Trennus slid his books back into his satchel, and then caught her face in his unwounded hand. I have to do this, Saraid, wild-heart. Judea is a refuge, but this is my home. Our home. This is where we began, though I was too young and stupid to understand it, long ago. You told me that you had watched me for years before I came with Senecita to hunt the summoner who slew her. That’s why you trusted me with his grimoires, his rituals. You have watched me since I was a child, wild-heart. You watched over me when I was far from your lands, and I never understood. I bound myself to Lassair to save her life, and promised her that when she was well, I would release her. She has never chosen to release me, and I love her, and always will . . . but you were there first. Patient, quiet, and abiding. I should have understood so many things when I was young. Lassair is passion. But you are the stone that endures and the green things that grow. You are the wilderness, hunter and hunted. And you are love, and all that abides. Trennus leaned down, and kissed her, very gently. If I die here today? I die very well indeed.
He turned back to the other spirits. I do not ask you to fight here today. I do not ask you to die. I ask you to risk your lives, yes, but I face that risk with you. I ask you to save my people, this land, this place. To bring all of them to the Veil, to the Forest there. Where I have been building a place of safety, of refuge, so that nothing that is truly loved, will be lost forever. And, if it is possible, to take them through. It may take much effort. But there are enough of you here, and with enough power, that we may all take this journey together.
Trennus, called Worldwalker, set his teeth. His people might not thank him for this. They were a free-spirited folk, who argued among themselves and with their kings and lords like squabbling children at times. But they wouldn’t tolerate being separated from their land. That was why the land had to come with them, at least in some form or another. Go, he said, silently. Bring them all to safety. Nodens will aid us.
Saraid demanifested, and slipped into and through him. Suffused him, gently, with her essence, and wrapped her protections around him. The people around him pulled back further; Trennus was used to this. The fur, the fangs, and the antlers that seemed to appear when she did this tended to horrify the average person, but he also heard someone muttering, “Cernunnos!” and shook his head. He didn’t have time to correct them. No. Just me.
The spirits took flight, dodging the tendrils of the mad god that were still arcing out, everywhere, as the godling lured Jormangand further into the woods, which burned wherever the world-serpent touched. And then Trennus was looking through the eyes of a hundred and more spirits as they flew over the countryside. Finding people. Finding animals. Finding the hills and the streams and the trees. Finding the frigid depths of the lochs, like Ness and Calder and Eriboll. Finding the rugged tops of mountains like Ben Hope and Suilven, far to the south. The topography of the highlands, if it had been laid out flat, would have had more area than the rest of Britannia, Trennus would have bet, and the spirits were finding all of it. Catching it. The mountain gods of Tawantinsuyu reached out to the local spirits, the ones that dwelled in the lochs and the streams, and made contact. Bargained, rapidly, with Trennus’ backing. And mind locked to mind. Power locked to power. Weaving a net over the entirety of the land. A hundred spirits became a thousand.
Became ten thousand.
And as Trennus had once used himself as the focus, the conduit of power that let him open a door to the Veil that had let Loki escape this reality without doing more destruction to it, he let himself become a conduit again. He reached down for the ley-lines under his feet that Senecita had trained him to use, and pumped that power, too, into the widening gate. A wide, horizontal one, which spread wherever the net of minds and spirits reached. A hundred and thirty some miles to the south, to the city of Inbhir Nis, but no further. Trennus began to burn from within, and reached out to Saraid. To Lassair, too. He could sense that she’d moved to Londonium, and was trying to convince the children to leave, before it was too late.
Anchorpoints. He dropped to his knees, trying to hold it all, but he couldn’t. He was only mortal. You don’t have to hold it all, Saraid whispered. You just need to hold the vision. We will hold the rest.
His heart pounded in his ears, and if he’d opened his eyes and found himself sweating blood, he wouldn’t have been surprised. But he held to the vision. The vision he’d always had in building the Wood in the Veil. His land. A land that had been empty of villages and towns and people, without motorcars, to be true, but the best and wildest parts of the island that held his heart. The part of Britannia that was essential and whole and his. He’d built it over painful decades, every night, and now he summoned it once more behind his eyelids. Invoked it. Evoked it. And began, with the others, to make it real.
The spirits could sense the fear of the humans, as they all began to feel the mad god’s approach. Felt the unaccustomed earthquakes rumbling through the land. Smelled the smoke on the air. The fear of entering the Veil was powerful, as well, and a hundred thousand minds cried out with terror and confusion at once. Trennus, at the heart of the nexus of power, moved through into the Veil with them . . . and then he knelt, at the center of the glade, swaying as reality shifted around him. Every tree was doubled. Every mountain had a shadow of itself, a twin, beside, inside, behind it. The sky was night-dark and filled with a galaxy of stars, and filled with daylight at the same time. Halfway there, Worldwalker said, floating above and through it all, knit together with all the Names who knew his own. Take them there. Take them to safety. Knit the lands together. And then all our debts are paid.
Not quite. Nodens’ voice came through to them all, though the god was still fighting the mad one, in the mortal realm. For so much power, so much effort, you, too, must pay a price, Worldwalker.
It’s a life-working. I know it. My life for my people and my land. I give it. I give it freely.
No! Saraid’s voice was somewhere between a scream and a howl. No, no, no. I will not permit this. He sacrificed himself once, for Lassair’s sake. I will not permit him to do so again. Not for me.
Not just for you, beloved. For . . . everyone. It is mine to give.
You are already given, and I will not remit you your soul. It is not yours to give.
He looked up at her, and would have smiled, if he could; the effort was too much. It is always mine to give, beloved.
To the south, in the petty kingdom of Cantium, whose capital was Dubrās, heavy waves pounded the white chalk cliffs of the region, and the Tamesis river, already swollen from the higher-than-average sea levels of the past several years, rippled sullenly as faint tremors, echoes of the heavy earthquakes rattling the north, disturbed its dark waters.
Lassair had managed to get Minori to the Judea house to look after the youngest children, and had torn her way through the Veil to get to Londonium. Deiana, Athim, and Linditus had been crowded into Linditus’ small, one-bedroom apartment near the University, and all three of them had been adamantly opposed to leaving. “Mother, I’m a doctor now. The same as Tiri and Himilico.” Linditus pushed his dark brown hair out of his eyes. He usually kept it back in a single braid—not very Pictish, but it was more hygienic for dealing with patients. “I can’t just leave. We’re going to be seeing an influx of refugees and wounded, any minute now. I’m in residency at the hospital. They’ve already called me in.”
“And we can help, too,” Deiana, his twin, insisted, resting a hand on Athim’s forearm. The young Chaldean man turned to look at his affianced wife, his dark eyes concerned. “We can . . . carry stretchers, bargain with local spirits to comfort the refuges, help set up tents. I don’t know, but . . . these are Da’s people. I spent most of my summers up in the north. I have to help somehow.”
Lassair covered her face with her hands for a moment. They are not listening. They were sweet, biddable children, and then they turned into adults with minds of their own. I do not bind them with anything more than love. I feel their love, pulsing in me, and they
have some measure of my power in them. Made their own, of course, and I am not lessened by their possessing that energy . . . but they will not hear me. She raised her head, and stared at them. Your father, even now, is in the north. He is doing what must be done to protect his people. And every minute that you remain here, his worry for you could prove a distraction. She stared into them, seeing each beautiful, unique spirit for what it was. A life she’d created, when once, she hadn’t even known that she could create.
They hesitated, swayed. Lassair let her body take an inhalation of relief . . . and then she could hear Flamesower speaking, earnestly, to Saraid, in the far distance. The words tumbled out of him; he’d been holding them at the subconscious level for some time, but this was the first time they’d formulated in any conscious way.
. . . this is my home. Our home. This is where we began, though I was too young and stupid to understand it, long ago . . . . You have watched me since I was a child, wild-heart . . . and I never understood. I bound myself to Lassair to save her life, and promised her that when she was well, I would release her.
Lassair stood completely still, transfixed, her body’s eyes wide, and felt them stinging a little with tears. Water, so alien to her. The first time she’d wept, it had terrified her.
Flamesower went on, with urgency and love, trying to tell Saraid something he’d never put into words before. She has never chosen to release me, and I love her, and always will . . . Lassair is passion. But you are the stone that endures and the green things that grow, you are the wilderness, hunter and hunted. And you are love and that which abides. If I die here today? I die very well indeed.
Lassair curled in on herself like a leaf in a fire. She’d never been threatened by Trennus’ love for Saraid. When she’d realized, years before, that they loved each other, she’d cheerfully ceded half of Trennus’ soul-bond to Saraid, so that they both could maintain a permanent link with the mortal man. She loved Saraid like a sister, and more, and knew that Saraid felt kinship with her, too. But she’d also been aware of a shifting dynamic between them, and between her and Stormborn, for years, and she wasn’t entirely sure why or how it was happening. Stormborn had always held her in affection, Lassair knew—as the damaged creature she had been, and later, as the beloved of one of the valkyrie’s best friends. But she had an impression that Stormborn tolerated her these days out of loyalty to Trennus, but that the valkyrie preferred the company of Saraid. In fact, Lassair couldn’t remember the last time Stormborn had called on her for help. Wait. Yes, I can. Twenty years ago, when she said that the fenris should not have the reproductive strategies of true wolves.
And just this morning, Saraid had turned on her, with a flash of the fighting temper of an alpha female wolf. Some of that had surely been how the fenris were shaping the forest spirit with their beliefs, and the jotun, too; Saraid’s peaceful inner core, the hind, remained, but she had become a far more war-like creature over the past two decades. And Lassair had simply stood there, flummoxed for a moment, not knowing how to respond. She knew what she was capable of; she’d torn the Sapa Inca to shreds with her own teeth and talons. She was nature, red in tooth and claw, as much as Saraid herself was. And yet . . . when was the last time I took my phoenix form? When was the last time I stretched out my wings from human shoulders? Why, the fight with Baal-Hamon, of course . . . seven years ago. And before that . . . fifteen years had passed since the fight with Hel and the technomancers around Loki. Lassair looked up, swallowing hard. What has happened to me? I used to lead the dance. I made up the steps, and they followed me, and now . . . I am not less. I know I am not less. But I am different, and I do not understand why.
All this, in flashes, understanding and incomprehension commingled. She ran a seine of awareness through her body, checking the hormonal states, and found nothing amiss. If there was a problem, it was in her spirit-self, and not in her body-self. “Mother,” Deiana said, quietly, looking shocked as she stepped forwards, and put a hand on Lassair’s shoulder. “What’s wrong? You look as if someone died!”
People are dying in the north. Their flames are being snuffed out, and your father . . . is doing something massively unwise to try to save them. Lassair could sense the determination in Flamesower, the resolution, and she froze for an instant, overwhelmed. You cannot do anything here where you are. You must go home, and at once.
“Mother,” Linditus said, in the patient, faintly condescending tone of a grown child who’s found his or her own path, “we just went over this—”
In this universe, time is not unlimited. I do not have enough of it to spare with which to argue with you. Lassair, in her frustration and anguish, dismissed her human body, turning to flame. It took effort to put on her wings, but she felt incalculably better at having done so. She could see Athim’s expression, in particular, shift. Athim was bound, in part, to Illa’zhi, the flame-that-devours, so she couldn’t get a full read on his emotions, but there was a reassuring flash of respect and also, a stab of surprised desire, quickly masked, which was . . . warming, actually. You are adults. You make your own decisions. But do not cry out for my aid later, having spurned it now. She opened a window, barely noticing that her fingers warped and melted the metal sash, and flowed out through the screen, making the wire of it glow red-hot for an instant. She needed to be away from them. They didn’t see her. She’d given them life, and yet they didn’t see her or know her, and she did not understand how that was possible.
She found a tile rooftop in Londonium, and huddled there, staring down at the streets, listening, in the distance, to the naming of Names. The power distilling itself in the north, and Flamesower at the center of it. The vortex of it, the way it rippled through the whole of the land. The resonations of Nodens’ powerful voice, telling Trennus that there would be a price to pay. It’s a life-working. I know it. My life for my people and my land. I give it. I give it freely.
No! He sacrificed himself once, for Lassair’s sake. I will not permit him to do so again. Not for me.
Lassair’s head jerked up as she stared at the streets below, blindly. Saraid had never blamed her for Flamesower’s sacrifice in Tawantinsuyu, which had empowered Lassair so much. But Saraid refused the same sacrifice now. Refuted it. Forbade it. A different case, Lassair told herself, rapidly. I could not risk the child, and I did not wish myself to . . . go out . . . and could not bear the thought of being trapped once more in dead and rotting flesh. I kept him alive. It is not the same at all.
At the periphery of her attention, the words rolled on. Not just for you, beloved. For . . . everyone. It is mine to give.
You are already given, and I will not remit you your soul. It is not yours to give.
It is always mine to give, beloved.
Lassair closed her eyes. Trennus wasn’t breaking their bargain consciously. She was aware, still, of his love for her, pulsing through her, powerful and strong. But here was a central truth of human existence: Choices mattered. Every decision killed one set of possibilities, and opened another. If he chose death right now, to empower the wreaking, he would bind his energies into the work, and leave her and Saraid and the children without him. The binding would work with that kind of focus. He would die so that the land would be renewed, just as in ancient times. The king gave of his blood, and the crops grew. Sacrifice.
She covered her face with her hands. Did it really matter who made the sacrifice, so long as there was enough energy to move everyone and everything safely back out of the Veil? And the terms of her original bargain with Trennus had long since been fulfilled. He had given of himself to make her whole, and she had insisted that everything since then had been a free exchange, made in love . . . but was that really true? She loved him, he loved her, but she was . . . demanding, and she knew it. He’d been working as a Praetorian, and as a father, and at night, building the Wood in the Veil, for a decade before Saraid had, gently, pointed out to her that Trennus was weary beyond what a mortal should be. Lassair had tried to make up for it.
Had ceded Saraid half his soul, and had begun splitting herself apart. Subdividing herself, to take some of the burden off of him. There was still love. She could feel it. But somehow, unaccountably, something had changed, and she still couldn’t understand what. I release you, beloved. Take back what was yours. Surely this is enough?
The soul-bond snapped free, and for a moment, Lassair was completely bereft. She could feel masses of energy leaving her, and recoiling back to him. She wasn’t, again, precisely lessened by this, but she was missing her most important conduit . . . but she still had the children. They still bound her to this realm. Her anchor-points in reality. And she was still bound to Flamesower by love. Perhaps . . . perhaps that would be enough.
In the Veil, Worldwalker lifted his head to object. He did still love her. He’d given his life for her, once upon a time, and he could not imagine his existence without her. But as he’d said, and said truly to Saraid, Lassair was fire; she was passion. Passion consumed. And then, when there was no more fuel, it might turn to the warm embers of a gentle, abiding love.
The Goddess Embraced (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 3) Page 20
