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At last the darkest part of the year was behind them.
Emet-Selch exhaled slowly and turned his face to the rising sun. The worst of the winter had passed. Though the promise of cold and snowy days yet lingered, the worst of the inclement weather always had been diverted away from Amaurot: Now, soon enough, they would welcome a mild spring.
And the accompanying allergies. The corner of his mouth tightened at the thought. Why the combined efforts of generations of Halmaruts and Emmerololths had not managed to mitigate the springtime miseries, much less banish them entirely, was a question he had never had answered and knew better than to ask.
It was enough that the days were now growing longer. It was no longer full dark when he left for the Capitol in the morning, though as always night had long fallen by the time he saw an end to his duties each day. It was… pleasant, to be able to walk under the first faint rays of sunlight, much more so than hurrying through the darkened streets.
Today was also shaping up to be an unseasonably pleasant day. Though the remnant’s of the night’s chill yet lingered, the air lacked its usual sharp bite. The hint of noontime warmth had lodged beneath his breastbone, pulsing heat in time with his heartbeat. Perhaps he might catch a moment to enjoy it later in the day; perhaps he might invite Hythlodaeus to join him for a noontime repast, and the two of them would take a stroll out in the sunlight.
…Wait.
Emet-Selch frowned. He rested his fingertips on his chest, turning his attention inward. As he had suspected, it was no hope for a brighter day that warmed his body. It was the heat of a familiar insistent magic.
Emet-Selch glanced up at the Capitol door looming large before him. He glanced aside. For a brief, bitter instant he begrudged the effort involved in leaving home and traveling this far, only to be called away as soon as he’d reached his place of work.
For an instant only. Already he was answering the call. He never could leave Azem waiting.
With an impatient click of his tongue, Emet-Selch vanished from the street before the Capitol.
The blackness of the space between was only gradually broken by soft glowing lights winking in and out like summer fireflies. Several moments passed before Emet-Selch realized that his surroundings were growing no brighter—that, in fact, he had been called to the darkened outskirts of a town. Though it had been just past dawn when he had departed Amaurot, the place where he had emerged was still shrouded in the blackest depths of night, devoid even of the moon’s light. Without knowing where he had landed, he had no way of telling the time.
None of that concerned him so much as the person standing before him, the smile on their face visible even beneath the sparse lanterns.
“…Azem.”
“Good evening, Emet-Selch,” Azem said.
Somewhere, far off, a bell tolled twice.
Azem looked well enough, which came as a relief. They also spoke with nothing but cheer. Most striking—and suspicious—of all was that they were not wearing their unique Convocation mask, choosing instead to discard it for a nondescript white.
This was not one of those situations where Azem summoned him for his aid in an emergency, or because his expertise was sorely needed, or for a myriad of other professional reasons. This was one of those situations where Azem called him because they were up to mischief.
“I’m leaving,” Emet-Selch said.
He did not, in fact, leave.
“Wait, wait—” Azem crossed the distance between them in two strides and seized his arm. “Don’t go! Let me explain! I really do need you here!”
Try as he might, Emet-Selch was unable to shake off Azem. They clung to his arm like the star’s most insistent limpet.
After a few seconds’ useless struggle, he gave it up in favor of glowering at his so-called friend. “Where is your mask?”
“Somewhere safe,” Azem said vaguely, which wasn’t much of an answer at all, given that at least once a year their mask was dropped or misplaced or utterly destroyed in the course of their adventures. “That’s not the point, Hades. Have you forgotten what day it is?”
Emet-Selch’s frown deepened. Try as he might, he could recall no particular significance associated with this date.
Azem’s look of puzzlement matched his own. Finally they released him, stepping back only to lay a finger aside their chin. “Oh. Did I not say? I could’ve sworn I told Hythlodaeus at least… and I’d hoped the tradition would have caught on in Amaurot by now…”
“Get on with it, Azem.”
“Right.” Azem drew in a deep breath. They spread their arms out to either side, gesturing expansively to the metropolis around them. “Welcome to the city of Ninoe. As you can tell, we’re… rather far from Amaurot.”
They glanced to the sky, as if judging the time difference by the dark of the night, before continuing. “As such, few Amaurotines have heard of Ninoe, but it is rather famous locally. Most specifically, for the festival held during the second new moon of the year. The Festival of Affections.”
“Festival of—”
Emet-Selch stopped. Looked at Azem. Realized, from the shine to their eyes and the curve to their lips, that they were in earnest.
“…I’m leaving.”
This time, before he’d so much as managed to lift a finger, Azem lunged forward, wrapping their arms about his waist and anchoring him in place. “Wait! Wait wait! Let me finish explaining!”
“With a name like that, there’s nothing to explain!”
“I haven’t seen you in a fortnight!” Azem yelped.
Emet-Selch stilled.
“And you haven’t left Amaurot in six moons. And your duties haven’t demanded much of you as of late, to the point that you’ve even taken to returning home early.” They tilted their head back, regarding him with too-wide eyes.
There was only one person who could have revealed as much to Azem, though Emet-Selch saw neither hide nor lavender-colored hair of him. When next he saw Hythlodaeus, the two of them were going to have a talk.
Oblivious to his irritation, Azem was still talking. “And then—this festival, on a far forgotten corner of the star. Exactly the sort of thing I am tasked with observing as Azem of the Convocation, and exactly the sort of thing I would take the opportunity to enjoy with you. If you’d agree, that is.”
…Damn them. They made a persuasive argument. There truly were no urgent matters that needed his attention, and he had little ability to deny an earnest plea from Azem, a weakness that had landed him in hot water far too often.
Even so, Azem knew his disdain for being summoned without prior notice outside of an emergency. This was not a habit that he wished to encourage.
…It was with great dismay that Emet-Selch realized he had already been convinced.
Azem was still speaking. Once again, they had released him in favor of pacing back and forth and gesticulating as they made their argument. Emet-Selch returned his attention to them only just in time to hear, “…need this too, of course.”
They held something out, a familiar object that shone white beneath the lamplight.
Emet-Selch looked at it. He looked at Azem, eyebrows rising beneath his mask. “…And what is that supposed to be?”
“A mask,” Azem said. They were wearing the sort of foolish grin that Emet-Selch wished to wipe from their face by any means possible. “Don’t tell me it’s been so long since you’ve worn this sort that you no longer recognize it?”
Of course he still recognized it. It was exactly the sort of mask that Hythlodaeus wore—so alike, in fact, that Azem might well have stolen it from their lover.
“I know what it is, Azem,” Emet-Selch said testily. He did not enjoy the way that Azem’s grin broadened in response. “What I am asking is why you’re giving it to me.”
“Because we’re here to have fun, of course,” Azem responded promptly.
“…What?”
“Oh. Did I say that aloud?”
Azem cleared their throat ostentatiously. “We are here to share in the celebration of another culture and learn of their traditions so that I might submit a thorough description for the archives. And since you always complain about the quality of my work, and since there is absolutely no way I can experience everything this festival has to offer in the course of one night, I have called you to beg your assistance.”
“My assistance,” Emet-Selch repeated. “You want me to assist you by accompanying you to a festival of romance.”
Azem nodded. “Yes, exactly! You’ll do it, won’t you? If it’s to help with my work?”
Emet-Selch groaned and resisted the urge to massage at his temples. Rather than meet Azem’s eyes, he instead glared at the mask in their hand.
“Please, Emet-Selch?”
“Do not think you can convince me to go along with anything you propose just by saying ‘please.’”
“Of course not. But please, Emet-Selch?”
They’d pitched their voice into a grating whine. Emet-Selch lifted his hand, intending to…
He wasn’t certain what he intended. To make his escape, perhaps, or to shut up Azem, but most definitely not to take the mask they offered.
In any event, none of those things happened. Azem seized his hand, clasping it tight between both of their own. “At the very least, please help me find Hythlodaeus?”
Emet-Selch paused. He opened his mouth. He shut his mouth.
“Hythlodaeus is here?” he asked—and then when Azem hesitated, shuffling their feet sheepishly, “What do you mean you’ve lost Hythlodaeus?”
He had last seen Hythlodaeus only that morning. The memory was somewhat blurry, as happened with everyday routines that had long ago ceased to hold notability. Hythlodaeus had awakened before him; Hythlodaeus had prepared coffee and run down to the bakery for breakfast; Hythlodaeus had kissed him on his way out.
And then, apparently, Hythlodaeus had been picked up by Azem and dragged halfway across the star, with Emet-Selch none the wiser.
“What were you thinking?” Emet-Selch demanded.
“Only that I couldn’t possibly attend a celebration of the power of love without the both of you, Hades,” Azem replied cheerfully.
Not that. He refused to acknowledge that.
Emet-Selch pressed on, “If summoning the both of us was your intention all along, you could easily have called us together. That you did not can mean only that you wished to speak with him alone, which in turn means that he is part and party to your schemes. If you’ve lost him now, it must somehow be to your benefit.”
“I really don’t know where he is, Hades,” Azem protested.
Her voice had the ring of truth to it. Emet-Selch sighed. “Of course you don’t. This is Hythlodaeus’s contribution to your mischief.”
And if it was Hythlodaeus’s intention to lose himself in the crowds, thus making Emet-Selch work to find him, then he could hardly have chosen a better place. Ninoe was no small village, and despite the lateness of the hour, it seemed every one of her residents was awake and participating in the festival. The streets were flooded with black-robed figures, a sea of moving shadows broken only by the glint of white masks. Their souls were a river of many-colored lights, ebbing and swirling round shops and stalls or streaming down side paths towards other attractions. It would have been difficult to locate Hythlodaeus in such a large city at the best of times; now, in the midst of so many people, even Emet-Selch had difficulty recognizing his familiar soul.
Azem, of course, was no help. Azem was distracted by every shiny bauble and enticing aroma they passed. It was enough for Emet-Selch to seriously consider putting her on a leash. At this rate he would lose track of them both.
“Hades, over there!”
Azem tugged his arm. She was looking down one of the alleys, chin up and tilted forward like a hound that had caught a scent on the wind.
Emet-Selch took one look, confirmed that she had not caught sight of Hythlodaeus, and continued walking. “He’s not there.”
“Yes, but Hades, you know what is over there? Fried dough.”
Emet-Selch’s lip curled.
“Rolled in powdered sugar,” Azem continued. “And savory flatbreads. And fruit juices of the sort that never make it as far as Amaurot. And—”
“Are you so hungry that you can’t wait until after we find Hythlodaeus?”
“Well, no, but it’s a festival. One is supposed to try all the food at a festival, and I think Hythlodaeus would appreciate it if we bring something to eat when we find him. Don’t you think so, Hades?”
“I don’t think Hythlodaeus will mind much either way,” Emet-Selch said, which was true enough. “Why do you keep saying my name?”
“Because I want to,” Azem said. For all the simple honesty in her voice, it still wasn’t much of an answer. But then she said, “You don’t often let me say it in public anymore. It’s just not done. So I want to say it while I still have the chance. Hades. Hades. Hades.”
Emet-Selch stopped walking and turned to stare at her. Her smile beneath the unfamiliar white mask was hopeful and guileless. “You…”
Azem cocked her head. She reached out and threaded her fingers through his.
Emet-Selch sighed.
No one here had reason to know their identities. That would surely change if they ran about calling each other by title.
Hand tightening around hers, he turned away. “Come along, then,” he mumbled.
It was not a leash, but it kept Azem by his side all the same.
At last he spotted Hythlodaeus in one of the side streets dedicated to crafts shaped by their own hands. Azem murmured explanations in his ear as they walked hand in hand. That, yes, while it would be simpler to create such works with magick, these were a people that believed in beauty in imperfection. Time and effort had their own worth, and successes and flaws alike were reminder of that.
“They’re like people in that regard,” she said.
Emet-Selch’s eyes remained firmly fixed on Hythlodaeus’s soul. “Like people?”
“There isn’t much interesting about a person who’s too perfect, is there? It’s our experiences that give us character.” Azem shrugged one shoulder. Though he did not see, mischief flitted across her face. “For example, I once met a prickly young man with a sharp tongue and a heart of gold. Far from perfect, I would say, but I haven’t been able to leave him alone ever since.”
He made no attempt to hide his wry smile. “Whereas I have found myself saddled with an unrepentant troublemaker with a hero complex and a terrible habit of leaping headfirst into danger.”
“Those are not what I would call flaws. Ah, there’s Hythlodaeus!”
Eyes on her quarry at last, Azem lunged forward, dragging Emet-Selch along in her wake. A startled sound escaped his lips, half-laugh and half-protest, but Azem paid him no mind, and his dignity remained safe in anonymity.
Hythlodaeus did not turn as they approached. He was staring, eyes narrowed, at a glassblower in the process of making a sphere. Once it had reached the size of his palm, he straightened up and looked at it critically; then, leaning forward, he exhaled twice more. With the first breath, a core of yellow fire settled within the sphere; with the second, cherry red tendrils of flame began to swirl around it.
Hythlodaeus shook his head minutely. Only when Azem drew level with him and placed a hand on his shoulder did he glance at her. He stared through them for several seconds; then he blinked, his attention returning to the physical plane, and a smile alighted on his lips. “Ah, you’re here at last. And you’ve brought Hades.”
Emet-Selch sighed heavily. Hythlodaeus showed no surprise at seeing that both of them had discarded their Convocation masks. Perhaps it had even been at his suggestion.
Azem peered past Hythlodaeus at the glassblower. He’d set aside this latest creation to cool alongside an identical sphere. “What are those?”
Hythlodaeus waved a careless hand. “Trinkets of interest, that’s all. They caught my eye while I was waiting for you.”
“Waiting for us?” Emet-Selch snarled. “You could have been trying to find us.”
“At a festival, when there’s so much else to take in?” Hythlodaeus said cheerfully. “I simply couldn’t overlook anything I passed. It’s good study for my work at Architect. And I don’t see why you needed me to search for you; you seem to have found me just fine.”
“Well,” Emet-Selch said, after a moment in which indignation stole away his ability to speak, “now that we’ve found you, we can—”
“We can enjoy the festival properly!” Azem piped up. “The three of us at the Festival of Affections. Just as it was meant to be.”
Emet-Selch turned slowly to stare at Azem. Hythlodaeus lifted a hand to muffle his laugh.
Somewhere, a bell tolled three times.
Leaning closer to Hythlodaeus, Azem confided, “Hades wouldn’t let me explore without you. He kept saying, ‘We must find Hythlodaeus,’ and ‘Didn’t you ask me for help in finding Hythlodaeus?’ and ‘That can wait until after we’ve found Hythlodaeus,’ and—mmph.”
Only Emet-Selch’s hand over her mouth ensured her silence. She turned her head slightly, doubtless staring at him with an expression of deep betrayal. Emet-Selch ignored it, just as he ignored the way her other hand tightened about his.
“Enough,” he growled. “I already agreed to accompany you. For one night and one night alone, understood?”
Azem nodded silently, her mouth still covered.
Hythlodaeus reached up, gently prying Emet-Selch’s hand away and allowing Azem to breathe. “Then we’ll return to Amaurot on the morrow. Tonight we shall enjoy Ninoe’s Festival of Affections. An in-depth study of a foreign culture.”
“And all the associated traditions,” Azem added.
“As the latest to join us, I believe we should allow Hades to dictate our itinerary,” Hythlodaeus continued. “So, Hades? What shall we investigate first?”
“I don’t suppose you would agree to finding the nearest inn and going to sleep?” Emet-Selch said without hope. “As is only right and proper for this time of night?”
Their identical grins told him they would allow no such thing.
The people and their magicks, their rites and their performances. There were so much to see, and all of it so unfamiliar, that it soon set Emet-Selch’s head to spinning. Azem seemed to be perfectly in his element, laughing along with every stranger they met, but Emet-Selch found himself overwhelmed by the strangeness of it all. Little wonder Azem’s reports of his travels were always such a mess: There was so much to experience and so little that could be understood without proper context. Even if the three of them were to put their heads together and assemble their memories of this night, they would hardly be able to construct a sensible narrative.
And that, surprisingly, did not bother him.
How could he describe all that he had seen and done? How could he speak of the joy in Azem’s smile or the teasing lilt to Hythlodaeus’s voice? How could he explain that he had discarded the mantle of Emet-Selch to live as Hades and only Hades, just for one night?
At the urging of one of the celebrants, Azem closed his eyes. Hythlodaeus laid his fingers against the small of Azem’s back. He leaned in, murmuring words meant for Azem’s ears alone. Azem grinned, hand beginning to crackle with aether, and at Hythlodaeus’s direction, loosed a shower of projectiles with unerring precision.
The corner of Emet-Selch’s mouth curved upward. No matter how many times he watched them work in tandem, their skills never ceased to amaze. He backed away, intending to get a better view of his lovers and their targets alike—but then he walked into an unexpected obstacle and stumbled.
The obstacle crumpled beneath him with a thud.
Emet-Selch shook his robes out and scowled. He glanced down—but the scowl faded from his face instantly as he saw with what he had collided.
He might have momentarily lost his balance, but the same could not be said for the child. They’d been knocked clean to the ground. The baskets they had been carrying in either hand had gone flying, falling open and scattering crystallized flowers everywhere across the street. The little flowers were quickly decimated, lost to the darkness between stalls or crushed beneath oblivious feet.
The child was quite young, barely taller than his knee, easy to overlook in the darkness and the crowds. Now they looked around at their fallen flowers, mouth hanging open in silent dismay. They did not even attempt to collect what remained. Neither did Emet-Selch. With this many people about, their aether muddying the signatures of the myriad tiny flowers, even he would be hard-pressed to gather them back together.
“I’m sorry,” Emet-Selch said awkwardly. Then, when the child looked at him—they were so small; gods, had he ever been that small?—he realized that he was looming over them, and he crouched down to bring himself closer to their eye level. “Are you all right? Are you injured?”
The child’s mouth closed at last. Still silent, they shook their head.
It was difficult to see in the black of night. Even so, he could see the tears streaking down from beneath their mask.
“What’s all this, then?”
At this particular moment, he both welcomed and dreaded the voice that suddenly spoke up behind him. Hythlodaeus knelt next to him, placing one hand on his shoulder for balance as he studied the little one. “Oh dear. This does look a mess.”
“And it’s all Hades’s fault, I wager,” Azem said, materializing on his other side. Emet-Selch opened his mouth, protests dying on his lips as he realized there was nothing he could say in his own defense. Azem was paying him no mind in any case, sweeping past without so much as a glance. “Come now, little one, what’s wrong? Hades can be intimidating, but he would never intend the sort of offense worth crying over.”
Sniffling, the child looked up at him. Still they did not speak, but their hands moved quickly in a series of distressed gestures. Emet-Selch had not the first idea what it all meant, but Azem seemed to understand well enough, for he nodded and rocked back on his heels.
“Well. It seems to me as if we must make amends for what Hades has done in his carelessness. Why don’t you show us the way and we’ll see if the situation is so dire as all that?”
Azem offered a hand to the child, pulling them to their feet; then, beaming, he turned back to Emet-Selch and Hythlodaeus.
“It seems a detour is in order,” he said cheerily. “Why don’t we go learn what the children are up to on this most festive night? All in the name of research, of course.”
The child led them away from the noise and crowds, down a small, winding street completely devoid of people. Hades might have thought them lost if not for the confidence in their steps. As it was, near a quarter of a bell had passed ere they slipped single file through a narrow alleyway between two looming buildings and found themselves in a courtyard full of young children.
Seeing them left Emet-Selch feeling strangely disoriented. Only here, where all the strangers were no taller than his waist, did he realize that there had been almost no youngsters present elsewhere at the festival. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but most of those who strolled the streets arm in arm were grown adults. He had thought that the children were all tucked into bed, though now he recognized the flaw in that assumption.
Left unsupervised, children would always find some way of getting into trouble. Better that they be assigned their own part in the celebrations.
As soon as they arrived, the child who guided them was swept into a huddle of their peers for a swift consultation. A heated discussion followed, conducted in low mutters and frantic handwaving; then a girl’s head suddenly popped out from the huddle and stared at the three adults in horror. “You dropped all the winterbells?”
“It sounds as if you’ve committed the gravest of crimes, Hades,” Azem murmured.
“I do not see what all the fuss is about,” Emet-Selch said stiffly.
“You don’t know anything, do you?” the girl snapped bossily. Emet-Selch blinked, taken aback; Hythlodaeus had to turn away to hide his laughter. “They’re the most important! Everyone wants winterbells! And those were all we grew!”
“I’m afraid Hades is ignorant as well as exceedingly clumsy,” Azem said, sounding rather too much like she was enjoying Emet-Selch’s discomfort. “We’re strangers to Ninoe, you know. He doesn’t know all your traditions. Could I trouble you to explain?”
The children exchanged cautious glances. By unspoken agreement, they stepped apart, their circle widening so that they were not quite as closed off as before.
“Well, if he’s a newcomer,” the girl said grudgingly. She cleared her throat, folded her hands behind her back, straightened up to her full height—still somewhere below Emet-Selch’s hips—and began.
“Ninoe is known for its celebrations of love of all sorts. The Festival of Affections takes place on the second new moon of the year and is a festival dedicated to romantic love.”
She paused, nose wrinkling to show what she thought of that. Hythlodaeus clapped his hand more firmly across his mouth.
“All adults are welcome to attend, young lovers and those long bonded alike. But children are forbidden from participating. They say it’s because we’re too young and this sort of love is not for us.”
If anything, the disgust in her voice only deepened. Even Emet-Selch was hard-pressed to contain his smile.
“But they can’t leave us unattended, so we help too. On the night of the new moon, the children are tasked with gathering flowers and making from them our traditional crystal charms. Every flower is a different kind of wish, and we have to make sure there are enough wishes for anyone who might need them.”
The girl waved one hand, indicating the greenery about the courtyard as she spoke. Try as he might, Emet-Selch could not spot the small bell-shaped flowers that had been scattered across the street. Confirming his observation, the girl’s head drooped, and with new misery in her voice, she said, “But those were the last winterbells. Bryony was carrying them, and now we don’t have any to give away, because we’ve picked them all already.”
Her words fell heavy in the silence.
Far away, in the city center, a bell tolled four times.
“Well, that seems to be the shape of it,” Azem said at last. Emet-Selch looked to her. Though her smile was gentle, the usual teasing tone to her voice was quite absent. “If that’s the gist of your problem, we may be able to help.”
“Really?” the girl asked. Her question was punctuated by an equally doubtful flick of Bryony’s hands.
“Really really,” Azem assured her. The flat of her palm connected lightly with Emet-Selch’s back, spurring him forward. “Hades is a great and powerful mage, you know. Making a few flowers bloom should be well within his capabilities. Then all you have to do is… whatever you do to turn them into charms. If you’d show us the process, I’m sure we can be finished in no time at all.”
“Flora are hardly my area of expertise,” protested Emet-Selch on general principle.
“Oh, I’m sure you can figure it out. It is all your fault for running into poor Bryony, after all.”
“Do your best, Hades,” added Hythlodaeus, his voice still trembling with the effort involved in trying not to laugh.
Emet-Selch looked at him. Emet-Selch looked at Azem.
In the end, Emet-Selch groaned and got to work.
If someone had told Emet-Selch only a few bells ago that he would spend his night learning from children, he would have scoffed at the thought.
And yet, this was turning out to be a night full of surprises.
Some of the flowers he was unfamiliar with. Some of the magicks used to transform them into crystal he had never seen before. It was a small enough matter to persuade the plants into blooming again; then it was on to creating the charms themselves. The children humored him by explaining the spells that they put to use, and Emet-Selch tolerated their smugness at having the chance to school a strange adult.
It was all very fascinating. Privately Emet-Selch felt it was a far better use of his time than remaining in Amaurot, but he resolved never to say as much to Azem.
After what seemed a full day’s frantic work, he and the children were finished at last. Emet-Selch stretched, working out the soreness that had developed in his neck and back, and looked about.
There was no sign of Azem nor Hythlodaeus. Some few of the children were sorting out the last of the charms to deliver to the festival proper. Some were cleaning away the last of their supplies. Others were staring at him and whispering behind their hands. They had lost much of their fear of him, and so he felt no hesitation in addressing the last group directly. “What is it?”
They glanced at each other and exchanged a few more mutters; then one of them said, “It’s almost time for the fifth bell.”
“What?”
“The fifth bell!” they chorused in unison.
Their words were punctuated with giggles. Emet-Selch’s frown only deepened. “What is—”
He never finished his sentence.
At that moment, the bell in the center of town began to toll.
At that moment, all of the lights of Ninoe were extinguished.
Several seconds passed before Emet-Selch’s eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. In the absence of moon and lanterns, there was no illumination save that provided by the faraway stars. He might have been more startled or worried, save that the children were shrieking with laughter. This, then, was all as expected, though he felt exasperation at being excluded from their joke yet again.
For now, he ignored the youngsters. He still did not know where his lovers had gone off to. Under normal circumstances, he would have expected a constant stream of commentary from Hythlodaeus or interruptions from Azem. That his work had proceeded in blissful silence was… exceedingly suspicious.
He turned in a slow circle, though he could see little in the dark. “Hythlodaeus? Azem?”
No response.
Where had they gotten to now?
Scowling, Emet-Selch allowed his gaze to grow unfocused. He was just about to begin his search in earnest when a tug on his sleeve broke his concentration. He looked down, only just remembering to school his expression back to neutrality, and found a small shadow gazing up at him.
“What?” he asked shortly.
Their head moved slightly in the dark. There was the sound of shifting robes; then a pair of small hands seized his own and pressed something into his grasp.
Emet-Selch opened his palm and squinted. Before he’d managed to identify the object, the child reached up again, tapping it with one finger and setting it alight.
It was a small tea light no taller than his thumb. In the all-consuming darkness, the sudden light was dazzling. Emet-Selch blinked away the spots from his vision and looked quizzically at the child. It was Bryony again, watching him with a small, tentative smile. “What’s this about, then?”
The child held up five fingers and then pointed at the sky. Emet-Selch blinked. “I’m sorry?”
Bryony paused and then, with slow, exaggerated movements, repeated the process. Emet-Selch shook his head, confused. The child stamped their foot—the meaning behind that was unmistakable—and flounced away.
Left behind, clutching a small candle, Emet-Selch swore to himself to ask Azem to teach him hand signs at the first possible opportunity.
Not a moment later, Bryony returned, dragging the taller girl in their wake. When she looked up at Emet-Selch, it was with a mixture of condescension and pity. “Bryony says you don’t know anything,” she said, which was a great exaggeration but not inaccurate to how Emet-Selch felt at the moment. “But you’re a newcomer. It’s your first time at the Festival of Affections, so it’s our job to tell you what to do.”
Emet-Selch was unaccustomed to being talked down to by a child. This would never have happened had he been wearing his usual mask.
Tamping down the exhaustion he felt at the thought, he asked, “Does this have something to do with my friends’ disappearance?”
The girl nodded. Once again she clasped her hands behind her, straightened up, and said in a tone of recitation, “The fifth bell has rung. The festival is reaching its end. It’s time for the search in the dark.”
For all that she had taken it upon herself to explain, she was doing an atrocious job of it.
Emet-Selch kept that opinion to himself.
The girl coughed, puffed up on her own self-importance. A step behind her, where she couldn’t see, Bryony was silently laughing. “The search is tradition for those attending the Festival of Affections for the first time together as lovers. Sometime during the night, you will part ways. Then, when the fifth bell rings, all the lights in Ninoe go dark. The parted lovers must find each other again before the first of the sun’s rays crests the horizon.”
“It’s a metaphor!” chirped one of the boys, with an excitement that brought a half-smile to Emet-Selch’s lips and made the girl spin on her heel and glare. “And a test! Of how well you know each other! If you can fight through the deepest darkness to each others’ sides, there’s nothing you can’t overcome!”
“I was getting to that!” the girl wailed.
“And the candle?” Emet-Selch found himself saying, as much to break up the argument as anything else.
“Because it’s dangerous to run around if you can’t see anything at all!”
The girl pushed the boy aside and took a deep breath. In her lecturing tone, she said, “It’s the light of hope. The hope that always guides you. Someone close to you gives you the candle, to show you their appreciation and to remind you that you’re not alone.”
Emet-Selch glanced past her at Bryony. The child looked down, suddenly finding the earth beneath their feet to be fascinating.
“…And then, when you find the ones you love, you present each other with gifts. Something from the festival that shows you were thinking of each other.”
“This is the first I’ve heard of this tradition,” Emet-Selch said.
“Of course it is,” said the girl, with the full contempt of a child for a particularly foolish adult.
Naturally, Emet-Selch had no suitable gift prepared. Neither did he have time to prepare much of anything.
At the edge of his circle of flickering candlelight, he caught Bryony’s grin.
Darkness fell over Ninoe after the fifth bell. By Emet-Selch’s estimation, sunrise would be approximately two bells hence.
If he were to exercise his soulsight, that would be plentiful time to find Azem and Hythlodaeus. The brightness and color of Azem’s soul were such that he could hardly mistake it, even in these crowded streets, and then the two of them together would have no trouble locating Hythlodaeus. If this were a situation of great urgency, if they were to exert actual effort, they would find each other within mere minutes.
But this was not an urgent situation. This was test and tradition. Hythlodaeus and Azem would tell him it was cheating to use his soulsight, and Emet-Selch himself balked at the thought of overcoming a challenge with an advantage available only to him. He was supposed to use his knowledge and his instincts and scour the city on his own two feet.
That was fine. Even without soulsight, it would not take two bells to find them.
From the moment he was told to search them out, Emet-Selch knew where to go. There was no need at all to rush. He walked the streets at a measured pace, the little candle in his hand just bright enough for him to see where he placed his feet. The streets were populated with others moving about in their own circles of light—strolling leisurely, rushing with frantic haste, or simply acting as audience to those who passed.
Emet-Selch had no attention to spare for them. His eyes were fixed on the building in the center of the city, looming tall enough to blot out the stars in the sky beyond. He did not know the way—he had paid little attention to it before—but now he moved towards it unerringly, each and every step bringing him closer.
The door to the building was unlocked and opened at his touch. More difficult was the ascent up the stone staircase in near-total darkness. No other residents or visitors to Ninoe had come this way: His only companions were the sound of his own breath, slowly growing ragged the longer he climbed, and the small bubble of light cast by his candle. He could not see an exit above him; after the first minute, neither could he see the door through which he had entered.
Through the dark and the silence, Emet-Selch walked, and not for a moment did his conviction waver.
At last a patch of different-colored darkness appeared above his head. At last, as he continued to ascend, he saw the darkness broken up by the light of the stars. With a deep, shuddering breath, he hurried up the last few steps toward where he heard the unintelligible murmur of voices.
Their words ceased as he emerged onto the roof. They turned in unison to look at him, two people seated close enough to touch. The candles set on the ground between them threw stark shadows across their unmasked faces, highlighting first their curious expressions and then their slow smiles.
The ground shook beneath him. From below, loud and deep enough to fill up his entire world, came the sound of a bell ringing six times.
When the final echoes had faded, Hythlodaeus spoke. “There you are at last.”
“You're late, Hades,” Azem said.
“You have only yourself to blame for not telling me what you were up to sooner,” Emet-Selch said.
Azem shrugged, an unrepentant grin blossoming across their face. Emet-Selch crossed the remaining distance between them and sat, placing his candle and his mask down next to theirs.
He had always known exactly where to find them. Azem would gravitate to the clock tower, the highest point in the city, from which they could look down at Ninoe and all its wonders—and, yes, conduct a quick escape from the rooftop if need be. Hythlodaeus and Emet-Selch would follow as they ever did, pulled along inexorably in Azem's wake.
And so, in the end, they had been reunited; and so, in the end, he had always known it would be so.
“As Hades was last to arrive, I think it only proper that he be the first to present his gift,” Hythlodaeus said.
Azem’s vigorous nodding signaled their approval. Emet-Selch sighed. He could not help but feel this was another of their conspiracies. At the same time, he had rather suspected this would be the way of it, and so he pulled a pair of pouches from within his robes and handed them over without protest.
Hythlodaeus tugged his open and peered inside, trying to see what little he could in the faint candlelight; Azem wasted no time in pouring the contents into their palm. A deluge of flowers spilled out, crystallized petals chiming against each other as they fell.
“They’re flowers,” Azem said, at the same moment as Hythlodaeus said, “The children’s charms. I did not think you the superstitious sort.”
Emet-Selch crossed his arms, tapping his finger against his elbow. It was a nervous, defensive gesture. He knew it; so too did they. “…By the time I was informed of the gift-giving tradition, it was far too late to search out anything else.”
And the children had so enjoyed teaching him. And, after all, there was worth in tokens made with his own hands.
Azem was tilting their hand back and forth, watching the shine of the candlelight across the petals. “Each flower represents a different wish for the recipient,” they mused. “But I do not know what the wishes are. What do they mean, Hades?”
He thought, carnations for love. Anemone for protection. Zinnia for thoughts of an absent friend. And, of course, the winterbells, which endured even throughout the harshest of seasons.
Emet-Selch sniffed and lifted his chin. “If you wanted to know, perhaps you should have stayed long enough to find out for yourself.”
“That’s hardly fair! You could just tell us—”
“You know he wouldn’t; he’s too embarrassed to say outright,” Hythlodaeus interrupted. Emet-Selch made a small noise of protest, though Hythlodaeus only grinned in response. “We’ll have to look into it ourselves later. But for now, my gifts next, I think. They should fit snugly in the pouches along with the flowers. Here—”
He stretched out his hands. A trio of plain glass spheres nestled in his palms. Emet-Selch picked up the closest, squinting at it just long enough to confirm that it ran thick with aether. Azem did not even do that: they tossed their sphere into the air, and, when that failed to yield a reaction, began shaking it up and down as if hoping that would be enough to activate the inherent magicks.
Emet-Selch looked at them, eyebrow arched; then, with a quiet sigh, he tossed a spark of his own aether at the sphere.
Fire sprang to life within. After bells spent in near-darkness, the sudden wash of light was bright enough to make him throw a hand across his eyes. Azem yelped, nearly dropping their own sphere, and Hythlodaeus was startled into a laugh.
Once his eyes were no longer watering, Emet-Selch lowered his arm again. Only then did he find that all three spheres had lit up in unison. They glowed bright with multi-hued fire, three colors that spun and wove about each other in a balanced, intricate dance. As Azem tilted their sphere back and forth, making the flames swirl in response, Emet-Selch glanced at Hythlodaeus and received a knowing smile.
Azem might not recognize the colors—but to him and Hythlodaeus, they were well-known and well-loved.
Hythlodaeus touched his own sphere with one finger. As its flames were extinguished, so too were those of the other spheres, leaving the three of them blinking in the sudden darkness. “Glass fire lanterns. A matching, synchronized set. If one is activated, so too are the others, no matter the distance between them. Use it whenever you need a light in the dark; think of us when it flares to life, and know that we are thinking of you too.”
So saying, Hythlodaeus slipped the orb into his pouch. Then, chuckling quietly, he turned to Azem. “And now it is your turn. Though I think your gift is obvious enough.”
“I could smell it as soon as I stepped onto the roof,” Emet-Selch said, unable to suppress his wry smile. “Fried dough, Azem? Really?”
Azem glowered at the both of them. “I thought it would be a good gift! You haven’t eaten since I called you from Amaurot bells ago! I thought I’d treat you to some local cuisine.”
“Festival foods,” Hythlodaeus said.
“Fried sweets,” Emet-Selch said.
“Local cuisine,” Azem insisted.
They plucked up a piece of fried dough and shoved it in Emet-Selch’s direction. With no witnesses in sight, he showed no hesitation in opening his mouth and accepting it. The powdered sugar dissolved on his tongue; the dough crunched between his teeth. The sweet was still hot enough to hurt. It was as delicious as it smelled.
“And, well,” Azem said, as Hythlodaeus rooted about their offerings and decided on a savory pocket pie, “there’s this too. The elixir of happiness.”
Their so-called “elixir” was a thick silver liquid. As they tilted the bottle, the candlelight caught and reflected off the surface, points of white light glimmering like myriad stars. Emet-Selch had never seen the like; it looked more like a decoration to set upon one’s mantelpiece than something that might be appetizing to drink.
If not for the solemnity in Azem’s voice, Emet-Selch would have been deeply suspicious. As it was, he summoned a set of glasses without a word, and Hythlodaeus uncorked the bottle and began to pour.
“It’s a regional specialty,” Azem continued. “To be specific, it’s not an elixir of happiness so much as it is an elixir of remembrance—but at this time and place, it amounts to the same thing, I think. It enhances memory for a short time. And if one were to sit around and spend that time reminiscing with one’s most beloved, well. That sounds like happiness to me, don’t you think?”
Emet-Selch frowned. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. I should think it could be put to more practical use, both here and in Amaurot.”
“It doesn’t hold up well to storage or transportation,” Azem said regretfully. “It’s really only available in Ninoe at the time of the Festival of Affections.
“And so, for tonight, let us drink and remember. All the happiness and affections we have ever shared.”
Azem picked up their glass. Emet-Selch and Hythlodaeus followed suit.
“To the memories of years past and what the future yet holds,” Azem said.
“To many more festivals celebrating our affections,” Hythlodaeus said.
“You’re going to make me come here again? Really?” Emet-Selch said.
But he was smiling—they were all smiling—as they drank deep.