That is not my purpose. My purpose is Invincibility. You should not have summoned me, if you wished something else.
I did not wish this. He did not wish this. All he wished was to save my life. And what have you done instead? You murdered him. With my hands. Ariadne laughed, her voice a harsh croak. You didn’t even try to talk to them. You pushed me out of the way before I could try to convince them.
My purpose is not understanding or conversation—
Yes, yes. You are Invincible. Yet you are nothing, spirit. You might be more powerful than I am. You might be able to destroy everything around you, including everything I loved, and you might think you have the right, because you have the power—
I am the perfection of Invincibility! I am diamond, I am adamant. Every protection that exists, is a poor reflection of Me!
You are nothing compared to a human. You are emptiness. You are nothing. And I will harbor you no longer.
She stood. She locked her arms under Aiolos’ own, and dragged him, heavy as he was, to the waves, leaving the priests’ corpses behind. She found the beach where he’d first found her body, and she walked out into the water, with her beloved, until her feet no longer reached the bottom, and then began to swim. Hoping that this time, the waves would end her more quickly, and with less pain.
Zaya woke, realizing that she’d slumped to the desk long ago. As she sat up, she realized that she’d kept writing in her sleep, and unease prickled through her. That shouldn’t be possible, unless she’d been possessed. “You fool,” she said, quietly, to Adamas. To whatever had been controlling her pen. “You killed him. You killed him, even though you loved him.” She paused. That wasn’t right. “No, you never loved him. Your host loved him. And you could care less about mortals. You could have worked gradually, over time, and won him over to your side. But you had to make the grand gesture—” She stopped. She wouldn’t give this spirit, if spirit it was, one more iota of her attention. “No.”
She capped the fountain pen, and put it decisively in her drawer. She shoved the pad of paper into her wastebasket, refusing to look at it, and put her copy of the Phaistos Disc inscription in on top of it. It didn’t matter in the slightest if this artifact—said to be related to the godslayer who had destroyed Thera, the one who had left a single piece of diamond behind—was covered in a tale of a terrible, tragic love story. It didn’t matter at all if the woman possessed by the godslayer had loved a god-born man. She’d still killed him. That was how the story always ended. That was what made them godslayers. Zaya swallowed, and pulled her cloak on, bundling up to go home. If I were a godslayer, I wouldn’t kill Maccis. The divided road of fate could bite me. I’d talk to him if I thought he were doing something wrong. The misery in her own thoughts surprised her. Then again, Ariadne was forced to kill him. If this dream was true at all, then the godslayers don’t give a damn about free will or human agency.
She started to return to her empty apartment, then thought the better of it, and went to her parents’ house, instead. Her father was out patrolling the Persian border. Her mother was at the defense center. But watching the far-viewer with her siblings meant she wouldn’t be alone.
At midnight, when Erida came back in, looking exhausted, Lassair perched on her shoulder in her firebird form. “Can you tell us what’s happened?” Zaya asked.
Lassair mantled her wings. The Valhallans succeeded in killing Diana, she said, sounding tired. But Sunna lost her life in the battle. Valhalla has lost two gods this day, and Rome only one . . . but Rome’s goddess was more powerful than the two lost ones. But I do not know if I would call this a victory. For anyone. We have now all lost three who might have fought the mad ones. The spirit’s voice was disturbed. There is a tear there, too. A rip in reality. Flamesower must go there and attempt to fix it. And I will go with them, to hold the grendels and the other creatures at bay. Diana and Sunna’s deaths have . . . awakened things. Freyr and Baldur caught as much of them as they could, but . . . . Lassair yanked at her talons with her beak. Not enough. There were few humans left in that region. Those who were . . . are mad. Entirely so.
Zaya swallowed. “And the people of Novo Trier?” she asked, quietly.
Stormborn sent me images of people on fire, running into the harbor and not being able to quench themselves. Lassair sounded disquieted. I am torn. I feel that I should be there, to try to calm them. To teach them that being of fire might not a bad thing . . . but the tear in reality . . . Flamesower and Hecate must go there, and someone must defend them, while they repair what has been broken.
Erida shook her head. “Go to Novo Trier, Lassair. I’ll go with Trennus and Hecate. As will Zhi. You’re excellent at being more than one place at a time, but across an ocean and two continents is beyond your abilities.”
The firebird hopped off her shoulder. I go, Shadeslore. And I thank you. She vanished, and Zaya stared into the distance. Once again, feeling useless.
Caesarius 31, 1995 AC
Valhalla was changeless. Or, to be more accurate, like all the rest of the Veil, once something came to dwell within its walls, it had always held it within its walls. Its levels were as limitless as imagination, and every god of the Aesir and Vanir had their own small realms here—with the exception of Hel, and of course, Sigrun Stormborn, in turn. There were murmurs of encouraging Sigrun to move her realm into Valhalla proper, so that she could aid in Valhalla’s defense, and be defended, in return, but if that were to happen . . . well, the cloud-keep would always have been there. It just wouldn’t have been noticed until it was there. Such things were possible.
There were entities lurking in the walls that were older than writing. Older than bronze. Perhaps older than humanity, although that occasioned some spirited debates when the mead flowed freely. Some of the oldest gods had found the mortal realm before humanity had evolved enough to communicate with them. But the oldest gods themselves had not been particularly powerful or complex at the time. And yet, because of humanity, they had grown, and at the same time, they had . . . always been great and complex. They preceded humanity along the ascending curve of civilization, and were caught in the same downhill rush in which the humans found themselves caught now.
Mercury paced the halls, not trying to escape, but learning this place. It was as far different from Olympus as anything he could have imagined. Olympus was cold and stark, and was organized around the great hall with the double thrones, with Hestia and Vesta tending the single great fire at the center. It had once had wooden walls and a thatch-like roof, until humanity had ascended a little further, and then Olympus had become a place of marble. Austere and cold. The lesser spirits huddled behind the pillars and peeked out from behind doors as the Olympians strode past, but in truth, there were few lesser spirits there who weren’t messengers or cupbearers or servants. Spirits who weren’t bound servants were, to the kingly minds of Zeus and Jupiter, riffraff. Rabble. Their presence would have crowded Olympus and diminished the gift of being permitted to breathe its divine air. To be invited into Olympus was a reward, or so Zeus had always claimed . . . the late Zeus had always claimed. Mercury did his best not to burst out into laughter at the thought, and mastered his expression as he turned another corner.
Valhalla? Was crowded and chaotic and confusing one moment, or open, empty, and austere the next. The only way to envision it, really, was as an endless series of halls beneath an eternal mountain, all connected, like a warren built by generations of rabbits . . . but also not quite that, either. At the moment, he was walking through a stone hall with stark runes and statues carved with crude vigor into the walls by the earth-spirits, the dwarves, who tended the halls. The knowledge of humanity was hoarded here by the dwarves, who bustled underfoot as they prepared to carve a fresh stele of stone with runes that were now microscopically tiny, and incised the words with lasers, instead of chisels of steel. The workers smiled at Mercury as he entered this hall, and bade him read whatever he wished, before going back to their tasks.
&n
bsp; He turned a corner, and he walked, instead, through a garden, one growing far under the earth. He could look up and see the windows that let in golden light—always from a westering sun. Smell the moldering leaves underfoot, the rich scent of fruit hanging heavy on the boughs. Taste moisture in the air from a dozen fountains that trickled merrily in this orchard under the earth. He could hear the giggles and whispers of forest-spirits who had taken refuge here, and harvest and hunt-spirits, too. Caught them peeping at him from the branches of trees.
A few went so far as to try to play tricks on him—tossing an apple at him and shrieking, “For the fairest!” before diving away, giggling madly. Mercury caught the apple, and stared at it in his hand, before laughing and biting it, and walking onwards. The orchard became a forest in the far north, covered by the lightless Arctic winter. Only the pale radiance of the northern lights let him see the pine trees, black against the reflected radiance of the snow. Life as it had been before electricity. The howl of wolves in the distance.
And then the forest realm gave way to another. An ancient attic, filled with generations of trunks and chests and old, forgotten devices. House-spirits skittered into the dust as he passed. The parapets of some ancient castle, rearing high under the heavens. A skyscraper so towering that as he stood on the observation deck, clouds formed below him, and he could see air spirits circling the spire above. Heimdall’s realm, apparently.
Valhalla’s chaos, however, had an order to it. Everyone was welcome, and everyone brought something to the feast . . . but there were, in truth, only two entrances. The concealed door in the northlands, the physical entrance from the mortal realm. And portals, of course, the ‘rainbow bridge’ that Heimdall guarded. Any true intruder into this realm would be fallen upon by hundreds, even thousands of creatures. Swarmed by ants and driven mad by their stinging until the gods themselves arrived to toss the intruder from their realm.
Between steps, reality shifted again, and he found himself under a sky that was vast and filled with far more stars than it should have held. Mercury hesitated. This still felt like Valhalla. But it also felt . . . both older and younger. Time had no meaning in the Veil, of course. But this place was filled with a presence. You have gone astray, a voice told him. Feminine, soft, and dark. Find your way back. My time is not yet yours.
Time has no meaning here.
Time is all we have, the voice corrected him. Return to the Valhalla you know, Mercury, son of Maia.
Where am I then, if not in Valhalla? Am I in danger here, then? Mercury stretched out his senses, but found . . . nothing. That disquieted him in a way he had never experienced before. Who are you?
I am one who waits. I am pregnant with possibilities, and still . . . I must abide. Weariness, a little bitterness. This is the place where I wait, the place between future and past. Few slip their way here.
He turned away, feeling unease creep through him. The female voice had at least the power of Jupiter in it, but he could not see her. Do the gods of Valhalla know you are here?
They will. Loki understands more than the others do. But then, he remembers better. Largely because he never died. The rest of them did.
Mercury rocked to a halt. That . . . makes no sense at all.
No? But then again, you only died once. That is, perhaps, why you can find me. And you are more haunted by the voices of the past, than those of the future. A pause. If you would grant me a slight boon, messenger of the gods?
Mercury smirked at the title, but subtly edged his hand closer to his sword. Hardly that, anymore. But what favor may I grant you . . . my lady?
When next you see Hecate, tell her that I apologize. And that even though she has sacrificed greatly, and will yet sacrifice more, it will be made right.
Greatly disturbed, Mercury nodded his assent, and then made good on his old reputation as wing-footed, departing with as much haste as he could. The halls of Valhalla blurred around him, and he found himself, still rigid with trepidation, in a part of Freya’s domain, a chirurgeon’s ward, with beds all around, all with crisp white sheets and soft pillows. Njord lay upon one, his flesh almost as clear as glass at the moment, the blues and greens of the ocean rippling through him as the sea-god struggled. He had taken a near-mortal wounding at Tyr and Thor’s hands to ensure that Neptune would indeed die, holding the Roman god in the mortal realm, refusing to let his enemy flee. Then Neptune’s power had rushed through him—in part renewing him, but also, destabilizing his essence. His ‘energy matrix,’ as a human sorcerer might say. Hence why he lay here, struggling to recover.
Beside him, Freya sat, holding one of his hands, and resting her own upon his brow, trying to reinforce his will with her own. And Sigrun Stormborn stood at the head of the bed, not in her armor, but in the plain garb of the valkyrie she had once been, lending of her own power. Freya glanced up, her eyes the brilliant gold of new-minted coins, and caught sight of Mercury. A moment, please, honored guest. We have all been helping Njord. He has taken many injuries of late. And we are too few to lose one so powerful.
Sigrun moved to kneel beside the bed. Many injuries, she agreed, quietly. And one that cannot be healed, save with . . . time. A wound of the heart. Tentatively, she took the god’s other hand.
Njord turned towards her, blindly, and managed a faint smile. Skadi . . . did not like you, Stormborn.
She looked down. No. Perhaps for good reason. A faint shrug. It does not matter right now. What does matter . . . is that you loved her. Love her. You bleed from a wound that I . . . experience the presage of, every day. Weariness and bitterness and the empathy of pain. You have a sliver of her essence within you, and you clutch it so tightly, that like a piece of broken glass, it cuts you open. Sigrun paused, and looked at Freya, in mute appeal.
What Stormborn says is true, Freya agreed, gently. I do not think you can absorb the power of your enemy, while holding onto the essence of the wife he slew. You can’t accept his essence. Not without feeling as if you are . . . betraying her.
Profiting by her death, Sigrun said, her head lowered.
Njord raised himself, all color vanishing from his flesh, leaving him diamond-clear, like distilled water. I can’t release her. I can’t let her go. His voice was frantic. She kept everyone at bay. Let no one in, but me. You all only saw the anger and the bitterness, but I saw the love. She loved the mortal world. She loved me. I won’t let her dissolve. I won’t let that happen.
Mercury hesitated. He was an outsider here, but he could see how moved the former valkyrie was, lowering her head and covering her face with her free hand for a moment. I am not saying to let her dissolve, Sigrun told him. To do so would be to betray her. But is there not a way to let her . . . become?
Njord’s body knotted and rippled as he resisted it. She would not be the same. She would be an echo of herself, a hollow shell. Like a homunculus, or a human lobotomized. Would you do that to your mortal lover, Stormborn?
She shook her head, looking at the ground. Mercury coughed gently into his hand, a human gesture. Forgive me, honored hosts. But I have a certain amount of personal experience in the matter of being . . . reborn. Distilled from another’s essence.
Three heads rose, and the Valhallans all stared at him. Give to her of your essence, Mercury said, as gently as he could. She will no longer be your beloved, no. She can never be . . . quite the same again. But you can still love her. As a daughter. And she may even remember a little. In time. Enough to know you . . . loved her enough to free her into new life.
Freya gestured to Sigrun, who stood, immediately, lowering her head in respect, and moved to Mercury’s side, as Njord shook his head. Turned his face away so that no one could see him shed so much as a tear. Freya bids me take us both away. If he will permit himself to . . . birth his wife into their daughter . . . it should be a private thing. Sigrun looked uncomfortable.
Mercury tried not to laugh at her. You are so very human yet, Stormborn. You can only think in terms of duality.
I do n
ot see you assuming a female form on a regular basis, Sigrun told him, tartly, and then slapped a hand over her mouth, looking horrified. As if she’d spoken out loud, though her lips, of course, had never moved. A human voice required time in which to be heard. Oscillations of sound waves in the air, reaching the membrane of the eardrum, interpreted by the brain.
Your candor is refreshing. Mercury chuckled. Humans see us as they see us. Shape us. And we come to see ourselves in certain ways, as well. I do see myself as male. Mostly.
To the point that you have threatened injury to those who have questioned it.
He smiled ruefully. I am sure that Njord sees himself as male as well. He looked down at the erstwhile valkyrie. He may not have the flexibility to change. He may simply have to split himself off. Athena really did rise from the mind of Zeus, you know. He wondered how the goddess and her Roman twin were, and where they were hiding in the Veil. Was that who I perceived, outside of Valhalla? No. I would know her voice. And she has not that kind of power.
The Goddess Embraced (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 3) Page 100
