“That doesn’t mean you can just show up and whisk her off,” Nyx said, dominance threading his words. Even though, of course, they both knew that Azaiahcould.
Nyx won the next hand, countering Azaiah’s Tower with the Emperor—strength and rule over chaos and despair. They both stared at the cards on the table for a long moment, and then Nyx glanced up at him.
“I’m not wearing anything under these clothes,” Azaiah said, and this time it was Nyxwhose cheeks burned for a moment.
“You mentioned your sister… Art, you said? Will you tell me about her? About the gods? I’m curious how many of you there are, and if I’m going to have all of you showing up in my war camp.”
Azaiah shook his head, smiling. “Doubtful. All right. There is my sister, Pallas, whose realm is art and who dwells in Kallistos, in her favorite temple. She inspires painters, musicians, dancers, sculptors. She is very close with my brother Somnus, who is the Lord of Dreams.”
“I suppose that makes sense,” Nyx said. “Is he the same god who brings nightmares, though? Because fuck him. Sorry. No, wait. I’m not sorry. I’d like to talk to him about a couple of mine.”
Azaiah raised his eyebrows, waiting.
Nyx scowled. “No. No, never mind, I’m full up on visits from gods. Go on.”
Azaiah felt the command in Nyx’s words, but he didn’t mind. It was lovely, like the warm weight of a blanket settling around him, or the familiar, heavy wool of his cloak. “And Ares; you’ve met them. We have always been close, since I first took on the Harvester’s mantle—that’s what we called Death, where I’m from.”
“Whereisthat, exactly?” Nyx shook his head, groaning. “Right, one question at a time.”
“There’s my brother Leviathan, who swims in the depths of the sea and causes storms, cyclones, that sort of thing.”
“What a nice guy,” Nyx murmured, sipping his wine.
“He is, actually,” Azaiah said. “Well. Most of the time, he’s a dragon. And nice enough, if you don’t try and take his baubles.”
Nyx choked on his wine. “I’ll… keep that in mind. I’ve got enough on my plate fighting humans; I don’t need to go adding a dragon into it.” He blinked. “I think I know someone who’s seen him.”
“I don’t doubt it. He’s rarely concerned about being seen in his true form. Few see him walk as a man, though.” Azaiah had never been sure why that was. He’d have to ask. “And there’s my brother Avarice. He is, ah.” Azaiah tried to think how to explain. “Once, I believe, he was Desire. He lives in a well, beneath a ring of perfectly dark water in the southern sea. People throw trinkets into his well, and they used to make wishes. But now they toss stolen gems into the sea and ask for another’s misfortune in return, which is why he is no longer called Desire, but Avarice.”
“I see. Is Ares… have they, too, been changed by the actions of humans?” Nyx clicked his tongue. “Sorry. Another question, I know.”
“No. War has never been anything but what it is, Nyx. Desires change. Desire changed with them. War endures.”
“What happens if— No, it’s your turn, go ahead.” Nyx ran a hand through his hair. “I barely believed the gods existed at all, and now look at me.”
Azaiah did look at him. He was lovely, there in the light of the tent, strong and fierce with a soul that burned so bright it warmed even Azaiah. And it was difficult to think about his cards, suddenly, rather than the bedroll behind them, the sounds that had filled the camp the last time Azaiah had been with Nyx.
He shifted in his chair and countered Nyx’s Five of Pentacles with the queen of the same suit. “Will you have to marry?” he asked, after moving his bead the correct number of spaces. “Since you are a prince, and empires require heirs.”
Nyx snorted, shuffling the cards as he spoke. “No. I’m not that kind of prince. I was taken in because it’s believed having two children is unlucky, so I’m a spare. I could marry, if I wanted, but it’s never been suggested I take a spouse, no. I… don’t have anyone I would want to marry, either. I’ve done enough for the Empire. I won’t bring some innocent person into that family, if I can help it.”
Azaiah nodded, though he wondered about Nyx’s feelings toward his foster family. He didn’t ask, and it was Nyx who won the next hand and the right to ask a question.
“What about you? Can gods… marry? Do they?”
“Not marry, exactly, but we can have companions. It’s called a companion’s bond. The one who served as Death before me, she had one. My sister, Pallas, will soon make one with her beloved, a sculptor, I’m told.” He thought again of Pallas’s temple: the sense of wrongness, the brief flash of tattered gauze, improbable rain on his face. “Ares spoke of the practice when I last saw them. A companion ties us to humanity and keeps us from being corrupted.”
“But if it’s a human, they’ll eventually die,” Nyx said. “Wouldn’t that be difficult, to lose them one after another?”
“No, they don’t die. We share our divinity with them, and they give up their mortal ties to be with us until we pass on our mantle. Then they go with us to the world beyond, whatever that may be for those of us who walked as gods on the earth.”
Nyx shivered, and Azaiah was surprised to see him quickly make a protective sign—then flush, again, at being caught doing it. “Sorry. I’m not usually superstitious. But I don’t usually play games with Death and talk to War in an infirmary. How could Death be corrupted?”
“I could lose my compassion. My mercy. I understand there are many who think I have none, given none are spared my scythe… but that in itselfismercy. Your souls are meant to endure, but the bodies they inhabit are not.” Nyx had now asked several questions, but Azaiah answered anyway. “I am often called the Lord of Storms, but the name is inaccurate. Do you know why?”
Nyx didn’t point out that Azaiah hadn’t won a hand. “It doesn’t rain,” he said, after a moment. “It only… thunders.”
“Yes. If I were corrupted, I would bring the rain that floods the world, and that is not how Death is meant to be. I touch every life, eventually. But not all at once. I was chosen for my compassion, my willingness to serve this purpose, my understanding that death is not the end but a transition to something else. To wash the world in a flood of my power would not be compassionate. It would be…” He tilted his head, thinking of the right way to say it.
