47. CONVERSATIONS WITH DEATH
Teraeth’s story
The Land of Peace, the Afterlife
Shortly after crossing the Chasm
Teraeth made his way past men and women draped in the finest of clothing, velvets and silk brocades. He swore that there were a few he recognized—people who’d died and come to the Land of Peace and had simply never left. Souls who had preferred to instead spend the rest of eternity attending Death’s never-ending ball. People tried to dance with him, and he had to politely but firmly refuse them as he headed toward his target.
He’d changed his mind about the identity of the black-skinned vané man dancing in the center of the ballroom almost immediately. Precisely because the man did look like Doc—after he’d switched bodies with his murderer, thanks to the Stone of Shackles. Thus, the person dancing there had to be Mithrail, whose body his father had ended up wearing as a permanent reminder to always ask more questions when making deals with wizards.1 The man’s dance partner threw her head back and laughed; Teraeth had his second shock of the evening.
Taja.
Eshimavari, he supposed, since “Taja” was now a former Khorveshan slave girl turned mercenary lieutenant. Still, she was distinctive enough with that silver hair and pale skin that Teraeth felt certain of her identity. “Mithrail’s” expression turned sly as he whispered something to the woman.
A shiver raced through Teraeth. The body posture, that smile were hauntingly familiar. And it’s not like he hadn’t looked for Mithrail in the Afterlife before. He’d been certain the man had gone to the Font already.
Teraeth might have been second-guessing, or third-guessing, himself, but he was changing his mind about the man’s identity again.
Maybe it was Doc.
“He won’t remember you,” Khaemezra said. “He doesn’t even remember himself at the moment. Although clearly, there is no power in the universe that will make him forget how to flirt.” She sighed. “In case it wasn’t completely obvious which parent you take after in that regard.”
Teraeth turned around and stared at his mother.
She sat in a chair made of fabric stretched across a gold frame—one of many such spaced around the perimeter of the ballroom, nothing special. But the way she rested her head on her hand while pensively watching the dancers transformed it. It was hard for Teraeth to shake the impression of a bored, unhappy queen at court.
“Is Argas around here somewhere?” Teraeth asked, not sure himself if he meant it as a joke or a serious question.
“No, not yet,” Khaemezra said. “So we can assume my so-called friends haven’t gotten around to replacing him yet.” She went back to watching Doc and Eshimavari dance, her expression both venomous and strangely wistful. None of that emotion was directed at Teraeth, though. Honestly, he didn’t know whether or not he should feel insulted.
She looked like the crone this time, not the pretty young maiden. No one you would want to dance with—no one you would expect to be even capable of dancing. Teraeth had never once seen her in these halls in all the years he’d been there. Then he realized why she’d chosen it: so no one would recognize her as the woman who had once been Death.
His mother had her pride.
Teraeth glanced back at his father. “I would’ve thought he’d look like a Kirpis vané. Like he did in his first life.”
His mother scoffed. “You mean his second life. Yes, I expected that too.”
He blinked. Teraeth’s father hadn’t been a Founder, but Teraeth recalled that he had been older than the demonic invasion, one of the extremely rare children born when the Veil had still been a solid barrier between the twin worlds. Had she known him in that first life? Had there been some sort of connection between them? She’d either tell him or not. He wouldn’t ask.
It wasn’t why he was there, anyway.
“I didn’t come here for him. I’m here to talk to you.”
She didn’t respond. Khaemezra continued to stare into the crowd, to where Doc danced. It was a clear dismissal, one he chose to ignore.
“Mother—”
She slammed her hand down against the chair’s arm and glared at him.
“Really,” Khaemezra said. “How can you call me that after what happened?”
“You’ll need to be more specific. Do you mean after you murdered my father? After you tried to kill Kihrin? After you tried to murder the entire Manol vané nation, for that matter? Or do you just mean, how can I call you Mother when I’m the one who cut off your head?” People started giving them a wide berth, probably because family arguments had nothing in the “awkward” department compared to family arguments where one member had literally killed the other.
His mother glared at him. Then the corner of her mouth quirked up, and she chuckled. “A bit of all of that. I really should be much more angry at you than I am.”
“Yes, I’ve heard a guilty conscience can blunt self-righteous rage.”
Khaemezra gazed at him sideways. “If we’d done things my way, the danger would be over.”
“If we’d done things your way, Relos Var and Xaltorath would still be loose in the world. Care to try again?”
“You’ve been spending too much time with Kihrin.”
“Whose idea was that?”
“Evidently yours. I should have known you volunteered too quickly.”
“You knew perfectly well that I’d fallen in love with S’arric before I was ever born as your son. You thought it was cute.”
She didn’t deny that. She just scoffed again and said, “I never should have let the three of you leave the Afterlife.”
“Indeed. You should have forced us to stay here, for him to stay here against his will while he slowly remembered just who and what he really was. That would have worked out so well once it occurred to him just how far you’d deviated from anything remotely resembling your actual job.”
“I hadn’t—!”
He continued as though she hadn’t said anything. “And if it wasn’t for us, Gadrith would be emperor, either he or Var would have Urthaenriel, and some other poor hapless bastard would be standing in our shoes, except without our skill sets. Whoever ended up as ‘Janel’ would have been consumed by Suless, and you’d have bought the world an extra two hundred years during which you’d fuck around and not get the job done, just like you’ve consistently done for the last four thousand.” Teraeth paused to catch his breath and then started laughing. “Also, three? I’ll have to tell Thurvishar that all his efforts to make you think he’s the well-behaved one worked perfectly.”2
She didn’t respond; he hadn’t expected her to. What was there to say?
They both watched the dancers. His father looked like he was having a good time.
His mother let out a weighty sigh. “How did you die, anyway?”
Teraeth was taken aback, shocked in spite of himself. He turned to face her. “I didn’t.”
Khaemezra straightened. “How—?” She seemed to answer her own question before she’d finished asking it. “Are you my replacement, then?”
Teraeth was so astonished by that idea that he could only stare. He shook his head. In lieu of answering, he pulled over a chair, slumping down into it.
“Well?” she pressed.
“No, I’m not.” No sooner had he sat than he was immediately back up again, this time to liberate a set of drinks from one of the nearby tables. He handed one of them to his mother and kept the other one for himself. “I’ve met your replacement. You don’t know her.”
“Don’t assume,” Khaemezra snapped.
“Her name’s Xivan.”
Khaemezra pondered that statement for a long beat.
“I don’t know her,” she admitted.
Teraeth raised his hands in an “I told you” gesture.
Khaemezra downed her wine and set it on the table next to her. “You realize she won’t have enough time to learn everything needs to know, don’t you? She’s never going to be able to take on Vol Karoth. Not in time to make a difference.”
“Agreed,” Teraeth said. He decided to skip right over why “taking on Vol Karoth” wasn’t their focus. “But that sounds like a problem for the people trying to fix this mess, not people hiding out in the Afterlife stalking old lovers.”
“If Vol Karoth destroys the Immortals and lets the demons overrun the Land of Peace, it’s everyone’s problem,” Khaemezra snapped. “That’s why I’m still here, boy. I may not be Thaena anymore, but I’m still a millennia-old wizard who knows more about this side of the Veil than anyone else in existence. Forget that at your peril.”
Teraeth wrestled down his anger, his resentment. He didn’t know why he would have expected her to admit that she might have made a mistake. That would take lifetimes they didn’t have. He scooted his chair around and set his feet up on the table next to her, knocking an empty glass to the ground. He ignored the sound of breaking glass, nearly lost among the clamor of the party.
“I’ll worry about that if it becomes an issue,” Teraeth said, “which, for right now, it isn’t. But I do need information from you. Kihrin has this idea—”
“I hope he didn’t hurt himself.”
He raised an eyebrow. “The pettiness doesn’t become you.”
“Can you blame me?”
He didn’t even have to think about that one. “You know what? Yes, I can. You’re sitting here wallowing in self-pity and acting like Kihrin’s nothing more than a twenty-year-old street-rat musician turned spoiled Quuros prince, when you know perfectly well who he really is.”
“Yes, a magnet for Vol Karoth,” she snapped, “which is no blessing!”
Teraeth allowed himself a smirk, although damned if he was going to let her know how much better and worse the truth was. “It’s almost comical how terrified you are of Vol Karoth when the reason you ended up here was entirely a situation of your own making. And when it comes to a contest between Kihrin and Vol Karoth, or Kihrin and Relos Var, or Kihrin and the rest of the whole fucking universe, I will bet on Kihrin every time, and I will win. You forget that at your peril.”
She glared. “And you expect my help?”
“Didn’t you just explain how the Land of Peace being overrun is everyone’s problem? How you’re still a power in your own right and know more about this place, blah, blah, blah?” Teraeth laughed. “You’re dead. At least for now. At least until you decide to be reborn. Or a close family member petitions for your Return. I do understand that could be arranged.” He leaned on one arm. “Do you think Sharanakal might put in a request? Or Xaloma perhaps?”
Khaemezra huffed. “You are such an ass.”
“I prefer son of a bitch,” Teraeth corrected and gave his mother a significant look on the off chance she missed the insult. “Anyway, as I was saying, Kihrin has this idea that when we’ve been tossing demons into the Font, we haven’t truly been destroying them.”
He watched her carefully, which was the reason he saw the draw of her brows, the briefest twitch at the corners of her eyes.
“A ridiculous notion,” Khaemezra snapped. “Do you think I haven’t checked? A demon tossed into the Font ceases to be. That’s why we do it.”
“Okay,” Teraeth said, narrowing his eyes. “But now I’m confused. Because if the Font of Souls destroys demons, why have we been working so hard all these years to keep demons away from it? Which is it? Does the Font of Souls destroy demons, or can demons destroy the Font?”
His mother’s lip rose in a sneer. “What a simplistic way of looking at things. There’s a difference between throwing someone into a furnace and letting them have free access to the fuel. Both outcomes can be true.”
“Very well,” Teraeth said, ignoring the insult. “But Kihrin doesn’t think you’re destroying their souls at all.”
“Kihrin is hardly the expert—”
“He thinks that all the demons who came from that other universe were each composed of thousands—millions—of smaller souls. That the Font breaks those souls apart, but it never destroys them. It merely sends all those component pieces back to the Living World to be reborn as individual humans.”
Silence. Then Khaemezra leaned over and stole the glass of wine from Teraeth’s hand. She’d already drunk her own.
“Mother.”
She drank said wine as petulantly as possible. “And how exactly is that not destroying a demon?”
He stared. His mother was grumbling and cranky and clearly upset, but she wasn’t even the tiniest bit surprised.
“That is what’s happening, isn’t it?” Teraeth said. “He’s right.”
She didn’t answer for a long beat of hesitation. Then she said, “Why does it matter?”
“Because it does.”
“Oh really?” She scowled. “That’s your answer? ‘Because’? I was being serious. What good is it knowing that before you were Atrin Kandor, you were one infinitesimally small part of a demon? Please enlighten me on how that would have made any of your lives even the tiniest bit better.”
Teraeth had already figured out that he probably was one of those recycled “demon” souls. He’d figured it out as soon as Kihrin had explained that everyone who didn’t have the soul of a Founder likely qualified. The confirmation was still a queasy, ugly feeling.
But she also didn’t understand. “It matters, Mother, because depending on how someone set up the ritual, trying to affect demons might also affect everyone who ever was a demon. Which is apparently a lot of people. Which is a problem if Relos Var decides that’s the way we should have been handling our demon problem all along!”
Khaemezra straightened in her seat. She blinked several times, staring out into the distance. Teraeth could almost see the quickening of her pulse, the way her whole body tensed. She understood the ramifications, even though she pretended at nonchalance. “No,” she said. “He’s not that stupid. Relos Var knows we’d stop him—” She choked off the words as she realized what she was saying.
Who, exactly, was going to stop him? Tya and Khored? A bunch of baby Guardians who had no idea what they were doing?
Teraeth said, “Tell me again why it doesn’t matter.”
What followed wasn’t silence exactly—not with the soaring music and murmurs of the crowds and the jangling laughter and the clinking of glasses. But it felt oddly the same as if there had been no sound of any kind at all. Just a mother and son, all the history behind them, and the terrible realization of what might yet be to come.
But only for a moment.
“And you thought I was bad,” Khaemezra finally murmured.
“Oh no. You’re not excused just because he’s worse,” Teraeth spat. “You’re both far too good at gilding your crimes with the cracking veneer of necessity. You should have said something. You should have explained this.”
“We didn’t know back then.” Khaemezra suddenly sounded very tired and every bit her age. “Not until after Grizzst brought us back. You should have seen the giant pile of demon souls he handed over, and he’d just finished with that gaeshing project of his. We had a chance to catch our breaths. That was when Galava and I noticed the pattern.” She saluted him with her empty glass. “It was a reassuring pattern, child.”
“How can you possibly—”
She sighed. “It meant ‘demon’ wasn’t a permanent curse, that the infection could be countered. Yes, you’d have to be reborn, but wasn’t that better than the alternative?”
Yes, of course. But the consequences of that knowledge were less enviable.
Teraeth saw it all laid in front of him like dishes at a banquet. Yes, it would have been a reassuring pattern—and it would have made the situation so much worse. Because what must have originally seemed like an emergency that had to be solved, immediately, without delay, or risk the survival of humanity would have suddenly seemed … less urgent. A problem, to be sure, but not an insurmountable problem. With the demons gaeshed and their reclamation an understood phenomena, demons would have been instantly relegated to being the lesser evil. Terrible, yes, but gradually more and more normal. The greater evil, of course, being not the Daughters of Laaka, the dragons, or even Relos Var, but Vol Karoth. The Guardians had then let themselves become trapped in a stasis of their own making: preoccupied with an enemy they couldn’t engage with as long as he was still imprisoned, yet unwilling to focus their attention elsewhere while he remained. And how tempting must it have been when someone came along with all those lovely “prophecies” that suggested that someone else might one day solve all their issues with Vol Karoth. All they had to do was make sure certain events happened, certain people were born, certain game pieces were placed just so.
No wonder Xaltorath had been able to ambush them in so many timelines.
Teraeth didn’t answer his mother. He forcibly unclenched his jaw.
“How many souls?” he finally asked. “How many souls do you think this affects?”
She considered the question. “Half.”
Teraeth felt sick. “Half. Really?”
“It’s a guess,” Khaemezra said, waving a hand. “I don’t know. But half seems reasonable. With each race that used the Ritual of Night and aligned themselves, more and more souls would have been created by the Font itself. And fewer and fewer of the old demons still exist. So it’s a numbers game. The more time passes, the lower that number will drop.”3
Teraeth sucked his lower lip against his teeth as he remembered Kihrin saying he wasn’t even sure the Font produced human souls at all. If that was true …
He had to hope that Kihrin wasn’t right about that.
His mother’s voice dropped until it was barely louder than a whisper. “We never found any evidence that it matters, Teraeth. No suggestion that you’re some sort of hidden carrier of demonic taint. If that was ever true, the Font of Souls would have washed it all away. It truly isn’t something to lose sleep over.” She paused. “You really think Relos Var will target the demons this way?”
“Yes.” He didn’t even have to think about it.
Khaemezra’s face twisted. “You have to stop him.”
“I wasn’t planning on stepping aside and letting him do what he likes,” Teraeth admitted. “Stopping him is the plan. I just regret that I probably won’t be able to personally twist the knife. I would have liked that.”
“You always did hate him so much.” She sounded fond.
He glanced over at his mother. “Not without cause. Remember the part where I fell in love with his brother?”
“Just be careful—” Midsentence, she seemed to realize what she was saying, and to whom. She closed her mouth and looked away.
And maybe if it had been under different circumstances, he’d have let that go unremarked, but he just couldn’t. Nor could he keep the venom from his voice. “Don’t pretend to care. We both know better.”
The more familiar scowl was almost a relief. “Oh yes, my mistake.” She made a face as though she was tasting bile. “How silly of me to give a damn about my own child.”
He tilted his head. Apparently, it was time to leave. “Are you confusing me with a child that you haven’t tried to murder?” Teraeth paused. “Do you have a child that you haven’t tried to murder? Khaevatz, maybe? Although you did have her daughter assassinated…”
“Oh, stop it,” Khaemezra snapped. “It wasn’t personal.”
Teraeth looked back at Doc, then looked at his mother. “No,” he said, his voice breaking. “Don’t kid yourself. That was very personal. And I haven’t forgiven you. I don’t think I ever will. I did everything for you. Committed every crime that you ever asked of me, swore every vow, bound myself with every leash. I gave you my absolute devotion—”
“Teraeth—”
“And I only ever asked for one thing in return: that you be worthy of it.”
He didn’t say the next part, although it echoed loud enough to break glass: you weren’t.
Khaemezra just stared for a moment, her face blank. Then that expression became by stages angry, horrified, regretful, and guilt-stricken. She made a sound suspiciously similar to a sob, put a hand to her face, and turned away.
Maybe a better man would have forgiven her then. Kihrin would have forgiven her, he was certain. He was good like that.
Teraeth was his mother’s son, and she’d raised him to show mercy to no one.
It wasn’t that she didn’t matter to him anymore—she did. But there were some hurts that couldn’t be healed with an epiphany and tears.
“I’m glad we talked,” Teraeth said, his voice as flat as the still sea of numbness he floated on. “Now, I’m going to fetch my father, and we’re going to leave. And you won’t stop either of us.” He pulled his feet off the table and stood.
She closed her eyes and didn’t respond, although there was no possibility that she hadn’t heard him.
“I am curious about one thing,” Teraeth added. “You mentioned he doesn’t remember.”
Khaemezra opened her silver eyes.
Teraeth continued, “So he doesn’t remember the history between the two of you. If you’d shown up here looking the way you really do, you could have been the one he was dancing with, flirting with. Maybe he’d have ignored Taja and spent all his time with you.”
She made a small scoffing noise as she wiped a thumb under one of her eyes. “Yes,” she said. “That’s exactly why I didn’t.”
Teraeth nodded. Truthfully, he understood. He thought about how miserable he’d been prepared to be, watching Kihrin and Janel together. How angry he’d been and also how determined he’d been to cheerfully cut the throats of anyone who would have dared give them a moment’s discomfort. He’d almost lost everything because he’d been too proud to confess his vulnerability. His mother’s son indeed.
In any similar situation, he would have been damned (perhaps a poor choice of words) if he’d have been forced to resort to tricks to gain the attention of someone he loved. Not even if it was Kihrin. Not even if it was Janel.
Khaemezra waved him away. “Go. Take him. I don’t care.”
Teraeth knew that was a lie, but he let it be. It was his way of saying goodbye.
He left to speak to his father.
Eshimavari spotted Teraeth first. From the moment their eyes met, Teraeth knew the former Goddess of Luck’s memory was intact. She recognized him.
She winked.
Teraeth felt inexplicably nervous. He’d never spoken to Taja. He’d only ever heard about her or read about her. He felt like he should have some kind of update for her: Here’s how everything’s going. Yes, there’s a new Taja, and she’s coming along fine. Oh yeah, um, Vol Karoth and Kihrin merged, but no worries, everything is under control.
Teraeth hoped everything was under control.
Before he had a chance to contemplate what he was going to say, though, Doc noticed his dance partner had been distracted. The former Kirpis vané king turned and examined Teraeth, frowning. Something about Teraeth’s appearance seemed to bother Doc, although it wasn’t clear exactly what.
“I’m your son,” Teraeth told him, suspecting it was likely best to get certain facts out of the way immediately.
“Are you?” Doc cocked his head. “I hope I was a good father.”
“You were,” Teraeth said. Or at least, maybe he would have been, if he’d been given the chance. Taunna seemed like she’d turned out well enough.4 “I need you to come with me.”
“I’m feeling parched; I’m going to get a drink,” Eshimavari said before tugging on Doc’s shirt. “Listen to him, would you? He’s not just pretty; he’s smart too. He gets that from you.” With that, the former goddess walked off the dance floor, although Teraeth strongly suspected she’d be back at it as soon as she found a new dance partner.
Doc watched her leave—which Teraeth noticed because he’d been watching too—and then gave his son an apologetic, rueful smile. “And where is it you would have us go? I am told on good authority that I cannot leave. That I am … dead.” He frowned as though the thought left an unpleasant taste in his mouth.
Teraeth frowned at the man’s accent, his manner of speech. Far, far more formal than anything he’d ever encountered from Doc. Doubt wormed its way into his heart.
“That’s … true,” Teraeth acknowledged slowly. “But we’ve been looking for you. Uh, friends have been looking for you too. Including the new Goddess of Death. She’s giving you permission to Return.”
Doc stared at his son as though Teraeth were speaking a foreign language. “And where is this new Death Goddess, then? I’d hear the words from her.” He studied Teraeth, a probing look that felt as though it penetrated all the way to the soul. Which, in this world, was distinctly possible. “No, I’m definitely not going to leave. And besides, why should I go back? I’m told that I’m known as a monster in the Living World: a tyrant and villain. Lastly, I’m rather enjoying myself here. I’d ask you to dance, but if you truly are my son, that would probably be scandalous to some present. Perhaps I should find a new partner.”
Teraeth grabbed the man’s arm as he was about to walk away.
“Remove your hand from my arm before I remove it from yours,” Doc said.
Ah. That look in Doc’s eyes was far more identifiable.
“Valathea’s waiting for you,” Teraeth told him. “I’m bringing you back to her.”
It was like watching someone surface from underwater. That splash of awareness in the eyes, the focus that came with them, the sudden recognition when his father looked at him. His posture changed, his expression lightened, his eyes began to twinkle.
“Oh,” Doc said. “You should’ve led with that.”
They left. Teraeth never looked back at his mother, but he could feel her eyes following him the whole way. The important thing, however, was that she didn’t try to stop him and she didn’t interfere.
Perhaps that was her way of saying goodbye as well.