It started as a wave of pain as something tried to enter his body, and Adam fought it, hard. Oh no, you son of a bitch. You don’t get me without a fight. You need something to carry you around in this world. But you don’t get it for free. Nothing for nothing, you son of a bitch. And my price is change. Humans change. Humans strive. You cannot claim to be the ideal of us if you do not change. His finger tightened on the trigger of the god-touched weapon in his hand, and he could feel shock within him, resonating. He was threatening the creature. He was resisting it—he had the power to resist it. Whether it was the lingering remnants of Freya’s apple, Adam’s own innate will, or something more, Adam ben Maor was wrestling with a spirit, Jacob against the angel, and they were equally matched.
—Why do you fight me? You and I are the same. We are one. We always have been, disunited on the opposite sides of time—
We are not the same. You are not me. I am not you.
—I am every human ever born. I am the children who die in their sleep, I am the mother who lies wakeful as she tends the sickly child, I am the father who dies to defend them, I am the child who laughs as she crosses the rippling stream, I am the woman who dances in the waves, I am the man who loves them all. I am all of you. I am everything that is best in you.
No. You are a monster. You are the shadow that comes in the night—
—And have you not come by shadow and darkness to the dwelling-places of your enemies and laid them low? Have you not defended your family and friends and kin, by the skill of your body and the quickness of your wits? I am you.
That’s my training. That’s not who and what I am.
—Have you not walked in the shadow of death, and feared that evil would take you?
I have. Many times. I do so, even now.
—I am not evil. I am your perfection. I am that which lies ahead of your species, I am what you are now, I am what you once were. I am all of you. I am the best of you.
Everything that does not change eventually becomes evil. My people sacrificed children, once, long ago, and thought it good. And now it is evil, because we have evolved our moral code. You are outside of time. You claim to be us, you claim to be me, but you do not understand us. You do not understand me. Adam’s heart was hammering, his breath came in short, harsh pants, and sweat trickled down his face, as if he were, once more, on the sparring mats. Fighting someone two or three times his size, and immovable as granite. In two thousand short years, how much have humans changed? We’ve split the atom. We’ve risen to the stars.
—You still fight wars. You still murder one another. You still lie and cheat and steal. That is the part of you that has not achieved perfection—
You still don’t understand. Part of being human is never being perfect, but always striving to rise! If you are perfect, then by definition, you are not human! You cannot personify us! You cannot understand us, never having erred. Without weakness, without regret. You cannot understand us without understanding sorrow. You cannot be us without flaw! Adam’s finger tightened on the trigger as he felt the creature push deeper into his essence. You cannot be me, unless you know sorrow. Unless you know uncertainty. Unless you understand the struggle.
Hesitation. The creature was, suddenly, unsure of itself. —I am what I am, I am what I have always been—
Then be me, Adam said, his lips pulling back from his teeth. I’m not the apotheosis of humanity. I’ve tried to be the best that I could be. I always have. I know I’ve failed. Time and time again. But usually, I’ve gotten back up and tried again. This is me . . . getting up off the damned ground. You think you can manage it, godslayer?
His hands shook. There was terrible pain along his back as his spine contorted, growing, and he growled out loud, fighting it. He would not be some monster. He would not be nine feet tall and covered in spikes and plates. The nightmare, the hunter from out of our darkest dreams, is a child’s vision, Adam hurled at the creature. If you would be the Ideal of Man, be what we could be, not what we most fear in ourselves.
The pain along his spine eased, and he looked down and watched, in mild horror and fascination, as his skin began to ooze fluidic silver metal, seeping out of the pores like mercury. Solidifying into thin but strong plates, but the joints remaining fluid, in many respects. The best armor I’ve ever seen, Adam thought, distantly, his mind drifting back to his wedding day, and the antique armor he’d found such fault with at the time. Covers everything. Leaves perfect articulation for ease of motion. Probably even bullet-proof. Maybe even blast-resistant . . . should have a self-contained breathing apparatus . . . and don’t tell me that I won’t need it . . . .
. . . of course I/we will need it. Limitations are the very essence of what it means to be human. You/I know that. We’ve always known it . . . .
Except now, it wasn’t as if he were talking to some other creature inside of his own skull. It was as if he were just speaking to himself. Only the faintest of echoes. Even the other voice sounded like he did, to himself. Did you accept the bargain?
Of course I/we did. You/we were right. Humanity is not made up of just its perfections, but its imperfections. In order to be the ideal human, you have to be humanly weak, humanly strong. Humanly flawed, and humanly striving. You and I are one. We always have been, on opposite sides of time. The other bodies I have inhabited . . . they did not understand what you understand. You are the first to have come so far. You are the first who has remained who you are. And thus, we are one. As we always have been.
. . . I don’t understand.
You will. In time.
Adam stood, realizing that he was taller than he’d been before. Just a few inches, really. The ancient knucklebone crumbled to dust in his hand, scattering across the desk, but Inti’s god-touched weapon shifted in size, matching the size and armored condition of his hands. His body no longer screamed with the indignities of age; he felt no particular need to empty his bladder, and the annoying ache in his prostate had vanished. His knees no longer ached. His hips and back no longer shot fire along his nerves. He felt . . . good. He felt young.
And most of all, he felt human. He didn’t feel like a god had invaded him. He didn’t feel like a monster. He covered his face with his free hand, hearing the slide of metal on metal, and wondered if that was permanent. Doesn’t matter. You’re good for one more battle. One last battle. Now get out there and fight. Not with teeth and claws, but with your damned mind, and with the weapon a god gave a godslayer. Go save the world one more time, Adam ben Maor. You owe it to everyone who’s put up with you this long.
Adam turned and started to leave, and paused. Picked up his wedding picture and cupped it in his hand. “Sorry, Sig,” he said, quietly. “Sorry it took me so goddamned long. I had to do it . . . my way, I guess.”
He set it back down, and then blew out the kerosene lamp. As he stepped out into the night, he could feel the mad godlings outside of Jerusalem, starting to move in past the borders. He could faintly make out the shifting curtain of blue-green light overhead—the defense shield that Erida and Minori had designed.
And as he stepped out the door of his house, he came face-to-face with Trennus Matrugena, who stared down at him, swore, and took a step back. “Guardian!” Trennus said, sharply. “What are you doing out of the Veil? What are you doing in Adam’s house? I’m here to carry him to the Veil, if he’ll finally let me take him there.”
Oh . . . harah. Oh . . . god. I am . . . who I’ve always been. Adam tried to pull the metal over his face away, and it flowed back from his face at his intention. He had no idea what his face looked like under the mask, but Trennus took another step backwards, his face going taut in the faint light of the defense shield. “It’s me, Tren. It’s just . . . me.” His jaw worked. “I’ve spent enough time on the bench, Tren. I’m in the fight now.”
Trennus stared at him, in mingled horror and shock. “Adam . . . it’s over. The gods of Valhalla have fallen.” The shock that went through Adam’s heart rocked him, and he drop
ped to a crouch, his breath catching painfully in his chest. “Zaya’s dead. Erida and Zhi are in mourning, and they’ve pulled the archives to Kanmi’s Library.” Trennus ran a hand over his braids, and swore under his breath. “It’s time to retreat, and take as much of humanity to the Veil as we can. Wait out the mad ones, and start over again. The way Kanmi and I have been planning. Come on . . . Guardian. I guess you always did know how it was going to end.”
Adam shook his head helplessly. “I . . . can’t. I read the scroll, Tren. I’m a godslayer now. I can’t enter the Veil. The creatures of the Aether can’t enter the Veil. You know that. We’re Order, Tren, and the Veil is Chaos.” The words came from deep within him, sure and certain knowledge. “The others of my kind are changeless. I’m the only one who can change.”
“You sound like Adam, but . . . you’re . . . one with each other now.” Trennus looked deeply rattled, and Adam could see his hands on the technomantic device Kanmi had made for him, years ago. The one that could flash-burn binding circles into the ground inside of a second. “And yet, I’ve seen you in the Veil—” Trennus paused. “Oh, gods. An echo. You’ve been there before. The Guardian’s an echo . . . no. He’s too powerful to be an echo—”
“Doesn’t matter,” Adam said, woodenly. The gods of Valhalla have fallen. Sig’s dead. “I’ll cover your retreat. I’ll kill as many of them as I can, Tren. You get everyone . . . you get everyone you can into the Veil. And I’ll try to make sure you’ve got a world to come back to, someday.”
Trennus reached out, and very carefully put a hand on Adam’s shoulder, clearly shying a little away from the touch of the metal. “I’ll go with you. What’s one more last stand?”
Adam shook his head. “Go do your job, Worldwalker,” he said, turning away and letting the armor come back over his face, covering over the agony within in polished silver. I didn’t just lose her trust in me, or her love. I lost her to the darkness.
But the older wisdom in him now whispered of doubt, as he raced away, each step carrying him tirelessly through the night. You’ve seen death die before. Do you really think that she’s dead?
He leaped, feeling the ease of it, and caught the edge of a roof, hauling himself over the side, clambering up, swiftly. Then he leaped again, traversing from building to building, until he’d reached the edge of town, and stood atop a five-story office building, barely breathing hard. He had no idea how he’d done it, but he’d covered thirty miles in minutes. All right. There might be some benefits to being a godslayer.
Adam drew his god-touched weapon, and Caliburn shifted in his hands, converting from a simple pistol to something he’d only imagined as a child, reading his science fiction tales, or watching them at the cinema. The weapon lengthened, becoming the size of a rocket launcher, and he settled it on his shoulder. He scanned the horizon, and found the first mad godling, in the distance, clearly visible to him now. This is a true bringer-of-chaos. Not the Veil spirits, necessarily. Caliburn, responding to his imagination and his need, produced a targeting reticle, and Adam crouched atop the roof . . . aimed . . . and fired.
The gun had always fired the tears of the sun, or plasma. Now a bolt of plasma raced across the night sky, accelerated to an appreciable fraction of the speed of light, and under his metal mask, Adam ben Maor smiled without mirth as the godling he’d targeted rocked in the sky, and then split apart, its energy dissipating harmlessly into Judea’s soil. Every other godling in the immediate vicinity stopped moving. He could sense them, clearly, turning. Evaluating, trying to ascertain from whence this new power had come. Which only gave him more targets. All right. I don’t know if you creatures can kill me. But it’s my fault that you’re here. And it’s my job to remove you from this world. Come find me in the desert. Come find me in the dark.
Trennus walked into the darkness of a house he knew almost as well as his own, shaking. He knew what he’d seen. An impossibility, on so many fronts. The young face of Adam ben Maor, beneath the fluid-metal visage of the Guardian . . . and both were revealed as a godslayer. Not a. The. The godslayer. The Assassin. The one that stalked Adam’s dreams even into the Veil, forming the shadow under his feet. Except . . . different. Trennus felt cold, and old. Was it really still him? Trennus shuddered. He couldn’t risk having whatever Adam truly was around Saraid. Around the children. Unless he was the Guardian, in which case, Trennus had already been trusting him with the Wood in the Veil for . . . years now. Tren’s stomach twisted, and he frankly didn’t know if he should feel betrayed or relieved. Verb tenses and the Veil. Gods, what am I doing? I don’t have time for any of this . . . .
His steps had taken him to Adam’s study, and Trennus suddenly understood why his subconscious had brought him here. Adam had made him executor of his estate, decades ago. And had told him to take care of Sig for him, in the event of his inevitable death. All right. I don’t know if Sig’s alive. Saraid and Lassair can’t hear her. But I’ll do what I can. His will . . . probably useless, in the event that the world dies tonight. But I’ll take what I can. For whoever survives. He could see in the dark easily now, and picked up the loose wedding ring and picture, with unerring accuracy, and pulled open the desk drawer, picking up the envelope inside. His will? Did he revise it? Do I have any last instructions?
Neshama, Sigrun—
I’m writing in Latin, cold, hard language that it is. It’s perfect for science and reason, and an impeccable source of vulgarities, but for words of the heart, I find it lacking. I could try Hebrew. A perfect language for philosophy, mysticism, and squabbling with the neighbors, but there’s no more softness in its sounds than in Latin. I could write in your Gothic runes, stark-looking things that they are, fit for carving into stone. No. There’s no good language for love on this world, Sig. Nor for what I want to say to you now.
If you receive this letter, beloved, if you live, forgive me. I still love you. You said your goodbye, and I understand why you did. I’ve broken your heart every day for six years. You may damn me for listening to Sophia’s prophecy. Her words have haunted me for decades, and it took me a long time to understand what she was talking about. I have wanted nothing more than to defeat that particular piece of prophecy . . . but it’s stalked me, Sigrun. And I knew it was going to catch me when I read the scroll Zaya and Trennus located in the Temple archives.
I told Nith once, years ago, that if I became this creature, if I lost myself . . . that dead was dead. Whatever mortal shell was left, if it threatened you, he should kill it, and feel no remorse. I trust that he will relieve you of the burden of having to look into the visage of one you once loved, and ending his life. If I survive, and ever return to myself . . . and if you survive . . . you may still never forgive me. And I will understand. But I had to see my path to my own end.
You’ve always said that there is no fate; there’s only wyrd. The path we walk in life, where we’re born, that, we have no choice in. Nor can we control the choices of others that change the shape and direction of the path. But our own decisions, and those with whom we choose to share that path . . . those we control. I have been privileged to share the road with you, Sigrun. I’d do it all over again. Every minute of it. Other than the last six years. Those, I regret.
I’m sorry for having hurt you. You went ahead of me, and I couldn’t follow. Couldn’t, wouldn’t. Doesn’t matter which now. I didn’t. I was afraid, and for the first—the only time in my life—I let fear turn me into a coward, or at least into an indecisive fool. All my choices led me down this path. It’s not a path that you could follow, any more than I could follow yours. If you ever read this, I beg your forgiveness for that. And if you don’t, let this stand as my testament to the world that I never knew where the choices I was making—or refusing to make—really led.
I feared for my soul, though I held to the customs of a god that I am no longer sure I have any faith in. And now I have to put it on the line anyway. If this process destroys all that I am, I will have been justly punished. And if any shred o
f who I was remains in my body . . . I pray that I will remember you. Or whoever, or whatever the creature is, who will then exist, will remember you, at any rate.
I love you. Be well, Sigrun. And if I deserve even a whisper of hope . . . my spirit may someday come to you. Because strange though it may sound . . . . I want to believe in you.
Adam
Tren’s eyes only skipped over the opening paragraph, before he tucked it back into the envelope. A man’s last words to his wife were sacred, and he wouldn’t intrude on them. But his throat tightened, regardless. “Gods damn it, Adam,” Trennus swore under his breath. “Why didn’t you talk to me about this? Why did you have to go and do such a gods-be-damned stupid thing for? I don’t think I can take you to the Veil. I can’t . . . .” We were less without Kanmi. And we knew all along that we were going to be less when you left us. But did you have to pick this way? A way with no return? The floorboards buckled underfoot, and Trennus had to rein in the grief-fueled anger and frustration; even his subconscious, these days, tended to resonate with the ley-lines.
The Goddess Embraced (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 3) Page 174
