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

by Deborah Davitt

  Brandr shrugged, and looked back at Fritti. “And?” He jerked a thumb at the jotun in the room, trying to make it clear that she and the gardia had the manpower available to deal with the situation.

  Fritti grimaced, an odd expression on that sweet, gentle face. “You’ve been assigned to Judea to pick up where Sigrun has left off, correct? She’s been the visible face of the god-born here for decades. We need you to do . . . what she’d have done.”

  “N-not of T-tyr.” Brandr wanted them to understand that, very clearly. Sigrun was an enforcer of the law. He was not. “Thor. You s-send me, you are d-declaring w-war. No j-justice. No l-law. Just m-me.” And probably no survivors. “I d-don’t arrest people.” He caught the sidelong glance Lorelei gave him, and the shape of her face caught at echoes in his memory.

  Except . . . memory was fallible. He’d been wrong before. Deceived before. Many times. There had been a point in his life when he hadn’t been able to tell if he was finally awake from the dream or not. And there were nights when he awoke, sweating, from yet other dreams that told him that he never had.

  “You are young, to be so cynical,” Lorelei told him, as switching to their native language, as the others stood to depart. Gothic. An accent that spoke of eastern Germania, the old roots of the language.

  And it gave him a start. He knew that voice. Reginleif had that accent. But Reginleif . . . well, Loki has returned. Why not her? But . . . this is a harpy. A siren. Or . . . just appears to be one . . . . Brandr studied the face. The bones were the same. The eyes . . . no. But the bones, the way she carried herself . . . He was surprised. There was no anger in him. There should have been. But then, it might not even be her. If it’s her, she’s not hiding nearly as well as she did in Fennmark, when she concealed herself behind the guise of the local shaman. Unless she wants to be found. Of course . . . I could also be imagining things. “Not young,” he told her, as the silence yawned between them. “P-probably older than you are.” He paused. The Judeans were out of the room, at least. “F-frittigil.” He turned towards the young woman, who looked startled. “I h-have a b-boon to ask.”

  “I can’t heal you, Brandr,” Fritti said, her expression sorrowful. “If Thor couldn’t—”

  Brandr waved her words away, impatiently. “N-not that. You are still b-bound to Loki, yes?”

  Fritti flushed. Vividly. And nodded. Brandr sighed. “T-tell . . . L-loki . . . to . . . to t-take . . .” he stopped, and inhaled. “To take b-back his d-damned m-mem . . . memories. I would r-rather re-remember the truth. Even if it is that I d-did vile d-deeds. Or let me r-remember n-nothing at all. B-better that th-than a . . . f-fucking lie.” He balled up a fist. It had taken so damned long to say it all.

  “You want it all taken away?” Fritti said, slowly. “Even the good things?”

  “I r-remember training you.” Frustrating, to try to express it. “D-didn’t happen. C-can’t train the y-younglings now. Not . . . not l-like this.” He jerked a thumb at himself, deprecatingly, and watched another shadow of distress cross Lorelei’s face. “Y-you treat m-me as a stranger. Then let . . . let me be a str-stranger. N-no more l-lies.” He picked up his hammer, and found the slip of paper on which they’d scrawled the addresses of the various hideaways for the jotun criminals. Judean gardia would normally have wanted captures, but they had no prison cells big enough to house jotun. And Brandr had no intention of risking ordinary humans’ lives on this. “G-give me three jotun for b-backup. W-will try n-not to k-kill all of them.” He shrugged. “No p-promises.”

  He paused, at the door, and looked down into Lorelei’s eyes. “Unless y-you think you can t-talk them into su-surrendering?”

  Her chin lifted. “I would be willing to try, Master Ilfetu.”

  Some four hours later, they’d hit two out of the six jotun strongholds. Lorelei had indeed managed to talk some of the residents of the second house into surrendering. But only after Brandr and the rest of his impromptu squad of giants had killed everyone in the first house. Brandr had made a point of leaving the blood all over him as they’d walked through the streets to the second location. He might be shorter than the jotun. But he was probably stronger than most of them. He healed better than they did. And he was god-born. Every last one of their people looked at him, and knew exactly what he was. That knowledge was as least as good a weapon as the hammer in his hand, and he knew how to wield both of those weapons, as he now wielded silence, too. He let Lorelei do the talking. She seemed to be good at it.

  “The rest of the safehouses tomorrow?” she asked. “They’ll be trying to move out of them overnight, if they have any wit.”

  “G-give them t-time for f-fear to grow,” he told her, expressionlessly. “F-fear is a w-weapon. Morning is s-soon enough.”

  A taloned hand caught his elbow as he turned away, and as he stared down at the claws, she pulled back, hastily. “Something’s clearly wrong.” Lorelei said, her lips compressing. “Is it something I’ve done or said, Master Ilfetu?”

  Brandr studied her. There was no way for him to say what he wanted to say, even if words hadn’t been such an issue for him. He’d had a hearty crush on his untouchable, distant teacher of seiðr and illusion during his years at the Odinhall, but she’d been a hundred and thirty years his elder, and had had an acerbic wit that had scorched every one of his classmates, including him. Still, once he’d let the infatuation fade, he’d found Reginleif someone to look up to, to idealize, to . . . try to emulate, in his own clumsy way. He’d enjoyed teaching combat at the Odinhall, and had had the opportunity to work with her many times during his decade-long stints as an instructor, in between being sent out into the field again to hone his own skills, or sent to deal with this petty war or that one. He’d even gone to her wedding to Joris in 1917, and done his best to be polite, but he hadn’t been able to fathom the attraction. The mortal man had been a sorcerer. He’d had half Reginleif’s strength, half of her magic, and had been two years younger than Brandr himself—a mere twenty-five.

  Brandr himself had never married. Most valkyrie were either in stable relationships already, or married to their work. He’d thought about it, once, but a fellow bear-warrior, an old friend of his, had talked him out of it. In the end, he didn’t think he had the strength to watch a mortal wither and die before his eyes, and, conversely, he couldn’t really offer anyone a stable home-life. He could be sent to war at any time, and he could well die in some insignificant brawl between nations. He hadn’t lacked for female companionship, however . . . until Hel’s vicious attack. And since then, he’d been far too self-conscious about the damned stutter to make much of an effort. Southern Germania and Judea, as imperial provinces, had decent brothels, particularly in the Roman areas of towns. That took care of the need, and he hadn’t been required to talk.

  So, he had only vague impressions of the depths of emotion and rage and desperation that had pulled Reginleif so far from the path of her ordinary life. He wasn’t an expert on love, or vengeance for a loved one. On some days, he felt the lack in his own life particularly keenly. It would have been nice to feel that strongly about someone. And of course, while god-born traits didn’t necessarily breed true, they were all strongly encouraged to have children at some point. They were the weapons of their gods. They were meant to increase the store in the armory, at some point in their lives, or at least to ensure their own replacements someday. His gods had never demanded celibacy, or that their followers give up love, for fear that it would cause them to make bad decisions. In Reginleif’s case, it wasn’t the love that had caused her to make a bad decision; it was how Hel had played upon that emotion, with promises and lies.

  And thus, with a shock, Brandr realized that at some point in the last twenty-two years, he’d either forgiven Reginleif, or come to terms with the past. The first five years had been nothing but rage at her for a very personal betrayal, which had resulted in him spending that same number of years of his life learning how to speak and move and dress himself again. And yet
, somehow, he found he’d forgiven her.

  Still, there was nothing that said that Lorelei was Reginleif. The shadow of what looked like regret in her face whenever she glanced at him could be his imagination. And if it was her, somehow, returned from the Veil with her master, she apparently didn’t entirely want him to remember, though her mannerisms and her voice were undisguised. Half of her seemed to court his recollection. The other half hid from it. And I could be wrong. My memory has been twisted before. If it’s her . . . sooner or later, if she ever really was my friend, she’ll admit to it. Cry my pardon. Something. And while I won’t punish her for it, I won’t make it easy for her, either.

  The silence had stretched too long. Finally, he told her, hunting for the words, “You re-remind me of s-someone I used to know.”

  “A good memory, or a bitter one?” she asked, subtle harmonies echoing her words.

  “B-both. Someone I tr-trusted. Who b-betrayed me. Left me to die.” He saw the faintest hint of a flinch there. “Sh-she’s pr-probably dead, though.”

  There was a pause. “If she’s dead, let her remain so,” Lorelei told him. “Let her not shadow a good working relationship.”

  He nodded to the siren. “M-morning. Eight.” Words like antemeridian, he didn’t even attempt. Brandr glanced around. “Here.”

  In the silence of his own rooms that night, Brandr wondered, however, if Loki could remove the false memories of the two years in which he hadn’t been training Fritti . . . if the god could also be persuaded to remove other memories. He could easily live without the memory of Hel’s attack. And while Thor’s power had allowed him to walk away from the battle-field, the next ten years had been degrading. Even if words had come easily to him, he would never have admitted to Sigrun or any of the other younglings that he’d spent that decade crippled and infirm, and wondering if he was going to spend the next several hundred trapped in his own body. Unable to talk. Unable to perform fine motor skills. Unable to lift his hammer. Wetting the bed like a child at night. Begging Thor in silent prayers to do the service of a friend, and kill him, because all he was, was a semi-ambulatory corpse. And his grandsire refusing to let him go. Refusing to give up on him. He could live without those memories, and the memory of Reginleif lying to him, too. Probably cowardly to wish it all away. Failing to remember it, wouldn’t make it all untrue. He stared at the clock, and sighed. There was probably a brothel still open at this hour. He could buy himself the forgetfulness, for a little while.

  Memory, and all its vagaries, was a curse.

  Ianuarius 7, 1993 AC- Martius 14, 1993 AC

  The Apalachen mountains were old and tired. They didn’t have the grand lines of the Alps, or the Saxetae mountains, far west of here. But they attracted ice rain and slushy snow that made Maccis’ paws hurt. He’d never been to Caesaria Aquilonis before, nor had ever really believed he’d visit here. It was a strange place, where distances rolled out forever, and yet the street signs usually held a collection of different languages. Latin, Gallic, Gothic, or tongue-twisting words in tongues he’d never encountered before.

  Back in Europa, people were still migrating across the Alps into Rome, and crossing the Rhein into Gaul. Roman and Gallic defenders had dug in with stretches of forts, and millions of refugees squatted in camps just over the border, looking for some way in which to go home. Many had been handed rifles and enlisted into civilian defense forces, and now tried to retake their lands from the grendels and ettin, but with little success. With the infrastructure of hundreds of cities destroyed, and the people, at least, being granted temporary asylum in other provinces of the Empire, the gods of the north had made a simple, but devastating decision, after months of contentious debate. They were not abandoning their people. They still held the passes, and looked for ways in which to reclaim their lands. But for the moment, they had to look to Caesaria Aquilonis, which was heating up as a battlefield. Mad gods periodically swept in and challenged them and the gods of Gaul and Nahautl, having already devoured most of the lesser gods of the continent already—other than those who had escaped, like the Evening Star, and Coyote. And the series of civil conflicts, rebellious and outright wars to the south were leaving large swathes of Nahautl and Quecha open to attack by the mad godlings.

  Maccis had been there when Tyr One-Hand came to ask Fenris to take the pack to Caesaria Aquilonis, and had actually apologized to the great wolf-spirit. When you first came to Valhalla, I saw much of worth in you. Loyalty. Ferocity. Courage. When we understood that you were a fragment of Loki, we all . . . thought there must be some trick here, some confidence game. And then the Norns, our foresighted ones, told us that you would one day slay Odin. Tyr looked down. I ignored the counsel of my heart, which said that you were a being of surpassing worth. I let their words shape my beliefs. I understand now, as I did not then, that wyrd is a concept of subtlety and complexity. That in being told the future, we sometimes create it. A sigh’s worth of a pause. I ask that you show greater generosity of spirit than we showed to you, and not to be angry at my kin for my failing. I knew your heart better than that, and I allowed words that should have been ‘might do this thing’ to stand, as the Norns spoke them: ‘will do this thing.’

  You ask for my forgiveness, then? Fenris’ tone had been . . . startled, satisfied, and a hint angry, all at once. I was bound to this mortal realm without recourse to the Veil for almost two thousand years. What recompense can you offer for this?

  Tyr reached out his left hand, and looked Fenris in the eye. No one here binds you. I offer my hand in good faith. If you feel that you require my essence in recompense? If you would devour a portion of me in compensation? I offer it freely.

  Maccis had held his breath as Fenris closed his massive jaws around Tyr’s fist. Tyr’s expression became tight with the expectation of pain, but he offered no resistance at all. I was wrong, he said, quietly, and looked down.

  After a moment, Fenris loosed his jaws, and nudged his head under Tyr’s hand. Loki is my father. But you were my friend. We two hunted together. We chased both deer and evil-doers, and you praised me and guided me. Why did you not come to this realization earlier?

  I was ashamed. I am meant to be justice, and I did you an injustice. I hope to right it, before the end.

  Then I will hunt your lands, as I once did in Germania and the north. I will course these new fields and forests without pause, and I will bring those of my pack with me, who wish to go.

  Maccis had quivered in place as he watched Tyr cover his face with his unharmed hand, and wipe away tears. And the next day, they’d been off, racing through Gaul. They’d boarded train-cars to get to the coast, and Maccis had expected to board a ship or a plane next. But no. Fenris, in the midst of a hunt, was implacable, and mere geography did not deter him. Without access to the Veil, he’d long since learned to tighten the surface bonds of water so that he could run atop it. He could even run on empty air. And so long as the pack stayed close enough to him, they all shared in his narrow path of solid-surfaced water. A few times, stragglers fell behind—including Maccis—and found themselves paddling in cold ocean waters until the pack returned for them.

  After what had felt like an eternity, they’d emerged on the shores of Caesaria Aquilonis, in a swampy area near the Chesapeake river, and begun crossing the Apalachens. Once they reached the other side, Fenris allowed them all to board trains once more, and they headed south, heading for a city on the Gulf of Nahautl called Divodurum. We will all need to be in good condition when we reach our destination, Fenris allowed, and Maccis had stretched out in human form in the box cars with the other wolves, and they all enjoyed the unexpected luxury.

  This was the first time he’d been able to sleep in relative comfort and safety in months, and as soon as he’d closed his eyes, he’d been . . . elsewhere. Flying on the back of a black lindworm, turning back to look over his shoulder. Rig was there, riding a blue one, and Solinus was on a red one. They both wore visored helmets with polarized, laminated glass ins
erts to protect their faces from debris and bullets. Full flak jackets, though Maccis knew Solinus would be bitching at the end of this sortie if he had to go flameform and lost yet another set of gear to his fires. The lindworms were weighed down with gear—explosives, blasting caps, timers—and wore heavy ceramic plates over their scales. Bullet-proof armor. “You’re sure you can keep us invisible?” Maccis asked Rig, apprehensively. “I don’t want to get to know any AA fire on a personal basis.”

  “We won’t be invisible. We’ll look like a flock of local birds. I can even fox their radar.” Rig adjusted the sword at his side. He never left it behind, and a good thing, too. It could cut through stone.

  “Flying straight into Persepolis, and setting charges around the main Immortals creation facility is . . . ballsy.” Solinus muttered. “Wish I could say this feels like more than a morale mission.”

  Scimar snorted at him. You worry too much, the red lindworm informed Solinus. The worst that can happen is that you set off the charges while you’re in the building and walk out, in flameform. The rest of us will have to be quite a bit further back when that happens.