Nith shifted. No.
No? Lassair paused. No, what?
No, to all of it. I will not discuss the matter further.
Fah. I must be losing my touch, Lassair said, glumly. Truthsayer would not give me so much as a glance, but she was still much in love with the ghost of Emberstone. Shadowweaver attempted to ‘set me up,’ as the mortals say, with Cloudwalker, and he said no. Niðhoggr is not bound, and will not even consider the matter. She sighed. I do need passion again. I cannot only be the cause of passion in others.
Stormborn chuckled, but her heart wasn’t in it. I would tell you to seek your resonance with my sister, but she is in no condition for such, nor may she ever be so again. But the two of you would be well-suited to one another.
Lassair looked struck, but then sad. I will at least visit her, Stormborn. She deserves to have someone to hear her words, who will not be unduly distressed by them.
For that, I thank you. That would be a very great kindness on your part, indeed.
Sigrun did not head up the stairless inner towers to her own silent bedroom that night. The companionship was helping to untie some of the knots in her chest. There were days in which she could not stop thinking about the people of Cimbri. The people she’d failed. She hadn’t caught all of Potentia’s cabals before they could do more harm. And that guilt festered in her heart, though she had brought many more of those involved to justice. She’d healed the wounded. She’d dug some of the survivors out with her own hands, and Nith had lifted away rubble with his claws. It wasn’t enough. It never would be.
But sometimes, in the light of a fire, and with friends around her, she could forget, at least for a while. Before Lassair departed, however, the fire-spirit asked her, gently, out of earshot of the others in the keep, Your own resonance with Steelsoul . . . .
I would prefer not to speak of it, Lassair. I have disappointed him, of late. Stormborn looked out at the wide expanse of silver cloud. As I knew I would. I warned him that I would change.
You yourself told me that it is not shameful, when people change. When the harmonics of their resonances change. Lassair shifted into phoenix form, and landed on Sigrun’s shoulder to preen her hair for a moment. You should, on occasion, listen to your own words. Worldwalker still loves me. I still love him. We do not combine our essences anymore, but that does not mean that the love is gone.
Your position is very different from mine, Stormborn replied, as diplomatically as she could. If I left Steelsoul, I would be leaving him to die. It would be no different than if I abandoned a friend, a comrade in arms, behind enemy lines.
Lassair’s head cocked to the side. I think it a very different thing, myself.
Iunius 15, 1994 AC
It had taken months to set up the meeting. Prometheus could see lines of probability converging on this position in space-time—not so many that they warped reality around them, but enough to make the region fraught with possibility. The land around them undulated, white-cloaked, with the black bones of the earth protruding here and there, revealing the shapes of volcanic mountains, ridges and cones, beneath an otherwise unbroken sheet of ice and snow that extended from one frigid ocean to another. He perceived this all with his Veil senses, not with his physical eyes; there was no light at the moment, nor would there be, for months. This was the heart of winter in this land, and the region was currently tipped away from the sun. Antarctica. Neutral ground. Few human habitations, so the gods wouldn’t endanger any of them. No history of mad god attacks . . . as there was no Jormangand under the earth for them to harass, and few, if any, local spirits. Coyote had made the recommendation of the meeting place, and those with whom they were to meet had, after some time, agreed.
Prometheus looked down as his feet sank deeply into the snow. Now I understand why few humans choose to live here.
This is bracing, Loki replied, and tossed back his hood to let the cold wind tangle in his hair. I would put it at . . . seventy-two below zero, as the humans measure such things.
Hecate huddled in on herself, pulling her cloak around her, and Prometheus looked down, and then wrapped an arm around her, letting the internal fires that never seemed to go away these days course closer to the surface. Warming her. I should not feel the cold, Hecate grumbled. I should not be this weak.
More of your followers remain, than mine, Coyote noted, shifting out of his animal form to assume a human avatar, with his hair dressed back in a long braid, and wearing leathers adorned with elaborate quill-work and beading. His eyes were still red, however, and his teeth, when his lips pulled back from them, were startlingly fang-like. You shared too much of your essence with the foresighted one. He hooted with laughter. Of course, that is not all that you share!
There was a shift in the air, and Prometheus’ head swung up as two more figures appeared. Iris’s wings were ruffled and torn at by the wind, and she looked almost as miserable as Hecate. Minerva, however, stood tall and strong, and her shield, the Aegis, was covered by a fold of her cloak. She held her spear in one hand, and her gray eyes appeared troubled. I did not think that I would meet here to exchange idle gossip . . . . She stopped, staring at Prometheus. I do not know you. But Athena is screaming at me that you are indeed Prometheus the Fire-Bringer.
The lines of probability were converging now. Prometheus found one with high probability of success, and followed it. I once carried embers in a curled horn, fed them with leaves and grass, and showed the humans how to do the same, when they still lived in caves. I told them that if they let their hearth fires go out, it would mean that they would be cold and it would be dark, and the animals that feared the flames would come back. And around that, they built a religion. An imperative not to let the fire go out, and that if they did, they would be punished. Dark things would come for them. Olympus rose, and fought my brethren. And then Zeus, my new liege-lord, punished me for having elevated these poor creatures. For having given them light and warmth that they controlled themselves. He thought that this would prevent them from properly believing in the fire-spirits that they had always called on for fire, before then. Prometheus smiled, faintly. He was wrong. They loved Hestia all the more, and saw her in every hearth fire. Made every hearth an altar to her. He paused. While I endured my punishment for having given them fire, they learned to make flame for themselves. I told them that they should retain the meat of their sacrifices for themselves, so that they could grow strong and stay well-fed, and give the bones and the sinews to the gods, because . . . energy is energy. What is burned, we still consume. Zeus was wroth once more, and I endured another punishment. He demanded that I use my foreseeing to tell him his future. I told him the truth. And I was bound to the stone for that, and when I tried to end the Trojan War, he had me executed. Prometheus turned and looked down at Hecate. And thanks to one who stood apart from Olympus, I have returned.
He forbore to mention that Hecate had, in this, some other ally. He’d strongly wondered if it was the godslayer made of flame who had rescued him from his chains, but the lines of probability on that topic never converged at all. And Hecate denied it, with indignant scorn. All signs currently indicated that the Aether was not involved in this reality anymore . . . though Sophia Caetia’s visions seemed to suggest that godslayers—Aetheric beings, anyway—might return someday.
All of which tells me what? Minerva’s eyebrows had risen.
That he is one who does not know when discretion, guile, and silence might serve him better than the truth, Coyote said, with a laugh, taking a seat on an ice-coated outcropping. I brought fire to my people in much the same way, but I didn’t suffer three thousand years of punishment for it. I actually know when to shut my mouth.
Then why do you never seem to do so? Hecate’s tone was sharp, and Coyote bared his teeth at her, his eyes gleaming manically.
Hush, Loki counseled, leaning against the cliff-face. Minerva has little reason to trust any of us. She is the upright spear, first into battle, last to retreat. The soul of honor. Hi
s silver eyes gleamed in the darkness. You are no doubt wondering where the lie is. Where our deception is.
The thought has occurred.
Loki glanced over at Prometheus, and the titan watched the lines of probability converge again, and chose his words very carefully. You can see from my history, Minerva, that I generally do not lie, even when a falsehood could save me enormous pain. My chief concern has always been for the humans. And what wondrous creatures they have become in my absence. I could watch them for another millennium, and never be bored at all. He smiled faintly. The battles between the gods do nothing to help humanity. We only injure them. The mad godlings, well, no one can control them. Any combats between gods really should be conducted out over the open sea, where the salt water and the miles and miles of distance to land will absorb any excess energy, and perhaps only injure a few fish. Who cares if the coelacanth—marvelous creature!—goes extinct, so long as humanity does not?
You are here to negotiate some form of . . . rules of engagement? Minerva asked, sounding dubious.
No, indeed. I doubt that those rules would be adhered to for longer than it took to speak them aloud, anyway. Prometheus’ thin smile didn’t waver, but the lines of probability flickered for a moment. He paused, assessed them, and went forwards. Jupiter’s actions have been dishonorable. In ancient times . . . and as is the way of the Veil . . . to the victor, go the spoils. Those who take the risk, receive the benefice of the loser’s energies. Among humans . . . land, coin, cattle, weapons. They have moved away from looting and sacking one another’s cities, and turning over the lion’s share of the rewards to their rulers, towards the strange modern innovation of assailing one another until one side admits defeat. I find it even stranger that among humans, reparations may be paid by the victor to the defeated, in the spirit of . . . magnanimity. He paused. And yet, here is Jupiter. He has turned each of you not into a soldier, but an assassin. You are to prey on the weaker gods—no true contest, that—and bring him their power. No trace of that power is to remain to you. He suffers no risk. He receives all of the reward. You, yourselves, take few risks. I have not seen Mars take the field against Thor . . . just for example.
But Apollo, lord of the sun, of music, of poetry, of medicine, attacked poor weak Bragi, whose only gift was his song. Loki’s voice was sardonic, and he clapped his hands mockingly. A great and noble victory, to ambush one smaller and weaker than yourself.
Coyote’s grin was feral. Ah, but these are the tactics of modern times! Do not the humans show us this? Attack with greater force, and from concealment, from ambush. This is how wars are won, after all . . . and the victor may tell the stories however they want, later, and make themselves appear as noble as they wish. In a hundred years, who will remember?
I will remember, Hecate said, quietly, lifting her head. I was here when the Minoan civilization rose and then fell at a godslayer’s hands. I may be diminished now, but I have never died. Nor will I. Her voice was fierce. I will be here to remember the truth. Her cold smile was just barely visible under her hood. Of course, it is not as if Olympus ever lived up to its own ideals. I remember what Athena did to poor Medusa . . . whose visage you still flaunt so proudly in your shield, Roman goddess.
Minerva’s head bowed. Athena and I do not agree on every matter, Lady of the Crossroads. She regrets her actions, committed so long ago. As I regret, and sorely, the death of Cocidius. It was hardly a fair contest, no. She paused, and the lines of probability hovered around her, evenly poised. Prometheus, had he been capable of breathing, would have held his breath.
Her head rose once more. Tell me this, all of you. How could I possibly go against the orders of Jupiter? I watched Vulcan die at his hands for refusing to fight. I saw Hephaestus bound in chains, for the delectation of an eagle, as Athena saw, thousands of years ago, Prometheus bound in that same way. Her voice was distraught. And even if there were not the potential of punishment, Jupiter sees . . . so much more than we do.
Coyote cackled. Oh, now he has you believing in him! Another wild whoop of laughter, as the leather-clad avatar curled in on himself, laughing loudly. He got you to believe his own mythology!
If he has better information, it is not just disrespect and disobedience, then it is foolishness to set aside his commands! Minerva’s voice was defensive.
Loki snorted. You are noted for your wisdom, Minerva. Answer me this. As Apollo of Delphi sits on his throne, does he grow more or less mad with time’s passage? Is this the source of Jupiter’s information? I long ago had some inklings of the future that even our Norns could not see, but even I cannot say if things will transpire as I saw them. A fox’s sudden grin crossed his face. Jupiter is not noted for his foresight. He pointed at Prometheus. This one? Is.
What would you have me do? Minerva finally asked, quietly. I cannot turn against Jupiter. I . . . do not have the strength.
You do not believe you have the strength, Prometheus corrected. Oh, how Zeus fretted before the birth of Athena. How he feared that she would be a son, come to kill him. She had the strength and the wisdom to have done it, back in the ancient times. Instead, Hermes attended to that, in vengeance for his mother-self, Maia. He watched as Minerva’s mouth dropped open. Oh, yes. It’s true. But no, I do not ask you to do this. You do not have the confidence, at the moment. You do not yet understand that your own people have died, and will die, because of Jupiter’s decrees. You do not yet have vengeance enough in your heart to turn on him.
But you see what he is turning each of you into, Loki said calmly. Tools. Assassins.
Coyote’s mad laughter rang out again. A collection agency. Perhaps next he will have you repossessing motorcars. What other petty, ignoble tasks will he have for you, war-goddess?
Prometheus paused, and said, gently, We do not ask you to fight against him. We ask you not to fight.
Minerva blinked. I do not understand.
Take refuge in Valhalla, or retreat into the wild Veil. Take Athena and Iris with you. We can cloak you in illusions that even Argus would be hard-pressed to penetrate. You do not need to sully your hands with assassinations. You do not need to bring Jupiter the heads of his enemies, taken in battles dishonorable. Go in peace, and rest. Prometheus paused. If rest, ease, and safety sit as uncomfortably upon your warrior brow as your expression says they do? Then fight, and honorably. Help us battle the mad godlings, without taking a side between Olympus and the rest of us. We would respect your neutrality, and help prevent you from suffering at Jupiter’s hands, as so many of us have already done.
A long moment passed as he watched her eyes flick from side to side. The lines of probability hovered in the air around her, then suddenly coalesced, and vanished. And Prometheus did not know which way the future would lead, until she nodded acquiescence. Neutrality, for now. The mad gods are the true threat. All the rest of these squabbles can and should be settled at a bargaining table. And by humans, not by us. She frowned. Though the sacrifices . . . .
We opposed them, ourselves, Loki pointed out, sharply. All of this has come about because Jupiter wished to cow the gods of Nahautl and Quecha by making a show of force on Fenris. Like a master beating a loyal mastiff to show his neighbors how the fearsome creature obeys and fears him. He waved. A matter for another time. He looked at Iris. Would you share Minerva’s path?
Exile, the demigoddess whispered. Oh, it is harsh, but . . . I would far rather this, than return to that court, and risk having him know what counsel I have kept from his ears!
______________________
Iulius 13, 1994 AC
Life in Nahautl had not been easy for ordinary people for years now. Most people scurried about during daylight hours, striving, desperately not to be caught outdoors after nightfall. Hundreds of thousands had fled the once-beautiful capital of Tenochtitlan, where the flayed men and the skeletal-faced cihuateteo with their swollen, pregnant bellies roamed the streets . . . because if a flayed man or cihuateteo attacked someone, the only option was to run. No one w
as permitted, under penalty of death, to fight back against those touched, ostensibly, by the holy power of the dead Xipe Totec.
However, leaving the capital posed its own dangers. If someone couldn’t prove that they were of pure Nahautl descent . . . if their ancestors happened to be Kumeyaay, instead, from one of the ethnic groups common to the area around the earthquake-stricken city of Tiwan, where Anoku had fallen to Obsidian Butterfly earlier that year? Or Quechan? Or any one of the hundred other tribes that made up modern Nahautl? Or if they happened to have Roman, Hellene, or Gallic blood? They were subject to arrest. Not for any crime, but so that the altars would be fed.
Record-keeping was extremely good at the temples; people were fingerprinted and their names recorded on public rolls when they were sacrificed. Birth-records were scoured for people of non-Nahautl extraction, and the priests only stopped searching five generations back. Families that claimed that relatives of ‘impure’ blood had gone missing, had their homes subjected to searches. Some children were successfully hidden in caches built between floors or at the backs of closets. Foreign husbands and wives were torn out of their homes, as were the children who couldn’t be hidden successfully. Thousands of the foreign-born, seeing the writing on the wall, had already left when the convoys of Gallic and Gothic troops had moved north through the country, retreating from Caesaria Australis. But their Nahautl spouses had been detained at the borders, tearing families apart . . . but most thought that the detention camps, and the potential to get across the border to safety, were a better option than staying anywhere near the major cities.
The Goddess Embraced (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 3) Page 93
