“Well, they say that when the rains spread the illness, people sacrificed pretty young submissives to Death, to be her companion. And when she found one she liked, the plague ended and the rain stopped. It was decided that Death should always have a companion, so we make shrouds to reflect that. Each shroud shows the companions of the person who passed—their friends or their lovers. Their family.”
“Yes.” Nyx thought of Tyr, and guilt stirred in his gut. Had he betrayed Tyr, by wanting to lie with the man who’d taken him across the river? Or was Tyr at peace, and what Nyx did now was irrelevant to him?
“We all carry someone with us,” Thena said. “Even when they’re gone. Just as Death carries us.”
“But Death doesn’t have a companion now.” Nyx stared up at the empty shroud. “He’s alone.”
“He has his ferrymen. He has the witches, who honor him and preserve his past.” Thena crossed her arms, looking Nyx up and down. “And, I wonder, does he have anyone else?”
Nyx was silent, but Thena didn’t rush to fill the emptiness. She just stood there, watching him. “I don’t know,” he said after a moment. “A companion to Death, they’d have to give up their mortal ties. Who would do that?”
“Someone who loved him, maybe.”
Nyx met her gaze. Thena’s expression was gentle. “What kind of person could love Death?”
Thena sighed. “You’ll have to answer that one for yourself. But if you want, you can stay here for a while, think it over. They say that sometimes, if you meditate in front of Death’s Shroud, you can see what you wish for. Or your future. Like everything, it’s up for debate.”
“What do you see?” Nyx asked, looking at the white shroud.
Thena shrugged, and there was something melancholy in her expression. “I see snow, and a wolf. No one can ever explain what it means, what you see. I think you aren’t supposed to know.”
Nyx approached the shroud but didn’t touch it. “I might stay here. Yes.”
“I’ll be upstairs. The door will lock when you go.” Thena moved past him, then stopped, doubling back. She touched his arm. “You know… sometimes it can hurt, to get to where we need to go. Sometimes it has to.”
Nyx nodded, and Thena left him, her soft footfalls fading down the corridor.
He looked up at the shroud. It was just an empty sheet hanging over stone, something a witch had probably woven on a loom long ago. He could replace it with his own bedsheet and no one would notice. It was strange how simple objects could be sacred. Humanity lent such weight to them.
Nyx sat on the couch. The shroud stared back at him, empty.
The world was changing. Tyr was gone. Nadia had somehow dommed Lamont into being halfway bearable. Nyx remembered Azaiah asking him what he would have chosen if he hadn’t been made a prince. Now he could feel that choice hanging around him, thick as the air before a storm. He’d never had the chance to consider what he could be without the empire.
He thought of Azaiah leaning over Eimund’s body. Smiling at Nyx over a cup of wine. His breath hot on Nyx’s skin, hands wandering, the press of their bodies. His likeness on a Winter card.
Perhaps Nyx’s ancestors had given pretty young submissives to Death. Nyx wasn’t particularly pretty, young, or submissive. But maybe, if he had the chance, he could do it. Kneel, though not for Death. For Azaiah. He could see what shape he’d take if he cast his imperial uniform aside.
A breeze caressed his face, and Nyx turned. The door beyond the hallway was closed, and the lights in the room—which had stayed when Thena left—didn’t flicker.
He looked to the shroud and gripped the edge of the couch with one hand.
The shroud was moving. Something was pushing through it from behind, an amorphous shape distending the cloth and rustling the hem. The shape of a face formed, a mouth filled with linen, hands pressed against the fabric. Nyx stood, breathing fast, as the shroud darkened, black staining the white threads from behind, and he nearly tipped the couch onto its back as the figure on the other side finally pushed through.
Azaiah emerged, the ends of his cloak slowly unraveling from the sheet, and lowered his hood.
* * *
Azaiah was briefly unsure where he was, which was a decidedly unusual occurrence. He’d been in his home, which was both in time and out of it, and felt the pull of a call like the flow of the immortal river that ran through his veins.
He’d waded into the river of souls, felt the way it ebbed around him, and sunk beneath the cool waters that felt like an embrace. When he surfaced, he was not on a battlefield or in someone’s home or village, but in a dark chamber hewn into living rock, pushing through a linen sheet.
He blinked, his eyes gradually focusing as awareness settled over him. He was in the Palace of the Moon, in the Crypts where the witches worked, with Nyx standing in front of him, wide-eyed. And dressed, for the first time in Azaiah’s experience, in clothing that was not armor.
Azaiah felt a pang of something very close to panic. Was he here for Nyx, to take him across the river? He’d been contemplating offering the companion bond when next they met for their game, but if it was too late—
No. It wasn’t. Nyx’s flame burned as bright as ever, nothing indicating that his soul should be released. Azaiah was profoundly glad.
He bowed. “My soldier. Did you call for me?”
