He pauses then, looking down at my corpse. The Stone has fallen into my blood, less than a handbreadth from my shoulder. Despite Nahadoths care in setting me down, my head has flopped to one side. One arm is curled upward as if to try and cup the Stone closer. The image is ironica mortal woman, killed in the act of trying to lay claim to a goddesss power. And a gods lover.
I imagine Itempas will send me to an especially awful hell.
But I think its time our sister dies completely, Itempas says. I cannot tell if he is looking at the Stone or at me. Let her infestation die with her, and then our lives can be as they were. Have you not missed those days?
(I notice Dekarta, who stiffens at this. Only he, of the three mortals, seems to realize what Itempas means.)
I will hate you no less, Tempa, Nahadoth breathes, when you and I are the last living things in this universe.
Then he is a roaring black tempest, streaking forward in attack, and Itempas is a crackle of white fire bracing to meet him. They collide in a concussion that shatters the glass in the ritual chamber. Mortals scream, their voices almost lost as cold, thin air howls in to fill the void. They fall to the floor as Nahadoth and Itempas streak away, upwardbut my perception is drawn to Scimina for an instant. Her eyes fix on the knife that killed me, Viraines knife, lying not far from her. Relad sprawls dazed amid glass shards and chunks of the broken plinth. Sciminas eyes narrow.
Sieh roars, his voice an echo of Nahadoths battle cry. Zhakkarn turns to face Kurue, and her pike appears in one hand.
And at the center of it all, unnoticed, untouched, my body and the Stone lie still.
* * *
And here we are.
Yes.
You understand what has happened?
Im dead.
Yes. In the presence of the Stone, which houses the last of my power.
Is that why Im still here, able to see these things?
Yes. The Stone kills the living. Youre dead.
You mean I can come back to life? Amazing. How convenient that Viraine turned on me.
I prefer to think of it as fate.
So what now?
Your body must change. It will no longer be able to bear two souls within itself; that is an ability only mortals possess. I made your kind that way, gifted in ways that we are not, but I never dreamt it would make you so strong. Strong enough to defeat me, in spite of all my efforts. Strong enough to take my place.
What? No. I dont want your place. You are you. I am me. I have fought for this.
And fought well. But my essence, all that I am, is necessary for this world to continue. If I am not to be the one who restores that essence, then it must be you.
But
I do not regret, Daughter, Little Sister, worthy heir. Neither should you. I only wish
I know your wish.
Do you really?
Yes. They are blinded by pride, but underneath there is still love. The Three are meant to be together. I will see it done.
Thank you.
Thank you. And farewell.
* * *
I can ponder for an eternity. I am dead. I have all the time I want.
But I was never very patient.
* * *
In and around the glass room, which no longer has glass and probably no longer qualifies as a room, battle rages.
Itempas and Nahadoth have taken their fight to the skies they once shared. Above the motes they have become, dark streaks break the gradient of dawn, like strips of night layered over the morning. A blazing white beam, like the sun but a thousand times brighter, sears across these to shatter them. There is no point to this. It is daytime. Nahadoth would already be asleep within his human prison if not for Itempass parole. Itempas can revoke that parole whenever he wishes. He must be enjoying himself.
Scimina has gotten Viraines knife. She has flung herself on Relad, trying to gut him. Hes stronger, but she has leverage and the strength of ambition on her side. Relads eyes are wide with terror; perhaps he has always feared something like this.
Sieh, Zhakkarn, and Kurue feint and circle in a deadly metal-and-claw dance. Kurue has conjured a pair of gleaming bronze swords to defend herself. This contest, too, is foregone; Zhakkarn is battle incarnate, and Sieh has all the power of childhoods cruelty. But Kurue is wily, and she has the taste of freedom in her mouth. She will not die easily.
Amid all this, Dekarta moves toward my body. He stops and struggles to his knees; in the end he slips in my blood and half-falls on me, grimacing in pain. Then his expression hardens. He looks up into the sky, where his god fights, then down. At the Stone. It is the source of the Arameri clans power; it is also the physical representation of their duty. Perhaps he hopes that by doing that duty, he will remind Itempas of the value of life. Perhaps he retains some smidgeon of faith. Perhaps it is simply that forty years ago, Dekarta killed his wife to prove his commitment. To do otherwise now would mock her death.