The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms

23. Selfishness

Tell me what you want, the Nightlord had said.

Something better for the world, I had replied.

But also…

In the morning I went to the Salon early, before the Consortium session began, hoping to find Ras Onchi. Before I could, I saw Wohi Ubm, the other High North noblewoman, arriving on the Salon’s wide, colonnaded steps.

“Oh,” she said after an awkward introduction and my inquiry. I knew then, the instant I saw the pitying look in her eyes. “You haven’t heard. Ras died in her sleep just these two nights past.” She sighed. “I still can’t believe it. But, well; she was old.”

I went back to Sky.

I walked through the corridors awhile, thinking about death.

Servants nodded as they passed me and I nodded back. Courtiers—my fellow highbloods—either ignored me or stared in open curiosity. Word must have spread that I was finished as an heir candidate, publicly defeated by Scimina. Not all of the stares were kind. I inclined my head to them anyhow. Their pettiness was not mine.

On one of the lower levels I surprised T’vril on a shadowed balcony, dangling a clipboard from one finger and watching a passing cloud. When I touched him, he started guiltily (fortunately catching the clipboard), which I took to mean he had been thinking about me.

“The ball will begin at dusk tomorrow night,” he said. I had moved to stand at the railing beside him, absorbing the view and the comfort of his presence in silence. “It will continue until dawn the next morning. That’s tradition, before a succession ceremony. Tomorrow is a new moon—a night that was once sacred to the followers of Nahadoth. So they celebrate through it.”

Petty of them, I thought. Or petty of Itempas.

“Immediately after the ball, the Stone of Earth will be sent through the palace’s central shaft to the ritual chamber, in the solarium spire.”

“Ah. I heard you warning the servants about this last week.”

T’vril turned the clipboard in his fingers gently, not looking at me. “Yes. A fleeting exposure supposedly does no harm, but…” He shrugged. “It’s a thing of the gods. Best to stay away.”

I could not help it; I laughed. “Yes, I agree!”

T’vril looked at me oddly, a small uncertain smile on his lips. “You seem… comfortable.”

I shrugged. “It isn’t my nature to spend all my time fretting. What’s done is done.” Nahadoth’s words.

T’vril shifted uncomfortably, flicking a few stray windblown hairs out of his face. “I’m… told that an army gathers along the pass that leads from Menchey into Darr.”

I steepled my fingers and gazed at them, stilling the voice that cried out within myself. Scimina had played her game well. If I did not choose her, I had no doubt she had left instructions for Gemd to begin the slaughter. Gemd might do it anyhow once I set the Enefadeh free, but I was counting on the world being preoccupied with survival amid the outbreak of another Gods’ War. Sieh had promised that Darr would be kept safe through the cataclysm. I wasn’t sure I entirely trusted that promise, but it was better than nothing.

For what felt like the hundredth time, I considered and discarded the idea of approaching Relad. Scimina’s people were on the ground; her knife was at Darr’s throat. If I chose Relad at the ceremony, could he act before that knife cut a fatal wound? I could not bet my people’s future on a man I didn’t even respect.

Only the gods could help me now.

“Relad has confined himself in his quarters,” T’vril said, obviously thinking along the same lines as me. “He receives no calls, lets no one in, not even the servants. The Father knows what he’s eating—or drinking. There are bets among the highbloods that he’ll kill himself before the ball.”

“I suppose there’s little else interesting here to bet on.”

T’vril glanced at me, perhaps deciding whether to say more. “There are also bets that you will kill yourself.”

I laughed into the breeze. “What are the odds? Do you think they’d let me bet, too?”

T’vril turned to face me, his eyes suddenly intent. “Yeine—if, if you—” He faltered silent and looked away; his voice had choked on the last word.

I took his hand and held it while he bowed his head and trembled and fought to keep control of himself. He led and protected the servants here; tears would have made him feel weak. Men have always been fragile that way.

After a few moments he took a deep breath. His voice was higher than usual as he said, “Shall I escort you to the ball tomorrow night?”

When Viraine had offered the same thing, I had hated him. With T’vril, the offer made me love him a little more. “No, T’vril. I want no escort.”

“It could help. To have a friend there.”

“It could. But I will not ask such a thing of my few friends.”

“You aren’t asking. I’m offering—”

I stepped closer, leaning against his arm. “I’ll be fine, T’vril.”

He regarded me for a long while, then shook his head slowly. “You will, won’t you? Ah, Yeine. I’ll miss you.”

“You should leave this place, T’vril. Find yourself a good woman to take care of you and keep you in silks and jewelry.”

T’vril stared at me, then burst out laughing, not strained at all this time. “A Darre woman?”

“No, are you mad? You’ve seen what we’re like. Find some Ken girl. Maybe those pretty spots of yours will breed true.”

“Pretty—freckles, you barbarian! They’re called freckles.”

“Whatever.” I lifted his hand, kissed the back of it, and let him go. “Good-bye, my friend.”

I left him there, still laughing, as I walked away.

But…?

But that was not all I wanted.

That conversation helped me decide on my next move. I went looking for Viraine.

I had been of two minds about confronting him ever since the previous night’s conversation with Nahadoth. I believed now that Viraine, not Dekarta, had killed my mother. I still did not understand it; if he had loved her, why kill her? And why now, twenty years after she’d broken his heart? Part of me craved understanding.

The other part of me did not care why he’d done it. This part of me wanted blood, and I knew that if I listened to it I might do something foolish. There would be blood aplenty when I got my vengeance on the Arameri; all the horror and death of a second Gods’ War unleashed. That much blood should have been enough for me… but I would not be alive to see it. We are selfish that way, we mortals.

So I went to see Viraine.

He did not answer when I knocked at the door to his workshop, and for a moment I wavered, debating whether to pursue the matter further. Then I heard a faint, muffled sound from within.

Doors in Sky do not lock. For highbloods, rank and politics provide more than enough security, as only those who are immune to retaliation dare invade another’s privacy. I, condemned to die in slightly more than a day, was thus immune, and so I slid the door open, just a bit.

I did not see Viraine at first. There was the workbench where I had been marked, its surface empty this time. All of the benches were empty, in fact, which seemed strange to me. So were the animal cages at the back of the room, which was stranger yet. Only then did I spot Viraine—in part because he stood so still and in part because with his white hair and garments, he matched his pristine, sterile workplace so thoroughly.

He was near the large crystal globe at the back of the chamber. I thought at first that he leaned against it in order to peer into its translucent depths. Perhaps this was how he had spied on me, in my lone, abortive communication with my assigned nations. But then I noticed that he stood slumped, one hand braced against the globe’s polished surface, head hanging. I could not see his free hand through the white curtain of his hair, but there was something about its furtive movements that rang an instant note of recognition within me. He sniffed, and that confirmed it: alone in his workshop, on the eve of his god’s once-in-a-lifetime reaffirmation of triumph, Viraine was crying.

It was weakness unbecoming of a Darre woman that this quieted my anger. I had no idea why he was crying. Perhaps all his evils had revived the tatters of his conscience for one moment. Perhaps he had stubbed his toe. But in the moment that I stood there, watching him weep as T’vril had managed not to, I could not help wondering: what if even one of those tears was for my mother? So few people had mourned her besides me.

I slid the door shut and left.

Foolish of me.

Yes. Even then, you resisted the truth.

Do I know it?

Now, yes. Then, you did not.

Why—

You’re dying. Your soul is at war. And another memory preoccupies you.

Tell me what you want, the Nightlord had said.

Scimina was in her quarters, being fitted for her ball gown. It was white—a color that did not suit her well. There was not enough contrast between the material and her pale skin, and the overall result made her look faded. Still, the gown was lovely, made of some shining material that had been further enhanced by tiny diamonds studding the bodice and the lines of the skirt. They caught the light as she turned on her dais for the tailors.

I waited patiently while she issued instructions to them. On the far side of the room, the human version of Nahadoth sat on a windowsill, gazing out at the early-afternoon sun. If he heard me enter, he did not look up to acknowledge it.

“I confess I’m curious,” Scimina said, turning to me at last. I felt a fleeting, petty sense of pleasure at the sight of a large bruise on her jaw. Was there no magic to quickly heal such small wounds? A shame. “What could bring you here to visit me? Do you plan to plead for your nation?”

I shook my head. “There would be no point.”

She smiled, almost kindly. “True. Well, then. What do you want?”

“To take you up on an offer,” I said. “I hope that it still stands?”

Another small satisfaction: the blank look on her face. “What offer would that be, Cousin?”

I nodded past her, at the still figure in the window. He was clothed, I saw, in a simple black shirt and pants, and a plain iron collar for once. That was good. I found him more distasteful nude. “You said that I was welcome to borrow your pet sometime.”

Beyond Scimina, Naha turned to stare at me, his brown eyes wide. Scimina did, too, for a moment, and then she burst out laughing.

“I see!” She shifted her weight to one side and put a hand on her hip, much to the consternation of the tailors. “I can’t argue with your choice, Cousin. He’s much more fun than T’vril. But—forgive me—you seem such a small creature. And my Naha is so very… strong. Are you certain?”

Her insults wafted past me like air; I barely noticed. “I am.”

Scimina shook her head, bemused. “Very well. I have no use for him at the moment anyhow; he’s weak today. Probably just right for you, though—” She paused then, glancing at the windows. Checking the position of the sun. “Of course you know to beware sunset.”

“Of course.” I smiled, drawing a momentary frown from her. “I have no wish to die earlier than necessary.”

Something like suspicion flickered in Scimina’s eyes for a moment, and I felt tension in the pit of my belly. But she finally shrugged.

“Go with her,” she said, and Nahadoth rose.

“For how long?” he asked, his voice neutral.

“Until she’s dead.” Scimina smiled and opened her arms in a magnanimous gesture. “Who am I to deny a last request? But while you’re at it, Naha, see to it that she does nothing too strenuous—nothing that would incapacitate her, at least. We need her fit, two mornings from now.”

The iron chain had been connected to a nearby wall. It fell away with Scimina’s words. Naha picked up the loose end, then stood watching me, his expression unreadable.

I inclined my head to Scimina. She ignored me, returning her attention to the tailors’ work with a snarl of irritation; one of them had pinned the hem badly. I left, not caring whether Nahadoth followed now or later.

What would I want, if I could be free?

Safety for Darr.

My mother’s death given meaning.

Change, for the world.

And for myself…

I understand now. I have chosen who will shape me.

“She’s right,” Naha said, when we stood together in my apartment. “I’m not much use at the moment.” He said it blandly, with no emotional inflection, but I guessed his bitterness.

“Fine,” I said. “I’m not interested anyhow.” I went to stand at the window.

Silence behind me for a long moment, and then he came over. “Something’s changed.” The light was wrong to see his reflection, but I could imagine his suspicious expression. “You’re different.”

“A lot has happened since you and I last met.”

He touched my shoulder. When I did not throw off his hand, he took hold of the other, then turned me gently to face him. I let him. He stared at me, trying to read my eyes, perhaps trying to intimidate me.

Except, up close, he was anything but intimidating. Deep lines of weariness marked paths from his sunken eyes; the eyes themselves were bloodshot, even more ordinary looking than before. His posture was slouched and strange. Belatedly I understood: he could barely stand. Nahadoth’s torture had taken its toll on him as well.

My face must have shown my pity, because abruptly he scowled and straightened. “Why did you bring me here?”

“Sit down,” I said, gesturing to the bed. I tried to turn back to the window, but his fingers tightened on my shoulders. If he had been at his best, he would have hurt me. I understood that now. He was a slave, a whore, not even allowed part-time control of his own body. The only power he had was what little he could exert over his lovers, his users. That wasn’t much.

“Are you waiting for him?” he asked. The way he said “him” held a treasure’s worth of resentment. “Is that it?”

I reached up and detached his hands from my shoulders, pushing them away firmly. “Sit down. Now.”

The “now” forced him to let go of me, walk the few steps to the bed, and sit down. He did it glaring the whole way. I turned back to the window and let his hate splash uselessly against my back.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m waiting for him.”

A stunned pause. “You’re in love with him. You weren’t before, but you are now. Aren’t you?”

You resist the truth.

I considered the question.

“In love with him?” I said it slowly. The phrase felt strange when I thought about it, like a poem that has been read too often. “In love with him.”

Another memory preoccupies you.

I was surprised to hear real fear in Naha’s voice. “Don’t be a fool. You don’t know how often I’ve woken up beside a corpse. If you’re strong, you can resist him.”

“I know. I’ve said no to him before.”

“Then…” Confusion.

I had a sudden epiphany as to what his life had been like: this other, unwanted Nahadoth. Every day a plaything of the Arameri. Every night—not sleep but oblivion, as close to death as any mortal can come short of the event itself. No peace, no true rest. Every morning a chilling surprise: mysterious injuries. Dead lovers. And the soul-grinding knowledge that it would never, ever end.

“Do you dream?” I asked.

“What?”

“Dream. At night, while you’re… within him. Do you?”

Nahadoth frowned for a long moment, as if he was trying to figure out the trick in my question. Finally he said, “No.”

“Not at all?”

“I have… flashes, sometimes.” He gestured vaguely, looking away from me. “Memories, maybe. I don’t know what they are.”

I smiled, feeling sudden warmth toward him. He was like me. Two souls, or at least two selves, in a single body. Perhaps that was where the Enefadeh had gotten the idea.

“You look tired,” I said. “You should get some sleep.”

He frowned. “No. I sleep enough at night—”

“Sleep now,” I said, and he crumpled onto his side so swiftly that I might have laughed under other circumstances. I walked over to the bed, lifted his legs onto it and arranged him for comfort, then knelt beside it, putting my mouth near his ear.

“Have pleasant dreams,” I commanded. The frown that had been on his face altered subtly, smoothing and softening.

Satisfied, I got to my feet and went back to the window, to wait.

Why can’t I remember what happened next?

You are remembering—

No, why can’t I remember it now? As I talk through it, it comes back to me, but only then. Without that there’s an empty space. A great dark hole.

You are remembering.

The instant the sun’s red curve sank below the horizon, the room shook, and with it the whole palace. This close, the vibration was powerful enough to make my teeth rattle. A line seemed to sweep the room, moving outward from behind me, and when this line passed, the room was darker. I waited, and when the hairs prickled on the back of my neck, I spoke. “Good evening, Lord Nahadoth. Are you feeling better?”

My only answer was a low, shuddering exhalation. The evening sky was still heavily stroked with sunlight, golds and reds and violets as deep as jewels. He was not himself yet.

I turned. He was sitting up. He still looked human, ordinary, but I could see his hair wafting around him, though there was no breeze. As I watched it thickened, lengthened, darkened, spinning itself into the cloak of night. Fascinating, and beautiful. He had averted his face from the lingering sunlight and did not see me approach until I was right there. Then he looked up, raising a hand as if to shield himself. From me? I wondered, and smiled.

The hand trembled as I watched. I took it, reassured by the cool dryness of his skin. (His skin was brown now, I noticed. My doing?) Beyond the hand his eyes watched me, black now, and unblinking. Unthinking, like those of a beast.

I cupped his cheek and willed him sane. He blinked, frowned slightly, then stared at me as his confusion cleared. His hand in mine became still.

When I judged the moment right, I let go his hand. Unfastened my blouse, and slipped it off my shoulders. I unhitched the skirt and let it fall, along with my underclothes. Naked, I waited, an offering.