Standing there, knowing who he was, I expected to feel different. I should have been reverent, nervous, awed maybe. Yet my mind could not reconcile the two concepts: the Bright Lord of Order and the man I’d found in a muckbin. Itempas and Shiny; Him and him; they did not feel at all the same, in my heart.
And I could think of only one question, out of the thousands that I should have asked.
“All that time you lived with me and never spoke,” I said. “Why?”
At first I thought he wouldn’t answer. But at last I heard a faint shift in the gravel that covered the rooftop and felt the solidity of his gaze settle on me.
“You were irrelevant,” he said. “Just another mortal.”
I was growing used to him, I realized bitterly. That had hurt far less than I’d expected.
Shaking my head, I went over to another of the cistern’s struts, felt about to make sure there were no puddles or debris in the way, and sat down. There was no true silence up on the roof; the midnight air was thick with the sounds of the city. Yet I found myself at peace, anyhow. Shiny’s presence, my anger at him, at least kept me from thinking about Madding or dead Order-Keepers or the end of the life I’d built for myself in Shadow. So in his own obnoxious way, my god comforted me.
“What the hells are you doing up here, anyhow?” I asked. I could not muster the wherewithal to show him any greater respect. “Praying to yourself?”
“There’s a new moon tonight.”
“So?”
He did not reply, and I did not care. I turned my face toward the distant, barely there shimmers of the World Tree’s canopy and pretended they were the stars I’d heard others talk about all my life. Sometimes, amid the ripples and eddies of the leafy sea, I would see a brighter flash now and again. Probably an early bloom; the Tree would be flowering soon. There were people in the city who made a year’s living from the dangerous work of climbing the Tree’s lower branches and snipping off its silvery, hand-wide blossoms for sale to the wealthy.
“All that happens in darkness, he sees and hears,” Shiny said abruptly. I wished he would stop talking again. “On a moonless night, he will hear me, even if he chooses not to answer.”
“Who?”
“Nahadoth.”
I forgot my anger at Shiny, and my sorrow over Madding, and my guilt about the Order-Keepers. I forgot everything but that name.
Nahadoth.
We have never forgotten his name.
These days, our world has two great continents, but once there were three: High North, Senm, and the Maroland. Maro was the smallest of the three but was also the most magnificent, with trees that stretched a thousand feet into the air, flowers and birds found nowhere else, and waterfalls so huge that it was said you could feel their spray on the other side of the world.
The hundred clans of my people—called just “Maro” then, not “Maroneh”—were plentiful and powerful. In the aftermath of the Gods’ War, those who had honored Bright Itempas above other gods were shown favor. That included the Amn, a now-extinct people called the Ginij, and us. The Amn were ruled by the Arameri family. Their homeland was Senm, but they built their stronghold in our land, at our invitation. We were smarter than the Ginij. But we paid a price for our savvy politicking.
There was a rebellion of some sort. A great army marched across the Maroland, intent upon overthrowing the Arameri. Stupid, I know, but such things happened in those days. It would have been just another massacre, just another footnote in history, if one of the Arameri’s weapons hadn’t gotten loose.
He was the Nightlord, brother and eternal enemy of Bright Itempas. Hobbled, diminished, but still unimaginably powerful, he punched a hole in the earth, causing earthquakes and tsunamis that tore the Maroland apart. The whole continent sank into the sea, and nearly all its people died.
The few Maro who survived settled on a tiny peninsula of the Senm continent, granted to them by the Arameri in condolence for our loss. We began to call ourselves Maroneh, which meant “those who weep for Maro” in the common language we once spoke. We named our daughters for sorrow and our sons for rage; we debated whether there was any point in trying to rebuild our race. We thanked Itempas for saving even the handful of us who remained, and we hated the Arameri for making that prayer necessary.
And though the rest of the world all but forgot him outside of heretic cults and tales to frighten children, we remembered the name of our destroyer.
Nahadoth.
“I have been attempting,” said Shiny, “to express my remorse to him.”
That pulled me from one kind of shock into another. “What?”
Shiny got up. I heard him walk a few steps, perhaps over to the low wall that marked the edge of the rooftop. His voice, when he spoke, was diluted by wind and the late-night sounds of the city, but it came to me clearly enough. His diction was precise, unaccented, perfectly pitched. He spoke like a nobleman trained to give speeches.
“You wanted to know what I had done to be punished with mortality,” he said. “You asked that of Sieh.”
I pulled my thoughts from their endless litany of Nahadoth, Nahadoth, Nahadoth. “Well… yes.”
“My sister,” he said. “I killed her.”
I frowned. Of course he had. Enefa, the goddess of earth and life, had conspired against Itempas with their brother, the Nightlord Nahadoth. Itempas had slain her for her treachery and had given Nahadoth to the Arameri as a slave. It was a famous story.
Unless…
I licked my lips. “Did she… do something to provoke you?”
The wind shifted for a moment. His voice drifted to me and away, then back again, singsong and soft. “She took him from me.”
“She—” I stopped.
I did not want to understand. Obviously Itempas had been involved with Enefa at some point before their falling-out; the existence of the godlings was proof enough of that. But Nahadoth was the monster in the dark, the enemy of all that was good in the world. I didn’t want to think of him as the Bright Lord’s brother, much less—
But I had spent too much time among godlings. I had seen that they lusted and raged like mortals, hurt like mortals, misunderstood and nursed petty grudges and killed each other over love like mortals.
I got to my feet, trembling.
“You’re saying you started the Gods’ War,” I said. “You’re saying the Nightlord was your lover—that you love him still. You’re saying he’s free now and he’s the one who did this to you.”
“Yes,” said Shiny. Then, to my surprise, he let out a little laugh, so laden with bitterness that his voice wavered unsteadily for an instant. “That’s precisely what I’m saying.”
My hands tightened on my stick until it hurt my palms. I sank back to a crouch, planting the stick in the gravel to balance myself, pressing my forehead against the smooth old wood. “I don’t believe you,” I whispered. I could not believe him. I could not be that wrong about the world, the gods, everything. The entire human race could not be that wrong.
Could we?
I heard the gravel shift under Shiny’s feet as he turned to me. “Do you love Madding?” he asked.
It was such an unexpected question, so nonsensical in the context of our discussion, that it took me several seconds to make my mouth work. “Yes. Dear gods, of course I do. Why are you asking me that now?”
More gravel, chuffing rhythmically as he came over to me. His warm hands took hold of mine where they gripped the stick. I was so surprised by this that I let him pry me loose and pull me up to stand. He did nothing then, for several moments. Just looked at me. I became aware, belatedly, that I wore nothing but a silk robe. The winter had been mild this year, and spring was coming early, but the night had begun to turn cold. Goose bumps prickled my skin, and my nipples tented the silk. I had worn as little in my own house—or less. Nudity meant nothing to me as titillation, and Shiny had never shown the slightest interest. Now, however, I was very aware of his gaze, and… it bothered me. I had never experienced this particular flavor of discomfort with him before.