“What about the Harvest?” Jacen demanded. “You need us.”
“We have others,” said Tharanoth. “Zivora is an unfortunate loss, but defiance such as yours cannot be tolerated.”
Jacen did not disguise his fear, nor the grief and horror within his mind. He did not have to pretend so long as he concealed his ultimate intent—the way he dug in to Tharanoth’s subconscious with meticulous subtlety.
He’d gotten the idea from Seth. Even when Turil was in control, even buried, Seth’s mind persisted. Turil needed him alive to use his eyes and ears, and so the same must be true ofTharanoth’s host. Jacen didn’t have to target the Lord of Hunger himself. He slipped beneath that alien mind, fine tendrils of extradimensional awareness probing deeper. It was like weaving blind on an underwater loom—yet far easier than it should have been. This mind was a terribly familiar place, cut from the same cloth as Jacen’s.
As deeply as he wanted to have been wrong, it was just as he’d suspected. This monster was his own flesh and blood.
Jacen could not stop his heart from sinking, nor Tharanoth from sensing it.
“Ah.” This time, the god’s surprise was more than mild.
Behind him, Ileth stirred. Turil’s presence turned colder, withdrawing from the periphery of Jacen’s awareness. He exploited their lapse in concentration to dig deeper still.
Tharanoth collected himself enough to rearrange his features into an approximation of pity. “Please understand that you are still nothing to us, no matter what blood runs through your veins.”
“Even yours?” Jacen said. “Oh?” Ileth’s tone was cutting.
“Probably one of Zephon’s.” Tharanoth snorted. “I always said he spent too much time among the livestock. His little planetside excursionsdidget him destroyed.”
“No,” said Jacen, with a futile attempt to stop his voice from trembling. “It was you. You wanted to know how I found you hiding behind Turil, and this is how. You’re my father.”
“You hypocrite,” Turil spat. “You held my spare bodies hostage for a decade when you found out about my Dalish pet.”
“Do you consider a bead of your sweat, or your piss, or even your seed to be your offspring?” Tharanoth scoffed. “That is all you are to me. I have had eighty-six hosts. I was older than any living creature on your primitive planet when your ancestors first crawled out of the mud.” “Did the Church know?” To ask elicited agony, but Jacen made himself do it anyway. He let that pain surge over his mind, let it be all Tharanoth saw. “Who was my mother?”
“Why would I know that?” Genuine confusion emanated from the god—from hisfather.And if Tharanoth did not know, Jacen never would.
He could only ask, “Why?”
Tharanoth tilted his head and sighed. “Curiosity.” The word chilled Jacen to the marrow. Tharanoth spoke as one might about a peculiar insect he’d found under a rock. “A brief embarrassment, best forgotten.”
“You may not think much of us,” Jacen said, “but I could still be useful to you.”
Tharanoth laughed. “Telepathic gifts aside, you’ve made a mess of your body. I have no shortage of better options.”
Jacen fought back his revulsion. “Not my body. My mind. I could quell the revolution in your streets, restore order to Zivora. I could give you back your prized experiment. It’s not toolate. I know how to control these people, because I learned from your Church.”
He spoke the truth—careful not to present it as hypothetical. Tharanoth would sense no deception from Jacen, because hedidknow how to control Zivora’s faithful. He had been trained from childhood for that very purpose.
The Lord of Hunger’s lips twitched. “And why would you do that? Filial devotion? Whatever you feel toward me, I assure you, I do not share it.”
“Logic,” said Jacen. “And fear. That’s why Mother Akkani served you, isn’t it?” He addressed Turil. “I have one other condition. Leave Seth Semira’s body, for good, and I’ll give you whatever you want.” He let down the barriers of his mind, only a little, as though his very real emotions had made him slip. He let them catch a glimpse of what he felt for Seth.
Tharanoth’s ridged brows lifted. He seemed, at the very least, amused enough to listen. But Ileth said, “The Emperor would never approve. Not in the wake of this mess.”
“Do not lecture me about what the Emperor wants,” Tharanoth drawled. “I will do as I please, as I have always done, and he will tolerate it. If you disagree, I suggest you take your sniveling back to Ihrafang.”
Ileth hissed. “I should. Zephon and Rakalem are destroyed, Nabatar incapacitated, Turil made a fool of by your illicit offspring . . . This planet is more trouble than it’s worth.”
Tharanoth ignored her. “You would, of course, ensure Naxal’s return to us.”
“Or,” said Jacen, “given you’re in need of new leadership in Zivora, I could position Neri Semira as your figurehead.” He knew the story he might tell, its words not so different from the ones Ysira had saved his life to say. “Born of the Harvest, of a mother whose return is living proof of your good intentions . . .put in place by a prophet of your own blood . . . One might even say you chose him.”
“And I suppose you would lead my Church,Father Kheris?” Tharanoth smiled. The stars themselves seemed to shiver. “I don’t think so.”
Tharanoth’s presence crept forward, sweeping over Jacen as Turil encroached from behind. They had Jacen in their clutches. He was deep enough that they could destroy him with very little effort.
