Page 62 of Storm Front
The summons came when he was in Katoikos.
Azaiah was reclining on a bed of roses, two of his acolytes sprawled on the floor next to him. He rarely allowed them to touch him—though he would, sometimes, kiss them on the forehead in blessing when he left—but they seemed to like to be near him, weaving flower crowns and singing softly. They’d made him a necklace of gold coins on which they’d crudely drawn his face. It wasn’t a perfect likeness, but recognizable enough to one who’d seen him.
They liked to make him comfortable by piling flowers—with the stems and thorns removed—on the floor, giving him cold water and little gifts they thought he might like. He’d talked them out of that, for the most part, as he’d rather they keep their worldly possessions; he wasn’t his brother Avarice, to keep a hoard of useless human trinkets piled about him. So they brought him small offerings of fruit and flowers, and that was all right.
When he felt the pull, he almost ignored it. Azaiah’s ferrymen were plentiful. They could handle the crossings after simpler deaths: old age, the gentle end of a long illness, a fall in the woods. But this soul felt different, and he realized with a pang that he knew the person who was dying.
Terror assailed him, sharp as any blade, and Azaiah only calmed when he realized the soul calling out wasn’t Nyx. But it was someone close to Nyx, and while Azaiah’s fear receded, the grief did not.
No ferryman would take this particular soul. Azaiah would do it himself, for Nyx. Though he did not think Nyx would be happy to see him this time.
He rose to his feet, scattering rose petals and leaves, and made his way from the torchlit crypt, ignoring his acolytes’ pleas to “Stay, Lord, dance with us.” He wasn’t sure how long he’d spent here with them. It could have been hours, or days, or perhaps longer. Shaking off the strange malaise that assailed him when he was among the acolytes, he felt the cool waters of the river engulf him once more.
You must be careful,he thought, as if he’d been sleeping for some time, as if he’d fallen into dreams.The world continues above the crypt where your acolytes worship. You cannot hide there.
Azaiah emerged from his river in the Palace of the Moon and walked unseen toward the small soul that was calling for him. He passed groups of soldiers talking in low voices, looking around anxiously, but they didn’t notice him. Servants hurried about, also looking grim, yet it wasn’t grief that lay so heavy in the air butworry,uncertainty about what was to come that had nothing to do with the soul waiting for Azaiah.
He knew Nyx was here, could feel his presence at the back of his mind, and Azaiah mourned for him even as Death walked steadily down the passageways of the palace. He paid no attention to the whispers he heard, the talk of court politics and murder and intrigue. This was not his domain, and those events had no bearing on what was to come. He knew, though, as he walked, that he was going to find not only a soul to take to the river, but the man he loved distraught that he was there to take it.
Azaiah was in the crown prince’s room in mere moments. The empress, Nadia, was there, weeping, and Nyx paced at the foot of the bed, barking commands at a harried-looking palace physician. He glanced up when Azaiah entered, and his face went pale. “No.”
“My beloved, my soldier,” Azaiah said, his throat aching, “I am not here for you.”
“I know why you’re here,” Nyx growled, one hand on the hilt of his sword. “No.No. It’s not his time.”
“My love,” Azaiah said, but Nadia—who had been on the bed, weeping as she held the small, shaking body of her son—was on her feet, hands on her hips, glaring at Nyx.
“You tell him to go,” she snarled, picking up something from the table next to the bed—a vase, perhaps—and throwing it in Azaiah’s general direction. “Someone’s poisoned my child, and I won’t lose him tothat.”
But she would.
“Mom,” a little voice said, weak from coughing. “Uncle Nyx.”
“Shh, sweetheart,” Nadia said, still glaring. “You’re going to befine.” Her dominance fell like a hammer, but it would be of no help here.
“Don’t do this,” Nyx whispered, and his eyes were bright with tears. “Please. If I mean anything to you—”
Azaiah held up a hand. “You mean everything to me. But I cannot stop a soul when it is time for it to cross the river.”
“Youcan,though,” Nyx whispered, going to his knees. He swayed, exhausted. “Azaiah. Please.”
“Is that its name, the foul thing you have congress with?” Nadia hissed. “Gods aren’t meant to mingle with the living. You brought this on us, Nyx! You turned Death’s gaze our way, and now he walks uninvited into this house!”
“I walk uninvited everywhere,” Azaiah murmured, though Nadia could neither see nor hear him. “Nyx. My soldier. The boy is ready. I know it pains you. But his soul deserves peace.”
“His soul—he—deserves so much more than he was given,” Nyx snapped, but his voice caught, and his shoulders shook, head bowed. Azaiah had never seen him so defeated. “A better father, who loved him.”
He had that. He had you.Azaiah touched Nyx’s head, gently, but Nyx flinched.
Azaiah dropped his hand. “Your anger and your sorrow grieve me, my soldier. But you know in your heart that I will deny no soul the peace of my river.”
“Please,” Nyx whispered. “Just this once. Don’t take him.Please.”
It was neverjust this once,of course. Azaiah sighed and tipped Nyx’s face up to his. “I am not here to take his life, Nyx. Only his soul. Whether or not he boards my boat, the time for his life to end is upon us, and I cannot change that.”
“Liar. You can. I—I’ll do it,” Nyx said suddenly, grabbing Azaiah’s hand. “Make me your companion. Spare him, and I’ll leave with you, tonight, now. I’ll be yours forever.”
“Nyx!”
