The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms

17. Relief

During those nights, those dreams, I saw through a thousand eyes. Bakers, blacksmiths, scholars, kings—ordinary and extraordinary, I lived their lives every night. But as with all dreams, I now remember only the most special.

In one, I see a darkened, empty room. There is almost no furniture. An old table. A messy, half-ragged pile of bedding in one corner. A marble beside the bedding. No, not a marble; a tiny, mostly blue globe, its nearer face a mosaic of brown and white. I know whose room this is.

“Shhh,” says a new voice, and abruptly there are people in the room. A slight figure, half-draped across the lap of another body that is larger. And darker. “Shhh. Shall I tell you a story?”

“Mmm,” says the smaller one. A child. “Yes. More beautiful lies, Papa, please.”

“Now, now. Children are not so cynical. Be a proper child, or you will never grow big and strong like me.”

“I will never be like you, Papa. That is one of your favorite lies.”

I see tousled brown hair. A hand strokes it, long-fingered and graceful. The father? “I have watched you grow these long ages. In ten thousand years, a hundred thousand…”

“And will my sun-bright father open his arms when I have grown so great, and welcome me to his side?”

A sigh. “If he is lonely enough, he might.”

“I don’t want him!” Fitfully, the child moves away from the stroking hand and looks up. His eyes reflect the light like those of some nocturnal beast. “I will never betray you, Papa. Never!”

“Shhh.” The father bends, laying a gentle kiss on the child’s forehead. “I know.”

And the child flings himself forward then, burying his face in soft darkness, weeping. The father holds him, rocking him gently, and begins to sing. In his voice I hear echoes of every mother who has ever comforted her child in the small hours, and every father who has ever whispered hopes into an infant’s ear. I do not understand the pain I perceive, wrapped around both of them like chains, but I can tell that love is their defense against it.

It is a private moment; I am an intruder. I loosen invisible fingers, and let this dream slip through them and away.

I felt the poor sleep keenly when I dragged myself awake well into the next day. The inside of my head felt muddy, congealed. I sat on the edge of the bed with my knees drawn up, gazing through the windows at a bright, clear noon sky and thinking, I am going to die.

I am going to DIE.

In seven days—no, six now.

Die.

I am ashamed to admit that this litany went on for some time. The seriousness of my situation had not sunk in before; impending death had taken second place to Darr’s jeopardy and a celestial conspiracy. But now I had no one yanking on my soul to distract me, and all I could think of was death. I was not yet twenty years old. I had never been in love. I had not mastered the nine forms of the knife. I had never—gods. I had never really lived, beyond the legacies left to me by my parents: ennu, and Arameri. It seemed almost incomprehensible that I was doomed, and yet I was.

Because if the Arameri did not kill me, I had no illusions about the Enefadeh. I was the sheath for the sword they hoped to draw against Itempas, their sole means of escape. If the succession ceremony was postponed, or if by some miracle I succeeded in becoming Dekarta’s heir, I was certain the Enefadeh would simply kill me. Clearly, unlike other Arameri, I had no protection against harm by them; doubtless that was one of the alterations they had applied to my blood sigil. And killing me might be the easiest way for them to free Enefa’s soul with minimal harm. Sieh might mourn the necessity of my death, but no one else in Sky would.

So I lay on the bed and trembled and wept and might have continued to do so for the rest of the day—one-sixth of my remaining life—if there had not come a knock at the door.

That pulled me back to myself, more or less. I was still wearing the clothes I’d slept in from the day before; my hair was mussed; my face was puffy and my eyes red. I hadn’t bathed. I opened the door a crack to see T’vril, to my great dismay, with a tray of food in one hand.

“Greetings, Cousin—” He paused, took a second look at me, and scowled. “What in demons happened to you?”

“N-nothing,” I mumbled, then tried to close the door. He slapped it open with his free hand, pushing me back and stepping inside. I would have protested, but the words died in my throat as he looked me up and down with an expression that would have made my grandmother proud.

“You’re letting them win, aren’t you?” he asked.

I think my mouth might have dropped open. He sighed. “Sit down.”

I closed my mouth. “How do you—”

“I know nearly everything that happens in this place, Yeine. The upcoming ball, for example, and what will happen afterward. Halfbloods usually aren’t told, but I have connections.” He gently took me by the shoulders. “You’ve found out, too, I suspect, which is why you’re sitting here going to rot.”

On another occasion I would have been pleased that he’d finally called me by my name. Now I shook my head dumbly and rubbed my temples where a weary ache had settled. “T’vril, you don’t—”

“Sit down, you silly fool, before you pass out and I have to call Viraine. Which, incidentally, you don’t want me to do. His remedies are effective but highly unpleasant.” He took my hand and guided me over to my table.

“I came because they told me you hadn’t ordered breakfast or a midday meal, and I thought you might be starving yourself again.” Sitting me and the tray down, he picked up a dish of some sort of sectioned fruit, speared a piece on a fork, and thrust this at my face until I ate it. “You seemed a sensible girl when you first came here. Gods know this place has a way of knocking the sense out of a person, but I never expected you to yield so easily. Aren’t you a warrior, or something like that? The rumors have you swinging through trees half-naked with a spear.”

I glared at him, affront cutting through my muddle. “That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“So you’re not dead yet. Good.” He took my chin between his fingers, peering into my eyes. “And they haven’t defeated you yet. Do you understand?”

I jerked away from him, clinging to my anger. It was better than despair, if just as useless. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. My people… I came here to help them, and instead they’re in more danger because of me.”

“Yes, so I’ve heard. You do realize that both Relad and Scimina are consummate liars, don’t you? Nothing you’ve done caused this. Scimina’s plans were set in motion long before you ever arrived in Sky. That’s how this family does things.” He held a hunk of cheese to my mouth. I had to bite off a piece, chew it, and swallow just to get his hand out of the way.

“If that’s—” He pushed more fruit at me; I batted the fork aside and the fruit flew off somewhere near my bookcases. “If that’s true, then you know there’s nothing I can do! Darr’s enemies are preparing to attack. My land is weak; we can’t fight off one army, let alone however many are gathering against us!”

He nodded, sober, and held up a new chunk of fruit for me. “That sounds like Relad. Scimina is usually more subtle. But it could be either of them, frankly. Dekarta hasn’t given them much time to work, and they both get clumsy under pressure.”

The fruit tasted like salt in my mouth. “Then tell me—” I blinked back tears. “What am I supposed to do, T’vril? You say I’m letting them win, but what else can I do?”

T’vril set down the dish and took my hands, leaning forward. I realized suddenly that his eyes were green, though a deeper shade than my own. I had never before considered the fact that we were relatives. So few of the Arameri felt human to me, much less like family.

“You fight,” he said, his voice low and intent. His hands gripped my own fiercely enough to hurt. “You fight in whatever way you can.”

It might have been the strength of his grip, or the urgency of his voice, but abruptly I realized something. “You want to be heir yourself, don’t you?”

He blinked in surprise, and then a rueful smile crossed his face. “No,” he said. “Not really. No one would want to be heir under these conditions; I don’t envy you that. But…” He looked away, toward the windows, and I saw it in his eyes: a terrible frustration that must have been burning in him all his life. The unspoken knowledge that he was just as smart as Relad or Scimina, just as strong, just as deserving of power, just as capable of leadership.

And if the chance were ever given to him, he would fight to keep it. To use it. He would fight even if he had no hope of victory, because to do otherwise was to concede that the stupid, arbitrary assignment of fullblood status had anything to do with logic; that the Amn truly were superior to all other races; that he deserved to be nothing more than a servant.

As I deserved to be nothing more than a pawn. I frowned.

T’vril noticed. “That’s better.” He put the dish of fruit in my hands and stood up. “Finish eating and get dressed. I want to show you something.”

I had not realized that it was a holiday. Fire Day; some Amn celebration I’d heard of, but never paid much attention to. When T’vril brought me out of my room, I heard the sounds of laughter and Senmite music drifting through the corridors. I had never liked the music of this continent; it was strange and arrhythmic, full of eerie minors, the sort of thing only people with refined tastes were supposed to be able to comprehend or enjoy.

I sighed, thinking we were headed in that direction. But T’vril cast a grim look that way and shook his head. “No. You don’t want to attend that celebration, Cousin.”

“Why not?”

“That party is for highbloods. You’d certainly be welcome, and as a halfblood I could go, too, but I would suggest that you avoid social events with our fullblooded relatives if you actually want to enjoy yourself. They have… odd notions of what constitutes fun.” His grim look warned me off further questioning. “This way.”

He led me in the complete opposite direction, down several levels and angling toward the palace’s heart. The corridors were bustling with activity, though I saw only servants as we walked, all of them moving so hurriedly that they barely had time to bob a greeting at T’vril. I doubt they even noticed me.

“Where are they all going?” I asked.

T’vril looked amused. “To work. I’ve scheduled everyone on rotating short shifts, so they’ve probably waited until the last minute to leave. Didn’t want to miss any of the fun.”

“Fun?”

“Mmm-hmm.” We rounded a curve and I saw a wide set of translucent doors before us. “Here we are; the centeryard. Now, you’re friendly with Sieh so I imagine the magic will work for you, but if it doesn’t—if I disappear—just return to the hall and wait, and I’ll come back out to get you.”

“What?” I was growing used to feeling stupid.

“You’ll see.” He pushed the doors open.

The scene beyond was almost pastoral—would have been if I hadn’t known I was in the middle of a palace hovering a half mile above the earth. We looked into some sort of vast atrium at the center of the palace, in which rows of tiny cottages bordered a cobblestone path. It surprised me to realize that the cottages were made, not of the pearly material that comprised the rest of the palace, but of ordinary stone and wood and brick. The style of the cottages varied wildly from that of the palace, too—the first sharp angles and straight lines I’d seen—and from cottage to cottage. Many of the designs were foreign to my eye, Tokken and Mekatish and others, including one with a striking bright-gold rooftop that might have been Irtin. I glanced up, realizing that the centeryard sat within a vast cylinder in the body of the palace; directly above was a circle of perfectly clear blue sky.

But the whole place was silent and still. I saw no one in or around the cottages; not even wind stirred.

T’vril took my hand and pulled me over the threshold—and I gasped as the stillness broke. In a moment’s flicker there were suddenly many people about, all around us, laughing and milling and exclaiming in a cacophony of joy that would not have startled me so much if it hadn’t come out of nowhere. There was music, too, more pleasant than the Senmite but still nothing I was used to. It came from much closer, somewhere in the middle of the cottages. I made out a flute and a drum, and a babel of languages—the only one I recognized was Kenti—before someone grabbed my arm and spun me around.

“Shaz, you came! I thought—” The Amn man who’d caught my hand started when he saw my face, then paled further. “Oh, demons.”

“It’s all right,” I said quickly. “An honest mistake.” From behind I could pass for Tema, Narshes, or half the other northern races—and it had not escaped me that he’d called me by a boy’s name. That was clearly not the source of his horror. His eyes had locked on my forehead and the fullblood circle there.

“It’s all right, Ter.” T’vril came up beside me and put a hand on my shoulder. “This is the new one.”

Relief restored color to the man’s face. “Sorry, miss,” he said, bobbing a greeting to me. “I just… well.” He smiled sheepishly. “You understand.”

I reassured him again, though I was not entirely sure that I did understand. The man wandered off after that, leaving T’vril and I to ourselves—inasmuch as we could be alone amid such a horde. I could see now that everyone present wore lowblood marks; they were all servants. There must have been nearly a thousand people in the centeryard’s sprawling space. T’vril was so good at keeping them unobtrusive that I’d had no idea there were this many servants in Sky, though I suppose I should have guessed they would outnumber the highbloods.

“Don’t blame Ter,” T’vril said. “Today’s one of the few days we can be free of rank considerations. He wasn’t expecting to see that.” He nodded toward my forehead.

“What is this, T’vril? Where did these people…?”

“A little favor from the Enefadeh.” He gestured toward the entrance we’d just walked through, and upward. There was a faint, glasslike sheen to the air all around the centeryard, which I had not noticed before. We stood within a huge, transparent bubble of—something. Magic, whatever it was.

“No one with a mark higher than quarterblood sees anything, even if they pass through the barrier,” T’vril said. “An exception was made for me, and, as you saw, we can bring others through if we choose. This means we can celebrate without highbloods coming here to ogle our ‘quaint common-folk customs’ like we’re animals in a zoo.”

I understood at last, and smiled as I did. It was probably only one of many small rebellions that the lowblood servants quietly fomented against their higher-born relations. If I stayed in Sky longer I would probably see others…

But, of course, I would not live long enough for that.

That thought sobered me at once, despite the music and gaiety around me. T’vril flashed me a grin and let go my hand. “Well, you’re here now. Enjoy yourself for a while, hmm?” And almost at the moment he let me go, a woman grabbed him and pulled him into the mass of people. I saw a flash of his red hair among other heads, and then he was gone.

I stood where he’d left me, feeling oddly bereft. The servants celebrated on around me, but I was not part of it. Nor could I relax amid so much noise and chaos, however joyous. None of these people were Darre. None of them were under threat of execution. None of them had gods’ souls stuffed into their bodies, tainting all that they thought and felt.

Yet T’vril had brought me here in an attempt to cheer me up, and it would’ve been churlish to leave right away. So I looked around for some quiet spot where I might sit out of the way. My eyes caught on a familiar face—or at least, it seemed familiar at first. A young man watched me from the steps of one of the cottages, smiling as if he knew me, at least. He was a little older than me, pretty-faced and slender, Tema-looking but with completely un-Tema eyes of faded green—

I caught my breath and went over to him. “Sieh?”

He grinned. “Glad to see you out.”

“You’re…” I gaped a moment longer, then closed my mouth. I had known all along that Nahadoth was not the only one among the Enefadeh who could change his form. “So this is your doing?” I gestured at the barrier, which now I could see above us as well, like a dome.

He shrugged. “T’vril’s people do favors for us all year; it’s fitting we should pay them back. We slaves must stick together.”

There was a bitterness in his tone that I had not heard before. It felt oddly comforting in comparison with my own mood, so I sat down on the steps beside him, near his legs. Together we watched the celebration in silence for a long while. After a time I felt his hand touch my hair, stroking it, and that comforted me further still. Whatever form he took, he was still the same Sieh.

“They grow and change so fast,” he said softly, his eyes on a group of dancers near the musicians. “Sometimes I hate them for that.”

I glanced up at him in surprise; this was a strange mood indeed for him. “You gods are the ones who made us this way, aren’t you?”

He glanced at me, and for a jarring, painful instant I saw confusion on his face. Enefa. He had spoken as if I was Enefa.

Then the confusion passed, and he shared with me a small, sad smile. “Sorry,” he said.

I could not feel bitter about it, given the sorrow in his face. “I do seem to look like her.”

“That’s not it.” He sighed. “It’s just that sometimes—well, it feels like she died only yesterday.”

The Gods’ War had occurred over two thousand years before, by most scholars’ reckonings. I turned away from Sieh and sighed, too, at the width of the gulf between us.

“You’re not like her,” he said. “Not really.”

I didn’t want to talk about Enefa, but I said nothing. I drew up my knees and rested my chin on them. Sieh resumed stroking my hair, petting me like a cat.

“She was reserved like you, but that’s the only similarity. She was… cooler than you. Slower to anger—although she had the same kind of temper as you, I think, magnificent when it finally blew. We tried hard not to anger her.”

“You sound like you were afraid of her.”

“Of course. How could we not be?”

I frowned in confusion. “She was your mother.”

Sieh hesitated, and in it I heard an echo of my earlier thoughts about the gulf between us. “It’s… difficult to explain.”

I hated that gulf. I wanted to breach it, though I had no idea if it was even possible. So I said, “Try.”

His hand paused on my hair, and then he chuckled, his voice warm. “I’m glad you’re not one of my worshippers. You’d drive me mad with your demands.”

“Would you even bother answering any prayers that I made?” I could not help smiling at the idea.

“Oh, of course. But I might sneak a salamander into your bed to get back at you.”

I laughed, which surprised me. It was the first time all day that I’d felt human. It didn’t last long as laughs went, but when it passed, I felt better. On impulse, I shifted to lean against his legs, putting my head on his knee. His hand never left my hair.

“I needed no mother’s milk when I was born.” Sieh spoke slowly, but I did not sense a lie this time. I think it was just difficult for him to find the right words. “There was no need to protect me from danger or sing me lullabies. I could hear the songs between the stars, and I was more dangerous to the worlds I visited than they could ever be to me. And yet, compared to the Three, I was weak. Like them in many ways, but obviously inferior. Naha was the one who convinced her to let me live and see what I might become.”

I frowned. “She was going to… kill you?”

“Yes.” He chuckled at my shock. “She killed things all the time, Yeine. She was death as well as life, the twilight along with the dawn. Everyone forgets that.”

I turned to stare at him, which made him draw his hand back from my hair. There was something in that gesture—something regretful and hesitant, not befitting a god at all—that suddenly angered me. It was there in his every word. However incomprehensible relationships between gods might be, he had been a child and Enefa his mother, and he had loved her with any child’s abandon. Yet she had almost killed him, as a breeder culls a defective foal.

Or as a mother smothers a dangerous infant…

No. That had been entirely different.

“I’m beginning to dislike this Enefa,” I said.

Sieh started in surprise, stared at me for a long second, then burst out laughing. It was infectious, though nonsensical; humor born of pain. I smiled as well.

“Thank you,” Sieh said, still chuckling. “I hate taking this form; it always makes me maudlin.”

“Be a child again.” I liked him better that way.

“Can’t.” He gestured toward the barrier. “This takes too much of my strength.”

“Ah.” I wondered suddenly which was the default state for him: the child? Or this world-weary adult who slipped out whenever he let his guard down? Or something else altogether? But that seemed too intimate and possibly painful a question to ask, so I did not. We fell silent awhile longer, watching the servants dance.

“What will you do?” Sieh asked.

I lay my head back on his knee and said nothing.

Sieh sighed. “If I knew how to help you, I would. You know that, don’t you?”

The words warmed me more than I’d expected. I smiled. “Yes. I know, though I can’t say I understand it. I’m just a mortal like the rest of them, Sieh.”

“Not like the rest.”

“Yes.” I looked at him. “However… different I might be—” I did not like saying it aloud. No one stood near enough to us to overhear, but it seemed foolish to take chances. “You said it yourself. Even if I lived to be a hundred, my life would still be only an eyeblink of yours. I should be nothing to you, like these others.” I nodded toward the throng.

He laughed softly; the bitterness had returned. “Oh, Yeine. You really don’t understand. If mortals were truly nothing to us, our lives would be so much easier. And so would yours.”

I could say nothing to that. So I fell silent, and he did, too, and around us the servants celebrated on.

It was nearly midnight by the time I finally left the centeryard. The party was still in full swing, but T’vril left with me and walked me to my quarters. He’d been drinking, though not nearly as much as some I’d seen. “Unlike them, I have to be clearheaded in the morning,” he said, when I pointed this out.

At the door of my apartment we stopped. “Thank you,” I said, meaning it.

“You didn’t enjoy yourself,” he said. “I saw: you didn’t dance all evening. Did you even have a glass of wine?”

“No. But it did help.” I groped for the right words. “I won’t deny a part of me spent the whole time thinking, I’m wasting one-sixth of my remaining life.” I smiled; T’vril grimaced. “But to spend that time surrounded by so much joy… it did make me feel better.”

There was such compassion in his eyes. I found myself wondering, again, why he helped me. I supposed it made a difference that he had some fellow feeling for me, perhaps even liked me. It was touching to think so, and perhaps that was why I reached up to cup his cheek. He blinked in surprise, but he did not draw back. That pleased me, too, and so I yielded to impulse.

“I’m probably not pretty by your standards,” I ventured. His cheek felt slightly scratchy under my fingers, and I remembered that men of the island peoples tended to grow beards. I found the idea exotic and intriguing.

A half-dozen thoughts flickered across T’vril’s face in the span of a breath, then settled with his slow smile. “Well, I’m not by yours, either,” he said. “I’ve seen those showhorses you Darre call men.”

I chuckled, abruptly nervous. “And we are, of course, relatives…”

“This is Sky, Cousin.” Amazing how that explained everything.

I opened the door to my apartment, then took his hand and pulled him inside.

He was strangely gentle—or perhaps it only seemed strange to me because I had little experience to compare him against. I was surprised to find that he was even paler beneath his clothing, and his shoulders were covered in faint spots, like those of a leopard but smaller and random. He felt normal enough against me, lean and strong, and I liked the sounds that he made. He did try to give me pleasure, but I was too tense, too aware of my own loneliness and fear, so there were no stormwinds for me. I did not mind so much.

I was unused to having someone in my bed, so afterward I slept restlessly. Finally in the small hours of the morning I got up and went into the bathroom, hoping that a bath would settle me to sleep. While water filled the tub, I ran more in the sink and splashed my face, then stared at myself in the mirror. There were new lines of strain around my eyes, making me look older. I touched my mouth, suddenly melancholy for the girl I had been just a few months before. She had not been innocent—no leader of any people can afford that—but she had been happy, more or less. When was the last time I’d felt happiness? I could not recall.

Suddenly I was annoyed with T’vril. At least pleasure would have relaxed me and perhaps pulled my mood out of its grim track. At the same time it bothered me to feel such disappointment because I liked T’vril, and the fault was as much mine as his.

But on the heels of this, unbidden, came an even more disturbing thought—one that I fought for long seconds, caught between morbid, forbidden-thrill fascination and superstitious fear.

I knew why I had found no satisfaction with T’vril.

Never whisper his name in the dark

No. This was stupidity. No, no, no.

unless you want him to answer.

There was a terrible, mad recklessness inside me. It whirled and crashed in my head, a cacophony of not-quite-thought. I could actually see it manifest as I stared into the mirror; my own eyes stared back at me, too wide, the pupils too large. I licked my lips, and for a moment they were not mine. They belonged to some other woman, much braver and stupider than me.

The bathroom was not dark because of the glowing walls, but darkness took many forms. I closed my eyes and spoke to the blackness beneath my lids.

“Nahadoth,” I said.

My lips barely moved. I had given the word only enough breath to make it audible, and no more. I didn’t even hear myself over the running water and the pounding of my heart. But I waited. Two breaths. Three.

Nothing happened.

For an instant I felt utterly irrational disappointment. This was followed swiftly by relief, and fury at myself. What in the Maelstrom was wrong with me? I had never in my life done anything so foolish. I must have been losing my mind.

I turned away from the mirror—and as I did the glowing walls went dark.

“What—” I began, and a mouth settled over mine.

Even if logic hadn’t told me who it was, that kiss would have. There was no taste to it, only wetness and strength, and a hungry, agile tongue that slid around mine like a snake. His mouth was cooler than T’vril’s had been. But a different kind of heat coiled through me in response, and when hands began to explore my body I could not help arching up to meet them. I breathed harder as the mouth finally relinquished mine and moved down my neck.

I knew I should have stopped him. I knew this was his favorite way to kill. But when unseen ropes lifted me and pinned me to the wall, and fingers slipped between my thighs to play a subtle music, thinking became impossible. That mouth, his mouth, was everywhere. He must have had a dozen of them. Every time I moaned or cried out, he kissed me, drinking down the sound like wine. When I could restrain myself his face pressed into my hair; his breath was light and quick in my ear. I tried to reach up, I think to embrace him, but nothing was there. Then his fingers did something new and I was screaming, screaming at the top of my lungs, except that he had covered my mouth again and there was no sound, no light, no movement; he had swallowed it all. There was nothing but pleasure, and it seemed to go on for an eternity. If he had killed me right then and there, I would have died happy.

And then it was gone.

I opened my eyes.

I sat slumped on the bathroom floor. My limbs felt weak, shaky. The walls were glowing again. Steaming water filled the tub beside me to the brim; the taps were closed. I was alone.

I got up and bathed, then returned to bed. T’vril murmured in his sleep and threw an arm over me. I curled against him and told myself for the rest of the night that I was still trembling because of fear, nothing else.