“Great Sun,” Eimund whispered. “I thought… You only come when…”
Ares bent over him. They lay a hand on his cheek, and Eimund gasped, then breathed out, chest convulsing. It looked like Ares was taking his breath from him, a small, insignificant ribbon stretching between them. Then Eimund fell limp, and Halvor looked up with a low moan. He grasped for his brother’s hands, and Ares stepped back, their uniform shifting again to the imperial colors.
“I’m also the god of the sun, to his people.” Ares shrugged. “I take them in battle, as an honor, and give them to my brother. He only gathers them after they’re gone, you see, but I can kill as I wish.”
Halvor wailed and threw himself over his brother as one of the witches tried to check Eimund’s pulse. He climbed into the cot with Eimund, sobbing, and Nadia and Lamont looked up from their whispered conversation as the witch called for a ferryman.
Nyx drew back, following Ares toward the entrance of the tent. “That was cruel. You could have given them more time to say goodbye.”
Ares fixed him with an impassive look. “He had a warrior’s death. His people will bury his first sword with honor. That should please you. And besides, he would have died soon enough.” Nyx ground his teeth, and Ares smiled. “Oh, you hate me now, don’t you? Well, you were never mine. Wait here, little soldier. My brother will come.”
Nyx turned his back on Ares, striding toward Halvor, and tried not to shudder at the sound of Ares’s low laugh. It faded as he approached Halvor, who saw him and grasped his arm as if he were drowning. Nyx pulled him away from his brother’s body, and Halvor shuddered in Nyx’s arms, whispering in his own tongue.
Nyx was still holding the lad when Azaiah stepped into the tent. He was in his black cloak, his hair spilling over one shoulder, and as he passed between the cots, several of the injured shivered or rolled away, hiding their faces. Nyx couldn’t be sure if they saw him or sensed him, but he did notice the young witch watching Azaiah intently, her bright eyes narrowed.
Azaiah bent over Eimund’s body, heedless of the people moving around him, and straightened again with a sigh. He turned to look at Nyx, who nodded, still holding Halvor.
A young man dressed in the black uniform of a ferryman came running into the tent. Ferrymen were the closest thing there were to priests of Death, but they mostly performed the rites of passing and comforted the grieving. This ferryman, however, saw Azaiah and dropped to his knees. Lamont stood, bewildered, and Nadia reached out to keep him still as the ferryman bowed until his forehead touched the floor.
“My lord,” he said. The infirmary was deathly quiet. Across the tent, the young witch made a sign of protection.
Azaiah approached the ferryman and crouched before him, his robes pooling over the floor. He touched the ferryman’s head and whispered something Nyx couldn’t hear, and the ferryman sat up, eyes shining. He nodded and stood, then glanced around at the quiet, attentive audience.
“I apologize,” he said. “His soul has already crossed the river. I’ll need his sword for the rites, and his brother.”
“I’m… I’m here.” Halvor pushed away from Nyx, moving unsteadily.
The ferryman took his hand and smiled. “Thank you. We will bless his sword together.”
Azaiah stood. He wasn’t looking at Halvor and the ferryman, but at Nyx. Nyx felt the witch’s gaze on him as he left the tent to stand outside, breathing in the fresh air. The sun was setting, and the clouds rolling over the sky were tinged with red and gold. Thunder rumbled overhead, and Nyx turned as Azaiah joined him.
“He had my sibling’s mark on his soul,” Azaiah said. They were close enough that Nyx could reach out and touch his sleeve if he wanted to, but he kept still, looking out over the field of flowers around the Needle.
“They didn’t have to kill him.” Nyx’s voice sounded thick in his own ears.
“It was, in its way, an honor. But one only his family will appreciate. The dead rarely concern themselves with the glory of their passing.”
Nyx took a shaky breath. “And the ferryman. He’s yours.”
“Yes, of course.” Azaiah looked at him. “I have many who help the dead come to my river.”
Nyx crossed his arms. “Ares said I had your mark on me. Do your ferrymen have your mark, too?”
Azaiah touched Nyx’s chin, and Nyx turned to look up at him. “No. It is not the same.”
Nyx knew he should go back into the tent. He had work to do. Lamont didn’t understand the rites and rituals that soldiers had to follow when one of their number died. But Azaiah was looking at him curiously, with that same hint of uncertainty Nyx had seen in him last time, and Nyx couldn’t pull himself away.
“There’s wine in my tent,” he said at last. “If you want a game.”
Azaiah smiled, and Nyx couldn’t suppress the thrill that ran through him. “Yes, my soldier. I would like that very much.”
* * *
Nyx’s tent wasn’t as empty as the last time; an oil lamp on a crate threw shadows over the canvas, a rug covered the ground, and his bedroll was lifted off the ground with a frame. He even had a small table with two chairs, a set of tin cups, and a bottle of wine already waiting. There also looked to be rations, bread and hard cheese, but Nyx pushed the plate away, seemingly uninterested.
“You have a few more things in here now,” Azaiah remarked as he took his place at the table. The air felt heavy, thick with tension that had nothing to do with death or dying. He pushed back the heavy hood of his cloak, watching as Nyx pulled off his gauntlets and sat across from him.
Nyx shrugged. “Nadia told me that I looked like a squire, having such sparse accommodations. But I don’t need much.”
