Nahadoth bent himself to the will of others. For a moment the thought made me sad. “Are you ever yourself?” I asked. “Truly yourself, not just the way others see you?” The hands went still, then withdrew. “Enefa asked me that once.” “I’m sorry—” “No.” There was sorrow in his voice. It never faded, for him. How terrible to be a god of change and endure grief unending. “When I am free,” he said, “I will choose who shapes me.” “But…” I frowned. “That isn’t freedom.” “At the dawn of reality I was myself. There was nothing and no one else to influence me—only the Maelstrom that had given birth to
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