The Kingdom of Gods

by N. K. Jemisin

  Eyem-sutah, who had not fought because he’d loved a mortal and had nearly killed himself protecting her, let out a long, weary sigh. “Please,” he said. “Please. This helps nothing.”

  “Indeed, it does not,” said Ahad, looking at all of us with contempt. “So if we are agreed that no one is a child here, not even the one who should be, can we then please focus on events of this millennium?”

  “I don’t like your tone —” began Kitr, but then to my greater surprise, Glee cut her off.

  “I have limited time,” she said. She seemed so completely at ease in a room full of godlings that I wondered again if she might be Arameri. It was far back in her lineage if so; she looked to be pure-blooded Maroneh.

  To my surprise, all my siblings fell silent at her words, looking at her with a combination of consternation and unease. This made me even more curious — so Ahad was not the only one who deferred to her? — but that curiosity would have to remain unsatisfied for the moment.

  “All right, then,” I said, addressing Ahad because he seemed to be at least trying to stay focused. “Who’s going to go take that mask and destroy it?”

  “No one.” Ahad steepled his fingers.

  “Excuse me?” Kitr spoke before I could. “Based on what you’ve told us, Ahad, nothing so powerful should be left in mortal hands.”

  “And what better hands are there for it?” He looked around the table, and I flinched as I realized what he meant. Nemmer, too, sighed and sat back. “One of us? Nahadoth? Yeine?”

  “It would make more sense —” Kitr began.

  “No,” said Nemmer. “No. Remember what happened the last time a god got hold of a powerful mortal weapon.” At this, Eyem-sutah, who had chosen to resemble an Amn, went pale.

  Kitr’s face tightened. “You don’t know that this mask is even dangerous to us. It hurt him.” She jabbed a thumb at me, her lip curling. “But harsh language could hurt him now.”

  “It hurt Kahl, too,” I said, scowling. “The thing is broken, incomplete. Whatever it’s supposed to do, it’s doing it wrong. But as powerful as it is now, I see no reason why we should wait for the mortals to complete it before we act.” I glared at Ahad, and at Glee, too. “You know what mortals are capable of.”

  “Yes, the same things as gods, on a smaller scale,” Ahad replied, his voice bland.

  Glee glanced at him, but I could not read the look on her face before she turned to me. “There is more to this than you know.”

  “So tell me!” Ahad I was used to. He kept secrets like I kept toys, and he did it mostly out of spite. Glee hadn’t seemed the type, however.

  “You aren’t a child anymore, Sieh. You should learn patience,” Ahad drawled. His smirk faded. “But you’re right; an explanation may be in order since you’re new, both to our organization and to Shadow. This group’s original purpose was merely to police our own behavior and prevent another Interdiction. To a degree, that is still our purpose. Things changed, however, when a few mortals used demons’ blood to express their displeasure at our arrival.” He sighed, crossing his legs and leaning back in his chair. “This was a few years back. You may recall the time.”

  Of course I did. A handful of my siblings had been killed, and Nahadoth had come very close to turning Sky-in-Shadow into a large smoking crater. “Hard to forget.”

  He nodded. “This group had already organized in order to protect them from us. After that incident, it became clear that we should also work to protect us from them as well.”

  “That’s stupid,” I said, frowning around the table. Glee lifted an eyebrow, and I grimaced but ignored her. “The demon was taken care of; the menace has ended. What is there to fear? Any one of you could smash this city, melt down the surrounding mountains, make the Eyeglass’s water burn —”

  “No,” said Eyem-sutah. “We cannot. If we do, Yeine will revoke our right to dwell here. You don’t understand, Sieh; you didn’t want to come back after your incarceration ended. I don’t blame you, given circumstances. But would you truly prefer never to visit the mortal realm again?”

  “That’s beside the —”

  Eyem-sutah shook his head and leaned forward, cutting me off. “Tell me you have never nestled into some mortal woman’s breast to be held, Sieh, and loved unconditionally. Or felt adoration when some mortal man tousles your hair. Tell me they mean nothing to you. Look into my eyes and say it, and I will believe you.”

  I could have done it. I am a trickster. I can look into anyone’s eyes and say anything I need to say and be completely believable in the process. Only Nahadoth, who knows me better than any other, and Itempas, who always knows falsehood, have ever been able to catch me out when I truly want to lie.

  But even tricksters are not without honor, as Eyem-sutah well knew. He was right, and it would have been wrong of me not to acknowledge that. So I lowered my eyes, and he sat back.

  “Out of such debate was this organization born,” Ahad said, with only a hint of dryness. “Not all godlings have chosen to participate, but most adhere to the rules we set, out of mutual self-interest.” He shrugged. “Those who do not, we deal with.”

  I propped my chin on my fist, pretending boredom to hide the unease Eyem-sutah’s questions had left in me. “Fine. But how’d you end up in charge? You’re an infant.”

  Ahad smiled by curling his upper lip. “No one else wanted the task, after Madding died. Lately, however, our structure has changed. Now I’m merely the organizer, at least until such time as our actual leader chooses to take a more active role.”

  “And your leader is …?” Not that I thought he’d tell me.

  “Does it matter?”

  I considered. “I guess not. But this is all awfully … mortal, don’t you think?” I gestured around at the meeting room, the table and chairs, the tray of bland finger foods. (I restrained my urge to reach for a piece of cheese, out of pride.) “Why not come up with some sinister-sounding name, too, if you’re going to go this far? ‘The Organization’ or something original like that. Whatever, if we’re going to act like a bunch of mortals.”

  “We have no need of a name.” Ahad shrugged, then glanced pointedly at Glee. “And our group consists of more than just gods, which requires some concession to mortal convention.” Glee inclined her head to him in silent thanks. “In any case, we dwell in the mortal realm. Should we not at least attempt to think like mortals from time to time, in order to anticipate our adversaries more easily?”

  “And then do nothing when we actually discover a threat?” Kitr clenched a fist on the table.

  Ahad’s expression went Arameri-neutral. “What, precisely, would you have us do, Kitr? Go and take this mask? We don’t know who created it, or how; they could simply make another. We don’t know what it does. Sieh said this Kahl seemed to be using the Darre to create it. Doesn’t that imply it’s something mortals can touch but that might strike a god dead?”

  I frowned, unwilling to concede the point. “We have to do something. The thing is dangerous.”

  “Very well. Shall we capture Usein Darr, torture her to learn her secrets? We could threaten to give her unborn child to Lil, perhaps.” Lil, who had been staring at the plate of food, smiled and said “Mmmmm” without taking her eyes away from it. “Or shall we dispense with subtlety and smite Darr with fire and pestilence and erasure, until its cities are in ruins and its people forgotten? Does that sound at all familiar to you, Enefadeh?”

  Every voluntary muscle in my body locked in fury. En pulsed once, questioningly, against my chest — did I want it to kill someone again? It was still tired from my rage at Remath, but it would try.

  That, and that alone, calmed me. I put my hand over En, stroking it through my shirt. No more killing now, but it was a good little star for wanting to help. With another pulse of pleasure, En cooled back into sleep.

  “We are not the Arameri,” Ahad said, speaking softly, though his eyes stayed on me. Demanding my acknowledgment. “We are not Itempas. We cannot repeat the
mistakes of the past. Again and again our kind have tried to dominate mortalkind and have harmed ourselves in the doing. This time, if we choose to dwell among mortals, then we must share the risks of mortality. We must live in this world, not merely visit it. Do you understand?”

  Of course I did. Mortals are as much Enefa’s creations as we ourselves. I had argued this with my fellow prisoners a century ago as we contemplated using a mortal girl’s life to achieve our freedom. We’d done it anyway, and the plan had been successful — more in spite of our efforts than because of them — but I had felt the guilt keenly back then. And the fear: for if we did as Itempas and his pet Arameri had done, did we not risk becoming just like them?

  “I understand,” I said, very softly.

  Ahad watched me a moment longer, then nodded.

  Glee sighed. “I’m more concerned about this Kahl than any mortal magic. No godling by that name is on any city registry. What do the rest of you know of him?” She looked around the table.

  No one responded. Kitr and Nemmer looked at each other, and at Eyem-sutah, who shrugged. Then they all looked at me. My mouth fell open. “None of you knows him?”

  “We thought you would,” Eyem-sutah said. “You’re the only one who was around when all of us were born.”

  “No.” I chewed my lip in consternation. “I could swear I’ve heard the name before, but …” The memory danced on the edge of my consciousness, closer than ever before.

  forget, whispered Enefa’s voice. I sighed in frustration.

  “He’s elontid,” I said, staring at my own clenched fist. “I’m sure of that. And he’s young — I think. Maybe a little older than the War.” But Madding had been the last godling born before the War. Even before him, Enefa had made few children in the last aeon or so — certainly no elontid. She had lost the heart for childbearing after seeing so many of her sons and daughters murdered in the battle against the demons.

  Would that you were a true child, she would say to me sometimes while stroking my hair. I lived for such moments. She was not much given to affection. Would that you could stay with me forever.

  But I can, I would always point out, and the look in her eyes would turn inward and sad in a way that I did not understand. I will never grow old, never grow up. I can be your little boy forever.

  Would that this were true, she would say.

  I blinked, frowning. I had forgotten that conversation. What had she meant by —

  “Elontid,” said Ahad, almost to himself. “The ones borne of god and godling, or Nahadoth and Itempas.” He turned a speculative look on Lil. She had begun to stroke one of the strawberries on the platter, her bony, jagged-nailed finger trailing back and forth over its curve in a way that would have been sensual in anyone else. She finally looked away from the platter but kept fingering the strawberry.

  “I do not know a Kahl,” she said, and smiled. “But we do not always wish to be known.”

  Glee frowned. “What?”

  Lil shrugged. “We elontid are feared by mortals and gods alike. Not without reason.” She threw me a glance that was pure lasciviousness. “You smell delicious now, Sieh.”

  I flushed and deliberately took something off the platter. Cucumber slathered with maash paste and comry eggs. I made a show of stuffing it into my mouth and swallowing it barely chewed. She pouted; I ignored her and turned to Glee.

  “What Lil means,” I said, “is that the elontid are different. They aren’t quite godlings, aren’t quite gods. They’re” — I thought a moment —“more like the Maelstrom than the rest of us. They flux and wane, create and devour, each in their own way. It makes them … hard to grasp.” I glanced at Lil, and when I did, she scooped up a cucumber slice and downed it in a blur, then stuck her tongue out at me. I laughed in spite of myself. “If any god could conceal his presence in the world, it would be an elontid.”

  Glee tapped a finger on the table, thoughtful. “Could they hide even from the Three?”

  “No. Not if they united. But the Three have had their own problems to worry about for some time now. They are incomplete.” I blinked then, as something new occurred to me. “And the Three could be why none of us remembers this Kahl. Enefa, I mean. She might have made all of us —”

  forget

  Shut up, Mother, I thought irritably.

  “— forget.”

  “Why would she do that?” Eyem-sutah looked around, his eyes widening. “That makes no sense.”

  “No,” said Nemmer softly. She met my eyes, and I nodded. She was one of the older ones among us — nowhere near my age, but she had been around to see the war against the demons. She knew the many strange configurations that could result among the children of the Three. “It makes perfect sense. Enefa —” She grimaced. “She had no problem killing us. And she would do it, if any of her children were a threat to the rest. After the demons, she wasn’t willing to take more risks. But if a child could survive without harming others, and if that child’s survival depended for some reason on others not knowing of its existence …” She shook her head. “It’s possible. She might have even created some new realm to house him, apart from the rest of us. And when she died, she took the knowledge of that child with her.”

  I thought of Kahl’s intimation. Enefa is dead now. I remembered. Nemmer’s theory fit, but for one thing.

  “Where’s this elontid’s other parent? Most of us wouldn’t just leave a child to rot in some heaven or hell forever. New life among our kind is too precious.”

  “It has to be a godling,” Ahad mused. “If it were Itempas or Nahadoth, this Kahl would just be” — his mouth began to shape the word normal, but then Lil turned a glare on him to make Itempas proud, and he amended himself —“niwwah, like the rest of you.”

  “I am mnasat,” Kitr snapped, glaring herself.

  “Whatever,” Ahad replied, and I was suddenly glad the platter’s paring knife was out of Kitr’s reach. Hopefully Ahad would find his nature soon; he wasn’t going to last long among us otherwise.

  “Many godlings died in the War,” said Glee, and we all sobered as we realized what she meant.

  “Gods,” murmured Kitr, looking horrified. “To be raised in exile, forgotten, orphaned … Did this Kahl even know how to find us? How long was he alone? I can’t imagine it.”

  I could. The universe had been much emptier once. There had been no word for loneliness back then, in my true childhood, but all three of my parents — Nahadoth in particular — had worked hard to protect me from it. If Kahl had lacked the same … I could not help but pity him.

  “This complicates things to an unpleasant degree,” said Ahad, sighing and rubbing his eyes. I felt the same. “From what you reported, Sieh, it sounds as though the High Northers and Kahl are working at cross-purposes. He’s using their dimmers to create a mask that turns mortals into gods, for some reason I can’t fathom. And they are using the same art to create masks that somehow kill Arameri.”

  “Or else Kahl has been killing the Arameri, using the masks, and doing it to cast suspicion on the northerners,” I said, remembering the dream conversation I’d had with him. I have already begun, he had said then. It was the oldest of tricks, to sow dissension between groups that had common interests. Good for deflecting attention from greater mischief, too. I contemplated it more and scowled. “And there’s another thing. The Arameri destroy any land that injures them — which guarantees that their enemies will strike decisively, if and when they ever do.” I thought of Usein Darr, proudly stating that she would never kill just a few Arameri. “The High Northers wouldn’t bother with assassins and a lowblood here, a highblood there. They’d bring an army and try to destroy the whole family at once.”

  “There’s no evidence that they’re building an army at all,” said Nemmer.

  There was, but it was subtle. I thought of Usein Darr’s pregnancy and that of her guardswoman, and the woman in Sar-enna-nem who’d had two babies with her, both too young to be eating solid food yet. I thought of the
children I’d seen there — belligerent, xenophobic, barely multilingual, and every one of them four or five years old at the most. Darr was famous for its contraceptive arts. Even before scrivening, the women there had long ago learned to time childbearing to suit their constant raiding and intertribal wars. Their war crop, they called it, making a joke of other lands’ reliance on agriculture. In the years preceding a war, every woman under thirty tried her best to make a child or two. The warriors would nurse the babes for a few days, then hand them over to the nonwarriors in the family — who, having also recently borne children, would simply nurse two or three, until all the children could be weaned and handed over to grandmothers or menfolk. Thus the warriors could go off to fight knowing that their replacements were growing up safe, should they fall in battle.

  It was a bad sign to see so many Darre breeding. It was a worse sign that the children hated foreigners and weren’t even trying to ape Senmite customs. They certainly weren’t preparing those children for peace.

  “Even if they were building an army,” said Ahad, “there would be no reason for us to interfere. What mortals do to each other is their business. Our concern lies solely with this godling Kahl and the strange mask Sieh saw.”

  At this, Glee’s already-grim look grew positively forbidding. “So you will do nothing if war breaks out?”

  “Mortals have warred with one another since their creation,” Eyem-sutah said with a soft sigh. “The best we can do is try to prevent it … and protect the ones we love, if we fail. It is their nature.”

  “Because it is our nature,” snapped Nemmer. “And because of us, they now have magic as a weapon for their warring. They’ll use soldiers and swords like before the Gods’ War, but also scriveners and these masks, and demons know what else. Do you have any idea how many could die?”

  It would be worse than that, I knew. Most of mortalkind had no idea what war really meant anymore. They could not imagine the famine and rapine and disease, not on such a scale. Oh, they feared it of old, and the memory of the ultimate war — our War — had burned itself into the souls of every race. But that would not stop them from unleashing its full fury again and learning too late what they had done.