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

by Deborah Davitt

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Inghean groaned. It’s dies Solis. It can’t be Rig . . . he’s behind enemy lines somewhere I’m not supposed to know about. Who would be here this early? She heaved herself upright. “Settle down,” she told Vigdis, pulled on her robe, and headed down the stairs, igniting her hands as she peered out the side window. And blinked. Mother?

  Yes, it’s me, not one of your beloved’s better illusions. Lassair sounded weary. May I come in?

  Inghean blinked again, and opened the door. At least three times since her marriage to Rig, her mother had simply manifested in the kitchen of their house. The first two times hadn’t been too bad, but the third time, Rig had had Inghean turned around over one of the counters, in the presumed privacy of their own home. The fact that Rig had subsequently threatened to put binding circles over every square inch of their floor might have had some bearing on her mother’s sudden respect for privacy. “What’s wrong?” Inghean asked, letting her mother inside. “Let me go upstairs and get Vigdis—”

  No need. I’m already upstairs. Lassair pointed towards the landing, where a duplicate of herself waved down, Vigdis already clasped in her arms, and cooing happily.

  Inghean sighed and did her best not to feel inadequate. I shouldn’t feel bad that Vigdis adores my mother. And it doesn’t upset me when Vigdis goes running for Fritti . . . or even Loki, now that he’s been introduced as her grandfather. Gods. And she always knows who he is, no matter what illusion he’s masquerading behind. She even knew he was the damned bouquet Fritti brought last time. “Grandfather’s hiding!” she said, and pointed right at the roses . . . .

  She escorted her mother to the kitchen, and started making coffee in the vacuum pot at the stove. “So, what brings you over before six antemeridian, Mother?”

  Lassair settled down in a chair and looked around restively. I need someone to talk to, and while Latirian is working at a military hospital here in Jerusalem, she is busy. Himi just brought Bastet in from Carthage. She has not aged gracefully, though she is free of any mutations in the wake of Baal-Hamon’s death.

  What a pity, Inghean thought.

  Unkind, her mother chided, and Inghean sighed again. She’d grown up knowing that every thought she had, her mother could hear. Living away from Lassair had allowed her to get used to the notion of privacy inside her own head. They are putting her into a nursing home, Lassair added now.

  Inghean nodded, sat down at the table, and prepared to listen. “What do you want to talk about?”

  I have been attempting to recover my phoenix-self. Her mother’s tone was forlorn. I do not understand why this has been so very difficult.

  “Sol uses phoenix form all the time. You could ask him,” Inghean said.

  The issue is not the form. I still change my shape freely. The issue is one of essence. And I am still lacking my phoenix-self. Lassair studied her daughter, her ruby eyes intent. I have spent a good part of the past year on the front lines with Illa’zhi. The fire-that-destroys revels in proving himself the stronger, the more capable of two foes. I have fought before. I have killed. And yet, whenever I enter a battle, all I can see are the human lives around me, each infinitely precious. Fractions of awareness, caught in time-space. The Persians are, by and large, not here by any desire of their own. They are here because their superiors have bound them to be here.

  “Do you hesitate to kill?”

  No, because they would harm the humans I was with. But . . . I weep after every battle. This is not the way I have been accustomed to fight. Lassair’s tone was wretched.

  Inghean rubbed her grainy eyes. The answer seemed clear to her, but she didn’t know if her mother would grasp the distinction. “So, you’re a fighter and not a soldier. There’s no shame in that, Mother.”

  Lassair cocked her head to the side, her brows crinkling. I do not understand.

  “Someone who’s a fighter, fights for personal reasons. A soldier—like Sol or Rig—fights because they’ve accepted someone else’s cause as their own. They accept orders because they trust that those orders will be just, and that fighting will help them protect their families . . . and other people’s families, too. It’s a question of abstraction.” Inghean smiled a little. “You fight when it’s personal, Mother. You like the concrete, not the abstract or the impersonal. Sol and Rig just make the jump that lets them see the impersonal as personal.” Inghean yawned and got up to pour the coffee. “Do you want any of this? I usually make two cups out of habit.”

  I will partake, thank you. Lassair’s second-self entered the kitchen now, still carrying Vigdis. Her second-self looked around the kitchen in some confusion. She says that she is hungry.

  “Drop-scones!” Vigdis announced, happily. “Make drop-scones, Mama!”

  Inghean divided her stare evenly between both copies of her mother. “Oatmeal,” she told Vigdis.

  Oh, but she asked for drop-scones, and I said she could have them if you would make them. I always burn them.

  Inghean exhaled, reached for her patience, and dug out the flour, leavening, sugar, and eggs. I wish I had Aunt Sig’s knack for making food out of thin air, she thought, as she started whisking everything together. “There are probably other ways to get your phoenix-self back, Mother. The phoenix had to burn itself on a pyre to be reborn, after all. A fresh clean start, a new life, every time.”

  Yes, but that would involve giving up the life I had before. I do not wish to leave behind all those whom I love, especially the youngest children. I do not wish to abandon you all.

  Keeping thoughts from Lassair usually involved not thinking about them directly. Holding them vague, only partially formed, at the back of one’s mind. Inghean avoided thinking about how upset her youngest siblings had been when Lassair had left for the first weeks after releasing their father from his bond. The past was the past. “So, not a pure immolating sweep, then.” Inghean poured batter onto the griddle, and tried to ignore how both copies of her mother now played with Vigdis. The girl was impossible to deal with after a visit from Lassair; it took her two days to recover from being the absolute center of attention. “So, was this just a social call?”

  I had thought that you might gather your seeds, and we might go out into the farmlands.

  Inghean gave her a wary look. “The bio-engineered crops aren’t supposed to leave the lab until they’ve been tested. I’m not even supposed to use my abilities on them, because it might falsify the results—”The last time you came to my lab, every seed in the building germinated. To include the ones in the refrigerated drawers. I had to re-inventory, order replacements, start from scratch on the ones I’d been gene-splicing . . . .

  Lassair smiled. I can tell you which ones are healthy. And the lands south of here need assistance. There is more rain, but still too much clay and sand for much to grow. They need more nutrients.

  “Biomass, yes.” Inghean handed a plate of drop-scones to Vigdis. Lassair’s second-self vanished now, and Vigdis didn’t look up from the buttered stack; she’d seen the show many times.

  You’re not eating? Lassair asked after closing her eyes to savor the first bite.

  “Not hungry.”

  That’s not healthy, and if we go to the south and make the fields bloom—even the bare roadsides, so that people can glean what sprouts—we will have a very long day. You should eat.

  “I had plans—”

  Oh? What were they? Lassair’s tone was blithe.

  Inghean put the impulse to remind her mother that she was thirty now, and not at Lassair’s beck and call, somewhere behind her eyes. Her plans had revolved around taking care of Vigdis until the girl’s nap, and then sitting down to read a book on this, her single day off this week. But, there was a rationing situation going on. And in spite of her ability to make fields bloom by walking through them, all her work at bio-engineering crops in the past eight years, had only produced one state-approved seed—a desert-hardy variety of wheat that required less water to grow. “All right. I hav
e melon seeds that I’ve made almost as productive as zucchini vines. I have nut trees that produce about twice the usual yields, and apples that develop to half again the normal size without altering flavor or consistency. And we can go . . . planting.”

  Vigdis looked up and said, loudly, “Berries, too!”

  “Yes, the thornless blackberries. I won’t forget.” Inghean exhaled and headed back upstairs to put on real clothing and heavy boots. A robe and slippers wouldn’t do for tramping around in the back country in subtropical summer heat with her mother and a two-year-old. But it would make her mother happy for a while.

  Inghean. Her mother’s voice stopped her on the stairs. Thank you, daughter.

  She looked down at the treads. You’re welcome, Mother.

  Iunius 5, 1993 AC

  After a groggy moment of staring up at the starfield overhead, Stormborn realized that she’d fallen asleep in the courtyard of the keep, leaning against Niðhoggr’s massive side. My apologies. You are not a pillow.

  No apologies are needed. The enormous head shifted, a shadow among a hundred other deeper shades of night, and moonfire eyes stared down at her. There was a presence that skirted around the edges of your realm. It might be well to arrange alliances with other denizens of the Veil, so that there are guards here other than me.

  Her mind returned to clarity rapidly. Was it Mercury?

  I do not know. You have allies, Sigrun. Worldwalker has many spirits who are allied with him, and you are allied with him, as well. They might be willing to assist in the protection of this domain. And if not them . . . my progenitor had alliances with others that dwell in the Veil. You hold her power. They may acknowledge you, as they did her. It is worth exploring. Nith’s voice became hesitant. You may also work towards seeing this place as . . . your own. Inimical to those who trespass here without your permission. Consider the stairs in the towers, he added, lifting his head. You fly. The stairs are . . . a mortal consideration.

  A habit of thought.

  Yes.

  I have many such habits to unlearn, Niðhoggr. And yet . . . I would remain mortal. At least a little. There is value in that perspective, is there not?

  I do not know. I was born mortal, but I have not been so in a very long time. Again, hesitation. I can take you to my progenitor’s allies.

  Yes. After we enter the mortal realm. Tyr asked us to patrol Novo Trier today. The mad godlings have not attacked in a few weeks, but it is only a matter of time. Sigrun lifted herself to the dragon’s neck, and realized that at some point, she’d misplaced the leather straps. She shrugged a little. If she needed them for a passenger, she could look for them then.

  Another stop first, I think.

  The nighttime cloudscape vanished, and they hovered now, over a port city, sunlight reflecting off the crystal blue waters off-shore, and the darker, polluted waters near the docks. Sigrun swallowed the impulse to yawn, immediately. She’d just gotten eight hours of sleep. She couldn’t possibly be tired. She squinted as Nith banked, and began to descend. “I don’t see bridges over the Muhheakantuck, and that is not Mannahata island.”

  No. This is Tyre.

  “Why are we in Carthage?” Sigrun poked at her memory, and couldn’t come up with any reason why they should be there.

  For that our people may shortly be departing the Empire. You will not be able to visit this place again so easily, if that should occur. Nith landed on the shore near a quay, and stevedores and longshoremen scattered, shouting in fear, though Sigrun raised her hands to show her peaceable intent. People on a dozen ships moored to nearby docks fled below decks, too.

  You do know how to make an entrance, Nith. They’re going to return with gardia. Sigrun sighed.

  They may certainly do so, but I believe that we two will be done with our task here by that time. Nith stepped closer to a tilted slab of masonry, half immersed in the water. A shrine of Dagon.

  Kanmi spent time right here as a child. Sigrun felt a chill go through her, as her gaze moved past the broken piece of wall, part of a shrine dedicated the god-beast that Nith had slain. Half in, and half out of the water, there was a statue, covered in barnacles and dead coral. But she recognized the wings, the clawed hands, the scorpion-like tail and mouth. The pazuzu. I had forgotten. In spite of Kanmi’s warning, I had forgotten.

  I did not. Nith’s voice was fierce. Leave no enemies behind you, Sigrun Stormborn. I will ever guard your back. Awaken the beast. Call it.

  Sigrun froze for a moment. It took four of us last time, and I am here without them . . . She looked down at the night-black scales. And yet, I am hardly alone. How do I call it? It is bound.

  It is bound with your blood.

  Sigrun slipped off the dragon’s back and landed, lightly, on the ground. Called her spear to her hand, and slashed her hand open on the blade. It was still human and red, but she had a suspicion that at some point, it wouldn’t be. She curled her fingers around the blood, as her skin began healing, and flung the droplets at the statue, weaving seiðr into it, so that the blood struck the statue with the force of bullets.

  The stone cracked, and the pazuzu trembled. Moved, the stone that surrounded it shattering, falling to the ground as if the beast shed its skin. She could see the bronze and turquoise breastplate, could smell its skin, a hot, dry, dusty smell, like a desert wind, and just for an instant, it was 1955 again. The beast turned, sniffing the air, and roared out over the water. Words rolled out in ancient Assyrian, a language that had been dead long before Sigrun had been born . . . and she understood them. “I smell you, child of the north! I smell your lightning and I do not fear it! I come for you, and I will devour you before I find the mortal who thought he could bind me! I will tear him apart! I will find your children, and your children’s children, and I will take my vengeance upon them, too—”

  Sigrun stared. The creature that had filled her nightmares was still massive, a solid three to four feet taller than any jotun she knew. It bulked probably in the vicinity of three thousand pounds. And yet, somehow, it looked . . . small. It spun, having made its challenge to the open sky, and spotted her . . . and she saw no recognition on its face. She was in her full battle armor, her face covered. But Sigrun knew fear when she saw it.

  And that was when Nith moved one taloned paw and brought it down on the beast, knocking the pazuzu to the ground and pinning it there with his massive weight. Would you prefer to be the one to execute it? Nith asked, quite politely. It is your right. It threatened you and yours.

  Sigrun shook her head, almost hypnotized. This was your idea, my friend.

  So it was. Nith leaned forward, and exhaled, lightly, into the creature’s face. Hear me. You may have been the terror of the night winds in times long past, but those who feared you have all long since gone to dust. This is my world. I am the night wind. I am death’s own shadow, and I will not permit you to threaten those to whom I am bound. You have power, creature. If you willingly submit yourself to my lady, and bind yourself to her service as her protector, I will permit you to live. But be warned. The least falsity in you, and I will slay you without hesitation or remorse.

  Sigrun’s mouth fell open behind her mask. Nith! We can’t possibly trust it!

  Perhaps not. But I have seen alliances formed on worse grounds than this. The dragon snorted frost crystals everywhere. And is this not a better solution, a more elegant one?

  The hideous creature writhed under Nith’s talons. You are not Tiamat, but wear his form!

  Not Tiamat, but I did slay Dagon in fair combat, as my lady slew Baal-Samem. What hope do you have against us? Serve her. Submit, be bound, and live. Or be proud and free, and die. It is of no great moment to me, either way. Nith’s tone was almost bored as the pazuzu hissed and tried, fruitlessly, to strike at him. A rush of a pestilent wind blasted at the dragon; poisoned claws bounced off Nith’s armor. Your answer? A thumb-claw the length of a sword now hovered over the pazuzu’s throat, ready to punch down and in.

  I will submit. I wil
l be bound to your lady until she has passed from existence, or until I myself die. My life upon it if I betray either of you. The pazuzu slumped. My inner Name is Istafa’n. The creature looked up, slyly. I would know to whom I am bound.

  I am Malice-Striker, son of Hel. Sigrun had rarely, if ever, heard Nith use his mother’s name. I am the servant of Sigrun Stormborn. You are bound to her by word and by Name, and I will hold you accountable for any betrayal. The thumb-claw came down, and the pazuzu’s blood spilled. Just enough, and Sigrun blinked, dizzy for a moment. She could feel the creature. She could feel its detestation of being bound this way. Blood-binding. Gods. This is much more Trennus’ field than mine . . . .

  I agree. Dull reluctance in the creature’s voice. Does your lady not speak for herself?

  Nith exhaled with more force. Does a queen speak to the dung-sweeper of her stables?

  Sigrun understood. She raised her head and said, careful to use mind-speech in a way in which they both could hear, I am well-pleased with your handling of this creature so far. Continue, I pray.