87. ADAPTATION

Teraeth’s story

The Mother of Trees, the Manol

After becoming an Immortal—kind of

A curious ennui settled over Teraeth in the wake of becoming an Immortal. The early-evening hours had been tense and uncomfortable, particularly the part where he’d had to sit there and allow Tya to gaesh him.

That had created a dull, aching, hollow feeling inside him. Colors had dampened. Sounds had muted. The stars seemed to slip from the sky. He thought about Kihrin, having to live like this for years, and Janel, so inured to her gaesh that she hadn’t been able to recognize the symptoms as anything but “normal.” If this was even a portion of what their experiences were like …

At least the monster who’d gaeshed Janel was dead and would never again be a problem.1 The one who gaeshed Kihrin, though … that had been Tyentso.²

Tyentso’s part in this wasn’t done yet. If Relos Var had been the one who’d convinced Havar D’Aramarin to break away from the empire, then Relos Var wanted Tyentso too busy to be a threat. Which implied she could be.

Whether or not Teraeth could be a threat was a different matter. He wasn’t the God of Destruction yet. He had the title, but none of the perks or powers of the job. He was just a seed that had been planted in the ground and, with luck, would be left alone to become a Guardian. Oh, that wasn’t even the right analogy. He was a seed stolen solely for the purpose of keeping it from growing in another man’s garden. Whether or not he ever sprouted was inconsequential.

There was one advantage that he’d been able to identify from the start—tenyé. He now had access to what seemed like a never-ending supply of it. Teraeth logically knew that wasn’t true, but it felt that way. He suspected Talea didn’t previously use enough magic to have noticed, and he didn’t think Xivan had used magic at all. So likely neither would have perceived that they were pulling from an enormous storehouse of the stuff until they were further along in their control of their powers.

Janel shifted under the silk sheets next to him. After they’d finished the ritual, everyone had gone to bed. It seemed laughably prosaic, but what exactly would have been the point of staying up to greet the dawn? They knew they still had a long, tense road ahead of them. Relos Var would quickly figure out what they’d done, and then it was just a matter of predicting how he’d respond. Maybe Kihrin was right and the wizard would come after Irisia and Mithros. Maybe it would be Qown or Senera. Maybe it was always a danger to assume one understood what that bastard was planning.

Janel placed warm fingers against the small of his back, slowly skated her hands along his skin until she was fully resting against him, forehead on his shoulder blades. The sensation remained at once incredibly arousing and a stark reminder that he needed to do something about keeping the room cool. Sleeping with Janel was functionally equivalent to sleeping next to an oven. In the Manol, that wasn’t the most comfortable of sleeping situations.

“I wonder if we’ll be alive this time tomorrow,” Janel whispered to his back. He tried to ignore the way his skin prickled in spite of her warmth.

“Janel…” Teraeth turned around and drew her back into his arms. “We’re going to get through this.” He paused. “You’re not upset because it wasn’t you, are you? I mean, I know how you’ve always felt about Khored…” It should have been Janel. She’s the one who should have ended up as the new God of Destruction.

She shook her head against his chest. Her hands on his shoulders were the same shade as his own skin color, almost as if one color bled into the other. “No,” she murmured. “No, I don’t care about that. I just—” She inhaled sharply. “It feels unreal. After everything that’s happened. There’s a good chance that all of this—thousands of years of this—will be over tomorrow. I just … I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”

Teraeth felt an odd tugging sensation, which quickly turned into an odd shooting pain. This didn’t feel physical. It was spiritual. A horrible pulling, as if someone were trying to yank his souls from his body at a great distance and send them hurtling away, also at a great distance. Yet he knew where the feeling originated. Far to the north.

“No … not tomorrow. It’s going to be today,” Teraeth said. He normally would have cursed, but he was too numb. Oh, Relos Var had compensated much faster than they’d given him credit for.

“Teraeth?” Janel sat up next to him. She placed a black-socked hand on his arm. “Today? What do you mean?”

He rolled out of bed and walked over to the wardrobe, looking for a set of clothes that might be functional on a battlefield and not just in a court. What were the odds his predecessors hadn’t kept exceptionally well-crafted armor?

“Teraeth,” Janel repeated.

“It’s not going to be over tomorrow,” Teraeth told her. “It’s going to be over today. Because—”

Someone started banging on the door to the suite. “Your Majesty? Your Majesty!”

Teraeth turned back to Janel. “Because someone in the Raenena Mountains just started the De-Ascension Ritual again, and this time, they’re using my name.”