“There’s no promise I can offer that you’ll trust,” I said, and was relieved that my voice stayed soft. “You shouldn’t, really. I only have to keep promises to children. And honestly, I don’t know if even that applies anymore. Everything I am has changed.” I leaned my head back on the window and gazed out at the night-lit city below.
Nahadoth could hear any words spoken at night, if he wanted.
“Please let me see him,” I said again.
She watched me steadily. “You should know that his magic works only in certain circumstances. It’s not powerful enough to stop whatever’s happened to you—not in his current form.”
“I know. And I know you have to keep him safe. Do what you have to do. But if it’s possible…”
I could see her, very faintly, beyond my reflection. She nodded to herself slowly, as if I’d passed some sort of test. “It’s possible. I can’t promise anything, of course; he may not want to see you. But I’ll speak to him.” She paused. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell Ahad.”
Surprised, I glanced at her. My senses were not so dull that I couldn’t still distinguish scents, and the faint whiff of Ahad—cheroots and bitterness and emotions like long-clotted blood—clung to her like stale perfume. It was a few days old, but she had been in his presence, close to him, touching him. “I thought you had a thing with him.”
She had the grace to look abashed. “I find him attractive, I suppose. That’s not ‘a thing.’ ”
I shook my head, bemused. “I’m still amazed that he had enough of a soul to be made into a complete and separate being. I don’t know what you see in him.”
“You don’t know him,” she said, with a hint of sharpness that told me there was more to the “thing” than she was letting on. “He does not reveal himself to you. He loved you once; you can hurt him as no one else can. What you think of him, and what he truly is, are very different things.”
I rocked back a little, surprised at her vehemence. “Well, clearly you don’t trust him—”
She flicked a hand impatiently, dismissively. Gods, she was so much like Itempas that it hurt. “I’m not a fool. It may be a long time before he sheds the habits of his former life. Until then, I’m cautious with him.”
I was tempted to warn her further: she needed to be more than cautious with Ahad. He had been created from the substance of Nahadoth in his darkest hour, nurtured on suffering and refined by hate. He liked to hurt people. I don’t think even he realized what a monster he was.
But that impatient little flick had been a warning for me. She wasn’t interested in whatever I had to say about Ahad. Clearly she intended to judge him for herself. I couldn’t really blame her; I wasn’t exactly unbiased.
I wasn’t tired, but clearly Glee was. She fell silent after that, and I turned back to the window to let her sleep. Presently her breathing evened out, providing a slow and curiously soothing background noise for my thoughts. The people in the common room had finally shut up. There was no one but me and the city.
And Nahadoth, appearing silently in the window reflection behind me.
I was not surprised to see him. I smiled at the pale glimmer of his face, not turning from the window. “It’s been a while.”
The change to his face was minute; a slight drawing together of those fine, perfect brows. I chuckled, guessing his thoughts. A while; two years. Barely noticeable, to a god. I’d taken longer naps. “Every passing moment shortens my life, Naha. Of course I feel it more now.”
“Yes.” He fell silent again, thinking his unfathomable thoughts. He didn’t look well, I decided, though this had nothing to do with his actual appearance, which was magnificent. But that was just his usual mask. Beneath that mask, which I could just barely perceive, he felt… strange. Off. A storm whose winds had faltered at the touch of colder, quelling air. He was unhappy—very much so.
“When you see Itempas,” he said at last, “ask him to help you.”
At this I swung around on the windowsill, frowning. “You’re not serious.”
“Yeine can do nothing to erase your mortality. I can neither cure nor preserve you. I meant it, Sieh, when I said I would not lose you.”
“There’s nothing he can do, Naha. He’s got less magic than me!”
“Yeine and I have discussed the matter. We will grant him a single day’s parole if he will agree to help you.”
My mouth fell open. It took me several tries to speak. “He’s endured barely a century of mortality. Do you really think we can trust him?”
“If he attempts to escape or attack us, I will kill his demon.”
I flinched. “Glee?” I glanced at her. She had fallen asleep in the chair, her head slumped to one side. Either she was a heavy sleeper, an excellent faker, or Naha was keeping her asleep. Most likely the latter, given the subject of our conversation.
She had tried to help me.
“Are we Arameri now?” I asked. My voice was harsher than usual in the dimness, deep and rough. I kept forgetting that it was not a child’s voice. “Are we willing to pervert love itself to get what we want?”
“Yes.” I knew he meant it by the fact that the room’s temperature suddenly dropped ten degrees. “The Arameri are wise in one respect, Sieh: they show no mercy to their enemies. I will not risk unleashing Itempas’s madness again. He lives only because the mortal realm cannot exist without him and because Yeine has pleaded for his life. I permitted him to keep his daughter only for this purpose. Demon, beloved… she is a weapon, and I mean to use her.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “You regretted what you did to the demons, Naha. Have you forgotten that? They are our children, too, you said—”
He stepped closer, reaching for my face. “You are the only child who matters to me now.”
I recoiled and struck his hand away. His eyes widened in surprise. “What the hells kind of father are you? You always say things like that, treat some of us better than others. Gods, Naha! How twisted is that?”
Silence fell, and in it my soul shriveled. Not in fear. It was simply that I knew, or had known, precisely why he did not love all his children equally. Differentiation, variation, appreciation of the unique: this was part of what he was. His children were not the same, so his feelings toward each were not the same. He loved us all, but differently. And because he did this, because he did not pretend that love was fair or equal, mortals could mate for an afternoon or for the rest of their lives. Mothers could tell their twins or triplets apart. Children could have crushes and outgrow them; elders could remain devoted to their spouses long after beauty had gone. The mortal heart was fickle. Naha made it so. And because of this, they were free to love as they wished, and not solely by the dictates of instinct or power or tradition.
I had understood this once. All gods did.
My hand dropped into my lap. It was shaking. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.
He lowered his hand, too, saying nothing for a long, bruised moment.
“You cannot remain in mortal flesh much longer,” he said at last. “It’s changing you.”
I lowered my head and nodded once. He was my father, and he knew best. I had been wrong not to listen.
With a night-breeze sigh, Nahadoth turned away, his substance beginning to blend into the room’s shadows. Sudden, irrational panic seized me. I sprang to my feet, my throat knotting in fear and anguish. “Naha—please. Will you…” Mortal, mortal, I was truly mortal now. I was his favorite, he was my dark father, his love was fickle, and I had changed almost beyond recognition. “Please don’t leave yet.”