Adam nodded, his heart twisting in him, numbly. “Maybe. This is . . . what I can do. I can’t just stand here, doing nothing—”
“When did you plan to start your suicide mission?” Her voice was distant.
“Sophia always said that the world would end on Caesarius thirty-second of this year. Our wedding anniversary. That’s why . . .” Adam swallowed. “I wanted you to be here. With me. Till the end. And then get as far away from me as possible. In case the creature . . . tries to kill you.”
Sigrun turned away, weeping silently, like a heart-broken child. If you do this, Adam . . . it can’t be undone. I can’t call the dead back to life. Even Fritti’s gift is a transfer of life, from one who no longer wishes it, to one who needs it more. I cannot make life, where there is none. The words hit his mind like needles of ice, driven before the wind.
“I wouldn’t let someone else die for me, Sig. You almost did that once, and that was enough—“
I never asked you to die for me. I asked you only to live with me. She looked up, her body still shaking from her silent, inward-turned sobs, and flinched away as he reached for her, once more. I beg you not to do this, Adam. If you do this, we are done. Forever.
“I may not have a choice—” He needed her to know that he didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to freeze himself into an Ideal. But he also needed her to know that he was the only person who should do this. Not Maccis, not Zaya, not Rig. Him, not them. Because that was . . . right.
“Yes, you do. You’re mortal. You have all the choices in the world.” Sigrun pulled herself upright. “If I survived the battle, I was willing to return and remain until one or both of us died. But if you turn yourself into this . . . ghul, this Immortal, this abomination that destroys everything it touches . . . there won’t be anything left of you. And if I live, I will never forgive you for it.”
Adam’s lips compressed. “Even if I help save the world?”
“How can you save anything by becoming solely destruction?” Sigrun’s voice caught.
“I might ask you the same thing.”
She closed her eyes. “Please, Adam. Just . . . come with me. Let me give you what I can, and . . . then you won’t have to . . . .”
He shook his head, aching inside. “I can’t. This is something I have to do. I’m the only one who can . . . should . . . do this.” Everything I have done, has made me who I am, and what I am. “Sig, it’s possible that they aren’t the essence of destruction.” He rubbed at his eyes. “We only think of them that way because Veil spirits and their followers are the ones who’ve written history.” He winced; saying that to a god-born, even one as intelligent as Sig, was probably not going to win him many points. “It might not unmake me. If Zaya’s translations are even remotely true, the . . . human part might survive. Might come back after the entity is done . . . using the body.” Even though Zaya suspects that they don’t live long, mostly because they’re suddenly vulnerable and surrounded by an outraged populace.
“Zaya’s translations are the work of a romantic girl who sees what she wants to see,” Sigrun snapped back, harshly. “And even she saw that the godslayers turned on good people for the crime of being god-born. She says they believe the interaction with Veil spirits has corrupted our world. That the Veil’s touch on this reality is an error that must be rectified.”
“The stone one that fought the pazuzu didn’t turn on anyone—”
“Because the pazuzu had mostly killed it, too. It crumbled into dust, Lassair said.” Sigrun’s expression stayed taut. “Unimpressive. When the pazuzu betrayed us, Nith killed it with little more than a flick of his claws.”
Adam blinked. “Last I heard, it was your vassal. Nith killed it?”
“He executed it for oath-breaking.” Sigrun’s words lacked inflection.
Adam wrestled with the knowledge that the pazuzu had once almost killed all of them. Easily. But since then, Sigrun had executed Apollo of Delphi, herself. So far beyond where I can go, he thought, tiredly, and tried to bring the conversation back on point. “A godslayer let Nefertiti and her children escape—”
“Probably only because it couldn’t reach them, with the palace falling on its head. Or else the entity had slipped away again, leaving nothing but the human behind to make the ethical decision to allow an innocent woman and her children to live. What does it say about these creatures, that they override a human’s free will, and then leave the human vessel behind to deal with the consequences? Used and then abandoned? Some gods have done that, certainly, but not all of them. It’s not universal, as it appears to be with the godslayers.” Sigrun exhaled. “You said that if you did this, you’d want me as far away as possible. You have doubts.”
“I have nothing but doubts anymore!” It was a shout. “I don’t have a clear path. I haven’t for years. I’ve always relied on my own judgment, but yours was a touchstone for me, and—” He faltered.
Sigrun looked away. “You don’t trust my judgment anymore. Because of what I am.”
“That’s not true—”
“Don’t lie, Adam. You think my judgment is compromised because I can no longer see things as a human does. Or maybe it’s ‘as a human should.” Her voice was toneless. “You don’t believe in me,” she continued, her shoulders slumping. “You don’t, or you can’t, or you won’t. You barely believe in the god of your people anymore—” Adam’s mouth fell open, but Sigrun went on, “but you do believe in this thing. At least enough to lead you past your doubts. You’ve found evidence that you can accept, and that . . . is all you need to overcome all the ifs, maybes, and perhapses in the entire line of reasoning.” Her voice was empty, and she twisted off her wedding ring, and set it, very gently, down on the table beside him.
She was struck, suddenly, by the fact that she had no idea if the ring was real. She always envisioned herself wearing it. Like her armor, or her clothing. But she had no idea if this was the ring Adam had given her forty years ago. It distressed her that she didn’t know. That she couldn’t say for sure that this was the thing itself, and not some creation of her mind and will. A fake. But it looked real, where it glittered in the candlelight, white gold.
A spasm worked its way across Adam’s face as Sigrun went on, shaking, “If that’s your decision, then this is good-bye. I have watched you choose death over me for seven years. I cannot watch you choose the destruction of who and what you are, too. I cannot watch you turn yourself into a creature whose very existence is inimical to all that I am, to all I hold dear.”
He caught her hand in his, clutching it so tightly, he thought he heard the bones creak. “Sig. Please don’t do this. Don’t walk away from us.” He faltered. Don’t walk away from me. Please. I’m begging you. Put the ring back on. We’re supposed to be forever, you and me. “Don’t you understand that I’m doing this for you?”
Her eyes were clouded with tears. “Part of you believes that, Adam, but speak truth. Part of you wants to do this, for pride’s sake. For the chance to die with glory.”
“And why shouldn’t I?” Adam demanded, his heart aching. “Why should I die in my bed, when everyone around me is fighting to save the world? Why shouldn’t I stand up, Sigrun?” He felt his eyes narrow, and he thought, confusedly, Wouldn’t this make me your equal and your opposite, Sig? Maybe this is what Nith was trying to hint at . . . except if I become it, I will probably destroy you, or you’ll destroy me . . . . The thought brought with it a sudden glacial calm. “I’ll make you a deal, Sig. I won’t do it, till I know you’re dead.”
Sigrun shook her head. “No. No bargains. There have never been any between us. I won’t accept one now. I won’t salve your conscience by agreeing to this, in any way.” She met his gaze. “I have shared your steps along the road for half my life. And if wyrd is kind, you may turn back, and share my road once more.” She paused. “But when has wyrd ever been kind?”
Adam caught at her wrists, trying to keep her from leaving. “Sig, don’t go. I couldn’t let you leave without telling y
ou the truth—”
For once in my life, I wonder if a lie would not have been kinder. Sigrun regarded him, and leaned in to kiss his cheek, her lips like ice. Good-bye, Adam ben Maor.
Adam lowered himself into his chair, and picked up the wedding ring she'd left behind, and cradled it. It was small, suited for her slender, strong fingers. One moment of clarity, he thought, tiredly, feeling weak and old. Is that so much to ask?
But as always, no answer came. Adam buried his face in his hands, and away from every human eye, he wept.
______________________
Caesarius 25, 1999 AC
Mariana Livorus had endured months of captivity at the hands of the deranged Emperor Julianus, but now stared out the windows of the villa on the Palatine Hill that she’d once shared with her husband, watching ash fall from the skies. Vesuvius was erupting once more, and its indignation was carried by the wind to clog Rome’s streets. It wasn’t as pretty as snow, but it carried with it a certain funereal calm, limning every tree branch and building lintel in austere gray.
“Domina,” the majordomo told her, urgently, “there are riots nearby. Looting. You must go to the Palace.”
Mariana turned and looked at the man, sixty-eight to her nearly eighty. He’d kept the villa in excellent condition during her confinement at the Palace, though several walls were in need of repairs, thanks to earthquakes. “You understand why I hesitate.” Still, as she glanced back out the window, she could see dark figures running to one of the exquisite old houses down the street, and throwing rocks at the windows . . . to be met by gunfire from the villa’s guards. A pause, and then a bottle, filled with naphtha and stuffed with a burning rag arced through the air.
“Domina, you must go,” the majordomo repeated, gently taking her elbow.
Mariana carefully covered her hair with a shawl against the falling ash, and picked up the small suitcase that held all her reminders of her long relationship with Antonius Livorus. Jewelry. Theater tickets. Pictures, from the decades-long, discreet affair that had become the marriage between the sixty-five-year-old Livorus and the fifty-year-old Mariana. She glanced down the stairs, at the murals of capering Priapus, and gentle Flora, and sighed. “I’m sorry, my dear,” she told the empty air. “I can’t look after this for your children anymore.”
The majordomo, the cook, and the kennel-master were the last servants who’d remained. The kennel-master turned all the Moloser guard-dogs loose to protect the house for now, save one, which clambered into the motorcar with Mariana. Mariana waved both the cook and the kennel-master inside the automobile, as the majordomo set them careening through the ash-strewn streets for the palace. He was forced to detour around rioters several times. One man stood in the middle of the street, trying to block them, a bottle of flaming naphtha in one hand and a claw-hammer in the other. Mariana ducked as the hammer flew at the window, and exhaled in relief as it bounced; her dear Livorus had rated bullet-proof glass in his motorcars, at least.
To her shock, the majordomo picked up speed, and wasn’t trying to avoid the man who stood in their path at all. “What are you doing?” Mariana demanded, feeling her heart pound in her chest.
“Getting you out of here, before he stops us, and makes us a better target.” The majordomo’s fingers were white on the wheel, and Mariana, in the backseat, couldn’t reach out to stop him as he ran the man down. She thought that the shocked, disbelieving face of the man as the front fender hit him, and then vanished under the wheels of the automobile, with several sickening thuds, would stay with her for the rest of her life.
There was no Imperator in residence, of course. Young Caesarion hadn’t returned from Judea. Thus, the servants and the Praetorians were currently in charge of the palace . . . and the Praetorians had purged their ranks lately. Anyone who had supported Julianus’ excesses had been expeditiously executed, or imprisoned. They recognized Mariana’s motorcar, and admitted her through the iron gates of the enclave. And when she turned back to look down the hill at the rest of Rome, she could see that dozens of homes on Palatine Hill were burning. Swathes of the seven hills that made up Rome, proper, were on fire. Mariana sighed, and watched the gates close behind her. I am almost glad, Antonius, that you did not live to see our proud city come to this. I trust in the gods. Because I have no faith left in humanity.
Hundreds of miles to the north, the best metal-work of the dwarves, imbued with raw Veil energy, formed the shackles that bound Hades to the mortal realm, though Thor’s firm grip on the death-god’s neck just as surely prevented escape. You cannot do this, Hades protested, struggling to look back at Pluto, whose cowl hid face as he strode though the rugged terrain of the Alps. You cannot! You swore an oath. We are bound. If I die, if I am dissipated, then you have no surety. You, too, can die. No piece of you will exist in any realm. You will be nothing!
Pluto regarded the Hellene god dispassionately. That is not precisely true. I have a daughter now. Some of my essence will always exist, for so long as she does. This is how humans perpetuate themselves. Immortality gained through the species, if not the individual. He paused. I have seen millions of mortals go to oblivion for our sake. If I do the same, for theirs, it is of no great moment. And in the end? You betrayed my trust.
I followed the orders of Jupiter, when you hesitated—
Jupiter’s orders were folly, meant to preserve his own power, in the face of the destruction of all. You bound yourself to humans whose goal was the deaths of millions—
Hades glared at him. Then tell me, great judge, dread lord and sovereign, he hissed, how are my crimes less than those of Loki? Loki’s actions caused the deaths of millions!
The difference is intent, Pluto said, simply. Is this the correct place?
The gods there assembled, Juno, Venus, Vesta, Minerva, Mercury, Amaterasu, Baldur, Thor, Sekhmet, and Quetzalcoatl, studied the ground and air uneasily. The ley-lines bound the physical reality of this universe together. They were uncomfortable with interacting with them. This location seems stable, as predicted, Minerva finally assessed. The coordinates and the ley-lines match what Trennus Worldwalker, Truthsayer, and Prometheus have provided.
Hades tried one more time. You would put your faith in a mortal who has unNamed another? You would trust in Prometheus, whom Zeus punished for his pride and arrogance—
Pluto’s cowled head turned as everyone took their appointed places. Quetzalcoatl would take the forward position at the left, balanced by Minerva at the right. They were both war gods. Amaterasu, as powerful as she had ever been, stood at the far left, with Baldur behind her; Venus stood within the shelter of this ring of more capable warriors. To the right, beside Minerva, was Mercury, and further back, Sekhmet, to give the right flank another war goddess. Vesta stood within this ring. Venus had considerable power of her own, but Vesta was a hearth goddess. Pluto regretted bringing her, but they had so few gods left to stand and fight, that even she was needed. At the center of the two groups, Pluto, Juno, and Thor stood. And Juno, who’d held her silence all this time, spoke now, her tone acidic. I place my faith in Pluto, who has been a fair judge of men and gods alike. I place it in his ability to see into the hearts of others. You only deceived him because you were too close to him for him to see.
Lie if you wish, queen of the heavens. I could not have deceived Pluto if he had not wished to know! Now I am a scapegoat, a sacrifice that will let you overlook blood spilled between you—
Pluto’s essence felt like uranium—exceedingly heavy, and seething with dark energies. He’d never be sure in himself if what Hades said was true or not. From the surges of anger and unease that suddenly colored Quetzalcoatl, Sekhmet, and Thor, the words had found their mark. Your demise is a pitifully small recompense for the injustices we have all wreaked upon each other, Pluto replied. However, we all must begin somewhere. From under a fold of his robe, he produced a sword. It wasn’t black. It was the absence of light. Light bent in on it, folded, and died on the blade’s edge. It was the essence of his w
ill, and it took quite a bit of his concentration to maintain in a solid state, rather than to allow it to unwind into worms. But the worm-strike would cause him to absorb Hades’ power. He couldn’t do that now. Today, he was going to spill Hades’ blood, metaphorically, and invite the mad godlings to come sup.
He swung the sword, and Hades’ head didn’t fall from his shoulders. Rather, the avatar contracted in on itself, down to the size of an acorn . . . and then exploded back out again, sending power in a shimmering wave for hundreds of miles in every direction. At their backs, the Alps shuddered, snow falling in small clumps, and ridges of layered snow trembled before they collapsed in avalanches. To the north, the forested foothills that smoothed out into the valleys and lowlands that extended to the North Sea shuddered. The ley-lines lit up, a gilded fretwork of light, and some of the human works—the copper wires and the ley-stations that still stood, here and there—transmitted the power, as well. Trees all around the gods, winter-fragile and laden with ice and snow, fell and shattered in perfect, concentric rings, radiating out from Hades’ body.
All of the gods resisted the urge to absorb the power. Absorbing any of Hades’ essence would diminish the radius of their beacon’s light. Pluto let the sword dissipate, re-absorbing it back into his core, and pulled his cowl further over his face. And now . . . time must do what time does.
The Goddess Embraced (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 3) Page 152
