The Kingdom of Gods

by N. K. Jemisin

  “They will do you no harm,” he added. “Regardless of how long I stay.”

  And there it was.

  Bastard. Idiot asinine infuriating son of a demon. “Don’t. Be. Ridiculous,” I snapped. “This isn’t some soppy tale for noble ladies. I raised your child, made a new life for myself, outgrew even that — all without you. I don’t need you now.”

  “Glee has made us both proud. And you have never needed me.”

  “Damn straight.” His agreement made me even more irritable. I turned to face him, orienting on all that radiant warmth. Had he always been so big? Maybe I’d shrunken. I hated that he was immortal, that I was not, that my entire life had been nothing but a moment to him—to be resumed, as if without interruption, as soon as the moment passed. “I don’t want you, either. My life has been magnificently god-free for decades, and I like it this way. I’ve even begun to hope that I will die a quiet, boring death.”

  “God-free?” I heard him shift a little. Turning, I guessed, to glance at the house’s western window. Glee’s room.

  “He’s in Glee’s life, not mine. I’m just the old woman who sneaks him cheroots and pretends she doesn’t hear when he has sex with her daughter. He doesn’t matter, Shi—”

  I faltered to silence, appalled at what I had almost called him, even though … I was talking to him as if … but if he was here, then he could not be …

  Damn. Five minutes in his presence and I couldn’t even think simply anymore.

  His smile was like the moon’s reflected sunlight on my skin. “Most gods have many names. I, however, have only ever accepted one. Before you.”

  For a moment I was touched. Then I sighed and rubbed my eyes with one hand. The memory of pain, and weariness, were making me foolish.

  “I’m too old for this,” I murmured. “I don’t need this kind of madness in my life anymore.”

  He said nothing, turning away slightly to face the yard and the trees beyond it. I waited, growing angry as the silence wore on, because he wasn’t bothering to argue with me and I wanted him to. When it finally became clear that he wouldn’t, I opened my mouth to tell him to leave and never return.

  Before I could speak the words, however, they died in my mouth. Because, faint against the darkness, I could suddenly see something. Him, a pale shadow, pulsing in a gradual rhythm that in no way resembled a heartbeat; too slow. Too even and precise. Building, though — brightening — with each passing moment.

  Dawn. I had forgotten, but … oh, gods. I had not allowed myself to think about this for so long. I didn’t even watch Glee when it happened to her, because she was too much his daughter as it was and at dawn it was impossible to forget. How I’d missed the sight of morning magic.

  He turned to me, now that I could see him, letting me absorb the changes. His hair was long; that was the strangest thing. It had been cabled like a Teman’s, the great mass of it falling out of sight behind his shoulders in a heavy mantle, the forelocks tied neatly back from his face. He wore a long leather coat, and boots, both of which matched his hair in color. His face — I stared at this the longest, trying to understand why it was not quite what I remembered. And then I knew. There was a little less firmness to the jaw, a crow’s-foot or two around the eyes, and his hairline was just a bit farther back than it had been. He hadn’t overdone it. There were just enough details to suggest the passage of time, the earning of wisdom. Distinguished strength.

  Of course. It wouldn’t do for an old woman to take up with a man who looked half her age; that would be scandalous. The Bright Lord of Order would naturally be concerned about propriety.

  I groaned. “I thought you didn’t change?”

  “Ephemerality is—”

  “Yes, yes, I know. Did you give yourself rheumatism and a bad back, too? Since ephemerality is so meaningless.”

  He looked amused at my reaction, but his gaze was serious. “I will bring no madness into your life, Oree,” he said, very gently. “Quiet, serenity, the comfort of routine … these things are my nature, after all.” He paused, his expression hardening in warning. “As is stubbornness.”

  I closed my eyes and turned away from him, though he had not yet reached sufficient brightness that I had to. “Barging into my life and insisting that I accept you —”

  “Are the most expedient means to achieve what we both desire,” he finished, with so-familiar curtness. “You said a quiet, boring death. You did not include lonely.”

  At this I stiffened, wishing that I had my stick. It would’ve done no good whatsoever, and I didn’t need it; I knew the porch like my own hand. But it would’ve given me something to clench, as I tried my damnedest to set him on fire by will alone. I was out of practice with magic. It didn’t work.

  “I can’t stop you,” I snapped. “You’ve made your wishes clear. But I will not tolerate your lying to me. Do as you like around the house — Glee will be pleased to see you, at least — but leave me alone.” I walked to the door and tried to open it. Predictably, it would not budge.

  “I do not lie,” he said. There was, to my surprise, no anger in his tone. He almost sounded hurt, but that was likely my imagination.

  I turned back, sighing. “What we both desire? Do you think I’m a fool? You’re free, Sh —” I shook my head and laughed. “Itempas. The Three are whole once more. So you’re in the doghouse for the next aeon or two; you know that won’t last forever. And you.” I gestured at him as he stood there, shining, so bright I could barely look at him, so beautiful that he made my heart ache. I wanted to cry. Hadn’t done that in years. Damn him. “You come here, to the back end of beyond in the mortal realm, and say you want to keep some old woman company in her last days? You expect me to believe that’s anything but pity?”

  He stared at me for a moment, then sighed with an almost human exasperation. “Oree Shoth, you were a devout Itempan, once. Tell me, when has pity ever been my nature?”

  I paused then, because this was true.

  “Nor is it my nature,” he added, sounding positively testy now, “to waste time. If I had no desire to be with you, or if I meant only to attend your death, I would simply kill you to get it over with and return to the gods’ realm.”

  There was that. He was nothing if not practical.

  “Moreover,” he added, clasping his hands behind his back with the air of a man delivering a report, “you have become a thoroughly unpleasant, disrespectful, and irrational creature — as I correctly predicted you would when we first met. Why would it, therefore, trouble me in any way to spend some trifle of time with you? As you suggest, I could readily go elsewhere.”

  I pursed my lips, furious now. “Open this gods-damned door.”

  The door lock unlatched itself with a loud clack. I put my hand on it and paused, as his hand landed on mine. It was visible, but no longer radiant, though it should have been. I could feel the dew lifting. The sun had begun to warm the air with the crest of dawn. In the old days, by this point, he would have been shining too brightly to see. Now he had control of himself. He grew only bright enough for my comfort.

  “Perhaps you should even be grateful,” he murmured, his irritation gone now. “If not for my siblings, I would have been here with you all this time. I imagine we would have found one another insufferable by this point.” His thumb stroked the back of my hand suddenly, and I jumped, my heart doing a shameful little flutter. I was too old, far too old, for thoughts like this. He was going to kill me.

  Then I registered his words and could not help laughing. He was right. A hundred years with him would have driven me insane.

  “Shall I offer more rebuttals to your protests, Oree?” He had stepped close to take my hand; his breath stirred my hair. “Must we continue this needless discussion?”

  A faint breeze crossed the deck then, stirring my house-coat and reminding me of how cold the morning was. I’d forgotten, with him so close and warm.

  I turned to him, and though I could see him, I lifted my hand to his face. My
fingers explored the lines of his flesh, still familiar after decades and other faces and my own forgetfulness. His eyes shut, the lashes brushing my fingertips. I remembered how once, so very long ago, before the diapers and the wedding and the garden terraces and the town council and all the mundanities I’d surrounded myself with, a god had leaned his cheek into the palm of my hand. That moment was as vivid in my mind as if it had been yesterday.

  It was yesterday, to him. And was that so terrible a thing, really? In his eyes, I wasn’t even old.

  “I get to call you Shiny again,” I said softly. “Or anything else I want. And you can’t get angry about it. Make it a law of the universe, in fact. You can do that now, can’t you?”

  Something washed across my vision, subtle but powerful, an outward wave of transformation. He sounded smug. “A small price to pay.”

  He hadn’t heard the nicknames I was already thinking up. A hundred years might be nothing to him, but I was mortal after all — fickle, changeable, easily bored. Hopefully he was strong enough to deal with that now.

  I sighed and turned the door handle, heading into the kitchen. He followed me in, closing the door behind us. I paused for a moment to listen, biting my bottom lip.

  He took off his long coat and hung it on the hook behind the door. He wiped his feet.

  Something that I had not known was tensed inside me went soft and still. I let out a slow, heavy breath, and he lifted an eyebrow, perhaps sensing the significance of the moment. Perhaps he even understood it. I didn’t really care if he did or not.

  “Sit down,” I said, nodding toward the table. “You look like you could use a good meal.” He was a better cook than I was, I remembered. But that was all right. I would treat him like a guest for one day. He could start doing the cooking again tomorrow.

  He sat while I headed for the pantry. We began again.

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  THE KINGDOM OF GODS

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  THE SWORN

  by

  Gail Z. Martin

  1

  “Every time you go, I can’t believe six months have passed already.”

  Prince Jair Rothlandorn of Dhasson looked up as his father, King Harrol, stood in the doorway. Jair smiled and sighed as he closed his saddlebag and secured the cinch. “And every time I get ready to leave, I can’t believe I’ve survived six months away from the Ride.” Carefully, Jair folded his palace clothing into neat piles and placed them in a drawer to await his return. For the Ride, the only clue that would mark him as the heir to the throne of Dhasson was the gold signet ring on his right hand.

  Jair walked to his window and looked out over the city. Valiquet was the name of both the Dhassonian palace and its capital city. The sun gleamed from the white marble and crystalline sculptures that had earned Valiquet its reputation as “The Glittering Place.” Long a crossroads for commerce and ideas, Dhasson was perhaps the most cosmopolitan of the Winter Kingdoms. Its long tradition of tolerance for all but the Cult of the Crone had spared it the conflicts that often tore at the other kingdoms and had made it a magnet for scholars and artists. Beautiful as it was, for the six months Jair was home, the city felt like a glittering prison. Jair sighed and returned to packing.

  Harrol watched as Jair gathered the last of his things. For the last eleven years, ever since Jair’s fourteenth birthday, he had made the Ride. Although this trip would take Jair away from the palace, Valiquet, and Dhasson for six months, Jair’s belongings fit neatly into two large saddlebags. “You miss her still.”

  Jair turned back to look at his father. “I miss her always.” He was dressed for the road, in the dark tunic and trews that were the custom in the group with which he would ride sentry for the rest of the year. Jair slid up the long sleeve of his shirt, revealing a black tattoo around his left wrist, an intricate and complicated design that had only one match: around the wrist of his life-partner, Talwyn. On his left palm was an intricate tattoo that marked him as one of the trinnen, a warrior proven in battle. He stared at the design on his wrist for a moment in silence. “I wish—”

  “—that the Court would accept her,” Harrol finished gently. “And you know it’s not to be. Even if it did, Talwyn is the daughter of the Sworn’s chieftain and she’s their shaman. She can no more leave her people than you can renounce your claim to the throne.”

  “I know.” They’d had this conversation before. Although every heir to the Dhasson throne made the six-month Ride, only two before Jair had married into the secretive group of warrior-shamans. Eljen, Jair’s great-great-granduncle, had renounced the throne, throwing Dhasson into chaos. Anginon, two generations removed, had worked out an “accommodation,” accepting an arranged political marriage in Dhasson to sire an heir while honoring his bond to his partner among the Sworn by making it clear the Dhasson marriage was in name only. Neither option was to Jair’s liking, and it was at times like these that the crown seemed to fit most tightly.

  “You may find that this year’s Ride leaves little time for home and hearth,” Harrol said. “Bad enough that plague’s begun to spread into Dhasson. What I’ve heard from Margolan sounds bad. I know the Sworn stay to the barren places, where the barrows lie. Please, avoid the cities and villages. And be careful. Nothing is as it should be this year. I fear the Ride will be more dangerous than it’s been in quite some time. I have no desire to lose my son, to plague or to battle.” Harrol embraced Jair, slapping him hard on the back. But there was a moment’s hesitation and the embrace was just a bit tighter than usual, letting Jair know that his father was sincerely worried.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be home before Candles Night. And perhaps this time, I’ll bring Kenver with me. The Court can’t argue that he’s my son, whether or not they recognize my marriage. Whether he can take the crown one day or not, they can get used to the fact that I won’t deny him.”

  Harrol chuckled. “If the boy can be spared from his training, by all means, bring him. If he’s half the handful you were as a lad, it should keep you busy fetching him out of the shrubbery!”

  Neither Jair nor his father said more as they descended the stairs to Valiquet’s large marble entranceway. There was no mistaking the two Sworn guardsmen who awaited Jair. They were dressed as he was, in the dark clothing and studded leather armor of the Sworn, wearing the lightweight, summer great cloaks that would help to keep down the dust and discourage the flies. Jair shouldered into his own cloak.

  “Good to see you once more, Commander.”

  Jair recognized the speaker as Emil, one of the guardsmen he had known since he’d first begun making the Ride. Emil’s greeting was in Dhassonian, but his heavy accent made it clear that that language was not his native tongue. His companion, Mihei, a warrior land mage, echoed the greeting. No one would mistake either of the men as residents of Dhasson. Both wore their dark, black hair straight and long, accentuating the tawny golden cast of their skin. Their eyes, amber like the Sacred Lady’s, marked their bloodline as servants of the goddess. A variety of amulets in silver and carved stone hung from leather straps around their necks. The leather baldrics that each wore held a variety of lethal and beautiful damashqi daggers, and the weapon that hung by each man’s side was neither broadsword nor scimitar but a stelian, a deadly, jagged, flat blade that was as dangerous as it looked, the traditional weapon of the Sworn.

  Jair was dressed in the same manner, but it was obvious to any who looked that he did not share the same blood. Tan from a season outdoors, he was still much lighter than his Sworn companions, and his dark, wavy, brown hair and blue eyes made his resemblance to Harrol obvious.

  “It’s been too long,” Jair responded in the clipped, consonant-heavy language of the nomads. “I’ve been ready to leave again since I returned.”

  Jair knew his father watched them descend the sweeping front steps to the horses that waited for them. Even the horses looked out of place. They bore little resemblance to the high-strung, overbred carriage horses of the nobility. These w
ere horses from the Margolan steppe, bred for thousands of years by the Sworn for their steadiness in battle, their intelligence, and their stamina. Jair fastened his saddlebags, shaking his head to dissuade the groomsman who ran to help him. Then the three men swung up to their saddles and rode out of the palace gates.

  They did not speak until the walled city was behind them and they were on the open road. Mihei was the first to break the silence. “When we stop for the night, I have gifts for you in my bag.”

  “Oh?” Jair asked, curious. “From whom?”

  Mihei smiled. “Kenver—and his mother. Kenver chased me down the road to make sure I’d packed the gifts he made for you. Cheira Talwyn didn’t chase us, but I wouldn’t care to face her displeasure if I were remiss in making sure you received your welcoming gift.”

  Jair smiled broadly, knowing that he had packed several such gifts for his wife and son in his bags as well. “Are they well?”

  Emil laughed. “Kenver is a hand’s breadth taller than when you left, and begging for a pony to ride with the guards. Talwyn’s driven us all mad these past few weeks with her wishing for time to pass more quickly.”

  “Tell me, where do we join the tribe?”

  Mihei’s smile faded. “The Ride’s taken longer this year than in any season for many years.”

  “Why?”

  “Many times, we’ve found the barrows desecrated. Cheira Talwyn says the spirits are unhappy. We’ll join the others just across the river, below the Ruune Vidaya forest,” Mihei replied.

  Jair didn’t say anything as he thought about Mihei’s news. The Sworn were a nomadic people, consecrated thousands of years ago to the service of the Lady. They were the guardians of the barrows, the large mounds that dotted the landscape from the Northern Sea down through Margolan into Dhasson and to the border of Nargi. Legend said that long ago, the barrows had continued, down into Nargi and beyond, to the Southern Plains. But when the Nargi took up the worship of the Crone Aspect of the Lady, they destroyed the barrows and fought any of the Sworn who dared cross into their lands. The Sworn had left them to their folly, and the legends said that the Nargi had paid dearly for destroying the barrows.