . that is a very real problem. Perhaps if I pour some of it into healing you, it will help. Lassair sounded uncertain.
Trennus wasn’t really sure if experimenting with a dead god’s energies was precisely the course of wisdom, but soul-binding Lassair to keep her alive had probably not been wise, either. But he’d done it, anyway. Beautiful one, he told the wisp of energy inside of his heart now, just be . . . gods, be careful, that burns . . . . His fists clenched in the bed sheets as golden fire poured through all of him. It was concentrated in his knee, of course, but there was backflow. It hurt and it felt good at the same time, and he thought, dizzily, for a moment, that she’d given him too much, and he was going to die in the hospital bed, become nothing more than a smoking corpse in the middle of the sheets, and part of his mind noted, Probably the best place for it, all things considered . . . .
. . . and then she eased the flow a little, and Trennus opened his eyes. Pulled back the blankets, and pulled up his knee to examine it. “No pain,” he said, out loud. “No numbness from the anesthetic anymore, either.” He stretched it, grinned in pure relief, and told her, happily, “I’ll be able to run on this, won’t I? Run, hunt deer with my brothers, and wrestle? Thank you.”
I think so, yes. She didn’t even sound tired, just a little uncertain . . . but her pleasure at his happiness and gratitude wafted out of her as she emerged from his chest once more. This time, however, the little wisp expanded. Wavered into almost the form of an incandescently bright human female, all indistinct curves, and eyes
like banked coals. Wisps and tendrils of gauzy light, all around her, tossed by an unfelt breeze, as she hovered, supine, above the bed, just for a moment . . . and then back to the little ball of light. I feel better already, too.
She was, technically, feeding on him. He absolutely intended to release her before he died. As soon as she was fully healthy once more. He counted it a very fair bargain, because, from his perspective, he wasn’t particularly using his soul. Life-force. Will. Whatever. She needed it more than he did, and she gave far more than he thought his share was worth. Trennus swung his legs over the edge of the bed and tested his weight on the repaired leg. It buckled, but only a little bit. Between the doctor’s natural philosophy and her magic, he was well-mended, indeed. I think we make each other better, Lassair. Bargain made is bargain met, and all that. He looked around. “I don’t suppose either of you saw where they took my clothes?”
Forgive me. I did not take notice. Saraid stuck an antlered head in through a wall. Most spirits didn’t quite understand bodies, let alone clothing for bodies. Bodies were just clothing for the human spirit, in their opinion.
Trennus just laughed, and held his gown closed behind him and walked out, barefoot, into the hall. “Can I get my clothing back?” he called to a nurse, who just stared at him, wild-eyed, and started shouting at him in Nahautl. Which Lassair politely translated for him, of course.
Ah, gods, my life is getting stranger every day. But it’s hard not to feel really good right now.
____________________
In another room, Kanmi had had his hands swathed in gauze, and had been handed a pain pill, which he had regarded with a longing gaze, before sighing and telling the nurse, “All right. It’s not a good idea for a sorcerer to take anything narcotic. Ever. Got aspirin?” His tone had been annoyed, and he didn’t care who heard it.
The Valkyrie (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 1) Page 45
