by J. F. Lewis
“Though I am loathe to interfere too much in your battle plans,” a familiar voice intoned from the room behind her, “the current state of things grants me a certain latitude to tell you what I know about this new threat.”
“Dad?” Freezing, not wanting to look lest she banish the phantasm that he surely was, Rae’en’s pupils flared, jade irises expanding into the blackness of her eyes, as memories of her father flashed through her, as real as if she had been transported through time to experience them anew. She remembered him holding Testament, her warpick, its bone-steeled glass nigh unbreakable now that it was one with her spirit. His pleasure at her first kholstering. Being tested at the bridge when he sought to see if she could still think independently after the luxury of having Overwatches at the edge of her mind every minute for the preceding thirteen years. Racing him across Bridgeland and exchanging gifts with him. The ring he’d made of silver and bone-steel alloy from his own bone metal, which even now graced the middle finger of her right hand. Then diving into the water seeking his bones, his voice in her mind, in the mind of all Aern, declaring her First . . . his form wrought in obsidian rising from the waves at the Changing of the Gods as he took his place among them.
She had never felt so conflicted: furious at him for not answering her any of the other times she had called his name since he’d died, and yet so thrilled to hear his voice. His hand touched her shoulder, the flesh of his skin reassuringly solid on the links of her mail.
“Take your time,” Kholster said softly. “I have a long walk ahead of me, but I’m in no hurry to depart.”
*
“How . . . ?” Rae’en shook the rest of the sentence away, eyebrows furrowed as she considered, then reconsidered, some thought Kholster could not know. She chewed her lip, both upper right canines pressing deep into the red-hued flesh. It had taken him millennia to lose that sort of indecision, and, while he knew she loathed the way it made her feel, he wondered if she would miss it when it was gone. In place of his own similar inner turmoil and doubt (for the most part) a deliberate weight of decisiveness had sprouted. A comfort, it was not.
Being the Harvester had finally begun to feel right to him, but Birth could not remain sequestered apart from Death, not if the balance were to be maintained. Other peculiarities of Torgrimm’s true role had bloomed in import with the revelation. He had been close to understanding multiple times, but, as had been his practice when first forged, he’d let his gut guide him without truly examining his instincts. Yes, they were good ones, but as he’d aged Kholster finally understood the need to examine hunches in the aftermath of battle, to see if any underlying lessons or principles could be derived from them in a way that could be shared with others.
Wylant had become a deity in her own right, killing Nomi, scalping her, and donning the flaming hair that Nomi had herself stolen from Dienox millennia earlier, a physical manifestation of a portion of Dienox’s might. Kholster had tried to drive Nomi in Wylant’s direction, hoping Wylant would see the opportunity and take it, but the victory had been hers alone.
When Vander had attacked Aldo, he’d done so as a part of Kholster’s plan to trick the god of knowledge, momentarily blinding him with a pair of false Aern eyes forged by Irka, Kholster’s older son, somewhat less damaged than Vax. As the god of knowledge had reached into his box of eyes to see through the eyes of an Aern and tried to look through them, Vander had been ready.
But it had been Kholster, as Harvester, who’d reaped Aldo’s soul, in the same way he had Nomi’s. With Nomi, he’d assumed he had the power to reap her because she had once been human. But when he’d seized Aldo’s soul and hidden it elsewhere and neither Minapsis nor Gromma had objected, he should have seen the symmetry then. He had not, and in missing it had remained blinded long enough for one of Uled’s contingencies to take effect.
He could have stopped it before it happened, but he’d completely overlooked it in his joy at Wylant’s apotheosis and her relationship with Vax. Knowing that his son, if not truly awakened, was happy, too—an emotional fog of war.
He could still feel Nomi’s soul where he’d hidden it. Aldo’s, too, for all that he had given Gromma permission to harvest it. Aldo inhabited an ant colony, sentient, self-aware, but too small and powerless to affect anything beyond his small tunnels of earth. All of the gods were meant to possess dual purposes, to give them balance and perspective. A balance that had eroded over time.
Once he’d truly understood that, Kholster had realized what had to be done: Torgrimm had to resume his role as god of birth and death of mortal sentients. But putting the puzzle back together exactly as it had been was not an option either. Doing things that way just meant the same broken system would have been in place, even with Wylant and Vander in the mix.
Balance.
That simple word had been the key. But it wasn’t a balance between birth and death Torgrimm had had in mind when he’d allowed Kholster to challenge him and steal a portion of his power. Kholster still wasn’t certain he was the right Aern for the task, but that had never stopped him from finding a way to succeed before, so he had no desire to do so now.
Even as he marveled at how wonderful it was to stand in front of his daughter and breathe the same air, Torgrimm’s words came back to him.
All things die, Kholster had told the god as they stood there on a plain of endless gray, which lay featureless because Kholster had never even considered the afterlife, because he presumed that he would never die.
And life continues, Torgrimm had answered, summing the whole of his purpose and existence in six words.
Bloodmane had not meant to allow him to be so terribly injured, but a Ghaiattri’s flames can burn the soul, and the soul was how a warsuit and its Aern were linked.
Words from throughout his talk with Torgrimm collided and rearranged in Kholster’s mind:
No soul has anything to fear from me.
I hold them when they are small and newly formed. I put them into the right body when it is time. And when they must leave, I take them safely to the next step on their journey.
I have a favor to ask . . .
Elsewhere, through Vander, he felt Harvester at the edge of his senses reaping the dead, his new occupant regaining familiarity of purpose, glad to feel whole, but saddened by the loss of freedom singularity of purpose had allowed him when he had, for a brief span, been sower only. Kholster granted them no more attention than his lungs required to draw breath. He allowed significantly greater allotments of attention to the ebb and flow of information about his loved ones.
Peeking in on them via Vander’s nigh omnipresent gaze, he spied Wylant, Clemency, and Vax practicing maneuvers. He took a deep breath, marveling at how quickly things had changed. Given sufficient time, he felt he could watch them, happy in their training time together, forever. In mid thrust, Wylant froze, arms extended, balance shifting.
Vander? Kholster thought. Is this some sort of spell or—?
You’ve stopped time, sir, Harvester, his second warsuit (now no longer truly his, but never truly not his either, it seemed) intoned.
Have I? Kholster thought back along their link. The communication felt more tenuous than it once had, more like when another warsuit had been connected to him by Bloodmane during their centuries-long separation. I thought given my new responsibilities that sort of thing would no longer be within my purview. That it would have vanished along with the infinite selves required by my tenure as the reaper of mortal souls.
A perception I shared, sir.
Kholster still didn’t like that “sir,” but if the warsuit was more comfortable using the appellation, Kholster did not think it would be right to insist on another form of address.
Am I stopping time for everyone? Or . . . ?
I only noticed because Torgrimm became unresponsive, and I found myself rendered immobile. Given that yours was the most recent alteration to the divine state of things, I decided to check in directly. I hope I haven’t overstepped . . .
No, Kholster thought, sending along a sensation of reassurance and approval, I am always available to you. Why would I be stopping time? My new role is much smaller in scope; I’m not certain that I—
If you wish a technical assessment, I believe that, though your role has indeed narrowed, the abilities commensurate to that scope are no lesser in magnitude when the ramifications of it are considered. Does it truly seem unusual that you might, when acting in this new capacity, interacting directly with the divine rather than the mortal, not find useful the option to allow yourself moments of infinite contemplation? Harvester intoned. A certain timeless aspect does seem to be a default ability with regard to sowers and reapers.
Okay, but why now? Kholster asked. Is there something requiring my intercession? I presumed I would sense if such were the case.
It’s the first time you have met your daughter face to face for millennia, from your relative temporal emotional state—
That’s not a real thing, Kholster scoffed.
You missed her and now you have done what we saw many mortals do at the moment of death, when their loved ones are near.
Are you saying I’m trying to freeze this moment in time, to lock it in my memory? That makes no sense. My memory is perfect.
But you are not, Harvester said gently. If it helps, it appears to happen when you . . . well . . . when you hold your breath. And given that you don’t actually require air, you—
If that’s true, then if I— Kholster studied Rae’en until he knew every aspect of her, not to be recalled later, but to be experienced now, to truly appreciate the light in her eyes, the smile on her lips, and the confidence that, even in this moment of discomfort, outstripped that possessed by many . . . Kholster had let himself feel so guilty, so uncomfortable facing his daughter’s conflicting emotions that he’d stopped time and let his mind run amok studying and reinterpreting the metaphysics of his recent action. He knew Rae’en had done nothing of the sort. She was confronting the now. And maybe that would forever be the difference between them. He hoped she could hang on to that.
Then he breathed.
Rae’en sprang into motion again, the wind whipping her hair behind her as she closed with him for a hug.
“I love you, Dad.”
“I love you, Rae’en.”
“How is Mom?” she asked as they embraced.
Kholster held his breath again.
Time stopped; this time on purpose.
*
Rae’en knew in an instant, just from the way his muscles tensed that Kholster had not even thought to find her mother. Helg’s death was her most traumatic childhood memory. Few things even came close. There were times when her mother’s death, seeing the rocks fall, still stopped her in her tracks: when she heard her mother’s name unexpectedly or the scent in the air and the clatter of stones were just right. The only memories that came unbidden to her mind as startlingly were the collection concerning her arena battle in the Guild Cities when she’d fallen into the water below the arranged walkways and her father had been forced to rescue her with a well-timed All Recall, forcing her body to take over and rescue her based on sheer instinct. One of the only times she felt she had failed her father, and she’d done it not just in front of him but an audience. Self-awareness conjured both memories close to mind, combining with her current discomfort forging a semblance of . . . What? Anger? How could he not have gone to see Helg in the afterlife? He was the Harvester!
“Dad?” Rae’en bared her upper canines and sniffed, nostrils flared in an automatic attempt to seize olfactory confirmation of her accusation, but his scent offered no emotional cues. He smelled like an Aern, the most Aern of all the Aern if one were to think hard about it, but instead of the nuanced moment to moment variations of odor that came with mood changes, Kholster felt like facsimile of his normal aromatic palette . . . not emotionless, but unyielding calm. She pulled away from him, breath coming faster. Pupils quivering, ready to expand at least part way into the Arvash’ae.
“I am not Minapsis.” Kholster’s words were soft but firm, his eyes unflinching despite the guilt Rae’en knew he had to feel.
“You remember Mom though, right?” Rae’en continued the verbal assault, knowing his defense was too good for her words to make it through to score a vital hit. Then, surprised to see the blow strike home and uncover hurt in those eyes rather than reprisal, she still couldn’t stop her words. Too many emotions, too much said and unsaid, too much still to say . . . Relief at seeing him. Betrayal for being left without word from him for so long when she knew that he’d visited Wylant, his Other Wife. She bulled on. “People other than Minapsis remember my mother, right? Being the Harvester doesn’t preclude the memory of lost love, does it?”
“We can talk about this when I return.” Kholster folded his arms across his chest. “You may find the argument more satisfying then, but I do not believe you have time for it at present.”
“Dad!” Rae’en nearly caught the signs of an impending Kholsterian dismissal too slowly to stop him from leaving.
“Yes?”
“How’s Wylant?”
His eyes narrowed, the amber pupils lighting from within with a light not the pale hue she had so often seen, but a harsh white cored with blue. Then it winked out again, and he was smiling at her in the way he had when she’d forged Testament, when she’d passed his test on the trek from South Number Nine to the Guild Cities, when she’d given him the smoke-lensed glasses after Midian as a part of their contest to make the race interesting once they had to speed up to make it to Oot by the appointed time.
“She is well.” Kholster’s voice was deep and warm. “As are your brother Irka and your half-born brother Vax.”
“Irka?” She smiled, but the corners of her mouth turned down as she comprehended what he’d said. “Half-born?”
“Vander is also well,” Kholster continued. “Being the new god of knowledge suits him. His ascendance saved me when I was Harvester. A mortal mind isn’t meant to cope with being in so many places simultaneously. The strain was considerable, and I had trouble adapting with sufficient alacrity.”
When he was Harvester? Cope? Strain?
This is all news to me as well, kholster Rae’en. Bloodmane’s thoughts were tinged with longing. What must it be like to see his creator, the being with whom he had once been part of a whole, and to not be inside his head, to lack completely that sense of connection that had existed for the bulk of one’s existence and say . . . nothing.
Is there anyone near Oot? she asked Bloodmane and Kazan together.
We can send— Kazan began.
No. She cut him off. Never mind.
“So you were busy, but you could have—”
“Peered longingly across the spiritual divide and yearned after a departed mate who has already gone on to her reward? If it helps you come to terms with this, Rae’en, I did not disturb your mother’s rest even though, yes, I have no doubt Minapsis would have allowed it; nor did I look in on any of the other wives to whom I was joined before her, those whose souls were reaped by Torgrimm.” He looked away. “It would have been selfish of me, and, beyond that, when would it have stopped? Wylant lives, and I can fathom why it pains you that she survived to be reunited with me, when your mother did not, but none of this diminishes my love for Helg then or now.”
He makes a valid—
Oh, shut up, Bloodmane! Of course he made a valid point; he’s Kholster. Rae’en closed her eyes. Hearts don’t care about logic, and feelings are what they are whether we like it or not.
When she opened her eyes, she expected for him to have vanished, but Kholster stood right where she had left him. Still smiling. He looked weird without a shirt of chain.
“Where is your armor?”
“I worked my old shirt of chain and the bones from my body into a new warsuit, to make it real, to make it mine.”
“Okay, but where is it?” Rae’en asked again.
“I suppose you could sa
y, that, like with Bloodmane—” Kholster looked past her and, though his gaze fell on the ragtag collection of tents and refugees, Rae’en suspected he was looking somewhere far off beyond the physical world. “—I realized that I was going to have to leave him in someone else’s care.”
“Do you want . . . ?” Rae’en began, but couldn’t finish. He couldn’t want Bloodmane back. That wasn’t the sort of thing Kholster would do. So what was he trying to tell her? She sent the exchange to all of her Overwatches that hadn’t been directly listening, and it was Amber who coughed up: What is he god of now? Is he still a god?
Her other Overwatches remained silent, but Rae’en assumed there was furious conversation going on in the more private mind-space where Overwatches argued with each other, held discussions, or whatever they did when Glayne and now Kazan told them to stop bothering her.
Picking apart everything her father had said, that’s what they were doing. Figuring out what he’d meant. They—
“I am not asking for Bloodmane’s return, Rae’en.” Kholster’s eyebrow quirked down, his eyes squinting, as if he were looking through her skin and into her mind, her soul. And maybe he was.
Can gods do that sort of thing?
“Vander and Kilke can, when they are functioning properly, look into the minds and hearts of men, as can Torgrimm to a degree, even Shidarva if she is acting in the role assigned to her, but I can’t see that often being a part of my duties.”
“And Minapsis,” Rae’en said, before her Overwatches relayed the same thought. “When she is evaluating the dead.”
“And Minapsis,” Kholster agreed.
Ask him, Glayne thought at her, what his new role has become.
He’ll tell her if he wants and she’ll ask him if she wants, Joose cut in. Stop cluttering her head with—
Enough! Kazan’s thoughts shoved the others away. Sorry, kholster, we’ll keep it down unless we have something useful to say.