Nadia smiled at him. “It’s an arrow wound. I’ll survive.”
“But wounds can be infected. What if you…” Lamont glanced at Nyx, and his demeanor shifted, ice dripping from his words as he turned to the witches. “Why haven’t you seen to her care?”
“She’s been seen to,” Nyx said. It was odd, seeing Lamont worry about someone other than himself. His panic seemed genuine, and his hands shook as he grasped Nadia’s. “She has the best witch in the infirmary watching her.”
“Don’t lash out at your brother,” Nadia said. The dominance in her voice was a soft thing, light enough that Nyx could barely register it. But Lamont took a steadying breath and nodded, and Nadia squeezed his fingers. “Imagine, being fussed over by two princes.”
“One,” Nyx said, getting up. “I’ll let you talk.”
“Yes, I’ll have it under control,” Lamont said, gaze fixed on Nadia once more.
Nyx stepped back, uncertain. Usually, it was easy to tell when Lamont was trying to manipulate him. He was as subtle as an ox, and he couldn’t stop himself from gloating every few seconds, just to make sure Nyx knew what was happening. But with Nadia, he seemed focused, and Nadia treated him like a wayward brat who needed a gentle touch. Years of distrust warred with the quiet, earnest scene taking place at Nadia’s bedside, and Nyx wasn’t sure how to process it.
With Tyr gone, the world was changing, and now Nyx was cast adrift.
He stopped to speak to Halvor, who was leaning over Eimund, his half brother, who’d been struck with a spear that morning. They were hill lads, with pale skin that burned in the shade and yellow hair, and Nyx doubted Eimund would make it through the night. He suspected Halvor knew it, too, by the way he kept whispering into his brother’s ear, hands clenched in Eimund’s.
“We’ll go back when you’re better,” he said, as Nyx lay a hand on his back. “Get Ma to make that berry cake you like.”
“Ma’s dead, Hal,” Eimund whispered.
“Shut up, she’ll do it anyway.”
Eimund smiled, but his gaze was unfocused, and Halvor knelt to press his forehead to the cot. Eimund reached over to pet Halvor’s hair and looked up at Nyx. “He’s just a lad, sir.”
“I know,” Nyx said. “I’ll look after him.”
“No.” Halvor’s voice was muffled. “No, it’ll be you, Eimund. You’ll look after me. And I’ll look after you, too. That’s how it… should be.”
Eimund sighed, and Nyx let them have their space. He’d have to ask one of the ferrymen—one traveled with every campaign—to speak to Halvor, later. And he’d have to pull him away from the fighting for a while, put him to work in camp. He looked to the duty roster pinned to the tent wall and took a step toward it before slowing to a halt.
A soldier sat in the corner of the infirmary, watching him. They were in the proper uniform, but their eyes burned bright, and their red-tipped white hair was familiar. War smiled at Nyx and waved a hand, and Nyx approached them, dread building in his gut. “If there’s going to be an attack,” he said softly, “you should tell me.”
“Why?” Ares crossed their legs. “So you can stop it? That isn’t why I’m here.”
“Why are you here?”
Ares looked up at him, their smile wicked and sharp as a blade. “I’m curious about you, that’s all. You’ve spoken to my brother. What do you think of Death, now that you’ve seen his face?”
“Why would you want to know?”
“He’s my brother. War and Death, we walk together more than most. Just as Dreams and Art share their realms and Avarice trawls the depths for what Tempest has left behind. When a mortal calls to one of us, the rest listen.”
“I’m not calling to anyone,” Nyx said. “You’re coming to me.”
Ares shrugged. “So you think. But your people call to me when they ring their war bells. They call to me when they weep over the ones they’ve lost, promising to avenge them. And you call to my brother, soldier, because you, too, have walked with Death as I have. You have one foot in his realm already.”
Nyx shivered. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Mortals.” Ares rolled their eyes. “Yes, you do. Your lives are too short to spend your time feigning ignorance. Do you want to see him again?” Nyx hesitated, and Ares sat up. “Azaiah.”
Nyx struggled with the words. He didn’t want to say it—that it had been nice, last time, to speak with Azaiah. To weep with him, to grasp a small piece of time together and let the world around them fade into the distance. He opened his mouth, shut it again, and shoved his hands into his pockets. “You should leave,” he said.
“That’s a yes.” Ares stood. They were shorter than Nyx, but he stepped back anyway, and the air around Ares went hot as a hearth fire. Ares looked around the infirmary and gestured to Eimund and Halvor. “It’s easy to summon my brother, little soldier. All you have to do is kill.”
“Wait.” Nyx tried to intercept them, but Ares was already moving between the cots, boots soft on the tent floor. “Give them time.”
“He’s already fading,” Ares said. They stopped at Eimund’s bedside, and their armor shifted from the uniform of the empire to a backless leather breastplate and furs around their waist, like the warriors from the hills where Eimund and Halvor had been raised. Eimund looked up at them, and Ares lay a hand on Halvor’s bowed head.
