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

by Deborah Davitt

  The ruby eyes locked glances with her own. Yes, Lassair confirmed, and to Sigrun’s surprise, a white hind appeared in the room.

  “Saraid,” Trennus murmured, his voice surprised, but glad. The forest-spirit rarely manifested unasked. “Can you add something to our considerations?”

  Yes, I believe so, Saraid said quietly, in all their minds. I did not dare manifest at the Lines, but I can tell you about the land there. It is a desert now, but . . . once, it was a forest. I could feel the ghosts of the ancient roots in the dust. I could feel the stone axes bite into their long-dead trunks. I could smell the tang of ash in the air, as they were burned to make way for new growth. After the trees . . . maize. Blood in the ground, to make the crops grow. And then . . . nothing. Death and dust and silence.

  “The king is the land,” Trennus muttered under his breath. ‘The land is the king.”

  Sigrun understood what he meant, immediately. Both of their people had a tradition of this, though the Gauls emphasized the belief more strongly. For so long as the king was healthy and virile, the land would bloom. If the king, tied to his own sacred earth, failed in vigor, so would the land. Which was why even kings had been offered as sacrifices, in the ancient past. To give their lives to renew the land. “Sayri Cusi isn’t married,” she reminded Trennus, knowing that what they were saying was probably bypassing the others completely. “I don’t think they go in for the Great Marriage to the land here. I know that Quechan nobles used to offer blood sacrifices, sometimes even cutting into their own penises, to try to invigorate the fertility of the land, but it’s not quite the same.”

  He shook his head. “No. But if he thinks the land isn’t fertile enough . . . eh. It’s a chain of thought that snapped in the wrong place. Nevermind.”

  Sigrun pinched thumb and forefinger at the bridge of her nose. “So, perhaps sacrifices to make everything bloom once more. Land. People. Nation.” She held up her hands. “Maybe the king, too.” That, with a glance at Trennus.

  “But that brings us to the most troubling part,” he returned, his lips pulling down. “They threatened to make a sacrifice of Mamaquilla. That’s not really possible. Truthfully, even to kill a spirit, you need another spirit.” He grimaced. “Unless you’re Akhenaten, or one of the godslayers and the namtar-demons.”

  “There were giants that walked the earth in those days,” Adam said, quietly.

  “Yes. Days best left far behind us.”

  Sigrun shook her head at Trennus. “I am surprised you didn’t think of this,” she told him, ruefully. “But perhaps you are too close to the problem. Another god would have no problem killing another god, any more than a spirit would have problems killing another spirit.” She sighed, feeling a chill pervade her, to the marrow of her bones. “Which suggests that they have at least one entity complicit in some manner in all of this. Whatever this is.”

  The room went very quiet. Kanmi raised a hand. “I think I might like to offer my resignation at this point,” he said, dryly. “I hear Australia is lovely this time of year. It sounds a peaceful place, where only the wildlife is out to kill you in various horrible ways.”

  Minori raised a finger. “I’m just not seeing how any of this can lead to, well, fertility,” she said, sounding a little helpless. “We’re talking about raw energy being dumped into the ground. I could electrify a cow pasture, and it wouldn’t do more than make the cows jumpy. Magic needs intention in order to function.”

  Kanmi’s head swiveled, and a grin lit up his face, surprising Sigrun. “Well, now that is a conversation I would like to have,” he admitted.

  “Later,” Livorus murmured, waving them off. “There is undoubtedly a shaping hand behind all of this. Whose . . . well . . . there’s no knowing at the moment.”

  They were also introduced to Cocohuay that afternoon, and Sigrun felt no more deception from the woman than Lassair did. The woman’s luminous eyes met Sigrun’s own with no hint of guilt or shame, but her stare was piercing . . . and then, the Tawantinsuyan woman said, in tones of heartfelt sympathy, “Oh, you poor thing. What god put his hand on you, to curse you so? Is this revenge upon your god, through you? They can be so . . .” The old woman sighed, and looked as vexed as if she’d found paint spread through a new wool rug, “. . . childish, at times.”

  Sigrun stared at her blankly, a prickle of unease running down her spine in an electrical sizzle. Adam told her that when she was agitated, she put off enough static electricity to make the hairs on the backs of his arms stand up. It was why, though he’d gotten her a lovely battery-powered watch for Yule two years ago, it had died inside of a month, and he’d had to replace it with an old-fashioned gear-run watch that she needed to wind every night. She wore it on her wrist now, and it even had a cover for the watch face, like a traditional pocket watch; she’d put their wedding picture on the inside. At the moment, Sigrun knew she was radiating enough electricity to operate a small appliance, just by the way Adam pulled his hand away from her, and the light snapping sound that followed the movement. “I do not understand your meaning,” Sigrun told Cocohuay, formally. “What curse?”

  “It’s a shadow over you. It shifts. Hard to see. Not surprised you missed it. Your eyes aren’t meant to see things like this. You are a warrior. From a war-like god. My lady is the moon and the sea and the birth of all young things. She takes sailors to their graves, but she gives back life.” Cocohuay shook her head. “No life in you, young one. Not while the shadow stays.”

  Sigrun shuddered. “A . . . conversation for another time, I think,” she suggested, firmly, not knowing what in Hel’s frozen realm the woman even meant. “We need to understand what your lady wishes done about the Lines.”

  Cocohuay gave her a dubious glance, but acceded, just putting a hand gently to Sigrun’s face. “You change your mind? I will help you, child. If I can.”

  By the end of the ensuing conversation, Livorus had agreed to allow Trennus and Kanmi to accompany Cocohuay back to the Lines the next day. To see if they could gain access to the tower at the center, and see what kinds of technology were contained therein. “If you find anything at all, to include human remains, contact me immediately. I will need to know this in order to deal with the Sapa Inca. In fact, if you fail to find anything? Contact me, as well.”

  “I wish to go with them,” Minori protested. “I can be of help with the technical aspects.”

  Livorus shook his head, his expression grim. “I would send both you and Lassair, my dear. However, the last time Matrugena’s lady went to the Lines, the locals are under the impression that she defaced them.” Livorus’ tone became astringent. “I strongly doubt that they will permit her to return. Matrugena alone, bearing my aegis? Will still have problems dealing with the guards, priests, engineers, and officials on site.”

  It was not my intention to cause difficulties, Lassair said, her full lips turning down.

  “I realize that, my dear,” Livorus told her, calmly. “But with that in mind, you cannot stay here alone. Not if there is any possibility that they might make an attempt to capture you. You must be guarded, and thus, two of my lictors will stay here, as will Dr. Sasaki. Who also requires guarding.” He looked up at the ceiling. “The two of you may even guard one another.”

  Sigrun suppressed a smile. Trennus looked twitchy at the thought of leaving Lassair alone. And Kanmi didn’t look much happier, to her surprise. “The notion is not entirely bereft of sense,” Sigrun told them.

  “Thank you for that rousing endorsement, my dear,” Livorus put in, raising his eyebrows at her.

  Sigrun returned the glance, and went on. “Minori is a capable sorcerer. Lassair is hardly defenseless.”

  I feel defenseless in this form, sister.

  Sigrun shook her head. Lassair was probably at least as well equipped to defend herself as Minori was. Possibly more so. The spirit had largely manifested healing properties and transformative abilities before, but Sigrun had been watching Lassair carefully for years now. She suspect
ed that Lassair was capable of far more, under pressure. There was power lurking behind that merry façade, and it was a power that Sigrun didn’t want to try to match.

  “Is there anything else?” Livorus asked. “Ah, yes. Eshmunazar. Did you make contact with this technomage who reached out to you? Micos Cornelius?”

  Kanmi grimaced. “Mostly seemed like a waste of time, though he seems to be one of Sayri Cusi’s top advisors.”

  “And is a legend in his own mind,” Trennus put in, sourly. “I think he mentioned at least three times that he sees the emperor more often than his father the governor does.”

  Kanmi’s lips quirked a bit. “He couldn’t stop looking at Lassair. Minori might as well not have been in the same room. That, and he talked our ears off about crop yields and returning fertility to the land.” He shrugged. “I’d put him at a three out of ten on the ‘people who should be watched for extremist tendencies,’ except for the fact that his wife’s terminally ill. That can be a terrible lever to use on people.”

  “Isn’t that interesting,” Livorus said, looking off into the distance. “Thank you all. That gives me a starting point or three for my initial conversations with the ruler of this land.”

  ___________________

  The next day, Maius twenty-first, Adam and Sigrun saw Kanmi and Trennus to the ornithopters pad in the gray light of dawn, and watched them take off, heading back to Nazca. Their own meeting with the Sapa Inca wasn’t until afternoon, so they ensured that the Nahautl and Hellene lictors who’d be keeping an eye on Lassair and Minori were briefed in on the man who’d been seen conducting surveillance on the group. Arkadios Sanna was a Hellene, and a competent traditional sorcerer, focusing on fire incantations, and Chimali Matlal was a former Eagle Warrior. Sigrun had seen him spar with Adam a few times, and the contests had actually been surprisingly evenly matched; the Nahautl man gave up a few inches to Adam in height, but made up for it in speed and raw ferocity, and like most other Nahautl special forces, his skin was dense with protective charms and tattoos. “Keep them safe,” Adam told the two men. “They’re both capable of defending themselves, but they’re not lictors. They’re not Praetorians.”

  “Matrugena shouldn’t have brought his wife along,” Sanna muttered. “Made him vulnerable.”

  Adam gave the Hellene a dark look. “Funny,” he commented, dryly. “Just about five years ago, we all owed our lives to her being there for us. Several times over. Keep in mind that she’s a spirit, not just a pretty face.”

  Sigrun, for her part, had just leaned against the doorframe, and met Sanna’s eyes as the Hellene man looked around in exasperation. And smiled at him, knowing it didn’t enter her eyes. You want to say that my being here weakens Adam? Go ahead and make that assertion.

  His eyes dropped first, and Sigrun said her farewells to the human and the spirit, Lassair surprising her with a kiss to the cheek. Be careful. The longer I am in this land, the more uneasy I become.

  You are not the only one of whom that might be said. Sigrun raised her eyebrows, nodded to Minori, and got out the door.

  The emperor had sent a motorcar for them, and Sigrun looked out the windows as they drove, noting that alpaca were still used to carry goods around the city, and that, for the most part, people still walked this city. Some pulled wagons themselves, or used horses, and there were a few trucks here and there for truly heavy loads. The Sapa Inca’s social reforms seem to be slow to percolate through, Sigrun thought, dryly. She approved of greater freedoms for everyone, so long as it could be attained in such a way that no one suffered during the reform period. Unfortunately, historically, that was never actually the case.

  The palace of the emperors, Sacsayhuamán, was enormous, built on three terraces of carefully shaped megalithic stone. “Three tiers,” Sigrun murmured to Adam. “Like the ushnu that Trennus mentioned. I wonder if that’s common here.”

  “Would it make a difference?”

  “Their kings were always the representative of the sun-god on earth. Their homes were . . . sacred sites. This palace is a temple, in a sense.” Sigrun groped for the words. “And the royal family are supposed to be priests, or at least . . . intercessors for the sun god. Inti.”

  They were ushered through the first two tiers, to the innermost layer of the fortress, which was luxurious on a scale that Sigrun equated with the palace of the Imperator in Rome . . . though the décor was different, naturally. The floors were flagstone. Traditional local stone reliefs, pictures of gods, ancestors, battles, treaties, were all carved directly into the megalithic walls, and then painted vibrantly. The waiting room into which they and Livorus were escorted was sumptuously decorated, with mahogany wood worked into local-style furniture. Low tables, set with exquisite local pottery. Rich carpets, imported from Persia and Qin, lay alongside local rugs woven from alpaca wool, all shrouding a cold stone floor, and softening their footsteps. There were sandalwood screens scattered here and there, blocking their views of doors, and Sigrun twitched a little. She disliked having her eye-lines closed off like this.

  The entire palace was lit by ley-powered lamps, all the chandeliers apparently made of real gold and silver, and attars and perfumes had been left to warm in bowls supported by tiny tripods over candle flames, scenting the air . . . but again, even these knickknacks were crafted of precious metals. Sigrun looked around uneasily, noticing that Adam was rubbing gently at his nose, as if trying not to sneeze. What does this room say about the person meeting us? Sigrun thought, trying to categorize it. Someone educated in Rome, a part of the melting pot that is modern society. But also, incredibly wealthy. The palace of the Imperator is designed to awe with its grandeur, to convey the power and might and culture of Rome, with its vaulted ceilings and pillars. But for all the beautiful furniture, it’s an austere place. Caesarion and most of the emperors since the Latter Decadent Period have tried to hearken back to the Empire’s roots in the Republic, and made the virtues of that era public ones once more. This palace is . . . nothing like the one in Rome. It’s divided against itself. Judea holds onto tradition and balances modern convenience with it, comfortably. This . . . tries to be everything at once. Traditional and local, modern and cosmopolitan. There’s no order here, no central thread that connects it all. It’s as if the palace itself has a split personality.

  The wait was a tedious one. “Shouldn’t the regional governor be here by now?” Adam asked, after a while.

  Livorus nodded, once, over his dispatch case. He was, as usual, making use of the dead time. “When I made contact with his office this morning, Cornelius pater could not, apparently, come to the telephone for a mere propraetor.” Irony filled his tones. “His clerk, however, seemed uneasy, and asserted that the governor had been ill. There was also a suggestion that the governor could not intrude himself on the emperor without being first invited to the palace.”

  Sigrun raised her eyebrows. This was not generally the way in which governors and the rulers of subject nations interacted. Tawantinsuyu was something of an exception; they had allied themselves with Rome, willingly, and had a few more privileges than other subject nations, as a result . . . but the governor should have been able to gain entrance to the palace on a whim.

  She paced, glancing out the room’s window, pausing at the doors periodically to listen past them, as time ticked by, once more. Close to a half an hour later, Livorus glanced over at her, and murmured, suddenly, “The problem with dealing with kings and emperors, I have found, over the years, is that they all believe themselves to be gods. Admittedly, quite a few of them are god-born. But even the ones who are not, almost invariably come to believe that they are above all others. That is why every one of them should have a man positioned at their elbow, all day, every day, whispering to them, Remember, you must die. Remember!”

  “As legates do, when they’re awarded their triumphal marches into Rome, sir?”

  “Precisely so, my dear.”

  The door at the far end of the room swung open, as if someon
e had awaited these words, as a cue, and the Sapa Inca, Sayri Cusi, entered the room. Sigrun’s eyes widened fractionally. The emperor wore an incredibly fine robe of undyed vicuña wool, heavily embroidered with silver thread. He also wore a heavy golden crown, which had pieces that dangled down beside his cheekbones, and which drew attention to the fact that he had been, like many Tawantinsuyan nobles, subjected to head-binding at birth. Unlike the commoners of his kingdom, his skull had been elongated into a cone-like protrusion that she found herself staring at . . . and then hastily pulled her eyes back where they belonged, as a series of guards filtered into the room behind the man with the dark eyes and sallow skin.

  “A fascinating concept,” he said, suddenly, as if he’d been taking part in a conversation with Livorus all this time. “The skeleton at the feast. How very Roman.” He paused, and his eyes flicked from side to side, narrowed and he shouted, flecks of spittle flying from his mouth, “This is not Rome!”

  Sigrun stiffened, and glanced around. She had access to the sky, thanks to the window, and she had never actually heard anyone speak to the propraetor like this. Even Persian diplomats, furious, and their country in the middle of a war with Rome, had spoken in courteous enough tones. They were, after all, professionals. He’s either unbalanced, or pretending to be so, she thought, and glanced at the guards behind the emperor, who were now fanning out around him. All of them had double-barreled derringers in their hands, openly. We are in a wondrous good position here. He actually wishes to start negotiations with the propraetor of Rome under the gun, as it were. This was unheard of, in diplomatic circles. One did not overtly threaten a diplomat. It put all of your own country’s diplomats in peril. And considering that Tawantinsuyu was a subject nation of the Roman Empire . . . this was lunacy.

  Five of them. Sigrun stepped, carefully, closer to Livorus, feeling Adam do the same, though he kept a step or two further away. She’d be able to throw herself atop Livorus and take any bullets; Adam needed to keep their shots separated. As she moved, Livorus, who hadn’t shifted from where he was standing, met the Sapa Inca’s eyes steadily. “Ah, but I must respectfully disagree with you, your majesty,” he replied, his calmness contrasting with the man’s incomprehensible fury. “Tawantinsuyu is a subject kingdom of Rome, by treaty. You have regional autonomy, it is true, and you are a valued ally. But it must also be noted that as propraetor, and with my lictors appointed as diplomats, wherever we happen to stand, is Roman soil.” Livorus smiled, faintly. “Come now. I meant no offense by my off-hand comment to my lictor. Let us speak as men do.”