The Goddess Embraced (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 3)

by Deborah Davitt

  The power arrowed out of her, and she could sense it going . . . elsewhere. Through the gateway, very likely. She swayed on her feet; she’d never told anyone, but using the gift was . . . highly pleasurable. Another reason she tried to limit its use. She had, in fact, only used it three times before this, always to bring a child back, when there was another life available. Another life. Oh, gods. Fritti opened her eyes, and looked around, hastily. Rig met her gaze, and held her hand more tightly. “Still here, Mother.”

  “Praise the gods.” She looked to her right. Reginleif regarded her steadily, her red eyes intent. “And you’re still with us . . . .” Over her shoulder now. Sigrun had planted her back against Nith, who stood there like a solid wall of night. “We’re all still here. But . . . doesn’t that mean that it didn’t work?” Fritti bit her lower lip. “Every time I’ve used it before, it required a life.”

  Reginleif sighed, as if in understanding. “Ah. So that was my designated role. Sacrifice.” She shrugged. “If it didn’t work, then you should try again, Frittigil. I will not resist.”

  Fritti’s jaw dropped. Even Nith’s head swung around as the siren sat back down on the wall, almost placidly. “What are you saying?” Fritti asked, her voice pitching upwards sharply.

  “That it makes perfect sense now, why Loki sent me out of the Veil,” Reginleif told her, calmly. “Yes, the harpies needed assistance, but it seems only right that my life should pay the toll for Loki’s. Call him again, Frittigil. As I said, I won’t resist.”

  “No,” Sigrun said, sharply. “Loki is not actually dead. And I do not think any one individual’s life would be enough to bring back a god. We have a certain amount of evidence that it takes divine power to restore a dead god to life.” And as Reginleif’s mouth opened, her expression afire with curiosity, Sigrun told her, with surprising mildness, “No. No details for the moment. I don’t trust you.”

  Again, Reginleif looked mildly hurt, but all she did was shrug the words away.

  Sigrun turned back to Fritti now. “How long do you think this will take?”

  Fritti wrung her hands. “I don’t know. It’s always been . . . instantaneous before. I don’t even know if it worked.”

  “There was a tremendous outflow of energy,” Reginleif said calmly. “Something did leave you. Perhaps it might be best considered a burning rag, attached to an arrow. You shot that arrow into the Veil. The question is, how far your arrow passed into the Veil, and how bright the burning rags attached to it are. Theoretically, it should stand out to him like a beacon. Whether or not he responds to it, and if he has the power, without a sacrifice, to come through? Is another story.” She stared off into the mid-distance.

  “The thought of dying doesn’t actually bother you, does it?” Rig said, suddenly.

  “Even if it means oblivion, it would be far less bad than what I’ve already endured, and a great deal better than living with the knowledge of what I’ve done,” Reginleif told him, dispassionately. “I don’t even need to make peace with my gods beforehand. There’s no way to make peace with most of them, and for Loki . . . my death might serve as much as my life.”

  Fritti stared at her for a long moment. She couldn’t entirely reconcile this person with the face of Lorelei. Lorelei’s strength was the rock on which the harpies had depended for seven years. She constantly reminded them that no matter what they had done while they’d been mad—and many of them had fragments of truly unbearable memories—it hadn’t been them. It had been the madness. And that they needed to put those memories away, and make their lives now matter. To cherish the world in which they lived, the simplest of things. That the guilt was acceptable, if it kept them from losing control again, but not to live in their memories. Quiet self-confidence, assurance, knowledge, and always the sense in her that she’d done things that she regretted—as all the harpies and other Hellene creatures had. As the wild fenris had. Fritti had gotten used to the calmness, the acerbic wit, the occasional flashes of temper. She’d never seen the despair before, and didn’t know what to do with it.

  After a moment, Sigrun flew up, and lifted down a pack of gear that had been slung over Nith’s shoulders. “Valhalla made it clear that this is my top priority, so, now that we are here,” she said, shrugging. “I have nothing better to do than wait to see if your message has been received.” She dropped to the ground, and began removing tent equipment. “Rig, I assume you can cover this area with a persistent illusion that looks exactly like itself? Without us and these tents?”

  “I can, yes, but I’ll need to sleep sometime. That kind of illusion doesn’t maintain itself, unfortunately.”

  “There’s a trick to that,” Regin put in, calmly. “I never taught it to Sigrun, because at the time, she had no gift for seiðr, and there were no god-born of Loki in her class. If you do not trust me to maintain the illusion while you rest, young one, at least let me show you a few tricks that your mentor here does not know.”

  Rig, however wary he was of the siren, did accept a few lessons—her son was never reluctant to learn more about his gift of illusion. And Reginleif commented several times that it was a rare thing, to have a pupil so apt. And yet, she never smiled—a change, again, from Lorelei.

  Fritti found that she missed Lorelei. Lorelei, for all the sorrows and regrets that hung around her, was alive. Reginleif had already accepted that she was dead, it seemed.

  Hours passed, and nothing happened. Fritti finally gave up, and curled up in her small tent after the sun went down. No campfire; Rig had noted that he had difficulty hiding the smell of smoke. As such, Fritti shivered in a sleeping bag, listening to fenris howl in the distance, and higher, shriller screams that filled the night air, which Sigrun identified as lindworms. A rumbling series of thuds echoed across the lake, waking Fritti past midnight. “What was that?” she whispered.

  “Grendel drum. Usually a large, hollow, fallen tree. They use them to communicate, more or less. ‘This is our territory. Stay out.’” Sigrun’s tone outside her tent flap was flat. “Over ten miles away, I think. The water carries the sound. Go back to sleep.”

  Fritti burrowed back into her bedroll again, convinced that she’d never fall back asleep, but the next thing she knew, she was curled up with Radulfr. His hands were spread across her belly, feeling the kicks there. There’d always been a look of surprised joy on his face at feeling each one, but this time, he was spooned up behind her, and she was reading to him out of a book. Something by Aeschylus. Prometheus the Fire-Bringer. Which hadn’t been published until after Radulfr had vanished. Her mind tickled her, trying to tell her that this was wrong, but he was nibbling on her neck now, sweetly. “Keep reading. I like hearing your voice.” Low whisper against her ear, slight prickle of his beard.

  “It’s a translation. I’m sure it doesn’t do the original any favors.”

  “I think it’s a good story. The trickster gods always seem to get blamed by the other gods for mischief, but they’re almost always the ones who are really on humanity’s side. Ever notice that? Prometheus. Huehuecóyotl. Coyote. Iktomi. Anansi.”

  She struggled with it in her sleep. “Loki.”

  “Hmm?” Another nibble on the side of her neck.

  “What about you, Loki?” She managed to open her eyes. Rolled over in her sleeping bag, and wasn’t entirely startled to find a shape lying beside her on the ground . . . but outside the bag. A hand stroked her hair out of her face. “Are you on our side?”

  I try to be. Sometimes humans make that very difficult. Weariness in his tone. I am sorry. I was a very long way away when you called to me. I did not think you would summon me so soon. My pre-memory did not show this for another six or seven years.

  “Where were you?” The conversation was surreal, and Fritti felt as if she were still dreaming.

  Distance is difficult to explain. The Veil and this realm are not quite the same in that respect. If I said I had to walk here from the orbit of Pluto, would that grant you some perspective? Where I was,
was dark and dismal and not often visited, even by other spirits. A good place to hide and heal.

  “You’re not healed yet?” Fritti sat up, anxious. “Oh, please. Won’t you let me see you?”

  I am as healed as I can be, for the moment. Light glimmered in the palm of his cupped hand. In that dim radiance, she could see Radulfr’s face. Blond hair, red-touched beard.

  How . . . I thought I could see through his illusions . . . ? Fritti paused. “No, not . . . not Radulfr.” She swallowed. “I would see your real face, please. If . . . if I might.”

  I had thought you would prefer his visage, or at least, be more comfortable with it. One moment, while I change this body. There was a pause, and she could see the features rearranging themselves. The beard vanished. The eyes, which had been dark-shadowed in the dim light, took on an eclipse-silver gleam. The light hair, braided back, turned dark and loose. Livorus’ sword leaned against the tent post behind him. Better?

  Fritti swallowed, dumbstruck. He reached out, and caught a tear as it escaped the corner of her eye, his expression curious. I told you not to center your life around a tragedy, Fritti. Certainly not around me. I had hoped, in part, that you had moved on. Found love. Radulfr was created to be perfect for who you were at the time. His voice was regretful. But every part we play, is made of a part of us, is it not?

  “Sigrun said you’d found truth in it.”

  I did. The question is, can you forgive me for it? Can either you or our son forgive me for not being here? Loki shook his head. I have created life before. Broken off pieces of myself and let them free. Fenris. Jormangand. Hel. Even Sleipnir—no, I did not make of myself a mare in season and allow myself to be covered by a stallion. Humans and their legends. Irritated, yet affectionate amusement in his voice. I have god-born descendants. I have lain with humans before you. But I never wanted to stay with any of them, the way I wished to stay with you.

  Fritti’s eyes stung. “You liked who you were, when you were Radulfr. You liked who we were, together.” Impossible to be angry with him for that, when she had felt the same way. Even if Radulfr had been created specifically to meet her needs at the time . . . that didn’t necessarily invalidate their years together, did it?

  Who would not enjoy the chance to play the hero? The strong, dashing, brawny warrior who catches the heart of the wounded princess? A princess giving and kind enough to have caught the eye of Baldur. Granted inhuman beauty by him, and renewal by the Evening Star. Who would not wish to be . . . washed clean, by her? A sigh. You shaped me. You did not know you were doing it. But you did. Your belief in Radulfr was complete. I participated in it. I played the noble hero, and I became him, at least a little. He brushed a fingertip over her lips. Every human story is evocative. Every human story . . . shapes us. And when the time came to end the story, and reveal the truth, all I wanted was to stay with you. I wanted to stay with our child. But I knew what was coming. What is still coming . . . which is darkness and an end to all we know.

  Fritti leaned forwards, and stopped his words with a kiss, her heart beating as quickly as a hummingbird’s in her chest. After a long moment, he told her, quietly, Radulfr is forgiven, then? But you do not yet know me.

  “I would like to learn.” She swallowed, hardly able to fathom her own daring. “Can we learn together, we two?” The words seemed somehow presumptuous. How could she possibly learn him? And he had to already know her, inside and out. And yet . . . she had to try, didn’t she? “Can I learn to know you?”

  Humans can do anything they set their minds to, beloved. Your abilities are only limited by your aspirations. He reached out, and wrapped his arms around her, tightly, and Fritti was startled to discover that gods really could weep. She still had no idea why he held affection for her. It seemed unfathomable. But a part of this complex and ancient entity, was Radulfr, who had taught, laughed with, and loved her. She might not be capable of understanding all of him. She was two thousand or three thousand years too late, and mostly human. But she had a start, at least.

  He whispered her Name in the darkness, something she’d never been aware of him doing before, and played, very sweetly, with her soul, even as he pulled the sleeping bag open, and kissed his way down her throat.. Do you remember this?

  “I . . . oh. Oh, yes, I . . . didn’t know what you were doing . . . before.” So this was why human hands and human lips felt so empty and unfulfilling. None of them had been able to reach inside of her like this, to play on the cord that bound the two of them. She was already quivering, and they hadn’t even done more than kiss. “This is what you did—”

  The night you conceived, yes. You won’t quicken tonight. I promise. Just pleasure. And only as much as you want.

  She was young in body, if not in mind or spirit, and she’d spent most of the last thirty years alone. She pulled him down to her, catching the startled look on his face as she became the aggressor. Tried to, fumblingly, touch the cord between them, too, aware of it for the first time, and watched his expression turn to bliss. Stunning to realize that she actually could affect him. Scrabbled, a little futilely, at his clothing, trying to pick apart the laces, and finally jerked them apart. And then, sweetly, they joined their bodies, and she was able to look up into his face—his true face—and watch the expressions there.

  Some time later, as she was dozing, a throat cleared outside the tent. “When you two are ready,” Sigrun said, quietly, “There is much we should all discuss.”

  Fritti suddenly found her face burning in the darkness. Did they hear . . . ?

  I muffled your sounds. Or did I? His tone became musing. I may have been distracted . . . .

  Fritti’s eyes went wide and she threw . . . absolutely everything she could find at him. Proving thereby that not only could gods weep, but they could also laugh.

  She emerged from the tent several minutes later, dressed, and still flushed, and Loki just behind her . . . and Fritti’s eyes widened as she took in the tableaux before her. A goddess had arrived, and she didn’t recognize her at all. A black swan-cloak, like Sigrun’s, but with what looked to be a night sky’s worth of stars trapped in the folds. Glistening, black-silver armor that clung to her like a nieten’s natural scales, sweeping down to plated boots, and up along her throat, where a black-silver mask protected her face, shimmering like a mirror, featureless except for two glimmering crystals that covered the eyes, and gleamed with the same moonfire as Niðhoggr’s . . . in fact, everything about the goddess’ armor mirrored the dragon’s: black-silver scales and moonfire eyes. A spear was in her hand, and it glowed, briefly, with the same fires as a levinbolt, and there was a sense of cold, leashed power around her. Nith leaned down, presenting a mouthful of diamond fangs, and exhaled a cloud of frost over the figure’s head. “Valhalla gives you greetings, Loki,” the goddess said . . . and she actually said it out loud, not inside the heads of those around her. Fritti blinked, rapidly. It . . . sounded like Sigrun’s voice.

  Naglfar, Loki said, his voice intrigued. It was the name of the boat that would supposedly bring the survivors of Ragnarok to safety. Your Name has changed, Sigrun Stormborn. Your wyrd has changed. I did not expect this.

  The goddess lifted a hand and removed her face-mask, revealing a face so covered in runes, that the entirety of her skin blazed with light. And yet, the face was Sigrun’s. Fritti had long since wrapped her head around the fact that Radulfr had been Loki. Discovering that Lorelei was Reginleif had been surprising, but she’d adapted quickly, or so she’d like to think. But this? She was boggled that the valkyrie who had saved her life outside of Ponca, was revealed as a goddess. This wasn’t Nótt, Old Night, the grandmother of Thor. This was still . . . Sigrun. Fritti darted quick looks around, seeing the lack of surprise in Rig’s face . . . and the mingled astonishment and resignation on Reginleif’s. “We are attempting to break Fate’s back, Loki,” Sigrun said, her words terse. “To the abyss with Apollo of Delphi’s memories, and my sister’s visions.” She nodded. “That is why we have c
alled you back early. Prometheus has returned—his life was restored to him by a measure of Hecate’s essence, torn from her by a mad godling.” She gave Reginleif a sidelong glance. “I trust you will curtail Reginleif’s ability to speak of this, or I will be forced to take the memories directly from her mind.”