Go, Istafa’n. Go to her realm, and protect its grounds, for now.
Sigrun sighed as the creature vanished. “Was that truly a good idea?”
You could defeat him without any assistance from me, Stormborn. And all I would need to do is sit on him until he stopped moving. The godslayers of old must have been weak, to be damaged by such as him. Nith’s voice was uncharitable. If Mercury comes to your realm while we are away, the pazuzu is expendable . . . but will last long enough to alert you to the intrusion. If he becomes a problem, we may deal with him later.
“You’re probably right . . . but I’m still uneasy with this.” She looked up at him. “Discuss these things with me before merely acting on the ideas, please.”
In truth, I had intended to execute him on the spot. A ripple of scales along his neck suggested a shrug. It occurred to me that he might be marginally more useful alive than dead, however.
“And that he could be shaped into something better than he is now?”
I doubt it very much. Nith’s voice held a shrug. Novo Trier awaits, Sigrun. Shall we go?
Yes. Let us to work.
Iunius 6, 1993 AC
The problem of undercover work, for any agent who practiced it, was living the role. Believing in it, completely enough that they wouldn’t even flinch if their own name happened to be spoken, thinking their role’s thoughts, dreaming their dreams. Acting naturally, because it was natural to the person they currently were. Reginleif knew all of that.
Unfortunately, Lorelei shouldn’t have known it at all. She was having trouble thinking of herself as Lorelei these days. Oh, when she was with the harpies and handful of other sirens, it came naturally. Lorelei was a strong female, a leader, who flew without effort and had enough magic, even without the shivering harmonies of her voice, to hold the others in line. They looked up to the raven-winged woman for her guidance, for her teaching. For telling them that while they could never—should never—entirely forget what they’d done when they’d been mad, that it also wasn’t entirely their fault. That they could learn to not think about it, and move on.
Lorelei believed that sort of thing. That her adopted people didn’t have to be chained to their pasts. That they could build for themselves a new future. Lorelei believed that, because she could envision that sort of future for herself. Lorelei had never been mad, though.
Reginleif, however . . . she didn’t even have the defense of having been driven mad by a godling. She’d made all her own decisions, in anger, in hate, in desperation. She’d turned on Loki, and then on Hel, and then on every mortal she’d ever known or cherished. She’d turned on the world, and had been involved in, if not completely responsible for the deaths and the transformation and the madness in the north. Saying that she’d been grieving didn’t excuse any of it. Though when she gingerly tried to address the memories of her own actions, they seemed . . . strangely distant. Far more so than every death she’d experienced in the Veil.
She’d tried once to do the math. Seventeen years. Three hundred and sixty-five days in a year. Twenty-four hours in a day. Sixty minutes in every hour. Time was meaningless in the Veil, but if she’d died once a minute . . . she must have died close to nine million times. In and around creating her tiny realm and confining herself to swan-form, of course. Many of the devourings blurred into each other. And yet, these memories were sharper than her memories of her own decisions.
She remembered making the choices. The emotions that had prompted them seemed vague. The reasoning behind each choice, she could remember, too, but didn’t make sense. However, that was probably just the nature of hindsight. And even after seventeen years in the Veil, she didn’t think her hands were clean.
Or ever would be, again.
She could subsume herself into her role for weeks at a time. She could be Lorelei, and it was a relief. But there were people in Jerusalem now who knew who she was. It had started with Minori. And now she was back to training Sigrun in seiðr. Rig and Fritti knew her name. And of course, Loki had returned now, as well. Impossible to hide from herself, with these searchlight beacons of reality all around her.
Her carefully-constructed identity had taken another heavy hit when Brandr had been introduced to Lorelei. Fritti had told her that a bear-warrior had been assigned, and whom; she’d been prepared. And she’d been perfectly inside Lorelei’s mindset when he’d entered the room.
Lorelei had grown up in continental Germania, near Fennmark, just as Reginleif had. She’d seen a bear-warrior over seven feet in height, and murmured, internally, Goddescild. Cildes Thor . . . and had taken in the visible scars, the bright blue eyes, the heavy musculature, with the appropriate mix of awe and enjoyment. And she’d been shocked and sympathetic at the stutter.
Reginleif, at the back of her own mind? Had writhed. She’d known Brandr for eighty-seven years. He’d been her student. Then a fellow instructor at the Odinhall. She’d invited him to her wedding to Joris, and the bear-warrior had cycled in and out of the Odinhall for decades. Teaching for a ten-year stint, and then off to some war again. He always came back with new scars and an increasingly thoughtful mien. The elegance, precision, and control of his words, when he chose to use them, were akin to how he fought. A bear-warrior stood on the precipice of madness at all times in combat. Leashing the rage. Not giving in to it, until it was time.
On hearing the stutter, Reginleif, behind Lorelei’s eyes, had winced. The last time I saw him, I lied to him. I wore a different face, the face of a Fennish shaman. I tried to lure him and Erikir, another student of mine, out to the island, where they could be ‘captured,’ so that they’d call for Hel . . . and then the whole plan fell apart. They weren’t supposed to die. Hel wanted them as witnesses to ‘Loki’s betrayal.’ The Potentia plan was to drain Hel and Loki to death, and spread their power to every human in the northlands. But it all fell apart. I tried to kill myself to ensure that Hel would be bound, Sigrun interfered . . . and I watched Hel try to kill Brandr. And with him dying on the ground, and Sigrun collapsed from taking my wound, I saw only one chance to end it all. Hel was already dead. Brandr’s death, and so many others, would have been for nothing, if I didn’t take down Loki. So I stabbed Erikir . . . another of my students . . . on my way to Loki. And then Erikir threw his sword, and impaled me, and hit Loki through me . . . . Dying hurt.
Still, there’s a gap in my own memories. I can see everything I did. I remember what I thought when I did it. And yet . . . .
Reginleif remembered the boy Brandr had been when he’d come to the Odinhall, filled with the energy and enthusiasm of youth. He hadn’t been shallow, but he’d been unnuanced and idealistic. And somehow, people whom she’d taught always seemed young to her. Frozen at the moment at which she’d met them. Brandr at twenty-seven, with seven years of battle experience, had held Brandr-who-was-sixteen-and-a-student inside of him, when she looked at him. Brandr at eighty, with sixty years of combat and instruction behind him, still had the downy-cheeked lad behind his eyes. An adult mortal, whom she’d never seen as a youngster . . . even though they might be younger, physically and mentally than a god-born she’d known for decades . . . didn’t have the burden of her memory.
But Lorelei didn’t see Brandr-who-was-sixteen, and who’d managed to get himself on kitchen duty every night for a year at the Odinhall because he’d found a way to sneak out of the building to go visit downtown Burgundoi. Lorelei looked at him, and what she saw, she liked. He didn’t talk down to her, as some god-born did to mortals. He respected her intelligence and her abilities, and had worked with her to restore calm to the refugee communities. She enjoyed the dry sense of humor he sometimes displayed, and she could see the intelligence, seething for a way to get out, stymied over and over again by his inability to articulate what should have come easily. She heard the cynicism in his voice, and perceived the tiredness in his eyes. The wariness, bordering on paranoia, with which he regarded everything around him. And she wanted to take it away.
But Re
ginleif knew where it came from. He looked for tricks and deceptions around him, because Loki had meddled with his memory, and she had used illusion and lies on him. His whole life, she accused herself. His own words had told her that much. In the Odinhall, it was common for young god-born to become briefly infatuated with one instructor or another. They were in a tightly-enclosed, regulated environment, and the instructors worked to instill a mind-set of service to others. Fascination with the authority figures who held so much power over their lives was normal, and instructors were told not to acknowledge or take advantage of it. It would pass as soon as the student left the halls and got back out into the real world. Reginleif in particular had never taken it seriously, because her entire appearance was an illusion. The young bear-warriors only saw the smooth-faced façade, not the scarred reality underneath. Then again, you never let Joris see the scars, either. Neither he nor Brandr never saw the real you. Except that last day, when you stripped off all the illusions, and let everyone see the scars and the ugliness. You lived a lie every day of your life. Until the lies consumed you.
There were moments when Reginleif wasn’t actually sure which inner voice was speaking; the role of Lorelei, or the reality of Reginleif. The two-hundred-year-old valkyrie she’d been, or the siren she now was. And there were days when she envied her sister harpies. To forget what they’d once been, what they’d done, was the greatest gift the gods could have given them. But Loki wants me to remember, she thought, tiredly. I must never forget. Not even for an instant. She reached up and touched the single scar that remained—by her own choice—on her face.
In the end, Brandr's world-weary cynicism, the stutter, the scars to the brain and mind that not even a bear-warrior could overcome, the self-consciousness that was preventing him from finding the connections, the companionship, that would let him survive the decades . . . they were her fault. She'd betrayed a student, colleague, and friend of decades' standing. Reginleif was lost in action. She couldn't make amends. But Lorelei could try to make things better than they were.
Hence why she had asked Minori for a meeting tonight. In part, they were to discuss Minori's work on the hydrogen spell, but Reginleif knew that Minori was still in contact with Matrugena's spirits. And anyone who'd ever met Lassair knew that she was a spirit of fertility, passion, and healing.
The initial introductions had been awkward. Lassair had entered the restaurant, beaming at Minori as she wrapped her arms around the small woman effusively, and, after a moment, appeared to think about it, and gave Minori a light kiss on the cheek before releasing her. Her red hair was long today, tied back in a knot, and she wore a thin scarlet silk skirt and matching vest. The spirit’s expression had become a faint frown as she'd stared at Regin with the intensity of a hawk. I know you, she said, warily.
Reginleif didn't try to conceal her essence from the spirit's Veil senses with illusion. Yes. We have met before. Her lips didn't move.
This is . . . you are Shadowweaver. Lassair's eyes had been wide, and for a moment, Regin imagined that she would turn entirely to flame in the middle of the crowded taverna.
Correct. Regin sighed, and waited. Lassair would either attack, or not, and there was nothing she could do to control that action, beyond being ready to defend herself.
Truthsayer, how is it that this one yet lives? Lassair’s tone was cool.
“She’s not mine to kill,” Minori said, simply. Reginleif didn’t react.
The sorceress gestured with a finger to deaden sound in the area around them, so that they wouldn’t get any further stares from the people at tables around them. Not that Regin, as a siren, and Lassair being . . . Lassair . . . didn’t get stares already. “She’s bound to Loki, and Loki has a purpose for her. She’s assisting with Sigrun’s sorcery practice, and she’s doing good work with the harpies here. I’ve kept an eye on her for years, now.” Minori’s gaze remained appraising, however. To Reginleif’s Veil senses, Minori blazed from within, as if a star nestled in her heart. And over her shoulder, she could pick out the ephemeral shape of Kanmi Eshmunazar, his dark eyes narrowed as he watched the scene. His ghost, if ghost was the right word, looked younger than he’d been in Fennmark, when Reginleif had seen him. His hair was dark, and his face unlined.
Lassair took a seat, patting her skirts down. Very well. Why have you brought me here this evening, then, Truthsayer?
“A variety of reasons,” Minori said, lightly. “Shall we order?”
Reginleif started down at her kelp and shrimp salad as the other two talked.
. . . Inghean tells me you have been working on spells regarding fire. I would like to offer my assistance.
Minori sounded surprised about that. “Why?”
It seems more productive than committing random acts of violence along the border.
Minori steepled her fingers before her. “To be honest, you couldn’t have come at a better time. We’ve got the basic spell framework set up.”
Is Shadowweaver permitted to hear of such things?
“Lorelei here is better with the illusion forms of sorcery, but she’s studied quite a bit of magic. She’s been giving us feedback on the spell structures.”
“My husband was a technomancer,” Reginleif murmured. “And I taught basic seiðr to seven generations of god-born, with advanced courses for valkyrie of Freya and Loki.”
Minori coughed into her hand, and added, “Kanmi’s given me what he can remember of what he put into his spell parameters back in 1985. His recollections are . . . notably scattered, unfortunately.” She’d already put a foolscap pad on the table, and placed an uncapped fountain pen beside it. Reginleif watched, one eyebrow rising slightly, as the pen lifted now, and the ghost at Minori’s elbow wrote, I blame the dying part. She frowned, and concentrated slightly, blurring the pen’s movements to anyone away from their table.
Lassair frowned. I cannot read your words, Kanmi Emberstone.
Kanmi’s grin was wicked, and the pen scratched across the page. Not my fault you can’t be bothered to learn.
Minori smiled. “You’ll note that Kanmi’s sense of humor remains unchanged,” she told Reginleif.
“I did not have the privilege of more than a meeting in battle before, so I will have to take your word for this,” she replied, catching the sardonic expression on the ghost’s ephemeral face.
“At any rate,” Minori said, diplomatically not reading Kanmi’s note out loud, “What the spell does is liberate the hydrogen from oxygen in water, without allowing it to recombine; that separation already gives us a certain amount of energy to work with, but all the energy is expended as we prevent the atoms from recombining. The hydrogen and oxygen rise from the water as gas bubbles, and the hydrogen, being lighter, rises faster. We only need a small spark to light the hydrogen, and, quite honestly, with a layer of pure oxygen between the water and the hydrogen cloud, any explosion we set off is going to be spectacular from the hydrogen, and . . . extremely difficult to put out, thanks to the high concentration of oxygen.”
“So the problems are actually manifold,” Reginleif said, staring down at her uneaten food. “You need an enormous amount of power to begin the separation process. You need to be able to control and shape the actual explosion. And you need to be able to observe all of the processes as they happen.” She paused. “Also, you need to be able to lure your enemies to the water. You intend to use this on ghul, yes?”
Minori winced. “In a nutshell, yes. Kanmi used Baal-Hamon’s power within him to perform the separation process. A match would be enough for ignition in that environment. Shaping the explosion . . . well, gas is gas. It tends to expand. Keeping it constrained is something of an issue, so the separation process needs to be done very quickly, followed by immediate ignition, or the explosion will be . . . wide-spread, but probably not very damaging. Unless we separate such enormous quantities that we glass over a large portion of the ground. Again. Which really isn’t my goal here.”
What is your goal, then? Lassair sounde
d confused.
“Deterrence and threat mitigation,” Minori said, her expression grim. “One very large explosive spell, as a demonstration of what could be done to a city if necessary. After that? Extremely localized, targeted destructive spells that an efreet can’t feed on, because the fire consumes itself almost instantly, but anyone caught in the initial blast-wave is killed, and the structures, weapons, and materials in the area are also destroyed. And yes, laying waste to the legions of ghul currently in play is a good first step, as far as I’m concerned.”
A challenging problem. You will also need to be able to make these spells mobile. The water that is their source will not move to your enemies. And those of you who might cast this spell must move to where the enemies are.
“We’re binding the spells into devices. Spell-stone matrices, actually. And I was thinking of having spirits take the devices through the Veil and leaving them where needed.”
Reginleif shook her head, sharply. “That’s something that both sides can do, Minori. Don’t open that door unless you’re willing to see Persians popping into your backyard with efreeti bottles or Immortals appearing in downtown Rome.”
The Goddess Embraced (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 3) Page 61
