The Valkyrie (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 1)

by Deborah Davitt

  “Perhaps. But it’s not what I am for.”

  “What you’re for?” For an instant, his temper burned brighter. He could, in part, understand why his sister had made the mistake she had, of assuming Sigrun was . . . uneducated. Barbaric. Savage. It was, largely, the only identity that Sigrun allowed outsiders to see. It just drove him insane when she accepted the limitations of that role, when she was, and could be, so much more. “Sig. You said that humans can be more than what they are. You’re god-born, but you’re still human. Don’t settle. Strive.”

  “You’re . . . angry again.”

  “You’re damned right I am. You’re more than a tool. You’re more than a weapon. And, god damn it, you’re important to me.” He leaned forward, and, this time not caring about the morphine or anything else, kissed her, looking down into her widened eyes to see the acceptance and the confusion there. He would have pulled back to tell her, you can beat the shit out of me for this later, but her hand crept up. Locked in his hair with frail strength. Adam closed his eyes and kissed her again, feeling her lips part a little under his with a sigh.

  It was the sound of the door handle rattling once again that made him finally pull back and return to merely stroking her hair. The doctors and nurses came into the room in a wave, all questions and tests and bustling curiosity, most of which Sigrun bore with patience. They kept trying to hint to Adam that he should leave . . . . but Adam wasn’t about to move at that point. Even when they wanted to evaluate the condition of the incisions, the most he did was turn to the side to spare her modesty. A spate of exclamations in Hebrew, “My god. The ones in the abdomen are gone already. There’s nothing there!” “The long incision into the chest cavity remains, but . . . I can’t believe the rate of healing. We’re going to have to watch this, to ensure that the sutures don’t grow into the scar . . . .” “What scar? I don’t even see one where the shoulder wound was . . . am I even looking at the correct shoulder?”

  Adam did his best to conceal his smile. And when they all left, Adam turned back to Sigrun, who’d been elevated in the bed, and was regarding him now, wide-eyed. Picked up the book, and pulled a fountain pen out of a nearby drawer, and began to write the letters of the Hebrew alphabet for her on the inside cover. “Alef. Bet. Gimmel. Dalet. Pretty similar to the Carthaginians . . . their Phoenician ancestors gave everyone else alpha and beta and so on. And the languages are related, of course.” He gave her a quick look. “I’ll trade you for lessons in Cimbric.”

  “You don’t have vowels.”

  “You don’t have a future tense. I have no idea how you manage to say that you will be going to the store next week.”

  “Next week, I go. I am going next week. Easy.” Sigrun leaned her head back against the pillows. “We might not have a future tense, but we do have extra pronouns.”

  He finished the lettering on the inner cover. “What other pronouns can there possibly be?” In most Western languages, there was I, you-formal, thou-informal, he, she, it, we, you/thou plural, and they.

  “Witan. We two. Used between . . . brother warriors. Lovers. Husband and wives. We two, against the world.” Her voice faltered a little.

  Adam looked at her, steadily. He already knew that the reserve and the stoicism and the ice were methods of keeping the world at bay. Ways of keeping from being hurt. He took her hand in his again, and told her, simply, “Teach me how to say that.” But he leaned in, and brushed a kiss over her lips again, before she could reply, stealing the words.

  Chapter XIV: Relations

  There are those who claim to know where the human soul goes after death. Valhalla for the dead slain in battle, Hel for the common folk. Hades or the Elysian Fields. Eternity spent inside your own mummy, until the body is resurrected at the end of all things. Those from the distant reaches of Hindustan and Qin believe in reincarnation, instead. With that in mind, I have yet to see or speak to a human soul that had left its body after death. There are those who claim to have done so. I prefer to avoid the subject. Astrology is far more certain an art than necromancy.

  What I know, and can prove, is this: There are beings other than humans in this world. They come from their own world, which is divided from this one by a curtain of energy. These spirits vary in power and disposition, even as humans themselves do. Some are attendants on the gods. Some are freeborn, for lack of a better designation. Some are well-inclined towards humans, some are malefic, and some are utterly indifferent to us and our realm.

  They live outside of our space and time, but may enter it. Early philosophers, such as Boethius, claimed that being outside of time would allow a being—such as a god—to see the whole of time, and thus, know the predestinate future. Some spirits claim to know the whole of time, but they are hardly any better guide to the future than astrology.

  Spirits who enter this world generally do so, at first, without bodies. Spirits may either possess a human body or may be impelled to provide motive force to a ghul, to use the Persian term, or a golem. More powerful spirits may manifest bodies around themselves, and these bodies are often subject to rules, according to their individual type. From whence these rules derive remains, at this time, a mystery to us. But there are more types of spirits in heaven and earth, than we can dream.

  You may bargain with a spirit. You may bind it. You may banish it. Your chance of doing any of these things is greatly improved by the use of levers. Archimedes once wrote that if he had a lever long enough, and positioned in the correct spot, he could move the Earth. This is true of spirits as well. What are the levers that will add to your ability to bind or control a spirit?

  Binding rituals. These include words and binding circles drawn on the ground. No one, at the present time, understands why symbols can disrupt a spirit, but it may have to do with energy resonance patterns.

  A containment object. Pottery, glass, stone, metal objects. Things that will endure. Wood is too impermanent. These objects are used for binding, and not for banishing.

  The spirit's true Name. Names define and shape a being. A Name gives you control. Naturally, most spirits and most humans guard their true Names tightly.

  Knowing your own Name. If you know your own Name, this gives you power. Certainty. Control of yourself. Be extremely wary of offering your Name in bargain. Because then, the spirit can control you.

  Assistance of other spirits. If you are unable to subdue a spirit on your own, a spirit involved in an on-going pact with you, or one specifically allied with you for this purpose, can be of some aid.

  Blood-binding. Most spirits relish blood as a sacrifice; it represents a measurable iota of a human’s life-energy. It connects the summoner to the working of the magic. Some localities, laughably, frown on this practice.

  Animal sacrifice. Chickens, goats, sheep, cows have been commonly sacrificed to the gods for millennia. Again, this is a measurable flow of life-energy that can empower your wreaking, and can be used to empower a spirit, as well. This is, however, frowned upon, even more so than blood-binding.

  Human sacrifice. This practice is forbidden in all places touched by Rome. It is still practiced, supposedly, and much in secret, by Mongolian shaman and Chaldean Magi. It has been described as undeniably effective, as the full life-energy, or soul, of the human involved, is a rich source of power.

  Soul-binding. This practice is highly controversial. Giving a portion of one’s soul to a spirit links the practitioner to the spirit, permanently, or until the bargain is resolved. There is danger in the practice, if the spirit so bound is malefic. Turning over the whole of one’s soul will surely result in the same outcome as revealing one’s Name to an unscrupulous spirit or person: enslavement. The rewards, however, are unparalleled, as I can attest to from personal experience.

  If the spirit has manifested physically, and presents a clear and present danger to you, then you must deal with both the body and the spirit. You may kill the body, certainly. Spirits that are relieved of their corporeal form become disorganized, and are force
d into the Veil. Most require being re-summoned to return to the mortal realm. Some few, however, are powerful enough to freely transit the Veil of their own accord. These make for powerful enemies.

  Thus, killing the corporeal body is normally just a first step. Killing the body, and binding the spirit before it flees to the Veil is certainly an option, and requires the use of a containment object, preferably one previously prepared specifically for this particular spirit. Killing the body and banishing the spirit requires more power from the practitioner than binding does. Banishing may also only last until the spirit regains the power to return, or is summoned once more.

  If the practitioner is unable to kill the body, as is certainly possible with very powerful spirits, then one must consider binding body and spirit alike. Trapping the body in a cave, inside a stone-cut tomb, under a landslide, inside of a vast metal shell of some sort . . . all plausible. And then bind that spirit to that location. This may result in the container being breached by future generations, however, so should be only used as a last resort.

  A spirit cannot be banished from its own body. A spirit in possession of a human body, a ghul, or a golem, can be dismissed from this locus through standard banishment practices. A spirit’s manifested body cannot be banished.

  —Dr. Johann Georg Faust, Summa Animae, 1469 AC.

  Historical note: Dr. J.G. Faust, a Gothic academic, alchemist, astrologer, and noted practitioner of summoning, died of what has been called an ‘alchemical explosion’ in 1496 AC in the city of Staufen im Breisgau, near the Black Forest in southern Germania. Speculation has been rampant for centuries that this explosion was, in fact, no accident, but the result of a bargain gone wrong with an attendant spirit. The question for all serious students of the Art remains, to this day, a very pertinent one: If one agrees to soul-binding with a spirit, if one exchanges Names with a spirit . . . how does one know that the spirit is beneficent? It is well known that malefic spirits lie. And that they are much practiced in appearing to be good and true, when they are, in fact, the very opposite.

  —Maccus Prasto, The History of Summoning, p. 187, University of Novo Trier Press, Novo Trier, 1936 AC.

  ______________________

  Maius 8, 1955 AC

  Trennus Matrugena had gone back to the governor’s mansion around two antemeridian, once he was sure that Kanmi was resting comfortably, and that Sigrun had gotten out of surgery successfully. He’d checked in on her, and patted her motionless foot through the sheets, wishing that he could stay . . . but Adam was already ensconced there, waiting for Sigrun to awaken, and there was only one chair, and Adam didn’t look as if he planned to be turned out of it. Thus, he’d wished his tired friend farewell before taking a taxi across Old Town to the Palace, himself. Lassair had, with a certain tact, de-manifested for that. He was getting enough stares for being a Pict in Judea, braided, tattooed, and wearing a blood-stained kilt, without adding a live phoenix on his shoulder.

  He’d used a lot of mental and physical energy over the course of the day. Being a conduit for ley-energy took a toll out of someone, and he’d wrestled, mentally and physically, with demons, been wounded, healed, and conducted ley, and stood two stints on first-aid duty. Exhausted in mind, body, and soul, Trennus stumbled into the room he’d been sharing with Adam. Slammed his shins into the edge of one of the beds, swore, and debated dropping onto the bed, still clothed and covered in sweat and blood. No. Don’t want to wake up like this. But walking all the way over to the bathing buildings inside the complex that made up the governor’s residence seemed hardly worthwhile, either.

  He compromised. He washed up as best he could in the lavatory sink, threw his clothing over the back of a chair, and lay down on the bed, pulling up just the sheet. He didn’t care if they did have this fancy new air conditioning down here. As far as he was concerned, Maius meant highs in the fifties during the day, and just above freezing at night, not this constant, faintly humid seventy-five to eighty degrees. He wrapped his fingers around his amulets, and hazily thought, Lassair . . . thank you, fire-heart. You saved so many lives today. Saraid . . . you did, too. Thank you.

  That is what we are meant to do, is it not? He wasn’t actually sure which of them said that.

  Ideally, yes. But his thoughts were vague, and very shortly after that, he knew absolutely nothing more.

  Dreams finally filtered in. Wonderful, disturbing, beautiful dreams. Standing in the middle of a bonfire, looking out at the humans dancing around it. They were casting flowers on the blaze, making the smoke rise sweetly. Liquid warmth, like heated honey, all around. So many minds, so much joy, as they cast their sorrows and woes into the fire with the blossoms. They wore leathers, beautifully made. Jewelry made of silver and pieces of amber. It could have been last Midsummer’s Eve in the highlands, but it wasn’t. He looked up from the heart of the fire, and the stars were wrong. They weren’t in their familiar patterns. And he wasn’t himself. He had another name, as he watched the humans move away from the fire. Leaving, hand in hand, and going out among the fields. Sharing joy with one another against the cold ground. Reaching out of the fire with hands made of flame, trying to reach them. Trying to share in the joy, trying to return some of what they’d given . . . becoming one with them all, in the darkness. Becoming the men, becoming the women. Taking and being taken, little gasps and sighs in the night. Wondering amazement in his thoughts. They, too, are made of fire. They kindle it in one another. Blazes now, smoldering coals later. New fires, spread from sparks. We are all fire together. And there is joy here. I never want to leave again.

  Hazy consciousness. Recognition that something was . . . different. Warmth. Softness, right up against him. Trennus moved an arm and pulled the softness and warmth closer. Inhaled a scent like . . . rose petals and cinnamon and smoke. It was oddly familiar, so he didn’t really think much more of it. Just rubbed his face against soft hair. Found a neck buried under the long tresses and, mostly because he was still dimly thinking about the couples in the dark fields, finding fire together . . . he started to nibble his way down that neck. Found shoulder. Heard a little gasp of pleasure, and pulled his bedmate closer to him. Best dream ever, Trennus concluded, rocking his hips a little, involuntarily against her tailbone.

  There was a slight pause as his brain, which wasn’t working on all cylinders, caught up with his body, which was. Oh, Morrigan. Trennus’ eyes opened in horror. Please don’t let this be one of Adam’s sisters. He’d kill me, and I’d let him.

  The room was dimly lit; it had no windows, being in one of the oldest parts of the old palace. He pulled his head and arm back gingerly, and realized that the dim amber light that filled the room was actually coming from her skin. “L . . . Lassair?” Trennus managed. His brain absolutely refused to engage.

  Lassair turned over in bed, rolling to her other side, and light radiated, faintly, from her skin. Her form had shifted again. A honey tint kissed her ivory skin. Her hair, always white before, was now garnet red, and it fell in loose waves around her face, with burning phoenix feathers tangled here and there. Her eyes still held the smolder of burning coals, but instead of pupils, there was a blue-violet flare at the heart of each. Trennus tried to meet her gaze, and had to look away, which took his gaze lower. Perfect, rounded curves of breast and hip, the length of her legs as she shifted a little closer. What’s the matter? Why did you stop? She pouted as Trennus dragged his eyes back up again. Don’t you like me like this? Did I get the form right this time?

  “I . . . ah. . . what?” Trennus managed. He dug down deep for reserves of willpower he wasn’t even aware he had, and edged a little further away in the sheets. Lassair in this form was unbelievably beautiful. As if precisely designed and calibrated to drive him completely insane. “Ah . . . yes. You . . . got it right.” He swallowed. It was killing him not to reach out and run a hand along her arm, down her flank, to her hips, just to see what her skin felt like. “What are you doing?”

  Lassair smiled at him, and pushed play
fully at one of his shoulders, and Trennus let her shift him to his back. What does it look like I’m doing, silly? She shifted, and with the fluidity of a cat, was suddenly sitting atop him, straddling him. I’m seducing you.

  Trennus swallowed. Hard. She felt . . . amazing on him. Every single cell in his body was currently screaming at him to stop being a fool and not look a gift horse in the damned mouth. He reached out, caught her hips in his hands, and tried to sit up. “Lassair . . . I said I’d take care of you. I . . . don’t . . . I . . . you. . .” A horrible flash of what he’d seen when he’d first found her shot across his mind, and he forced it away.

  Lassair’s expression turned sad, but she slipped her hands along the sides of his face, cradling his jaw, and kissed him. Trennus saw fire behind his closed eyelids for a moment, and dimly realized that his hands had shifted, arms snaking around her to hold her tightly. What passed before was horrible, yes. But you’re not. You’re wonderful. I love you. And if you’re taking care of me, perhaps I should take care of you, too.

  Lassair . . . don’t want to take advantage of you. We have a contract. Technically, you’re bound to me. You’re not a slave. Not a . . . . It was getting increasingly hard to think. Her lips tasted as good as she smelled, and it had been a very damned long time since he’d been with a woman.

  . . . Trennus, technically, eighty percent of your soul currently belongs to me. That technically makes you my servant, doesn’t it? Lassair’s tone was a little playful as she picked up one of his braids and bit the end . . . and then found his collarbone. Neck. And, damn it, rocked her hips against his, sweetly and subtly.

  Trennus met the fire’s-heart eyes so close to his own. Well, when you put it that way . . . .