N. Jemisin - The Kingdom of Gods

I scowled at Itempas. “What is this, some misguided attempt at atonement? I told you a century ago, you stubborn fool, nothing can make up for your crimes! And what good does it do for you to sacrifice yourself, if your death will cause everything to end anyway?”

“The Maelstrom may cease Its approach if It fulfills Kahl’s purpose,” Itempas replied. “In this case, creating a new god. We believe the form that this new god takes will depend on the nature and will of the vessel.” He shrugged. “I will see that what is created is a fitting replacement for myself.”

I stumbled back, and Deka put a hand on my shoulder in concern. It was the same conjunction of power and will that had forged Yeine into a new Enefa, and where that had been wild, a series of not-quite-accidental coincidences, now Itempas hoped to control a similar event. But whatever god was created in his place, however stick-in-the-mud that new one might turn out to be, Itempas would die.

“No,” I said. I was trembling. “You can’t.”

“It’s the only solution, Sieh,” said Yeine.

I stared at the two of them, so set in their resolve, and did not know what I felt in that moment. Not so long before, I would have rejoiced at the idea of a new Itempas. Even now it was a temptation, because I might have forgiven him and I might still love him, but I would never forget what he had done to our family. Nothing would ever be the same for any of us. Would it not be easier, somehow— cleaner— to start over with someone new? Knowing Itempas, the idea had some appeal for him, too. He did like things neat.

I turned to Nahadoth, hoping for—something. I didn’t know what. But Nahadoth, damn him, wasn’t paying attention to any of us. He had turned away to gaze at the swirling sky. Around him, the dark wreathing tendrils of his presence wheeled in a slow, matching dance. Inching higher, in random increments, as I watched. Toward the Maelstrom.

Wait—

Itempas spoke his name sharply, before my thoughts could crystallize into fear. Yeine, surprised by this, frowned at both her brothers. For a moment, I saw incomprehension in her face, and then her eyes widened. But Naha only smiled, as if it amused him to frighten us. And he kept looking up at the Maelstrom, as if It was the most beautiful sight in the mortal realm.

“Perhaps we should do nothing,” Nahadoth said. “Worlds die. Gods die. Perhaps we should let all of it go, and start anew.”

Start anew. My eyes met Yeine’s across the drift of Naha’s blackness. Deka’s hand tightened on my shoulder; he understood, too. The unsteady tremor of sorrow that edged Nahadoth’s voice. The way his shape kept blurring in time with the Maelstrom’s perturbations, resonating with its terrible, churning song.

But there was no fear in Itempas’s face as he took a step toward Nahadoth. He was smiling, in fact—and I marveled, because even though he was trapped in mortal flesh, his smile somehow had all the old power. Nahadoth, too, reacted to this. He lowered his gaze to focus on Itempas, his own smile fading.

“Perhaps we should,” Itempas said. “That would be easier than repairing what’s broken.”

The drifting curls of Nahadoth’s substance grew still. They shifted aside as Itempas approached Nahadoth, allowing him near—but also curving inward, and sharpening into jagged, irregular scythes. Fanged jaws ready to close on Itempas’s so-powerless flesh. Itempas ignored this blatant threat, continuing forward and, finally, stopping before him.

Behind him, Glee stood stiff and wide-eyed. I held my breath.

“Will you die with me, Nahadoth?” he asked. His voice was low, but it carried; we all heard it, even over the twisting, growing shriek of the Maelstrom. “Is that what you want?”

Beyond them, perhaps only I saw Yeine’s expression tighten, though she said nothing. Anyone could see the delicacy of the spell Tempa had woven, more fragile still because it was nothing but words. He had no magic. No weapons at all for this battle, save the history between them, good and ill.

Nahadoth did not answer, but then he didn’t need to. There were faces he wore only when he meant to kill. They are beautiful faces—destruction is not his nature, just an art he indulges—but in my mortal shape I could not look upon them without wanting to die, so I fixed my eyes on Itempas’s back. Somehow, despite his mortal shape, Tempa could still bear Naha’s worst.

“The new one,” Tempa said, very softly. “I’ll make certain he’s worthy of both of you.”

Then he lifted his hands—I clamped down on my tongue to keep from blurting a warning—and cupped Nahadoth’s face. I expected his fingers to fall off, for the black depths around Naha had grown lethal, freezing flecks of snow from the air and etching cracks into the ground beneath their feet. It probably did hurt Itempas; they always hurt each other. This did not stop him from leaning close and touching his lips to Nahadoth’s.

Nahadoth did not return the kiss. Itempas might as well have pressed his mouth to stone. Yet the fact that it had occurred at all—that Nahadoth permitted it, that it was Itempas’s farewell—made it something holy.

(I clenched my fists and fought back tears. I was too old for sentimentality, damn it.)

Itempas pulled away, his sorrow plain. But as he stood there, his hands hiding Nahadoth’s face from any view but his own, Naha showed him something. I couldn’t see what, but I could guess, because there were faces Naha wore for love, too. I had never seen the one he’d shaped for Itempas, because Itempas guarded that face jealously, as he had always done with Naha’s love. But Itempas inhaled at the sight of whatever Naha showed him now, closing his eyes as if Naha had stricken him one last, terrible blow.

Then he stepped back, and as his hands fell away, Nahadoth’s face resumed its ordinary, shifting nature. With this, Naha turned his back on all of us, his cloak retracting sharply to form a tight, dark sheath around him. Itempas might as well not have been there anymore.

But he did not look up at the sky again.

When Itempas mastered himself, he glanced at Yeine and nodded. She regarded him for a long, weighted moment, then finally nodded in return. I let out a breath, and Deka did, too. I thought perhaps even the Maelstrom grew quieter for a moment, but that was probably my imagination.

But before I could digest my own relief and sorrow, Nahadoth’s head jerked sharply upward—but not toward the Maelstrom, this time. The blackness of his aura blazed darker.

“ Kahl ,” he breathed.

High above—the same place from which he’d struck down the World Tree—a tiny figure appeared, wreathed in magic that trembled and wavered like the Maelstrom.

Before I could think, however, I was nearly floored by the furnace blast of Yeine’s rage. She wasted no time in deciding to act; the air simply rippled with negation of life . I flinched, in spite of myself, as death struck Kahl, my son—

—my unknown, unwanted, unlamented son, whom I would have mentored and protected if I had been able, whose love I would have welcomed if I’d been given the choice—

—did not die. Nothing happened.

Nahadoth hissed, his face twitching reptilian. “The mask protects him. He stands outside this reality.”

“Death is reality everywhere,” Yeine said. I had never heard such murderousness in her voice.

There was a shudder beneath us, around us. The townsfolk cried out in alarm, fearing another cataclysm. I thought I knew what was happening, though I could no longer sense it: the earth beneath us had shifted in response to Yeine’s hate, the whole planet turning like some massive, furious bodyguard to face her enemy. She spread her hands, crouching, the loose curls of her hair whipping in a gale that no one else felt, and her eyes were as cold as long-dead things as they fixed on Kahl.