“Lady Pallas said she would await you in her receiving room, Lord Azaiah,” one of them said, sketching a quick bow before she and her fellow priestess left him alone. He knew the way, of course, and took his time meandering there. Of all the places his various siblings called home—those who had a permanent residence—Pallas’s was one of the most interesting. Avarice’s cave deep in the sea was littered with trinkets that mortals threw to him, but most of them turned to rust nearly as soon as they drifted down to him. Leviathan, too, had a cave, but he guarded it with the single-minded focus of any dragon, so Azaiah had never tried to get a good look at it.
Pallas was less concerned with trinkets than withcreations, so her home was full of not only paintings, tapestries, and sculptures, but also the artisans who made them. Azaiah was used to navigating through a group of painters huddled around easels with a bowl of fruit on a table in the center, or weavers working at looms that ranged from lap-sized to nearly the height of a person. There were musicians and dancers in the courtyard, with artists sitting on large silk pillows to sketch, and the sound of flutes, lyres, and drums drifted throughout.
This time, though, the surroundings seemed… different. Perhaps it was the rain—Azaiah often forgot that storms could justhappen, as a result of his brother Leviathan’s influence or the mysterious force that governed nature and had nary a care for humansorthe gods that walked among them. But there were two painters in the hallway, one scowling at a blank canvas, the other furiously covering a scene with black pigment. Farther along, a man scribbled in a leather-bound book, then began muttering to himself and tearing out pages. While Azaiah didn’t know the melody the musicians were playing, something about the notes sounded… wrong.
The last thing he saw before entering Pallas’s reception room was a weaver sobbing as she pulled threads from her loom.
“Oh, look at you,” Pallas said as he closed the heavy door behind him. She was alone save for her pet artists of the moment, who seemed to be a painter and a weaver, both of whom were working quietly in the back of the room. “Much better! I’ll have to paint you before you leave. Now, darling, tell me, what brings you to my humble home?”
She took Azaiah’s hand, pulling him to the dais where she had her throne—which was the most elaborate thing Azaiah had ever seen. He could still remember the first time he came here, after he was chosen as Death’s successor. His little village, with their artisans who worked in open-air stalls, had not prepared him for a marble throne with two carved wings in the shape of waves embellished with painters, singers, weavers, dancers, and musicians so they looked like a tide rising and falling on the waves of creation.
“I spoke with our sibling Ares,” he began, hiding a smile as Pallas collapsed on the seat with a groan. “And he said to ask you about companion bonds.”
Something strange happened then. Pallas’s expression froze, then eased into a polite smile as easy to see through as glass. “Oh? What would old stompy boots know aboutthat? They don’t care about anyone who isn’t running a sword through someone else.”
“They care about me,” Azaiah said, arranging himself on one of the pillows on the floor. There was a statue behind Pallas’s throne, a dancer caught in a graceful pose, so lifelike it was hard to look away from. “And you. It was their suggestion I come here, after all.”
“Oh, stompy boots doesn’t like me. What does War know about art? Anything beautiful in their path, they don’t care.” She waved a hand. “But yes. I have a companion. Or I will, soon. Is that what they said?”
“Yes.” He glanced around as the weaver in the back sobbed and stood, tossing her loom and running from the room. He turned back to Pallas.
She shrugged. “Art is pain, darling. I’m sure you wouldn’t know about it, but it happens, being blocked. She’ll overcome it, and her work will be better for it.”
That might be true, but there was something strange in Pallas’s voice, something brittle. Still, that wasn’t what he was here to discuss, and he supposed it made sense the goddess of art would be discomfited if her acolytes were having difficulty with the creative process. “He told me about corruption. That I should find someone to stay with me, walk with me, keep me grounded.”
Pallas cast a brief look behind her, then shrugged and smiled that same sea-glass smile at him. “It’s a thought, yes. But honestly, darling, I don’t know if it’s true.”
Azaiah hadn’t thought of that, that Ares might bewrong. “But will I become corrupted if I don’t have a companion?”
“None of us has one yet, and we’re all doing fine, aren’t we? Oh, Mora did, but she was ridiculous, really, just the silliest. And I doubt it was a question of her being corrupted—it was more that she wanted her warrior queen at her side.” Pallas leaned forward, scanning the room. “I have a portrait of them… there, on the far wall, by the painting of you on the horse and the one of Avarice on his throne. See? The woman, there, with the helmet and the bow? That’s Mora’s companion. I’ve forgotten her name.”
Was… Pallas trying to change the subject? “They said it would start raining, if I was corrupted.”
Pallas looked annoyed again. “It’s raining rightnow, Azaiah. Do you feel anything strange? Do you think anything is different?”
“Yes, actually,” Azaiah said, but then paused. The difference he felt wasn’t him, buther. There was a brittleness to her he didn’t remember from their last visit, and he couldn’t stop thinking about the blank canvases, the one covered in black paint. Or the weaver, her threads lying tangled on the floor of the reception room. The notes of the melody he’d never heard before but knew weren’t the right ones. “Not due to the rain, though.”
“There you go,” she said. “Azaiah. You’re a kind soul. A sweet man. They did well, Mora and her queen, choosing you. But there’s nothing to worry about. Companion bonds are wonderful, yes, and I… will be making my own, as Mora did. But companionship isn’t about corruption, dear. It’s simply… companionship.” She smiled, but a crashing sound came from the hallway, and she couldn’t quite hide her flash of irritation. Perhaps being removed from mortals was better. It sounded like these were a bit… clumsy.
“Maybe you’ll know for certain once you’ve made your bond,” Azaiah pointed out. He looked at the statue again, then back at her. “May I meet your companion, Pallas? I would like to ask her a few questions.”
“Of course, but she’s sadly not here at the moment. To make the bond, you know, you give part of yourself to them. That means they will be immortal, as we are, but they’ll have to give up their mortal life to share yours. So Lilly—that’s her name—is putting her affairs in order before we make the bond.”
“How do you do that? Make the bond.” He thought of Nyx, then flushed, wondering if he were being absurdly presumptuous. Nyx had responsibilities. But he was, by his own admission, not fond of the family who had adopted him. With his Tyr across the river, maybe… maybe Nyx would take the opportunity to leave the empire behind and walk with Azaiah. Maybe he would want that, instead of fighting wars for an emperor he didn’t believe in, for an empire he seemed not to love.
“You simply decide that you want to, and then you make it.” Pallas waved a hand. “You say words, you… I’m not sure how to explain it, really. You can do it as simply or as extravagantly as you want, but it will result in your companion being something that you need.”
“That I need… for what?” Azaiah blinked. “I thought it wasn’t about corruption.”
“Who said it was? Companionship, darling. Sex? You know what that is, don’t you, pretty winter flower?”
Azaiah heard it, then. A thread of somethingwrongin her voice, as discordant as the notes of the melody filtering through the temple. “I do. That’s not unknown to me. Sex, submission.”
“You’re Death, sweetheart. Who dominates you?”
“I am at the mercy of humanity,” Azaiah reminded her. Wasn’t—wasn’tshe?Humans made the art that she inspired, didn’t they? He looked again at the statue, so beautifully rendered, so lifelike. How could anideamake that? It couldn’t. It had to be a human. “Ares is a submissive. And they don’t seem to mind it. Should it—should I not kneel for someone, if I want to?”
“Of— Azaiah, this is all lovely, of course, seeing you, but I’m so curious. Are you saying that you came here because our sibling, the embodiment of destruction and war and slaughter, told you if you don’t make a companion bond, you’ll… what? Send the world into death?”
