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

by Deborah Davitt

  He stood, feeling old, and peered through his surveying sights once more . . . and paused. Saraid?

  Yes?

  I can feel troops moving to the east. And something more, behind them. Driving them.

  I feel it, as well. Saraid sounded deeply uneasy. No pressure on the earth . . . .

  It’s touching the ley-lines on the other side of the Wall. Disrupting them. It’s a mad godling. They’re fleeing it, Saraid, and they’re coming straight for the Wall and the Forest.

  I think that you are correct. Saraid’s leaf-green eyes narrowed, and she threw back her head and howled. Around them, the shadows of the trees seemed to darken. The vines and underbrush seemed to clench in on itself, hardening with resolve. I will call our generals.

  And I’ll buy us a little time. Trennus focused his mind, thankful that he wasn’t distracted by grief, and latched onto the ley working he’d been building before. And began to lift an escarpment, five hundred feet past the Wall. Enough room that snipers and machine gun emplacements along the Wall would have a kill-zone, if any enemies dropped down the escarpment’s face. Working in haste, he couldn’t raise it as high as he would have liked. Only seventy, eighty feet . . . but it was a sheer, vertical drop. Trennus began to sweat, and lifted the next hundred-foot long section, feeling the earth quiver under his feet.

  Four hours later, he wasn’t quite sure if he was seeing things right. He’d called in Sigrun, Kanmi, Min, Nith, Erida, and Zhi, and they were all there to stare with him, as the mad godling hovered just past the Wall, while the Persian division tried first, to move around his growing escarpment . . . and then started climbing down it, in twos and threes. Trennus shuddered as he saw black arcs, like lightning, touch down on this soldier or that, turning them into ghul, which plunged over the edge of the cliff like lemmings, scuttling and crouching as they advanced on the Wall, only to be shot by the guards. The few Persians who made it to the bottom of the cliff threw down their arms, put their hands in the air, and, looking back over their shoulders, stumbled and ran their way forwards, in spite of the Wall guards’ warning shots. “They would rather die cleanly, than be raised as ghul,” Sigrun assessed, after a few moments.

  “They might prefer dying cleanly, but they want to surrender,” Kanmi corrected. “Does the JDF even have that in their manual anywhere? ‘This is how you accept surrender from a Persian. Please do not actually shoot them.’” The Carthaginian glanced around at the rest of them. “Given the centuries of enmity . . . .”

  Various muffled snorts; even Erida had managed a grim chuckle at that. What interests me more, Nith said, after a moment, is the tactical advantage with which we find ourselves. We are a powerful group. By every previous standard of behavior, the godling should be charging for us, trying to consume us. But it does not. It hesitates. The dragon’s teeth bared. We can attack it from a position that it may not be able to reach.

  We should summon the others, nonetheless. That is the basis of the pact made by the gods, Minori supplied. Her skin radiated light, faintly. She was god-touched now. We all are, really, Trennus admitted, in the silence of his soul. Except for Adam.

  Agreed, Sigrun said. You call to Amaterasu. I will call to Freya. But we will engage before they arrive. To see if we can. And to test its reluctance to enter Judea.

  And four hours after that, night had fallen, and so had a mad godling. Two thousand Persian troops had surrendered at the border, and another three thousand were rumored to be wandering the Wall region as ghul. “Tasalus will be busy, questioning them all,” Trennus muttered.

  That evening, he and Saraid retreated to the Veil for a while. There was hope at the moment. Not much, but enough to kindle a spark in both their hearts. And their spirits twined and became one in the deep green of their Woods. Wild-heart?

  Yes, dear one?

  Would you like to have another child?

  Very much so. Is now the time, though?

  He stroked her face. When there is death around us everywhere, when better to bring forth new life?

  And Saraid smiled up at him before they left once more, whispering, We will need to choose a name, in nine months.

  Assuming the world has not ended? I will do so happily.

  Zaya looked down at the stacks of papers on her desk, grainy-eyed. She’d been able to ‘interpret’ the damnable Phaistos Disc in a dream. But even after years of effort, she could make nothing of the text on Prometheus’ tablet. It was still Linear A text, the same as the Disc. But it was unintelligible to her. For all she knew, it contained an excellent recipe for grilled beef ribs.

  Somewhere in the Archive, there was an answer that could stave off the mad godlings. Could save the world. Her mother didn’t have time to do the research. Most of the Magi were out on the front lines. Only archivists like herself were really here anymore, researching spells for others to use. And she could feel the answer sometimes, pulsing like a heartbeat, somewhere in the stacks.

  She suspected that this was a fancy born of desperation, or ego, perhaps. Who didn’t want to be the hero who saved the world? Even if, in her case, she’d be the one who saved the world by running up to the real hero, and waving a piece of paper in his or her face. Oh, she wanted to find it, and give it to her mother. She wanted to find the ritual that would bring back the godslayers, and turn them loose on the godlings. All of them. Every last one.

  The last time she’d mentioned this to Maccis, his face had closed down. “If they could be here, and of use, they’d be here,” he told her. “I’m not sure I want to summon something else that would look at me, my mother, your father, or any of our siblings, Zee, and see a snack.”

  That had made her close her mouth with a click. He was right. Damnably, horribly right. If her dream-visions were at all correct, the godslayers wouldn’t hesitate, even for an instant, to kill a god-born. For no better reason than they happened to be in the way. And the price for summoning one did seem to be the identity, the soul of whoever became their ghul. Their host.

  But a niggling part of her whispered, At least getting rid of them after they killed the godlings would be a different problem.

  She hated seeing what the war had done to Maccis. There were scars not just on his body, but in his mind, and they were very evident. The slightly blank stare, which resolved itself into a sharper focus when he realized that she was taking to him. The jumpy reactions to loud noises. The fact that he slept so lightly, she couldn’t even turn over in bed without waking him. But then, everyone she met these days had similar scars.

  But there were improvements. This was the longest he’d been away from the front lines in six years. She’d even gotten him to talk a little about one of his more recent missions. Which hadn’t involved Persians at all, but being sent to find some Picts who’d gone missing. “We tracked them by scent,” he’d told her. “Found them north of Tyre, in one of the agricultural communities.”

  “What were they doing there?”

  “Giving me flashbacks to Novo Gaul, because the Carthaginians who’d taken them prisoner were sacrificing them to Baal-Hamon.”

  Zaya had stared at Maccis. “But . . . Baal-Hamon’s dead.”

  He’d slouched deeper into his chair, and stared off into space. “I know.”

  “Then why—?”

  “About all we got out of the leaders was that they thought they could bring him back with enough belief.” Maccis had scowled. “I’m no expert, but Aunt Lassair was nearly killed, once, long ago, and came back. Uncle Kanmi came back from death, and he knew his Name.” He closed his eyes, and tilted his head back, his body relaxing, though his mind clearly hadn’t. “I think if there’s even a tiny amount of them left—something attached to the Name, anyway—they can come back. It takes time, though.”

  “Then why didn’t any of the Egyptian gods come back, after Akhenaten?” Zaya challenged.

  Maccis opened one eye. “Maybe because one of your godslayers killed Akhenaten, who’d swallowed pieces and parts of all the other gods.
”

  Zaya had wanted to retort that they weren’t her godslayers, but stopped, struck. “So a godslayer is death to a god.”

  “Seems to follow the job description, yes.”

  “And regular death might not stop most gods?” She frowned.

  “I’d be willing to bet that the mad godlings are true death, too.” Maccis shuddered, and closed his eyes again. Breathing deeply. Forcing relaxation on himself. “Maybe there’s a time limit on it, for all I know. If you don’t get enough belief fast enough, it’s like CPR. You just can’t resuscitate.” He shrugged. “What do I know, though? It’s all just supposition.”

  She’d sat down beside him, and put a hand on his shoulder, feeling the muscles tighten at her touch. “So they were making sacrifices. To revive their god.”

  “A god who’s been worshipped as ‘torn to pieces and revived’ for the last two thousand years, yes. I suppose it made sense to them. The Picts, jotun, and fenris didn’t agree.” He’d opened his eyes again, as if to avoid whatever visions lurked behind the closed lids.

  And just last night, he’d held her hands, and asked her, very seriously, “Would you like to think about making this hand-fasting of ours a real marriage?”

  She’d blinked. “You mean . . . take off all my anti-fertility charms and stop taking the pill?”

  “We’ve been together since we were sixteen,” he told her, soberly. “I’m actually here for a bit. We could move to a larger apartment. We can fix up a nursery, pretend that we don’t know Aunt Lassair at all, and go to doctor appointments, and all the things that normal people do.”

  That made her laugh. It was the closest he’d been to humor in months. But she’d hesitated. The stern-faced stranger to whom she was married was so different from her laughing friend of many years, that she couldn’t picture having children with him. “Why now?” she finally asked.

  Maccis had looked down. “Because life goes on,” he finally replied, looking up. “It has to. If we wait around for the war to end, for the perfect moment, we might never actually have them.”

  “Is that the only reason?” Zaya asked, and saw a flicker cross Maccis’ face, quickly hidden.

  He sighed. “No. I . . . love you.” He shrugged, as if to try to convey how difficult it was to put this all into words. “And I’d like . . . to leave a mark on the world. Something that shows that I was here. That I made something that was worthwhile.” He looked away again, and the words slipped out, without his lips forming them, and Zaya sat rooted in shock. That I wasn’t just a waste of air and carbon. A machine that’s particularly good at killing. He looked surprised that the words had escaped him, and his lips compressed as he turned away.

  She moved over to sit beside him on the couch in their tiny living room. Stroked a hand over his hair, and he put his head down on her shoulder, still staring off into space. “You matter,” she told him, softly. “Everything you’ve done matters.” Zaya closed her eyes. “I don’t want to start tonight . . . but yes.” Her lips quivered. Maybe you’ll find yourself again, with a little creature who looks like you, running around.

  So they sat there, like an elderly couple, too fragile to move. When they went to bed, they made love as if they were strangers, new to each other’s bodies. And Zaya lay awake afterwards. Thinking of the pulse in the archives, and the words on the tablet that she couldn’t read.

  Find the answer. Save the world. Save Maccis’ soul.

  It was all the same thing, really.

  Pre-memory. The remembrance of things that were yet to pass, but that would occur.

  She told me a week ago that my son was going to be killed by Carthaginians, sacrificed to Baal, and now he’s dead! The voice was a wail in the corridor. Don’t let her say any more. I can’t live with hearing her tell me not to drop the scissors only to have them slip out of my fingers. I can’t listen to all the ways in which everyone I know is going to die . . . just . . . shut her up . . . .

  The valkyrie will know.

  The valkyrie is an unbeliever and a foreigner. She may choose not to care.

  Eight years of non-stop speech, unable to stop talking except when asleep, prophecy boiling out of her, had left her voice frayed and ragged. A diagnosis of nodules on the vocal cords. A week later, surgery. And then the surgeon’s hand slipped, leaving her unable to do more than whisper, and write her prophecy on what little paper they would bring her anymore . . . .

  Pre-memory was harsh. But also, confusing. Sophia stared at her nurse. “Your son’s alive?”

  “Yes, dear.” The nurse babbled with relief. “He was stationed up along that horrible forest, and a group of Carthaginians captured him, but he said a group of landsknechten stopped the ceremony. And then a Carthaginian sorcerer appeared, and destroyed the cult site. I didn’t get the whole story, but he swore that the sun rose at midnight, and all the Carthaginians were on their knees, and the sorcerer told them to get on their feet and made them watch the execution of their priests. It’s just a pity the whole lot of them weren’t fed to the lions. Say what you like about the Romans, but at least when they were around, the rule of law was stronger.” The nurse sniffed. “Oh, I know, we’re technically rejoining the Empire . . . .”

  Her voice faded out, and Sophia clamped her hands to her head. Prophecy said one thing. Reality said something else. And prophecy was being laughed and jeered at by prescience. Her own native talent. What would be was under attack by what had happened and what might be, and none of it made sense.

  Minutes later, or maybe hours, Sophia looked up, feeling the peaceful hum of her medications working within her. They kept a nice safe distance between her and the world.

  She realized, dimly, that she was locked down at her wrists and ankles, and couldn’t remember why, until she realized that she was on a gurney for her final trip to the dispensary. They couldn’t tolerate the prophecy anymore. Even Sigrun, battered and weary from eight years on the Persian front, just looked at her blankly as she whispered prophecies. Handed her the feeble pieces of paper with her words. And now the needle was prepared. Just a little too much morphine today, prepared by a nurse with shaking hands. They couldn’t take it anymore.

  She realized, dimly, that she was locked down at her wrists and ankles, and couldn’t remember why. But no voices at her door. No nurses whispering outside. Just cheerful voices from the nursing station, and the clatter of plates on carts. Smell of something bland, prepared by the kitchen in bulk . . . yes, poached eggs atop porridge.

  Pre-memory gave way to . . . whatever this moment was . . . and then she realized that she wasn’t alone in her cell—treatment room, dear, treatment room, it’s not a prison, you know!

  “Who’s there?” Sophia asked, stunned by the fact that, for a moment, she really didn’t know. Her own voice was startlingly loud in her ears, when it should have been a whisper.

  Why, it’s me, my own, said a male voice, like sun-warmed honey. Light burst into the room, blinding her, and she shook. Mirrorshaper was safe, the Godslayer was safe, and Worldwalker was safe, but no other men! Don’t say you haven’t missed me, the voice cajoled, and the light coalesced. Congealed into the form of a handsome young man with golden, wavy hair much like her own. The sky-blue eyes were mad, however, and Apollo giggled at her, reaching out to stroke her hair and face. The Fiery One isn’t here this time. He isn’t here, ready to defend you. I can see him, you know, hiding in the girl’s body. Hiding in a future that can’t be.

  She cringed away from his touch, straining at the leather cuffs that held her in place, her stomach churning. You know, Cassandra refused me her favors. After all I did for her, giving her the gift of foresight, she wouldn’t let me touch her precious body. All I wanted was to join her spirit and mine. And then I’d have had a conduit that Zeus wouldn’t have known about. Maybe a child. Zeus didn’t have to know about it. You know, he wanted her, too? Especially after he killed Prometheus. He needed a new seer. I had to protect her, didn’t I? So I made sure, beforehand, that no one
would ever believe her again. The stench of self-justification was ripe in the air. Apollo stroked a hand down her throat now, to her breasts, and Sophia screamed. Oh, stop that. Your fate isn’t hers. But they’ve been changing things. You’ve felt it. You’ve seen it. He leaned forwards, conspiratorially. If they can change things, so can I. I don’t have to die. He died in the now, and I died in the future, but the now-me doesn’t have to die. And you’re going to help me with that, sweet Sophia. He leaned forwards, and kissed her cheek. You’re going to give me that sweet body of yours. Oh, not like Cassandra. Cassandra was perfect. All that red hair. No, I’m going just going to take you. You’ll be my avatar. You’ll hold my essence. And we’ll be together forever, Sophia. Isn’t that nice?

  She screamed, and as he leaned forwards to kiss her, she threw up in his face.

  Sophia’s eyes snapped open, and for a disoriented moment, she had no idea where she was in time or space. She was on her feet, and her throat hurt, and the occupational therapist was giving her a reproachful look. “They’re just flowers,” the woman said, gently. “Look. Just hyacinths.”