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

by Deborah Davitt

  That’s why it can’t be a lie in your own mind, Minori counseled. You have to believe it. And in a way, what we’ll be having you say is the truth. Just . . . parts of it. Adjusted for color. Her mental tone was different than Amaterasu’s, but there were shadings of tone that she and the kami were starting to share. Sigrun was concerned that at some point, Minori might lose her identity entirely. She wouldn’t be like Ehecatl, a spirit sharing the body with the god then, but rather, someone whose identity had been absorbed by the god. Sigrun wasn’t entirely sure how that would work; Amaterasu was so old and so powerful, that she didn’t think that the sun-goddess could be changed in any statistically significant fashion . . . and yet, she’d been in-dwelling in Minori for seven years. Perhaps some fraction of Minori would remain expressed, though it might not be a substantial portion of the goddess’ overall identity.

  And she could tell, from the way Kanmi watched Minori, that he worried about the same thing. Kanmi had come back from death very much the same man—though a man irked, and even occasionally angered that he couldn’t entirely explain his own powers. He prized the self. And he prized Minori.

  Now, Minori straightened, looking at Sigrun. Sekhmet remains outside of Judea. She is, in truth, angry with the gods of Rome, but if you and yours were not meeting with her, and the gods of the Gauls had not made contact with her, she would be feeling quite abandoned, would she not? Min’s eyebrows arched, and her smile became impish—a reassuring sight to Sigrun. She would have good cause to be disaffected. Recruitable. Make an issue of the fact that you and yours just don’t have time to meet with her. That you do not trust Sekhmet—she is the goddess of bloody hands, after all. You could also mention that you do not trust Amaterasu entirely. That you fear that I will be subsumed to her.

  Sigrun’s expression became the impassive mask of a lictor. What makes you say that?

  As you said, you don’t lie well, Sig-chan. You watch me closely when we meet, Minori replied, her smile bittersweet. And never more carefully than when Amaterasu speaks through my lips. She put a hand on Sigrun’s shoulder. I’m still me. As I prove to Kanmi-kun daily.

  I have lost too many friends, Sigrun said, quietly, to trust blindly that anyone else will care for them as I do. She looked up and met Minori’s eyes—and the blazing eyes of Amaterasu-within, behind them. I mean no offense by this, great one. I love Emberstone and Truthsayer. I would not see either of them come to harm again.

  I do not take offense. It is good that your heart remains open, Sigrun Stormborn. Amaterasu’s voice was gentle. I recommend that you drop hints of your unease with me, first. That is the truer emotion. And it conflicts with your sister’s vision of the future enough that it will stand out to her—and thus, to Apollo.

  And thus, weeks later, Sigrun went to Sophia’s asylum, hating herself. It was Aprilis tenth—five years, to the day, after the attack that had torn Sophia’s sanity to shreds. She emerged from the door of the Judea house to find a line of candles from the door to the street. On the front step, she found a plate with a pomegranate and a small brass brazier, filled with burning incense. She stared down at the plate, feeling warmed by it, reaching out to trail her fingers through the smoke . . . and looked to see a centaur down the street, at a respectful distance as he held a candle in one hand. She still tended to tense on spotting any centaur around her, preparing for battle, but time was beginning to dull that reflex. And then recognition flared. Nikolaos. He always remembers the day. So she leaned down and picked up the fruit, smelling the sweet smell of costly labdanum rising around her, and had lowered her head in acknowledgement of the centaur. Behind her, she’d heard Adam swearing, quietly, under his breath, as she stopped him from picking up the plate. “Don’t throw it away,” Sigrun said, quietly. “I’m sure he’ll be back to clean it up later.”

  “He marks the anniversary of Sophia’s attack every year,” Adam told her, his voice hard. “A goddamned horrible thing to celebrate.”

  “He’s not celebrating. He’s remembering.” Sigrun’s voice was distant. “The others were going to do to him, what they were doing to Sophia. And they made him watch, so he could . . . anticipate his treatment.”

  Adam froze in mid-motion, his expression bleak. “I suppose I should have expected that,” he acknowledged. “Still, you’d think he’d bring her the little tokens of remembrance, then.”

  Sophia didn’t kill everyone else there, Sigrun thought, her features a mask. “Sophia wouldn’t recognize what they were for,” she said, holding up the pomegranate. But I do. Pomegranates are for death. Persephone ate the seeds, and was trapped in the underworld, or so the legend goes. “I will be back after I visit her.”

  “I can go with you.”

  “I am about to lie to her, Adam. You will not approve. I am not even entirely sure that I do.”

  “I understand the need for subterfuge in warfare, Sig.” Adam gave her a faint smile. “I’ve been trying to explain the concept to you for decades.”

  I know. “Yes, but you don’t like lying any more than I do.” Sigrun leaned in, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. She missed him so much it hurt some days. But she had to pull back incrementally to bring up a wall of reserve between them. Because his answer remained the same. It was somewhat like living with someone who had a terminal disease. Except his disease was curable.

  Of course, she wasn’t precisely living here anymore. If she stayed at the house more than a day a month, it was a particularly good month. But still, it boiled down to the fact that after a while, asking just became nagging. And having to respect someone else’s choice . . . was a part of respecting free will. “Goodbye.”

  At the asylum, Sigrun surveyed Sophia carefully as she entered the room. She could see the overlay now in othersight, when Apollo’s attention was firmly on Sophia. Currently, the god wasn’t paying attention, and Sophia fell on her, wrapping her thin arms around her sister tightly, weeping. “I don’t understand,” Sophia told her, her voice a wail. “Everything I see now, I see double. I see you fighting the bat-winged goddess in the air, but at the same time, I see you in a muddy foxhole along the Wall, waiting for the Persians to advance. I see . . . I see . . . .” Sophia swayed, her lips moving, and Sigrun gently moved her sister to the edge of the bed. Kept an arm around her shoulders, and gently touched the tousled hair.

  “You’ve always seen too much, Sophia,” Sigrun told her. “What do you see about Amaterasu?”

  Sophia’s head lifted, and Sigrun could see the chaotic attention of Apollo come into focus on this mortal vessel. “She’s hiding in plain sight,” Sophia said, dreamily.

  “I know. She’s in Minori. You said that she’d become a part of the sun, once.”

  “She will be a part of the sun,” Sophia agreed, blinking rapidly.

  Sigrun let the change of tenses pass by. “You always said that Min was going to survive. I’m not so sure of that these days. Amaterasu’s burning her out. Gods have a choice about that. Inti was a gentle master to the human he used as an avatar, long ago. But Mamaquilla needed the life-essence of her new avatar to stabilize herself, so that’s why Cocohuay didn’t . . . survive the process.” Even decades later, remembering that made Sigrun’s throat hurt. “Is Amaterasu going destroy her, Sophia?”

  “. . . I don’t understand . . .” Sophia’s voice was lost. “I don’t see anything like that . . . .”

  Sigrun pulled her sister to her, begging her silently for forgiveness. “Am I going to have to fight her for the life of one of my friends?” She looked down at her sister, and essayed a smile. It felt unnatural on her face. “I don’t like the odds, but at least Amaterasu doesn’t have any allies anymore. Well, other than those of Valhalla and of Gaul.” She grimaced. “But if she’s destroying a friend of mine, from the inside . . .” She touched Sophia’s hair again, lightly. “I won’t have much of a choice, will I? I’d free you from Apollo, Sophia,” she added. The others had been very specific about mentioning this. Show him a little truth. Give him a little
fear. Remind him that you’ve killed gods before. Give him a reason to take this to Jupiter. “I’d free you in a heartbeat, if he didn’t have so many allies. I’d drag him out of the Veil, the way I dragged that daeva. Pull him by his own soul-bond to you, and force him into his manifested form. Then I’d freeze the flesh on his bones and take his head off, and I’d do it on the mountainside where I found you, so I wouldn’t have to worry about his power hurting anyone.” Sigrun bit off the ends of her words, seeing the horrified confusion in Sophia’s eyes.

  “I . . . you can’t . . . you won’t have that kind of power . . . till the world ends . . .” Sophia leaned into Sigrun, and began to cry, and Sigrun felt about two inches tall. All I’ve done is hurt her.

  “Just . . . tell me if I’m going to need to kill Amaterasu. I want to be ready,” Sigrun said, and there was a tiny thread of real unease in her on this topic. Just enough to make it sound real.

  “I don’t see that . . . .” Sophia’s head tipped back. “You’re going to tell me that I should have more self-respect. That I ought to realize I’m worthy of being loved for myself. That I should work on being strong in myself first. And that love will come . . . when I’m ready for it. And I’ll ask you why I should love myself, when you’ve never loved yourself at all . . . .”

  Sigrun shook her head. She remembered that conversation all too well. It was close to fifty years old, and had occasioned a terrible fight between them when she’d first visited Sophia at Delphi. She’d get nothing else of use out of Sophia for now. And only time would tell if Apollo would take the bait to Jupiter.

  Outside, she looked up at Nith, consideringly, nausea still washing through her. You’ve often told me that I need to concentrate on embracing my divine spark.

  There is nothing new in this, he told her, calmly.

  The Hero Twins of the Quecha . . . they were human, once. After a fashion. God-born who ascended, who stood against the arrogance of the other gods. But now, they fight against Quetzalcoatl and even my own gods. They have yet to offer parley to anyone. She sighed. I think they stand as proof that one can let humanity slip too far away. To forget too much.

  Nith’s lambent eyes looked down at her. You hardly require more reminders, my lady.

  Not reminders. Connections. My sister cannot connect me to humanity anymore. Adam . . . soon will no longer do so. Trennus, Saraid, and Lassair’s children are connections, but it cannot be healthy always to be around those who are . . . . she hesitated.

  Children. Those who are not your equals.

  I need more people who are my peers, yes. Brandr was right about that, years ago. People who can . . . check me. Not in terms of power necessarily, but in terms of . . . thought. She put a hand to Nith’s scales. Trennus, Kanmi, Minori, and Erida . . . they’re all becoming otherworldly. In spite of Kanmi’s protestations. She paused, and then flowed up onto Nith’s back with a light, quick movement. To the Odinhall, Nith, if you would, please. Not Valhalla. There is something I need to see to in Burgundoi.

  Moments later, in the darkness on the other side of the globe, Sigrun made her way into the Odinhall’s lobby, Nith having shrunk himself down to lindworm size to accompany her into the building’s lobby. I don’t think you’re going to fit in the elevator, my friend.

  Tell me where we are going, and I will meet you there.

  The Hall of Records. I must prevail on Dvalin to assist me with something.

  The Hall of Records was a place Sigrun hadn’t been since her early godslayer research. It occupied the twenty-first floor of the Odinhall . . . more or less. Sigrun had suspected that there were extradimensional pockets throughout the entire floor, because there was no way in which so many papers, stone stelae, and other items could possibly be found in one floor of a skyscraper. From the lobby area, all Sigrun could see at first were row after row of metal shelves, which went all the way to the ceiling, lined with sheaves of paper, ledgers, and books. When she looked with her Veil senses, she could see that the shelves actually expanded outwards in every direction. Probably for miles in every direction. It’s Dvalin’s personal realm.

  The smell was purely of musty paper and old leather. And when she touched the bell at the empty desk, she didn’t blink as Dvalin appeared there, though the dwarf’s electric-blue eyes widened to see her there. Sigrun allowed her armor to dissolve, politely showing her face, though her black cloak remained around her shoulders. I beg your pardon, Dvalin, for the lateness of the hour.

  You are always welcome in the archives, Sigrun Stormborn. To what do I owe the honor of your visit? More circumspect investigation of the ancient godslayers? His voice held faint slyness.

  Sigrun flushed slightly. Ah. I was less subtle than I had hoped, years ago.

  Subtlety is not your strongest point, no. Though perhaps Loki will teach you some, in time.

  Nith, who’d just appeared behind her, snorted ice crystals of amusement, and Dvalin gave the dragon a dubious glance. Do not do that to any of the books, please.

  I would not, Nith replied, with some dignity. Though I would very much like to read something in the seventh century variant of Gothic I first learned to comprehend. Modern writing is tedious to learn, in spite of Stormborn’s care.

  Dvalin’s eyes widened in startled delight, and Sigrun hastily held up a hand. Before you two disappear into the archives to spend the entire night verifying that yes, Nith can read, and that yes, you two do indeed have some two thousand years of missed conversations to make up for . . . she endured the ice crystals to the back of her neck with what dignity she could muster, my request first, if you would, please?

  Dvalin’s grin almost split his face. You have only to ask, my lady.

  Is this the place to which the non-monetary belongings of Reginleif Lanvik were transferred after she was drawn into the Veil? If so, I would like to examine them, and perhaps petition for the removal of one or two items.

  Dvalin blinked, and looked to the side, as if reviewing an enormous catalogue in his head. Which, perhaps, he was. Yes. Fehu section, aisle 3927, subsection 1970, container raidho laguz. The information suddenly blazed in blue runes in the air in front of her, and hung there, patiently waiting for her to follow them.

  Sigrun blinked. The last time I was here, you handed me a piece of paper and a map.

  Dvalin’s grin widened. The last time you were here, you couldn’t have found these shelves if you tried, my lady.

  Sigrun sighed. True enough.

  You should be aware, however, that the container has a binding on it. When you open it, Loki will know that someone has meddled with the contents.

  That is perfectly acceptable. I am not hiding my actions here. Sigrun put a hand on Nith’s crest. If you wish to go find an elder Edda to read, now is certainly a good time to do so.

  If you are quite certain? Nith sounded anxious.

  I am. Enjoy yourself.

  Sigrun followed the blazing runes, which took her to the fehu section; this rune was associated with wealth, and had originally indicated cattle. Plenty, success, happiness; this was apparently a personal property storage area. Who knew that the Odinhall kept such things? she thought, but it made sense. Many bear-warriors and valkyrie died without direct heirs. If they lived as long as Regin had and managed to have children early in life, they might well be eight generations removed from their own descendants by the time they died. Strangers, in short. Their wealth, if any, might well be donated to charity, but what remained of a life, if there were no children to inherit it? Who kept the mementoes, the pictures, the journals, the treasured love letters . . . all the scraps and oddments that whispered, I was here, I lived, to the ages?

  Rather than see these fragments obliterated, or entrusted to the grave, the Odinhall kept them as monuments to their fallen. Sigrun’s eyes widened as she entered the property area. There were thousands of cabinets and containers; each had a list of items inside. The earliest were small coffers at most, and usually only had one name on them. Bjorn. Carved mead horn, s
eax, iron-rimmed shield, boar’s crest helmet. Preserved in the hopes that one of his descendants will wish to carry them again. Dagrmaer, sewing needles, iron, expensive, gold necklace, bracelets, rings, spear. Left in trust for any of her descendants who wish to claim them. She paused, her throat tightening. Obviously, no descendant had ever claimed these. No descendant . . . had ever remembered them. Her own great-grandmother’s effects were probably here, somewhere. She hadn’t known that she could claim them. Her father had had a few items from the long-dead valkyrie around the house . . . copies of articles on the law that she’d written, as a human. Pictures of her, in her armor. But not the spear, or her other personal effects. But that’s not what I’m here for, today.

  Sigrun followed her floating rune guide to the correct aisle, feeling a sense of timelessness, and realized that she had entered an interface to the Veil. Dvalin’s personal realm, probably. At length, she found the container that held Regin’s belongings. It was quite a bit larger than the small chests that had held the treasures of past valkyrie and bear-warriors, but Regin had had a longer life than they had, and a few more possessions of note. Sigrun paused, feeling like a snoop, and then sighed and opened the metal crate, which yielded to her touch without resistance.