“Of course.” Azaiah inclined his head. “Is there something you want?”
Nyx gave a short, bitter laugh. “Nothing you can give me, unless you’re in the habit of giving back what you took.”
“Eventually,” Azaiah said. “The river runs, Nyx. It is not stagnant. Every soul is a part of that river, flowing, a current. His spirit flows like the rest. It will find its way to these shores again.” He saw Nyx drawing breath and shook his head. “If what you seek are answers, then that’s what we’ll play for. A question answered for every hand won. Is that acceptable?”
The air shimmered between them, magic hanging heavy like the storm brewing outside that would never break. Thunder rumbled. Nyx swallowed hard, and finally he asked, “Do I have a choice?”
“In this? Yes. We could play the game for its own sake. But a man who strides into battle and faces my realm should not fear a simple game of cards.”
That, of course, roused the soldier in Nyx, and his dark eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
His dominance rose, and Azaiah smiled again, tapping his fingers on the board. “I don’t need to. You’re the dominant.”
“You’reDeath,” Nyx said, as if perhaps Azaiah had forgotten. “I’m probably already drunk.”
“No. I find games quite boring if my opponent lacks the faculties to play them.”
Nyx stared across the board at him. “That doesn’t stop you from taking us, though, does it. Drunk, sober, angry, sad, loved as we may be.”
“No,” Azaiah said in a soft voice. “It doesn’t. Well?”
Nyx cursed and ran a hand through his hair, then gave a wild laugh and drained his goblet. He picked up his cards. “Fine. But you go first. I’m used to countering death, not rushing at it. I go where the wars call me. I don’t make them.”
“That is not my realm, war. It belongs to another. But all right.” Azaiah placed his glass bead—pure black—on the starting position, next to Nyx’s, which was red. The color his sibling Ares used, which made sense. He placed the Empress on the table and waited.
Nyx studied his cards, his scowl fading and changing into an expression of fierce concentration. Azaiah could see the wisdom, the intelligence, in his eyes. Nyx was a soldier, but if Azaiah studied him, considered his heart, he could perceive… many things. The faded outline of an emperor’s crown on his brow. The spiked collar of a witch around his neck. A sword, for the soldier he was. But the strongest image of all was not a sword, but a shield.
Nyx countered with the Fool.
Azaiah’s brows raised. “An interesting choice. Would you explain how that card is more powerful than my Empress, please?”
“The Fool takes chances. He’s an opportunist. He’s innocent enough to think he might succeed. If he wants to kill an empress, he’d wait until she’s asleep, but he’d try it.”
“Would he succeed?” Azaiah tilted his head.
“I don’t know. Would he?” Nyx looked angry again. “It shouldn’t matter. What matters is the possibility. I should have known the gods don’t follow rules like us mortals, even if it’s just a fucking game of Winter.”
Azaiah’s smile grew. “I didn’t say you were wrong. And I was mortal, once. Very well, move your bead and ask your question.”
Nyx’s callused fingers nimbly snatched up the bead, moving it down the board. He glanced at Azaiah and then asked what everyone did, when given the opportunity. “Where do we go when we die?”
“I told you,” Azaiah said. “You go to the river. I take you there. And then, sometimes, I bring you back. As to what lies beyond the prow of my boat, the waters of the river of souls? I wouldn’t know. I myself never crossed it. Are you sure that’s your question?”
“I— Fine. You said you were mortal.”
“Yes.” Azaiah shuffled the cards as Nyx poured himself another goblet of wine. “Once, long ago now, I walked as a mortal in a village across the mountains, up near the winter sea. I was given to Death, who we called the Harvester, in the winter of my twentieth year.”
“Huh. And you just…” Nyx waved a hand. “Took up the job?”
“You asked your question. I do have rules, even if they do not make sense to you.”
“I’m probably asleep, aren’t I,” Nyx muttered, taking the cards, as it was his turn to deal. “I got drunk and fell into a stupor in this bar, and I’m wasting my dreams on you.”
Azaiah laughed softly, and outside the thunder rumbled again. “You’re not. You’ve dreamt of me before. But this is the first time we’ve met face-to-face.”
Nyx swallowed, hard, and played the Hierophant.
Azaiah countered with his own card. “Judgment casts the Hierophant low. How did you meet Tyr?”
