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

by Deborah Davitt

  Reginleif’s mouth hung open. Loki’s head tilted to the side, appraisingly. I will certainly bind her tongue, so that no one else may compel her to speak through pain or duress. But none can know her thoughts; she is my servant once more, sealed entirely to me. He paused. Prometheus has returned? This is excellent good news. We tricksters must keep together. Else all you very serious and quite noble types will begin to believe you truly do run the world.

  “Kanmi Eshmunazar would have gotten along wonderfully with both you and Prometheus.” Sigrun acknowledged, not changing expressions. “Prometheus calculates a forty-five percent probability that you will be able to leash Jormangand, even now, weakened as you are. The probability increases to fifty-five percent, if you take back your gift to me.” She lowered her head. “Take back seiðr, Loki. I give it to you, freely.”

  Loki limped forwards—Fritti was surprised, and dismayed, to see that he really was still wounded. She hadn’t been aware of it until this moment, but his left leg was halt, and he leaned on the sword he’d taken from the ground before the gate. He placed a hand on Sigrun’s hair, and then, startling everyone present, leaned down and kissed her forehead. You are as much my child and Freya’s now, as Tyr’s. I cannot take back my gift from you. You have accepted it, and its burdens. I still have a whisper of it. And it will return, with time and patience. The loyalty and savagery of Fenris was mine, before I cut it away to make him, and both returned to me in time. The fury that was Jormangand . . . that too, still, is mine. I will bridle him, if I must. Bargain with him, if I can.

  Sigrun nodded, and Loki reached up and very gently put a hand on Nith’s head now, too. I regret what was done to you, by Hel, he said, quietly. I could not interfere. She had been part of me, and then, was her own creature. Humanity shaped her into a monster, and she shaped herself thus, as well. And so she would have shaped you. I am glad that she failed. For Reginleif, a nod, and a hand placed on her brow. You go about the work you have been set to do. I am well-pleased with the progress you have made.

  The valkyrie didn’t look up for those words of praise. Her head remained down-tipped, and she did not speak. Loki sighed, and a shadow of something like regret passed across his face, but he turned away. Paused, looked back at her, and sighed again. Fritti couldn’t read his expression.

  Then he turned towards Rig, the son he’d only seen once. Loki limped towards him now, and stared down at his son, in mingled interest and perplexity. I do not know you. I hope that you will allow me to know you.

  Rig cleared his throat, his eyes wide. “Nothing would please me more.” Rig paused, and added, hesitantly, “Ah . . . you have . . . a granddaughter.” He glanced at Reginleif. “Another one, I mean. My daughter.”

  I can feel her, yes. Another life in the web of lives bound to me. But I look forward to meeting her. Loki lifted the Roman sword in his hand, and studied it. I have never been one for the sword. Always seiðr. This blade belonged to a wise and intelligent man, who knew when to bargain, and when to fight. It has a little of Hel’s essence in it. I believe you should carry it. Be careful. It is sharper than it looks.

  Rig accepted the sword, looking stunned, and glanced over at Sigrun. “It belonged to Livorus,” Sigrun reminded him. “Do it proud.”

  Loki limped back to Fritti’s side and put an hand on her shoulder, to lean on her. We should very likely return everyone to Jerusalem, Stormborn. Then you and I must go and reason with Jormangand.

  “Nith, you won’t mind carrying us all, will you?” Fritti asked, anxiously.

  Loki’s hand squeezed her shoulder lightly, as Nith snorted. I believe I may have alternate means of transportation. He whistled, and after a moment, she could hear the sound of approaching hooves, and Sleipnir appeared in mid-air. The eight-legged horse of legend dropped to the ground, and reared.

  “I thought he was Odin’s steed,” Rig whispered, in awe.

  Why would I give Odin part of myself? Why would Odin, who did not trust me, accept a part of me as a loyal servant, but chain Fenris . . . ahhh. You’ve released him. That was well done. He is faithful, my wolf. You will see. Loki pulled himself up into the saddle, and then extended a hand back for Fritti. Sleipnir with eight legs, is akin to the spider. And half the trickster gods in existence are spiders. A fox-like grin crossed his face. No. Sleipnir is bound to me, and I to him. Odin may have, from time to time, borrowed him, but he is mine. Do you trust me, Fritti, enough to ride with me?

  Fritti swallowed, and accepted a hand up, and then they were off and racing through the air, almost as fast as Niðhoggr could manage.

  This time, Fritti didn’t close her eyes at all.

  Chapter 5: Equilibrium

  Homeostatic equilibrium is a concept derived from biological processes. In biology, it is the tendency of a cell or a body to regulate its internal conditions in the face of external pressures and changes. The human body regulates itself, for example, at 98.6 degrees. If external conditions grow warmer, the body produces sweat to regulate the internal temperature. If external conditions become chilled, the body begins to shiver, and so on.

  Societies under pressure use similar mechanisms to try to regulate themselves. I am hardly a sociologist. But in looking at Roman, Carthaginian, and Judean societies today, all are under enormous pressure. Population shifts have inundated Rome, Judea, and Tyre with people who are ethnically and socially disparate from the base population. Rome has had over three million people from Germania cross the Alps in the last year alone, and the refugee camps in the foothills are overcrowded, resulting in outbreaks of dysentery and typhoid fever. Judea has escaped the crippling specter of disease, mostly because the various waves of refugees have entered the region more slowly . . . other than the recent mass migration of the Picts.

  Roman culture is, however, more similar to that of its immigrants, than Judean and Carthaginian cultures are to these newcomers. Rome and its refugees all speak Indo-European languages; they all derive from more or less the same essential stock. They are all polytheists, so while Rome still tends to regard foreigners as barbarians, the Goths, Hellenes, and Gauls taking refuge there are not so alien to them, as they are to Judeans or Carthaginians. Both of these cultures speak languages with a different base; not Indo-European, but Semitic. Judeans in particular, experience a greater cultural divide than all the others, being monotheistic.

  And as if all the waves of immigrants were not sufficiently alien, many of the newcomers are now different types of humans. Subspecies, such as jotun, harpies, and dryads. Entirely separate, but still-sapient creatures, like centaurs and fenris. The lycanthropes, who are the glue that hold the jotun-fenris alliance together. There is even disagreement among these changed creatures as to what to call themselves. Various magistrates have insisted that they must be termed human, so that they can have human rights. A number of fenris advocates have pointed out that human-centrism is a little insulting to the morphologically different. That they would prefer to be called people, acknowledged as such, but that they reject the primacy of humanity. Of course, those who wish to call them human mean no insult; quite the contrary. They want to hold all the different types of humanity under one common roof: that of fraternity and equality.

  It will take decades, probably, for an equilibrium point to be found in which everyone will see the dozens of different types of humanity that now exist, as equal, real, and valid, and that we are all human together . . . or at least, that we are all people, and all equally alien to one another, and yet, all fundamentally alike, in some ways.

  Now, to return to my original analogy, a foreign agent in a body or a cell can be rejected. Spat out, like a toxin. Or it can be . . . assimilated, like food. A third mechanism is incorporation, and that is how our bodies, long ago, gained the ability to produce energy the way that they do. Some cell-ancestor of ours, rather than devouring another bacteria, incorporated it. This became the mitochondria of our cells, and that basic symbiosis is what allows us all to talk, breathe, walk, fight, play, an
d reason, to this very day.

  Some people within the host society, or organism, wish to reject all the newcomers as toxins, as a way of maintaining equilibrium. “This body will be regulated at 98.6 degrees, because that is the only way we can stay alive and the same. This outside intrusion is causing a fever. It must be eliminated.” And while it is definitely true that some of the immigrants are criminals, who will not conform to the social norms around them and reject the values of the host nation, the vast majority are willing to make a few changes to get along in their new home, like a bacteria normalizing to a new environment. By all means, reject the toxic few. But do not expect all of them to assimilate and become amorphous protoplasm, indistinguishable from the society—or organism—around them. Some of them will provide lasting benefits, by being precisely who and what they are . . . if they are permitted to live in symbiosis, rather than in full assimilation.

  —Frittigil Chatti, Director of Refugee Affairs, Jerusalem Transitional Living and Assistance Authority. Commencement speech given at the University of Jerusalem, 1993 AC. ______________________

  Maius 13, 1992 AC

  “Did you have a good visit to the Wood in the Veil with Trennus and Saraid?” The words were innocuous, but made Adam stop in mid-motion as he stirred the pot of stew currently on the stove. Tomatoes, bell peppers, cumin, paprika, onions and garlic, heated together, with eggs poached in the liquid, and sliced cheese added just before serving. Shakshuka was a crossroads cuisine. The tomatoes and peppers were native to Caesaria Aquilonis, but the treatment was uniquely Judean.

  He looked up at Sigrun as she entered the kitchen; he’d heard the front door open, and his nose twitched a little now. He could smell more than just tomatoes and heavy spices; she’d brought with her a hint of rain and ozone, as usual. The sharp, cold scent of Nith’s scales. And this time, a hint of the acrid reek of volcanic ash and smoke. But no blood, though that was much harder for him to detect. “It was enjoyable, in the main,” Adam told his wife, and went back to cooking their dinner. “I liked feeling so healthy. But . . . nothing there matters, does it?”

  “Meaning is where we assign it, and what we make of it,” she told him, and pulled down a set of bowls and plates, leaving the bowls by his elbow, and going to set the table. He could read the wary tension in her expression, and assumed it had to do with whatever she’d been doing.

  “Oh, come now. Everyone’s told me, since 1955, at least, that spirits come here because there are risks. That this is reality, and that nothing in the Veil matters, because there’s no continuance.”

  “Tren’s little realm has continuity. It’s imported, yes, but it’s still real. And because whatever enters the Veil, has always been there, it will always be there, now. An echo, perhaps, unless it dies outside the Veil.” A clatter as she opened a drawer for their silverware. “Do you want to go back?”

  “It’s a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there.” He could see her turn, frowning, a line between her brows, and changed the subject. “I see you went to the Totzah Tavern the other night. The leftovers were in the refrigerator.” He reached for the first bowl, filling it, and adding a slice of cheese atop of the egg.

  “Did you enjoy the duck?”

  “Didn’t know when you’d be back, so I left it for you.” He paused. “Did you go alone?”

  “Nith dropped me off, so I brought him a separate plate afterward. He claims that he does not need to eat, and yet, at the same time, that the serving sizes are so small as to be untasteable. I beg to differ on the first count, though the second may have a certain . . . validity.”

  Adam wasn’t sure what to say to that. “He could drop down to lindworm size and then I’m sure he’d be fine.” He paused. “I’m sorry I wasn’t home. I’d have gone with you.”

  “I was not alone. As it was, it is probably for the best that you were not there.”

  Adam filled the second bowl with hot soup, and turned towards her, moving for the table himself now. Tren had predicted that the Veil might give him some lingering health benefits. Certainly, at the moment, the arthritis he’d gotten used to living with in the past five years had vanished, but then, it had been steadily improving for the past two months, thanks to his newest anti-inflammatories. He set the bowl down and gave Sigrun a look. “So, if it was better that I wasn’t there, who was there? My brother?”

  “No.”

  Silence, as Adam stirred his soup to encourage the cheese to melt and integrate properly. Finally, he pushed, “So what happened?”

  Sigrun sighed. “I took Rig there to meet with Fritti and a friend of hers, a siren named Lorelei.”

  “That’s not a Hellene name.”

  “No. She’s not Hellene, nor is it her original name.” Sigrun stared into her bowl. “Actually, it was Reginleif.”

  Adam’s spoon fell out of his hand with a clatter. “What?”

  Sigrun raised her hands. “She’s been out of the Veil since just after Baal-Hamon’s death. A good reason that Trennus could not find her, I suppose. Loki flung her back to the mortal realm, and bade her care for the harpies and sirens. She began work in Athens, and then came to Judea with the various refugees once the mad god attacks began there. She is, apparently, their leader.” She tasted the soup, winced at the temperature, and blew on it.

  “Am I to assume from your use of the present tense, that the bitch is still alive?” Adam picked his spoon up again.

  “For the moment, yes.”

  “Why?” The question was blunt. “You could have dragged her to the Odinhall for trial, if you didn’t just pull out your credentials and execute her on the spot.”

  “I considered that, but taverna owners object to decapitations beside the salad bar. Unhygienic.”

  Adam’s eyebrows rose. That had sounded like old Sigrun, with the lurking sense of humor. He liked seeing that Sigrun, so he kept his mouth shut, and just waved his spoon at her to continue. She shrugged at him. “In my best judgment, she wasn’t lying, she’s been doing good work, according to Fritti, and she’s already been punished just by being . . . alone and unescorted in the wild Veil for seventeen years or so. She watched us eat at a café once, Adam. She never accosted us, didn’t stalk us; just left us alone.” She sighed. “Besides which, bringing her with us to, ah, retrieve Loki—” a sidelong glance, and Adam showed no surprise in his expression, “Ah, Tren told you. Good . . . anyway, bringing her along made for an additional power source. Her, Fritti, Rig. Lessened the chances of Rig dying. I’d have stopped the process if I saw him pass out.”

  Adam stared down into his bowl. “Is Loki back, then?”

  “Very much so. And now Reginleif is once more his problem, and I hope he can . . . continue to keep her on the path which her feet currently tread.”

  “Her wyrd, you mean.”

  “Precisely.”

  “I thought everyone’s wyrd was their own choice.”

  “It is. But we can help each other stay on a path, instead of falling down the mountainside.”

  Adam paused. “I smell smoke on you. Did you go with him to see Jormangand?”

  “Yes, as an observer. I assure you, I stayed well back.” A flick of her eyes to the side. “The other gods have never trusted Loki overly, but I think that he has changed. And has been changed. The entire cult of the Sacrificed God that’s been built around him, just like the one built around Inti . . . has changed him.”

  He squinted at her. “So you were there to observe him and Jormangand.” That netted him a nod. “And what did you observe?”

  “Jormangand backed down, for the time being. He has been enraged by the mad god attacks, and has been alone, or has at least, felt that way. No allies, no one to defend him but himself.” She sighed. “Loki bade him move to the Gulf of Nahautl, near the Caribbean islands of Coabana and Borikén. The gods of the Taíno people have already been wiped out, not to mention most of the Taíno themselves, but the Gallic gods are willing to overlook his behavior in Britannia, if he is
willing to work with them to thwart any further mad godling attacks. This position places him much closer to the territory of my gods, and the gods of the Gauls for . . . mutual defense. And it should help to calm and cool the Arctic once more. We really do not need the sea levels to continue to rise.”

  Adam shook his head. This was all far above his pay-grade. “And to think all I have to report is that the Persian magi that Rig and Solinus captured last week have been remanded to JI for interrogation,” he said, shrugging a little.

  “Do you think they’ll talk?”

  “Young Tasalus is coming along as an interrogator. Once someone’s been put through the wringer of ‘bad guard,’ Tasalus comes in and smiles at the prisoner. Sympathizes with them. And right around then, they apparently start talking. Of course, then we have to go through the whole business of verifying the information to see if any of it is valid.” Adam grimaced. “I just want to know if the Persian sorcerers have managed to find a way to control the ghul raised by the mad godlings. Would explain why they don’t seem to have bargaining costs anymore.”