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.
On my son. But —
Nahadoth, his face alight, laughed as her power rose, even as the inimical nature of it forced him to step back. Even Itempas stared at her, pride warring with longing in his gaze.
This was mpl?as it should be. It was what I had wanted all along, really, for the Three to reconcile. But —
— to kill my son!
No. That I hadn’t wanted.
Deka glanced at me and caught my hand suddenly, alarmed. “Sieh!” I frowned, and he lifted a hank of my hair for me to see. It had been brown streaked thickly with white; now the white predominated. The few remaining brown strands faded to colorlessness as I watched. It was longer, too.
I looked up at Deka and saw the fear in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” I said. And I truly was, but … “I never wanted to be a poor father, Deka. I —”