“I did. I told you he was being clever.”

“And you knew I would take that as a challenge. You are correct, however. I can see the continent, but I cannot find a path to it.”

“Exactly. Unless he grants us a map or wills us to approach, we cannot reach Anturasixan.”

Tsiwen looked at him closely, then her eyes widened. “Your grandfather is not the only clever one. You could get there, if you reanimated your body.”

“I’m certain of it.” Jorim pointed and the world spun. Beneath them now lay a continent far to the east of where Jorim had been born. With another gesture the world drew closer, providing a clear view of the Amentzutl capital, Nemehyan. Almost a dozen ships bobbed in the bay-the largest being the Stormwolf. People moved along a floating quay, bringing supplies to the ship.

“They bound my body tightly in rags and sank it in a cask of oil to preserve it. They are bringing me home for a funeral.” He smiled. “I could enter that body again and reanimate it.”

“That would cause something of a commotion.” Tsiwen shook her head. “This is not a course I would recommend.”

“If there were another, I would choose it.” Jorim frowned. “I have seen my sister and I have searched for my brother. I found him in Helosunde. He is distant and unapproachable.”

“How so?”

“Keles does not seem to know who he is. Since he is lost, there is no way to find him.” Jorim shrugged. “The point is moot, however, since getting him to Anturasixan would take a long time and then…They are twins. He could never kill her.”

“Could you?”

Jorim slowly shook his head. “I do not know. Grija and Chado tell me that Nessagafel wishes to scrape away all creation save for his Viruk, and start over. That would destroy everyone I know and love. I can’t let that happen. At the same time, can I kill my sister to save everyone else?”

“Could you kill me to save everyone?” As she spoke, Tsiwen took on Nirati’s form and stole her voice. “Which do you love more? A small piece of creation, or the larger part of it?”

“Don’t do that, please.” Jorim turned from her and stared down at Nemehyan. There, on the Stormwolf ’s deck, Anaeda Gryst shouted orders to sailors. A portion of the crew looked to be made up of Amentzutl, which surprised Jorim. The Amentzutl had no maritime tradition to speak of, but it looked as if they’d taken to their training rather quickly.

From belowdecks emerged a tall, slender Amentzutl woman-Nauana. She possessed a serenity out of place with the beehive of activity around her. What struck Jorim most about her was the black silk robe she wore with gold at the cuffs and lapels. It had been embroidered in gold with an image of Tetcomchoa, the feathered serpent. Jorim had been recognized as the incarnation of that Amentzutl god. The robe, clearly manufactured from Naleni material, had been decorated with Amentzutl designs, demonstrating cooperation between the two peoples.

Jorim watched her as the sea breeze caught a lock of long, black hair and brushed it over her cheek. He wished he was there to sweep it back, to kiss that cheek and enfold her in his arms. As a god, he would have the ability to crush her, but as a man he could have held her tight and shaped a new reality with her. Though her face betrayed none of it, he felt the ache born of his death lodged deep in her heart.

He would have sunk into glumness, but Shimik bounced and rolled after Nauana. His fur had become midnight black, save for gold over his throat, chest, palms, and soles. His eyes had even become golden, completing a transformation that marked him with Jorim’s colors. The Fennych darted between sailors, scaled one of the ship’s nine masts, ran along a yardarm, then leaped to the deck right in front of Nauana with a shriek.

She caught him up off the bounce and laughed. That laughter spread through the crew, and even Anaeda Gryst cracked a smile at the creature’s antics.

Tsiwen rubbed his shoulder. “I know the pain you feel; the pain they feel. You mustn’t think of returning, however.”

“Why not?”

Grija growled and materialized in a grey, furry lump. “Because I simply will not allow it. You’ve passed through the gates of my realm and they have closed behind you. If I let you back out again, who knows what havoc you could wreak? You might release the demons of the Fifth Hell, or the wizards in Tolwreen. They could cause more trouble than Nessagafel.”

Jorim’s golden eyes narrowed. “How is it, brother, that you have such poor control over your realm? Are you not the god of Death?”

“I am.” Grija drew himself up to his full height and manifested as a black wolf with fiery eyes. “I have claimed you, have I not?”

“You have. Many times. I was trapped below because of you.”

“Then you know my power. Do not trifle with me.” He glanced toward the mortal world. “Have you determined how to get rid of the woman?”

Jorim said nothing because Grija’s protestations of power seemed paper-thin. Either he could control his realm or he could not. If he could not-and Qiro’s defiance suggested weakness-then could Grija’s solution be the only one?

Or would it be the most expedient and beneficial only to Grija?

Something else struck Jorim as odd. While the Naleni had nine gods, the Amentzutl only had six. In their cosmology, Omchoa had consumed the god of death, Zoloa. To the Amentzutl, Grija existed, but only as an aspect of the Jaguar god of Shadows. Jorim did not know how the gods had become consolidated, but he wondered if that somehow reduced Grija’s grip on power. Was his ability to manipulate reality limited by the number of people who believed in him?

“I have tried to reach Nirati on Anturasixan. You know she cannot be touched. And as I am now, I am not part of Qiro Anturasi’s creation, so I am barred from interfering with it. The only way I know to reach her is if I reanimate my mortal remains. That is the key-much as I was the key to unlocking the divine aspect of myself to recover my power. Let me do that, and this can be over.”

“No. Impossible.”

“Why? You allowed me to reincarnate time and time again.”

“Yes, but always in a new body, a new place. That is the way it is done.” The wolf flashed fangs. “Bodily resurrection, never.”

“‘Never’ is a strong word.”

The wolf glanced at the goddess of Wisdom. “You should lend him your intelligence, dear sister, for he is in sore need of it.”

Jorim looked at his sister. “What is he talking about?”

“When Nessagafel created us, we did not have our aspects. There was no god of Death nor goddess of Wisdom. But when we created Men, we also shaped these aspects for ourselves. They allowed us to concentrate power-much as your Mystics do in perfecting a skill. Yet while death was a reality, none of us chose to become the guardian of it, except that it proved necessary.”

Grija growled from deep in his throat. “Our father made the Viruk long-lived. Our creation was flawed, so Men died in an eyeblink. Their souls reincarnated and Men remembered their previous lives. This became messy, so the underworld was created. We shaped the Nine Hells, then matched them with Nine Heavens. I kept spirits and souls for as long as it took them to forget who they were, then I would release them to be born again. Some I keep longer, like the wizards, for they cling to their memories and power, but most return shortly.”

“And if I were to reanimate my mortal body, some balance would be upset?”

“You are a god, Wentoki.” The wolf sniffed. “Your mortal body could not contain what you are. And the essence that could not fit would be loosed in my realm to cause havoc.”

Jorim frowned. “But a vast chunk of my divine nature was severed from me before. Could that not be done again, allowing me to return to deal with Nirati and Nessagafel?”

“If you would fully embrace your divinity, you would recall how painful that was.” The wolf’s hackles rose. “The scream of a god is not pleasant.”