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

by Deborah Davitt

  She looked down, changing the subject. “Is that the last of the cinnamon?”

  “Yes. It’s grown largely in India, and they’ve been hit pretty hard by civil unrest and the mad gods there. A shopkeeper told me last week that they haven’t had a shipment from their spice suppliers there in six months.” Maccis looked down at the pot of food simmering away. “I figured this was supposed to be a goodbye meal. Instead it’ll be a celebration one.” In spite of his words, he didn’t look in a mood for revelry. Just worried, as he left their food to simmer, going over to crouch by the bookshelf. “Where did my Mars books go?”

  Zaya flushed. “Ah . . . you weren’t going to be here, and with my summer classes. I needed the space.” She turned to look at him as he hunkered by the shelf, studying the titles there. “I’m sorry. You do live here. I just put them in a box in the closet for the time being.” She couldn’t read his expression. “I can go dig them out—”

  “It’s all right. It was a reasonable assumption.” He picked up her physics textbook, and flipped it open, and she could see his eyes scanning back and forth over the pages.

  “I hate that course,” she muttered. “It’s completely useless to my focus of study.”

  “Funny. I thought you were lucky for getting to study this.” He hefted the book. “Mind if I borrow this for the night?”

  And, true to his word, Maccis settled in on their bed, one of the few furnishings in the tiny apartment, reading her textbook and working out some of the problems on a wax tablet, while Zaya curled up beside him to go through her latest round of potential godslayer documents from the Temple archives. And tried not to notice the way Maccis looked up at the slightest sound. She chose, instead, to focus on the fact that she’d get to spend more evenings like this—a photogram playing music in the background, the rustle of pages being turned—than if he were half a world away. And she couldn’t deny that she felt much safer for having him around.

  September 13, 1993 AC

  Fritti’s life hadn’t precisely calmed down in the past year or so. Her usual routine, boring as it had been, had been almost completely overturned. On the other hand, she was enjoying herself a great deal more.

  Loki had taken her to his personal realm when Zeus had been slain, and she’d stayed there for what had been a month in the mortal realm, but what had felt like a year in the Veil. But she’d chafed to be back, doing her needful work. And so they compromised. Fritti went to Loki’s realm at night, and worked with refugees during the day. She was, after all, like Rig, invisible to most gods. They weren’t even visible to Sophia Caetia’s foresight . . . except when Sophia could see Fritti and Rig through Sigrun’s eyes. So now they were all doing their best to keep Sophia, and thus, Apollo of Delphi, convinced that history was unfolding as they had seen it before.

  Well, with the exception of the death of Zeus. Apollo couldn’t have missed that.

  There were still transport ships risking the high seas—grain shipments from Novo Gaul and Nova Germania were particularly subject to being hit by the Roman navy, who currently termed routine trade smuggling, and tried to confiscate thousands of shipping containers. And being out on the open ocean was no guarantee of safety from a mad god attack—twice now, ships that had been filled with refugees looking to run the blockade and make their way to Judea had begun to drift aimlessly around the Mediterranean, pushed here and there by wind and current. A Roman naval patrol had boarded the vessels, and discovered that every man, woman, and child aboard had been turned into ghul. The first time it had happened, the boarding party had been swarmed and killed, and the ghul had actually crossed over to the naval vessel, and had begun killing the stunned crew before they could react.

  The news media had been aboard the naval ship, because their mission had been billed as humanitarian. The subsequent coverage of the slaughter as the marines aboard began to fight back against the ghul had broken off as an INN news director suddenly realized what they were broadcasting. Fresh ghul didn’t necessarily look dead, and it disquieted viewers to see children being fired on by grown men with guns.

  The second time, the Romans had been forewarned, and, once they verified the lack of any infrared signatures that would identify living people aboard, they sank the ship, at range, with torpedoes. Fritti had had periodic nightmares of the entire crew of the ship walking out of the harbor, coral and barnacles and seaweed on their skeletons, and maybe a fish flopping around indignantly in the pelvic area, until Loki had assured her that the salt water should put the spirit fragments controlling the bodies to rest. Except that no one was really sure that guidelines like these pertained to the godlings.

  In this climate, Rome’s navy was inclined to shoot blockade runners first and ask questions later. The only good news was that the Navy, like the Legion itself, had been comprised mostly of levy troops. The Roman Navy had been composed of two hundred and eighty-eight ships, including seven aircraft carriers. The carriers were still held by Rome, but the pilots were of every cultural background in the Empire. As such, at least half of the pilots were off flight-status until they tendered new oaths of loyalty . . . and a half dozen had simply absconded with their airplanes and fled to Judea or Tyre, while being pursued and fired upon by other, more loyal aviators. About a hundred and fifty ships had, either at the direction of their captains, or by the mutiny of their crews, left Rome’s service, and returned to protect the shores of Britannia, Gaul, Novo Gaul, and Nova Germania. Which left, unfortunately, a hundred and thirty-eight vessels, most of which were currently in the Mediterranean, blockading Alexandria, Carthage, Tyre, and a dozen other ports, while guarding the shipping lanes.

  Today, Fritti stood at the edge of the quay, watching a ship being pushed into place by a small tugboat. The sides of the ship had large-caliber bullet holes, and one of its ley-power masts was scorched and shattered, clearly from a missile’s impact. She waited as the gangplank lowered, and ignored the stevedores and longshoremen around her, many of whom had already whistled and leered in her general direction.

  The whistles came to a halt as a coyote the size of a mastiff ran down the gangplank leaped and then stopped in mid-air, sitting down on its haunches so that it could hover while Fritti looked him directly in the eyes. “Coyote,” she said, inclining her head in greeting. “You got the ship through the blockade safely. Thank you.”

  Child’s play. Rome and its gods aren’t looking for me. They are, however, looking for you. A fiendish grin, all white teeth. Not that they would see you, or your son. Loki was most thorough in his camouflage of you, Hiddenstar! One might almost think that he cared about you.

  Fritti kept her face expressionless. She did not like Coyote much. He was a trickster god, like Mercury, Loki, and Prometheus, but he was far more capricious than they were. His worship had been widespread throughout Caesaria Aquilonis, his Name acknowledged by almost every petty kingdom there, unlike the Evening Star. He was thus a fairly powerful god, and she kept her mouth shut around him as much as possible. “What do we have in the way of newcomers?”

  We found a ship without power along our way. Thus, we have the survivors of Zulu and Bantu tribes with us. They don’t speak each other’s languages, didn’t worship the same gods, and don’t seem to like each other. We’ve kept them on opposite sides of the ship. I have five hundred Diné, three hundred Iroquois, and two hundred Comanche. Their kingdoms were large and modern. I took storytellers and engineers, teachers and warriors. And their families. Coyote bared his teeth. The Diné are being hunted by the Nahautl. For their altars.

  “The Nahautl news media claim that it’s working,” Fritti said grimly, as she walked up the gangplank beside the god, who still hovered in air beside her. “Their gods repelled a mad godling last week, resulting in earthquakes in the Yucatan region.” She exhaled. “They’re not going to stop the sacrifices.”

  They won that battle because Quetzalcoatl will not see his humans harmed. Let us see how well they do against the godlings without his aid. Then, I w
ill consider the sacrifices valuable. Perhaps I should then take of their mortals, as sacrifices to me? Coyote bared his fangs again, and brayed out a whooping laugh. You will make my people welcome, Hiddenstar?

  “I’ll do my best. I hope they don’t mind tents. That’s all the housing I have for them at the moment. Now that the Goths are moving back into their homes and businesses, there may be places in New Caledonia open. And once we get some of the new Egyptian refugees more permanently placed, I can move your people to trailers.” Fritti stared off into space for a moment. “You said you brought engineers and teachers? I can find them jobs immediately. And if the others are willing . . . Lassair and Inghean have made the lands south of town bloom with crops. There’s food out there rotting on the vine because it’s not on anyone in particular’s land.”

  . . . so it can be gathered by anyone with the will do to so, without any accusing them of theft. Good. I will tell them that they will not starve, so long as they are willing to work.

  “Local authorities are of the opinion that whatever you gather out there, so long as you’re not on a farmer’s land? You can eat it or sell it. Buses will get them to the edge of town, and I can give them tokens for that.” Fritti rubbed at her face. “They’re going to need to choose representatives to speak for their groups. I relay refugee concerns to the city council, but most of the groups here prefer to speak for themselves on matters that directly concern them, and I . . . sit back, shut my mouth, and listen.” She smiled ruefully. “We’re all guests here. And some of the locals are tired of being hosts.”

  So I have heard. Unfortunately, I cannot stay to oversee my people’s integration here. I must return across the sea and bring more of them to safe harbors like this one. If we manage to defeat the mad godlings, and if Rome can be encouraged to leave us all in peace, afterwards . . . I can bring my far-flung children back to our lands again. Coyote sounded irked. It is not good, all of us being out of the lands that we call home.

  The news program she watched that night, while waiting for Loki to arrive, showed the daily protests outside the Temple and the governor’s palace by a right-wing faction of Judeans, protesting any further Roman involvement in their country. “Your governor gave away our lands to the heathen Picts!” they shouted as they waved their signs.

  “Your governor rebels against Rome, drawing Rome’s retaliation down on our heads.”

  “No more of Rome! No more of this Roman governor, who would be Emperor himself! If we are to rebel, we’ll rebel for ourselves, not for some Roman tyrant!”

  Caesarion didn’t dignify the protestors by using armed guards to break them up. He didn’t want to risk making martyrs of any of them. But the news clip that was shown of their rally was limited to a twenty-second blurb.

  Unfortunately, the next story was detailed coverage of the on-going race for several city council positions in Jerusalem. Fritti sighed as she saw the faces there. Mikayel ben Maor was sixty-six years old, retired now from his day job, and running for one of these offices. Fritti wasn’t looking forward to the day he happened to win a seat at the Mayor’s table, because then she’d have to deal with him on the subject of refugees.

  Because of his candidacy, the news station had invited him and his brother, Adam ben Maor, to speak. There were representatives from other factions, including a Zealot who was there to reiterate his cult’s central belief, that the world was coming to an end (and had been for two thousand years), but that it was being hastened by Jerusalem’s lack of purity. That the city was polluted by the presence of the unbelievers. But the familial tensions between Adam and Mikayel made for good far-viewer theater. People would tune in just to watch the brothers fight.

  “The Goths and the Gauls’ presence are the cause of Rome’s anger with us, and they are also the cause of God’s rage. They must leave our lands. Let them consort amongst themselves, and burn when the fires come,” the Zealot representative opined. “This is the only way in which we will be saved! We must be pure. We must put aside all worldly things—”

  Fritti winced. An expression of annoyance crossed Adam’s lined face on the far-viewer screen. “Charity is at the heart of almost every Judean’s life,” he retorted. “But tzedakah should be more than giving ten percent of our income to charity. It should be reflected in our words and our deeds, by showing kindness to those who are in need. If we cast out those who are in need of shelter, how will we deserve this salvation of yours?”

  Mikayel cut in, at that point, “The Goths are hardly in need any longer. They are parasites, who have grafted themselves onto our city—”

  “Hardly parasites, Mikayel. Their employment rate holds steady at about eighty-five percent of the adult population—more of their women are employed outside of the home, than the Judean population, actually.” Adam paused. “That’s not a disparagement, incidentally. Many of our women choose to remain home for longer periods, as mothers, than is the norm among the Goths in Jerusalem. We all saw the economic disruption when the Goths were ordered to leave Jerusalem by the usurper, Julianus. One-third of the Judean-owned businesses in the city had to let go employees, shorten their hours of business, and so on.” He turned back towards the Zealot representative. “I’d also like to point out that the Goths make up one fifth of Jerusalem’s current population. The loss of one-fifth of the tax base would more or less wipe out the current budget for schools and social services.”

  “You speak of money, when the end is near? Have you no concern for your soul?”

  “Believe me when I tell you that I think of the condition of my soul every day,” Adam’s tone became extremely dry. “Being married to my wife has had that effect on me, in recent years.”

  Laughter, from the audience, who clearly thought that this was a line from a comedy—the beleaguered husband, chained to a wife who made him contemplate his own mortality. Fritti frowned, however. She knew that Sigrun had ascended, which still amazed and awed her. Why does he say it like that? You would think he would rejoice to be married to her.

  “Sending the Goths to the Forest isn’t a solution,” Mikayel pronounced, glaring at the Zealot representative himself now. “The Forest is on our lands. We must take back what was given away by a Roman governor to these outsiders, who were spirited here by foreign gods and magic.” His words held a vitriolic sound in Hebrew.

  “Then I will give you the axe, brother, with which you may be the first to try to clear the lands of the Caledonian Forest,” Adam returned, calmly, and with a hint of a smile. “I assume that you still wish to be buried in a rock-cut tomb?”

  “Are you threatening me, you traitor to your own people? You apostate! You sold your soul, first to Rome for honors and privileges, and then to your Gothic harlot, for lust.”

  Fritti held her breath. So many years of bad blood between them. But if Adam struck Mikayel live on camera, Mikayel would win in the court of public opinion, wouldn’t he? Adam’s eyes had gone blank. Fritti knew that expression. She’d seen it in other eyes. It was the look of someone who had just decided that someone else should die.

  And yet, he held back from it. He laughed, in fact. “Do I threaten you? No, you hypocrite. I invite you to be the first among your people to go to the Woods, rather than allowing some young person to be the first to threaten the forest, or the people there. And I’ll probably sit shiva for you, though I sincerely doubt that I will mourn for you once the trees pick you up and tear you in half.” He shook his head. “The past is the past. We cannot go back. The very land has changed around us. Other people have come to dwell here, and they have changed us, and we have changed them. Ignoring that fact is like spitting into a breeze that you refuse to believe is there. Your lack of belief makes no difference to the wind.” He looked at the camera at that moment, not speaking to Mikayel, but to the millions of people tuned in to the broadcast. “I’ve served Rome and my people for over forty years. Caesarion does not break from Rome. He turns from an emperor who’s broken the law, and who may very well have assassin
ated his own father. An emperor who has forced other provinces into open rebellion. It is my personal hope that when all the dust settles, we will all be united once more. Because in unity, there is victory.”

  It was a thought she’d passed on to Loki when he appeared in her bedroom, took her hand, and pulled her once more away into his realm, a pine and oak forest, where the ground was eternally covered in snow, and the sun never shone. Darkness, everywhere, other than the gleaming moon and the blue-green northern lights overhead. Smell of pine pitch and moldering leaves. He wrapped his arms around her, and sighed. I do not think that any of us, god or human, will submit to Rome’s yoke again, Hiddenstar, he told her, quietly. Not after today. If an alliance comes about again, it will be under new terms. Jupiter will have to give up some of his power. All of it, perhaps. If he survives.

  There’s a chance that Jupiter could be killed? Hiddenstar asked, startled, looking up at Loki.

  Not by me. Not alone, at any rate. With Zeus dead, however, he is vulnerable. Jupiter has no place currently where his core essence might rejuvenate, which was Zeus’ function for him. A safe place to hide a portion of himself, that he might be reborn. Now, he is unbalanced, afraid, and more prone to error. Loki’s tone was detached. Sophia Caetia’s vision has him dying in 1999, at the hands of the largest of the mad godlings, one that will blot out the entire sky. Prometheus thinks that this timeline may have been destabilized by Zeus’ death. Loki leaned down to kiss her throat, and Hiddenstar gasped a little, but his mood did not seem amorous. Startlingly, he seemed almost in search of refuge. Prometheus sees the potential for Quetzalcoatl or Odin to destroy Jupiter. If they had all the power of the rest of their pantheons in them. That doesn’t bode well for me, however. Another kiss, this one more urgent. Not to sound selfish, but I just returned to the mortal realm. I would rather not leave it again so soon.