What he found was the god of art, standing on the dais, giggling wildly as she played with a puppet on several strings. It was a court jester, and it jerked and moved unnaturally as she wriggled her fingers and made it dance about. The only things left from his prior visit were the gauze curtains—tattered and stained—and the statue of the dancer, with a crack running down the front of it. Azaiah gaped in horror as the crack grew wider, just in the few seconds he was looking at it.
“Oh, hello, Azaiah,” Pallas said, in a cheerful voice that was as brittle as glass. “I don’t recall inviting you.”
“I don’t need an invitation,” he said, making his way up to her, the folds of his cloak drifting ghostlike over the stone floor. “Pallas, what is wrong here?”
“Nothing, darling brother. Everything is wonderful! I finally convinced all those hacks to pick up and leave—they weren’t bringing meanythingworth keeping. All of it was uninspired, dull. It wastrash. They might as well go throw their work in the sea, let Avarice hoard it. It’s only fit for him, anyway.”
From the distance came the sound of something breaking, and the strange melody swelled so loud that Azaiah had to cover his ears to block it out. It was hypnotic, and the statue cracked further as the music echoed through the throne room. Pallas only giggled again and made the jester dance, jerking to and fro on its strings.
Azaiah forced himself to walk up to her. “Sister,” he said gravely, grateful the music had ebbed somewhat. “There is something wrong with you. Where is your companion?”
“I decided I didn’t need one.” She smiled at him, and for a moment, he saw the truth: not a beautiful woman but the husk of one, cracked as the statue behind her.
The statue. Azaiah felt a rush of horror and turned to it, because—there was something there. No. Not something. Someone.
“Pallas!” He hurried over to the statue, and yes, there, the faintest hint of a human soul was just barely visible beneath the stone. “What have you done?”
“Hmm? Oh, that? Well, you see, that was going to be my companion. A dancer. She danced for me. I love dancers best—did you know that, Azaiah? I love how they use their very bodies, their physical form, to make art. And she was better than most, but, mm, not quite perfect. What is the point of art if it isn’tperfect?” The last came out shrill, accusatory.
Azaiah put a hand on the statue, leaning in to look at it. There, beneath the cracked stone, was a hint of human skin. Cold washed over him. “Pallas. You can’t do this. She’salive.”
“Who cares,” Pallas snapped, humming under her breath. “It’s ruined anyway. She was perfect for a bit, though. Before the crack. Not a single problem in her form—that’s why I kept her that way. Perfect, and that’s what I deserve.”
Around him, the temple was starting to shake.
He turned to her, sickened at her giggling, the way she was making her toy jump about, the melody she was humming with increasing fervor. “You’ve been corrupted. Sister. Come with me.” He reached out a hand. He would attend to the poor creature in the statue in a moment. “Let me take you home.”
“Iamhome, darling.” Pallas finally looked at him. Her face flashed into something monstrous, cruel, her rainbow-hued hair now lank and muddled as if all the colors had blurred together, grayish brown like the water from a brush dipped too many times to clean it. “This is my temple. It is where I am worshipped.” Her voice was a shriek, where before it had sounded like the loveliest of symphonies.
“Sister,” Azaiah repeated softly, concern and sorrow rising within him as the sound of thunder started in the distance. He held out his hand. “Please. Lay down your mantle and let me take you to rest. You are not what you once were. The time has come to pass your duties to another.”
“No one else will do itright,” she snapped, dropping the puppet so it lay in a heap of painted wood and string at her feet. “You have no power over me, Brother. You are not my death.”
“I could be,” Azaiah said. “If only you let me.” He left his hand extended, felt the weight of his scythe at his back. She saw it, too, and she must have also heard the thunder, because a flash of fear crossed her features and she took a step away from him. “Sister. Please.” His voice was aching, sad. He loved her. He did not want her to suffer. “You’re hurting. I can feel it.Please.”
There was a pause, and he saw into her heart, the aching tiredness, the frustration. She was exhausted, had been for some time, dissatisfaction burning the beauty from her, leaving her desperate. But there was nothing to be done for a god who was corrupted. She would need to move on, but he could not take her. In this, he was powerless to do anything but plead.
For a moment, it looked as if she might listen. She lifted a hand as if to take his, and wild hope stirred that she would come to him. But the crack on the statue grew even as they stood there, and the clatter of the broken pieces falling to the floor startled her, drew her attention away from Azaiah’s outstretched hand, the promise of rest that he could offer her.
“I will fix it all,” she muttered, moving back toward the edge of the dais. “I’ll make it perfect. I’ll find a companion, abetterone, and then it will come back. She—that bitch there, she wasn’t good enough. But someone will be, and when I find them, I’ll be fine. I’ll come back. I’ll fix it all.”
She was babbling, but though Azaiah tried to go to her, to offer again what only he could give her, she refused to listen, and the moment where he might reach her had passed. He was powerless to do anything but watch her turn and flee, feel her as she turned from the figure of a woman to the chorus of her terrible melody, discordant notes drifting on the wind until there was nothing left in the ruined temple but Azaiah, the sound of thunder, and a puppet lying motionless and limp on the floor.
And the statue. Azaiah could do nothing for his sister, but he could helpher, the woman who had been frozen in her dance for— He didn’t know how many days she’d passed there, but a single second was too long, and there had certainly been more than a few of those.
Azaiah took two steps to the statue, and the last of it finally cracked and fell at his feet. Left behind was a woman, on the edge of death and unable to do anything but stare at Azaiah. The blissful expression was frozen on her face just as it had been on the statue, but her eyes were terrified, tears slipping down the mask of joy she’d been forced to wear.
“It’s all right,” Azaiah said, reaching out a hand to her. This one, he knew, would take it. “I’m here. I’ll bring you to rest. Come with me.”
The woman’s soul came forth, and with a rush, the spirit threw itself at Azaiah, sobbing into his chest. “Thank you, Lord. Oh, thank you,thank you.”
Azaiah gently patted her back, then took her hand and began to walk with her, down the steps and out of the throne room, out of the temple that was falling down around them. By the time he had her safely away from it, he knew if he looked back, all he would see was a ruin.
But he did not look back. He took the spirit to the boat, to the river, and thought again of Nyx and the companion bond he knew he wanted to make with him. Thought of the thunder in the air, wondered whether rain would follow and his domain, too, would crumble. Only he would not take one woman and a temple with him. He would take the world.
“The river awaits,” he said to the spirit. “Let us leave this place behind.”
* * *
