“Should the harpies,” one of the young males chimed in, glaring at the minotaur, “have entered the line of fire from the Roman artillery to pull your nuts out of the fire, or should we have stayed on task, taking out Roman helicopters? I’m a little unclear here.”
“Wut’s the we here?” Anniketos lowered his horns, which weren’t capped or dulled, and glared at young Spiro. “You harpy men are only good ‘or zittin’ on eggs and holdin’ your women’s cloaks. Don’ zee any of you oud dere ‘ightin’.”
Reginleif had told Brandr that she hoped that in a couple of generations, the social dynamic between the harpy males and females would shake out a bit, but right now, it didn’t take much of an insult to a first-generation harpy male to infuriate him. They’d all come from a strongly male-dominated society, and any insult to their masculinity would’ve brought an exchange of hot words or blows even before the Transition. Add to that, the fact that most of the people in the room had mental scars and bleak memories . . . and it made for hair-trigger tempers.
As such, Spiro, who couldn’t have been more than eighteen, if that, and was two feet shorter than the minotaur, still hissed and leaped for the giant . . . only to be caught by the tunic and held at arm’s length by Brandr, as the bear-warrior moved in between the minotaur and the harpy. Spiro lashed out, kicking at Brandr’s ribs with his clawed feet. It stung, but Brandr ignored it, turning instead to look into Anniketos’ right eye, positioned as it was on the side of the minotaur’s skull. He didn’t say a word, and Anniketos slowly backed away.
“Spiro, do stop struggling,” Reginleif told the young harpy male, who stopped moving, instantly, and Brandr dropped him to the ground, still without looking at the harpy. “Anniketos, you lost some good men today, but so did all the forces here. Your casualties were heavier than they should have been, because you did move out early.” Regin held up her hand, and her siren’s voice whispered through the tent. “You saw an opportunity open along the Roman line, and took it. That was valorous, and it should be recognized.”
A siren’s charms could be resisted. But it was harder to do so when they were backed with good sense. Anniketos shook his head, and resumed his seat, looking over at Brandr and grumbling, “You god anydin’ da say, god-born?”
Brandr shrugged, and pointed at Reginleif. Anniketos brayed with laughter. “You led your woman do da dalkin’, huh?”
In spite of all appearances, Brandr knew that Anniketos was actually one of the more intelligent of the minotaurs. It wasn’t his fault that the shape of the skull around his brain had changed, which had altered blood-flow within the brain. Or that he’d grown two feet in height, or that he now had two to three times the amount of testosterone flooding his system of an ordinary human male. Whatever blood-flow did make it to a minotaur brain was laced with enough androgens to poison the average lab rat.
But as such, Reginleif had told Brandr to be very direct with minotaurs, and to rely on body language. As such, Brandr shrugged, smiled faintly as he stepped forwards, and drove Anniketos’ head into the conference table. Just once.
The minotaur’s forwards-swept horns were now solidly embedded in laminated wood, and as he struggled to sit back up again, the entire length of the table heaved. Brandr was aware of the various jotun coming to their feet as he planted a hand at the base of the minotaur’s beefy neck to keep him down. Reginleif, behind him, said lightly, “I don’t speak for him. I just translate. If anyone was wondering, he just said ‘No.’” She moved up alongside, and added, softly, and with a hint of compulsion in her voice, “You’re making yourself look foolish. Settle down, and we’ll work on our tactics.”
At the far end of the table, the Pictish and Judean representatives were shaking their heads, but eventually, Anniketos calmed down, and they were able to get back to work. Brandr didn’t know if Regin’s ability to smooth ruffled feathers among the Hellenes would be damaged if they ever realized she was a valkyrie. They all already knew she was a Goth, but at the moment, they accepted her as one of their own. Looked up to her, revered her, even, as a teacher and a tactician, and the guide who told them not to feel guilt for actions they hadn’t been able to control . . . though she clearly still felt guilt of her own.
And that night, in the tent he shared with Regin, Brandr listened to her soft breathing for a while, and then got up to move around the camp on quiet feet. He didn’t like that each subspecies seemed to cling to their own areas, huddling in on themselves. But most of the various groups accepted him as a diplomat who could cross all the different species lines. He wasn’t one of them. But he was a god-born. So he dropped by the minotaur camp to mend ties, mostly by arm-wrestling with a couple of the men there, and tasted some of their barley soup . . . like the centaurs, they’d become more herbivorous, and had to eat almost constantly to maintain their strength.
He moved through the Gothic camp, exchanging wrist-clasps and shoulder-thumps with the jotun present, and letting the fenris sniff him while he nodded in response to their mind-speech. He took a left turn, and found himself in the centaur camp, listening as Nikolaos, standing in front of the other centaurs and a handful of dryads and satyrs, said, “And then she descended from the sky, night and vengeance made incarnate. The first of my maddened fellows died as she touched him, every bone in his body broken. The others all died within seconds, and she stood before me, spear in hand, ready to end my life, but then she knew that I was a prisoner, though I had yet to be outraged as her sister had been. She spared me, and bade me speak to the Lady of the Wilds. Cradled her sister’s bleeding form in her arms, and rose into to the sky, shining with light. In this time of injustice, justice came for me. In this time of darkness, a light arose in the night. Her name is Sigrun Stormborn, and she saved me. And we have gone into battle beside her, and the great dragon who is her servant . . . .”
Brandr walked past the camp, shaking his head. Sigrun had been one of his favorite students, but it was hard to fathom that she’d risen so far. But he’d seen her fighting with Niðhoggr every day for weeks, and she couldn’t be more different in the sky, wrapped in seiðr, from the young and uncertain valkyrie he remembered from the Odinhall, decades ago. Or from the angry, bitter valkyrie who’d accompanied him and Erikir to Fennmark, and whom he’d chastised for not practicing her skills against other god-born. For fighting below her ability.
Outside his own tent, Brandr hesitated, and moved to the side. Looked up at the night sky, and subvocalized. Sigrun? Sigrun Stormborn, can you hear me? At least in his mind, the words were clear.
Brandr? The response was immediate, and startled. And it certainly sounded exactly like his old student. Are you all right? Here, let me come to you.
I don’t mean to trouble you—
There was a rushing sensation at his elbow, and when he turned, a shadow nearby, cast by a tent support pole, had grown darker. Solidified. “It’s no trouble,” Sigrun murmured. “But when someone says my Name, especially when it’s someone I care about, I tend to hear it.” She stepped forward, her smile uncertain under her dark hood. How can I help you, Brandr?
I wasn’t praying to you. He wanted to be specific about that.
Gods, I would hope not. That would be wrong on almost every level. I have always looked up to you, Brandr. Always held myself to the standards that you and Reginleif set. She paused. What can I do to help you?
He swallowed, and tried to speak out loud, then failed. It’s not for me. It’s for her. He nodded towards the tent, and Sigrun’s eyebrows went up.
“Lorelei?”
Reginleif.
Oh, gods. You know? Her voice held trepidation, which was mildly amusing, given that people were creating legends about her, and Loki himself had called her a goddess to Brandr’s face.
He sighed. I’m not stupid. As I keep telling people. He gave her a look. Though you could have said something to me about her.
I knew you were coming back to Judea. I didn’t know you’d be working with her. Sigrun looked from him
, to the tent, and then back again, and her eyes widened. Wait. You and she are . . . ?
Brandr had the feeling that if it had been daylight, he’d have seen a flush suffusing her cheeks. “D-don’t s-sound s-so s-sup-prised,” he growled, out loud.
Sigrun’s mouth opened, and shut. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “But . . .” I tend to view both of you as parents. She looked flustered, and Brandr’s own mouth fell open. I spent a great deal of time trying to live up to your expectations, Brandr. And hers, as well. She sighed.
So this is like discovering that yes, your parents do indeed have sex.
Probably. Sigrun raised her head, and her embarrassment faded away. You’ve forgiven her?
She was a damned fine person for two hundred years, Sigrun. Brandr was definite on that point. She served as loyally and faithfully as anyone in the Odinhall. And her reward for that was being twisted and warped by Hel. Yes, she made mistakes, and a lot of people died for it. But if you had been made the plaything of a god, would you have done any better?
Sigrun stared into the distance. I’ve been toyed with by gods, but never for decades, she said, quietly. What would you ask of me, Brandr Ilfetu?
What she can’t ask for herself. Forgiveness. She wishes nothing but to forget, but to forget would make her . . . not herself. Can you ease the memories, if not erase them? Brandr paused. “Sh-she t-teaches the others to let g-go. T-to let the g-guilt g-go. Sh-she c-can’t m-move on, wh-while sh-shackled to the p-past. L-let her g-go.”
Sigrun lowered her head, tears collecting in the corners of her eyes, and spilling onto her cheeks as ice. I cannot, Brandr. She’s not subject to me. I cannot meddle with the mind of a servant of Loki, not without his permission. And her own. Do you think that she would let me soften the memories?
No. She is at least as stubborn as every other god-born of our people. Brandr sighed.
She took some of Hel and Loki’s power, that last day, I think, Sigrun told him, her eyes sad. And I think that she is being shaped by the people that she works with. She is becoming . . . regret. Guilt. Not a Fury, not Erinyes, but something else. Have you watched how the various Hellenes respond to her? Almost as much as they do to Saraid, but for a different reason. Saraid is liberation, to them. Reginleif . . . or at least Lorelei . . . is the hope that guilt and shame can be transmuted by atonement, into redemption. She reached up and touched Brandr’s face with hands so cold, they felt like death itself. Give it time, Brandr.
She’s living the role. She’s good at that. She’s going to wake up in twenty years and won’t be anything but that.
With you in her life to remember who she was and is outside that role, to believe in her . . . she doesn’t have to become the role. And time will soften the memories. Especially if we win, and . . . all the harpies and centaurs and other once-mad people become just another part of society.
Brandr nodded, slowly. “I j-just w-want t-to help her. L-Loki told Fritti that g-god-born l-lock themselves around a m-moment in time—”
“We do. Gods, how we do.” Her smile was bitter.
Brandr shrugged. “N-not m-me. M-maybe that only h-happens to those of us who l-lead interesting l-lives.”
Sigrun’s stare was bright and penetrating. “I don’t know, Brandr. It seems to me that you are locked in the moment of Hel’s attack. The moment you perceive as your greatest moment of weakness. You think you failed that day. You think that if you had been faster, stronger, more powerful, Hel would have died at your hand. And that somehow, the outcome would have been different. Fewer people would have died, or some damned thing.”
A rush of anger filled him. “If y-you th-think of m-me as a f-father, you sh-should sh-show m-more r-r—”
“Respect? I do respect you, Brandr. You and Regin, both. The father who taught me at the Odinhall, and the mother who trained me there, too.” Sigrun smiled, faintly, and put a hand, lightly, on his forearm. “I haven’t had good luck with mothers.” She sighed. “You’re still punishing yourself, Brandr. You see yourself as weak. Flawed. That’s why not even Thor or Freya could heal the stutter.” She regarded him steadily. “You’re doing it to yourself.”
“N-no—”
“I know something on the topic of self-limiting. I’ve done it for just as long as you have. Stop it.” Sigrun looked past Brandr’s shoulder. “Sorry we woke you, Lorelei. I’ll be going—”
Brandr, thought-fast, reached out and caught Sigrun’s wrist. She might be a goddess, but she’d just admitted to connections and obligations to him. “St-stay.” Silently now: Please stay and talk to Regin. You called her a mother. Parents and children forgive each other . . . usually. Don’t let it just be her training you and you allowing yourself to be trained. Stay.
It was an uncomfortable hour’s visit in the tent. While they had once been her instructors, Sigrun was now above them in power and authority. But she still reacted to them as her teachers, Brandr realized. She still responded to them almost entirely in a human, mortal way. Because they somehow held a piece of her heart. And while Regin still clearly wanted to subsume herself behind her guise as Lorelei, neither of the others would allow her to do so.
At one point, Sigrun gave Regin an appraising glance, and said, quietly, “You know, I doubt Loki intended for you to feel nothing but guilt, forever. Our ancestors instituted the practice of weregild for a reason. So that there could be an end to cycles of revenge and guilt and suffering.”
Reginleif’s lips twisted. “That was in a time when every human life had a clearly defined price.”
“Oh, and these days, there is not? Actuarial tables mete out life insurance on someone’s death. Their potential earned income over the course of a healthy life.” Sigrun’s tone was melancholy, but a little acerbic at the same time. “Weregild is still a very real part of most Goths’ lives, Lorelei. In the manslaughter cases, and even in cases of unpremeditated murder, it’s a possible punishment instead of execution. Restitution can be made. And once it’s made, the issue is considered closed. Admittedly, the families of the victims have to heal. But the person who’s paid the weregild can heal now, too. Because it’s over.”
Regin shook her head, but Brandr told her, trying to force the words out clearly, “Sh-she has a p-point.”
“And how am I ever to pay weregild for close to thirty million people?” Regin demanded, her face taut. “There isn’t enough money in the universe for that much suffering.”
“H-hel p-played a part. H-hers is the gr-greater share.”
“And she paid it with her life.” Regin curled into herself, clearly not wanting to pursue this conversation.
“Pay it one person at a time,” Sigrun told her, with surprisingly gentleness. “Erikir is still in the north. If you see him again . . . it won’t take him long to realize who you are. Particularly if Brandr is standing right beside you.” Sigrun’s tone suggested that she was still processing that turn of events.
Regin’s red eyes lowered to the floor, and she’d pulled her wings around herself, as if for warmth. “I can’t requite him,” she said, tiredly. “Nor any of the others I have wronged.”
“Perhaps Loki will tell you,” Sigrun replied, quietly, “when you’ve reached the end of your expiations. On the whole, however? Hear me now as a god-born of Tyr, lord of justice, if not as the current embodiment of vengeance.” She winced. “The time you spent in the Veil was your atonement, Reginleif.” Brandr noticed immediately that Regin twitched at little at the name, but she submitted to its use on Sigrun’s lips, where she couldn’t tolerate the sound of it on Brandr’s. Sigrun’s was the voice of judgment, and Regin could accept that. Brandr’s was the voice of affection, love, and friendship, and she recoiled from that, still. In spite of all his efforts. “Anything you do now, you do out of remorse. And while that is right and just, I believe that you have paid.” Sigrun swallowed. “And I must beg your pardon for my part in making you feel otherwise.” A slightly guilty glance at Brandr. “I am . . . not good at forgiveness. But f
orgiveness is a part of justice. Or else . . . the cycle never ends.” She sighed. “Which is a large part of the problem with our world today.”
She stood now, and looked down at Regin, who remained curled in a ball, her wings wrapped around her. “I cannot take the memories away,” Sigrun said gently, and she shifted to mind-voice. But in a hundred years, or two hundred, as Nith would say, they will be less intolerable. And you will live in the world you helped to create. She paused. Assuming any of us survives to build it, anyway. Come with us. Build it. She looked at Brandr. You, too. I . . . don’t want to lose any more people. But I know that we will.
And when she left, Regin finally unfurled her wings as Brandr wrote on a scrap of paper, Will you take her word, if not mine? If not that of a goddess who looks to you as a mother, then whose?
“Why did you have to call to her?” Regin’s voice held despair and anger. “I didn’t want to . . . I didn’t want to talk about this . . . I didn’t ask you to . . . .”
The Goddess Embraced (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 3) Page 82
