He took a breath, held it, and loosed his arrow. Not for where he’d seen the flash of colors, but for where he could still feel her weight on his ground.
There was a choked cry, and a slip of a girl appeared, dark-haired, and looking no older than his daughter Vorvena. She had golden wings on her back, and clutched at the arrow embedded in her upper arm, trying to staunch the bleeding. Then she raised eyes as dazzling as a prism at him—every color in the rainbow coruscated there. Vile creature! You attacked me! Wounded me! I am just a messenger!
The hurt in her voice and eyes smote at his conscience, but Worldwalker forced the reaction down. Your masters are at war with me and mine, he said, holding another arrow knocked. I doubt that you are here to bargain with me. Be gone, messenger.
The diamond-like eyes narrowed. Don’t be foolish, mortal, she counseled. My master has sent me to make you a very simple offer. Allow us free access to Judea, through your gateway. And your people will be spared.
Odd. My reports suggest that my people are holding their own quite nicely against Rome’s legions. Worldwalker still held the arrow trained on her. Also, how fascinating. You wish to use my gateway? You could simply appear in the skies directly over Judea. You could open the way yourselves. He smiled, thinly. So either you wish to sneak up on Judea without the god of Abraham noticing . . . .
Him? He’s hardly my master’s chief concern. Iris tossed her head, and Worldwalker could suddenly see centuries of weariness and cynicism in a creature who had surely once danced among the clouds. His heart ached for her, much as it had for Lassair, incongruous as it was.
. . . or your master actually wishes to see if I will bend or break easily. Or perhaps you want to keep me talking. Worldwalker let the arrow fly, lifting his point of aim at the last second, clipping one of the feathers off her golden wings. No. You may not use my gateway. I will not turn against my friends and loved ones.
The feather fluttered to the ground, and Iris cringed. What right do you have, to hold yourself up as some example of virtue? she demanded. You have done the forbidden. You have unNamed someone. You think your hands so clean, your spirit so virtuous?
He already had another arrow knocked. There is no virtue or villainy in the Veil. Before and after and always, there was only creation and devouring. The Veil is neutral. There are no rules, save those that humanity has created, and that the gods have brought here.
A pretty argument, if a specious one. I wonder if even you believe it. Iris glared at him, still clutching her arm. If you will not help Jupiter willingly, my master informs me that I should bid you farewell.
Worldwalker loosed the shaft, but it was too late. She moved with the speed of one born to the Veil, manipulating reality around herself, tearing at the Wood’s rules—the rules of the reality he had created—and streaked towards him as a blur ten times as fast as his artificial duration here.
He fell to the ground under the impact, and reached up, latching on, automatically, the jujutsu and wrestling he’d so long practiced in his mortal body coming back to him. It was a construct of his mind, how he organized and perceived combat here. But while his body was in the Veil, physically, it was also not entirely . . . relevant. Yet still, he wrapped arms and legs around her, digging his heels into the tendon points and sensitive muscles of her calves, and wrestled with her, as he would with any other spirit.
She hissed in pain, and dissolved into water droplets and vapor in his arms, rising up as a cloud, trying to retreat . . . and, without warning, Trennus Worldwalker saw a hand in silvery armor reach out and catch the goddess. Water-form or no, she solidified, instantly, the back of her neck held in a punishing grip. She wriggled and fought, to no avail, and simply dangled there, like an errant puppy. Release me!
Worldwalker rolled to his feet, brushing leaves off his kilt reflexively, and stared at the newcomer. He hadn’t felt the feet of any other intruders, and stared at the newcomer for an instant in pure confusion. Human-shaped. About his own height, more or less, and male, by the body conformation. No trace of skin was visible; the creature either wore, or was entirely made of, flowing, silver-bright metal. He could see trace impurities in the metal move, like liquid mercury, beading and bulging and shifting into better conformation over the creature’s arms, as it lifted Iris up further. The face-mask was clearly made in the image of a face, but it appeared like a death-mask, surreally calm, and the eyelids were closed in the mask’s silvery visage, giving it the appearance of a man deeply asleep.
Worldwalker’s eyes flicked to the ground, where, even with the branches overhead blocking most of the sunlight, a shadow should have been visible.
There was none there.
Who are you, and why are you here, friend? he asked, with a niggling sensation at the back of his mind. As if he’d asked this same question . . . long ago. But he couldn’t remember ever seeing such a creature, not in any book or illustration, or anywhere in the Veil. Perhaps during that first visit . . . no, I mostly spoke to the spider, then . . . .
The head inclined. I will not speak my Name. But I am known as the Guardian. And I have always been here, once I arrived. I simply did not choose to make my presence known to you until now. But we are old friends, you and I.
The voice nagged at him. He knew this creature. Surely he did. Some echo, some resonance, was familiar. I do not usually ally with those whose Names I do not know.
You know my Name. You just haven’t remembered it yet. The creature lifted Iris up higher. Our messenger seems to be a reluctant assassin.
Iris had stopped struggling. Her expression had turned resigned. That was Mercury’s task, at which he rebelled, she said, grimly. He vanished at the same time that Zeus died. A most suspicious coincidence and one that left me to pick up his tasks. Before, I was Hera’s messenger. Sent to spy on Zeus’ infidelities and report back. Sent to run messages to this favored warrior or that, to tell him that the tide of battle was about to turn. Or sometimes the more joyous task of telling a birthing mother that she would survive, and so would the child. Her voice turned dull. So, you will take me from the Veil, and kill me. Have done with it.
Trennus Worldwalker studied her for a long moment. Can you take a message for me, then, Iris Wing-foot?
. . . you cry your mortal defiance of Jupiter and bid him come at you with all his strength, yes, yes . . . I have heard this tale before.
No. Tell Minerva that Coyote, Loki, and two others would like to meet with her. At a time and place of their choosing. They wish her to know that they understand that she gave Cocidius an honorable death in battle. And that she did so under duress, and took no joy in the matter.
If that is all they wish to say, I can convey that message directly, without a need for a meeting.
They would also like for her to consider asking for asylum with the gods of Valhalla, and paying weregild to the gods of the Gauls. In so doing, she might preserve her life. You might do the same. He put a hand against one of his trees.
And how could that even be possible? Her tone was scoffing.
Because Prometheus the Fire-Bringer has returned, Trennus Worldwalker told her, softly. Zeus is already dead. Jupiter will follow. You know this to be true. Now, go, and take your message to Minerva. Release her . . . Guardian.
The creature released the goddess, and Iris vanished instantly, leaving the Wood in a blur. How do I know you? Worldwalker asked, troubled. I do not recognize you.
The Woods know me. I have and will walk among them forever. You did not require my assistance until now. There was a pause. I have missed you, old friend. You are different. Still light of heart, but burdened by cares. And Lassair leaving you . . . I did not expect to see that, ever. Still, to everything there is a season, and a right time for every intention under heaven.
Worldwalker stared at him, overwhelmed by curiosity and unease. I’ve heard that before, somewhere . . . .
Of course you have. And you will again.
How were you able to seize Iris in that fas
hion? Worldwalker pressed. This was an unknown quantity, suddenly arrived in his realm, and it made him uneasy. Within a given domain, there are usually rules. Gravity, or the pretense of it, for example.
And have you not always taught me, that will is the most important quality in the Veil? The voice was amused. Young, but old. And that we create our own rules here?
. . . I have no idea if that’s what I’ve taught you, but it sounds like me. Who are you?
As I said, I am the Guardian. I am your friend, and I always will be, Trennus Worldwalker. You’ll remember that, soon enough. The being lightly clapped him on the shoulder. I’ll understand if you wish to have someone watch me. Who guards the guardians, indeed. An obscure chuckle. You are, of course, certain that sending Iris to Minerva was the correct move?
We’ve suspected that Rome would, sooner or later, send assassins after some of us, again. Other than Stormborn. We have . . . discussed what might be accomplished, depending on who the assassin was, and if the target survived. Worldwalker was careful not to say too much. This newcomer, for all his claims, was unknown. If she conducts the message without reporting it to Jupiter, it suits our goals; Minerva may be convinced of our good-will, because we showed mercy to Iris. He was careful not to explain the rest of their reasoning, or his own thoughts when confronted with Iris. But his thoughts churned, anyway. Even if Minerva only opts for neutrality, that is one less god of Rome, and perhaps one less of Olympus that we need be concerned about. And if Iris takes the message to Jupiter first? The seeds of distrust may be sown between Jupiter and one of his most powerful lieutenants. Not an optimal outcome, but . . . again, one more piece might be taken off the board.
The silence had grown long. Worldwalker stared at the Guardian now. You plan to stay here?
I always have, old friend. And with that, the strange being walked off, looking up at the trees with every evidence of delight. Worldwalker watched him go, and shook his head. He was going to need to talk to Saraid about this. As soon as she wasn’t hip-deep in Roman infantry.
Aprilis 5, 1994 AC
The Muhheakantuck river gleamed in the last light of the setting sun below Nith’s wings. It cradled Mannahata island between its arms, and the heart of the city of Novo Trier was lit up with millions of ley-powered bulbs, gleaming from the skyscrapers and adorning the bridges like tamed fireflies. The ancient port city was one of the largest in Novo Germania, with almost ten million people packed into its confines.
Sigrun could feel a dark tug at her, from deep within the grid of streets and towering buildings. A guilt-tie, a strong one, bound someone in this city to the destruction of Crann Péitseog. The question was who, and where in this hive of millions that person was. Or persons. It was a very strong sensation, and she’d learned to follow that pull, though it went against her rational core, the part of her that wanted evidence and testimony. Bring us in for a landing. I want to try to triangulate.
Nith banked, heading for one of the large plazas where streets intersected, and back-winged, as pedestrians scurried out of the way. There was always traffic here, and it was rush hour. Fortunately, that meant that people were packed bumper-to-bumper anyway; they weren’t swerving and crashing into each other at the sight of an enormous dragon setting down, and Nith was able to place his paws carefully, so as to avoid landing on any of the automobiles. Sigrun dropped to the ground, and the humans in their motorcars didn’t honk at her for stopping traffic, much to her surprise—she’d seen protestors almost run over by rush-hour traffic before, for halting the daily commute—but rather, leaned out of their windows to shout her name, and Nith’s. They’d been here once or twice before, helping fend off a couple of mad godlings with Tyr, and apparently, people remembered.
Sigrun raised a hand briefly to the crowd. You have a better bearing this direction? Nith asked.
Whoever they are, they’re currently above street level. They’re in one of the taller buildings, I think. Somewhere . . . north of us. Sigrun frowned, and as she turned to lift herself back up to Nith’s shoulders, a woman ran out of the crowd and stopped near her, looking awkward. “Sigrun! Sigrun Stormborn! I would ask a boon of you! Please!”
With her Name invoked, Sigrun more or less had to pay attention, though she would have, anyway. She turned, and, not feeling any threat from the woman, or the people around her, let her mask dissolve to show her face. “Yes?” Sigrun asked, politely. Old habits prompted the next words that passed her lips. “How may I be of service?”
The woman froze for a moment, and Sigrun winced internally. Walked over and took a hand lightly in her own, and watched the woman flinch at the death-cold touch of the armor. “What would you ask?” Sigrun prompted as gently as she could, though the guilt-tie tugged at her, and Nith swept the square with his gaze. Watching for potential threats.
“My . . . my little boy. He’s in the hospital here.” The woman hesitated. Her blond hair was in disarray, and her eyes were shadowed. “My husband is with him. I had to work . . . it’s my medical insurance that’s allowing him to get care . . . .” She pressed her free fingers to the bridge of her nose for a moment. “It’s meningitis. There’s been an outbreak among the school-aged children here . . . .” She wavered as Sigrun regarded her steadily. “I know it’s our job to care for our own. I know that we’re not supposed to rely on the gods for every splinter. But the doctors say that ninety percent of the antibiotics that used to be used to treat meningitis were manufactured in Hellas and India, and they’re . . . well, the supplies are running out.” The woman inhaled raggedly. “Please. He’s my only child.”
If only I could split myself, as Lassair does, Sigrun thought, and weighed the urgency of finding the guilty party with the child’s life. “I will go to the hospital,” she said, after a moment. “I am not good with diseases, I am afraid. But I will try.” She squinted for a moment, and found the woman’s given name, floating around in the gray sea of consciousness and identity that was someone who did not know their own Name, who did not understand what they were for in this world, and said, “You’re Signy Hagebak? And your son Alaric is at Eir’s Heart Hospital?”
A rapid, silent nod. “I will go directly. Hurry there.” In the mother’s mind’s eye, the child did not look to be in very good shape at all. His fever kept spiking at a hundred and four, and there had been convulsions as a result, in spite of the hospital’s best efforts to keep him cool. That the child was no more than four years old also smote at Sigrun’s heart. That was the age at which they started to explore, started to develop their personalities, started to speak properly and ask questions.
Do you believe we have time for this? Nith asked as she mounted up.
We’ll make the time. People’s belief is being torn apart by the deaths of the gods—like Bragi. Loss of faith weakens the remaining gods. It’s important to bolster that faith, and to give people real hope. And, damn it all, he’s four years old. So are most of the other people in the ward around him. If I can do something, I will.
Your reasoning is sound. But I cannot help you in this task. Nith’s body tore at the air, and they swerved and banked through the canyon-like streets, the dragon’s wingtips scraped along windows and bricks periodically as this façade or that one stretched out further into the streets. As such, Sigrun was all too aware of hundreds of late-working office employees staring out their windows at the pair.
Nith . . . you’re showing off again.
When I fly high above, you tell me I am showing off, because the entire city can see me. If I fly low, you inform me that I am showing off, because a smaller number of people can see me very clearly. His tone was mildly amused.
Our quarry will hear that we are here, and run.
If that were your chief concern, you would not be going to the hospital right now, he informed her, in an implacably calm and annoyingly well-reasoned manner. Tend to the sick. I will circle the city and see if our quarry begins to move. My concern is not that the sorcerer will flee, but that he will invoke t
he spell wherever he is hiding. There may be many people around him.
Sigrun grimaced as they landed on the roof of the hospital. Many variables, I know. Almost all of them bad. She jumped down, and rested a hand on the dragon’s side. I still feel the guilt-tie off to the north. Concentrate there, please.
She worked in the children’s ward for close to four hours, talking with all the doctors and nurses, as well as two god-born of Eir who happened to be on duty. Both of Eir’s children gave her highly dubious glances at first, and the man, Torvald, actually tried to bar her path at first. “You can’t go in there, death-crow! I won’t let you take any of them!”
A cold wash of his fear and a muddled wave of belief hit her, and Sigrun knew she needed to deal with this, right now. You mistake me, she said, forming the words with precision. I was and am a valkyrie, much like your own ancestor, Eir. The valkyrie’s decision is inviolate: we choose the dead. We choose the living. I am not here today to choose death. I bring it to the malefactor, the evil-doer, the one who takes arms against me. No others. For I am still Tyr’s daughter, as you are your lady’s son.
The Goddess Embraced (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 3) Page 90
