Page 18 of Storm Front
“Yes.”
“That’s what you do anyway, darling. Your nature can’t be changed just because you’re alone. Take a companion if you want one, of course. But this idea of corruption… you can’t corrupt nothing, and isn’t that what death is?”
Azaiah wasn’t sure how to answer. Death wasn’t nothing, and it wasn’t an end, it was simply a change. A transition. But art was a living, breathing medium, so maybe she couldn’t understand.
Pallas rose and held her hands out. “Come with me, little brother. Let me paint you in that exquisite outfit, before you go reaping the souls of the unfortunates.”
“I take everyone’s soul,” Azaiah reminded her, letting her pull him to his feet. “Fortunate or not.”
“Not mine,” Pallas said, dropping his hands and descending from the dais. “But I take your point.”
As she walked, the tails of the gauzy curtains hanging from the temple rafters drifted behind her. For a moment, they looked… tattered. And the stone of the temple looked cracked, a wind blowing in, bringing the rain with it.
But Azaiah followed her, and the curtains were lovely and whole, the stone smooth, and the air still. As they headed to one of her many salons, though, he reached up and brushed a few drops of rain from his face. He wondered where it had come from and what it might mean. If it were him, this time. If the corruption was already within him, and perhaps only he noticed.
Then he saw the tangled threads lying discarded on the floor and thought maybe it wasn’t him at all.
ChapterFive
They’d made camp within view of the Needle, an enormous sundial jutting up from a circular garden. With the infirmary’s tent flaps open, Nyx could see the Needle’s spire, and the scent of flowers drifted through, mixing with the pungent odors of the medicines the witches prepared and the stench of battle wounds. Nyx sat in a corner next to Nadia, who was lying on a cot with her chest wrapped in bandages, staring at the canvas ceiling.
“So,” she said. “Arrows. I wouldn’t recommend them, Nyx.”
Nyx glared at her, and Nadia laughed, winced, and grabbed at her chest. Nyx sat forward to help her, but one of the witches hurried over, black dress draped with the ribbons of a senior healer.
“Your Highness,” she said in a brittle voice. “If you insist on disturbing my patient, I will not hesitate to remove you from the tent.”
Nyx glanced at her. The witch couldn’t be older than seventeen, but she was already a terror. “Yes, miss.”
“Ma’am,” she said. “I’ve been a full witch for six years, Your Highness.”
“Forgive him.” Nadia smiled, and the witch’s hard expression softened slightly. “He’s too ridiculous not to laugh at. Also, he fusses.”
“Yes. I noticed.” The witch shot Nyx one more warning look and turned away. Nadia grinned at him.
“You’re lucky to be alive, you know.” Nyx leaned against her cot, and Nadia patted his cheek absently. “Try to listen when I warn you, next time.”
“Shout louder.” Nadia sighed, lying back down to stare at the roof again. “You seem to be doing better, at least. You aren’t working yourself to the bone anymore. Which is good. I want you to stay awake when you’re fighting alongside me, thank you.”
“I’ll try.” Nyx watched the flowers outside the tent bow in the breeze. “Nadia. You respect the gods.”
“No, I’m scared shitless of them.” Nyx looked over, and she wasn’t smiling anymore. “It’s the same thing, though, isn’t it? You know how my mother was from the southern shore?”
Nyx frowned. Nadia never mentioned her parents, even when it was just her, Nyx, and Tyr getting drunk in Tyr’s tent, exchanging stories. It was as though her memories started somewhere in her teens. “I suppose.”
“Well, there’s a god some of the locals worship. They make sacrifices to him—the fattest fish in the catch, usually, or shiny things. When I was young, I was out on the boat with my mother when a shadow passed under us. I was close enough that I could see scales. I can’t say any more than that. It’s bad luck. But a storm came after that, out of nowhere, waves high enough to drown the world. I’m lucky I made it home alive.”
Nyx felt a shiver roll through him despite the warmth of the infirmary. “Youmade it home.”
“Yeah.” Nadia sighed. “Just me. I can’t even go near the sea anymore. I know he’s out there. The Lord of the Deep. And if he exists, that means the other gods do, too. They’re walking around, watching us, playing with us. So, sure, I pray and make offerings. Anything so they’ll leave me alone.”
“Not all of them are unfeeling, though. There’s the Lord of Dreams—everyone says he’s kindhearted. And Art, and Death—”
Nadia snorted. “Death? How is Death kind?” She shivered. “Don’t talk like that, Nyx. You’ll draw their attention.”
A shadow darkened the entrance of the tent, and Nyx suppressed a groan as Lamont strode in, dressed in his fine, well-tailored uniform. He spotted Nadia and went to a knee on the other side of her cot, reaching for her hands.
“I came as soon as I heard.” His voice was shaking, and Nyx spotted a few dominants in the tent looking their way. Submissives didn’t generally exert their power the way dominants did, infusing it into their voices, but Lamont’s need for submission was so apparent it was practically hanging about him like a fog. “Are you well? Does it hurt? Can I do something, call someone from the palace?”
