“I will meet them both,” she whispered into his ear.
The Toshtolin moved along, ushered to the side gallery with other courtiers, and another needy house filled the space they had occupied. Gishna wanted to rest, but she couldn’t. She struggled to keep herself upright. Every joint agonized and resisted. She held the position, her mind sharp, trapped inside a disintegrating scaffold of skin and bone.
Julissa continued her training, listening to the next house’s complaint, but Gishna’s partial gaze fixed on the flat-faced boy, Pemzen. Not because she wanted to observe him, but because he was still staring at her. He seemed to know where she looked and how, through the white veils, she still had sight.
She shook her head. How had she let this one get away? How had she let the webs of her own making entrap her?
She was too old now. Too old for these difficulties. How she longed to lie down her shell and let the Voice summon blue fire down upon her corpse. She imagined the smile on Beyyla Daushalan’s face. As always, she could never actually imagine it. The face, the loveliest since Savra herself, eluded her like in a dream, and all she saw was brightness but somehow knew it to be too beautiful for words. She shifted in her seat. A sharp pain wended its way up her curved spine.
Goddess above, she prayed, let me vanquish my enemies.
53
Taul and Ryldia stood to the side of the dais, in the shadow of an arched gallery which ran along either side of the hall. Pemzen stood behind his leg, clutching his pants and playing with the Isilmyr ribbons tied to his belt. He smiled smugly at the other consorts with their matrons still waiting for their moment before the throne. They must be envious of them, but he was not yet certain this special, private audience would serve them well. His armpits prickled; his tunic was damp with sweat and his hair was slick with it. He patted his upper lip with his sleeve’s hem.
Ryldia maintained her dignity. Not a strand of hair out of place, eyelids lowering regally. A true matron, she was, despite her condition. As she had wanted, Lor’Toshtolin now stood at the edge of greatness despite its losses.
Now it was up to him to make the last move. He summoned all courage, the strength he’d known from the assassin’s devices, the empowerment of those ancient voices that worked for his success. And yet, he couldn’t completely abolish his guilt in asking for that which his own house needed so desperately. He rehearsed what he’d say, the litany of offenses and crimes against the goddess and all Mornae. His scalp tingled and heated from the injustice of it. The goddess favored him just like the Zauhune champion battling in the court. The black rock rose to meet him. In his heart, the goddess dawned supreme.
He could not fail.
A bell sounded, reverberating through the granite wall at his back. Guards turned away new petitioners. Taul tugged at his collar. What he’d give for a glass of water.
The high matron was weary, like a bottle of gray ink poured out in blobs on that hard black throne. Her daughter dismissed the last supplicants with a wave. They bobbed and bowed their way out. It was an awkward scene. Since when had they become a people like this, bowing and scraping before thrones? Because the high matron was clearly atop a throne. It had been this way for three cycles, and until now, it had worked for Lor’Toshtolin. Barring the Naukvyrae’s graffiti, most Mornae had simply become accustomed to it.
He blinked hard, willing the useless thoughts away. He needed to stay clear and alert despite the tension squeezing his head.
An attendant motioned Taul and Ryldia toward a door tucked away in the shadows of an arch to the right of the dais. Behind the ancient door lined with kithaun glyphs was a narrow, dark hall ending in a small chamber. He imagined Maunyn killing him in that tight space. His sweat exhausted, clothes drenched, he trembled from the cold.
Taul whispered to Ryldia to wait for him, but she shook her head. Even now, she wouldn’t speak to him. He wanted to spare her this encounter if it went poorly, but maybe it was best they attended together. He didn’t think they’d dare kill Ryldia, but they had ample cause with him. Ryldia may even allow it, a concession between matrons, a divine reparation. Her face gave no sign of whether she thought that very thing. They entered the high matron’s parlor and waited.
Servants entered and fussed over the high matron’s chair. They dusted it, fluffed out the cushions, and arranged them expertly. The chamberlain showed them to their seats, insisting they sit. A servant poured two cups of hot tea and offered them. Ryldia declined, as did Taul. He sat on the edge of his seat, glad for the dryness of the chamber. Ryldia did the same, sitting on the edge, back straight, unphased by the room and its long, great history.
Circular windows sat along the top edge of the rounded wall facing the temple. During the goddess-dawn, light must shine in through them, marking the goddess’s progress over the crater. Marking time, as Balniss would say. The chamber was made of kith, and kithaun tiles separated the floor’s dark slabs. Gem mosaics representing all the goddess’s moods lined the windows.
The unhealed cuts in Taul’s hands throbbed. It was like being tested in the orchard’s womb again. Light-headed, he gazed at the steam wisping on the surface of the tea. They wouldn’t disrespect the high matron and drink before she’d arrived, even if they hadn’t come seeking favors. The rules of propriety and order, respect for the goddess’s power, still mattered in his house, even if the high matron was no more powerful than Ryldia.
The thought stuck with him for a moment. A matron, of the third high house no less, of an ancient line, without the power of a priestess? He wasn’t certain, but why then use thugs and thieves to assert their power? It filled him with disgust.
From this ancient chamber, the Hosmyr matrons had ruled for cycles. His ancestor Ginace, Hosmyr’s third matron, had walked these same black floors and imbued the walls with her call. The place held an undeniable power even though it wasn’t solid kith like the citadels of other high houses. Hosmyr had never focused on that aspect of power. He closed his eyes and recalled his trials. Hope surged afresh. A bright future awaited them, and he saw himself at the head of a strong branch. Because if he could get one child, and then another, why not more?
He ignored Ren’s death, that sad little man he’d left in the tunnels beneath the city. To strive, to struggle, to rise. Those were the words that mattered. And the ones few wanted to hear: to fall, to fail, to die. Each a step toward the gleaming Dark. Those were the words of the ancient texts that Balniss mentioned in his most inebriated moments. The gleaming Dark wasn’t just found along the sharp edge of a blade, the tip of a spear, or the call of a priestess. It was also in the orchard’s black rooted womb. He whispered the words again, under his breath, a prayer, and it occurred to him then that it was the prayer of his people.
The door creaked open. This moment was his trial, his goddess-court, his testing.
He straightened, chin up, aware of the weapons at his disposal, and he was without a blade. He had mighty weapons: bribery, deceit, threat of unrest, threat of terror at the hands of the Naukvyrae. But above all, he had truth, and if she dared attack them, there were courtiers in the halls, and the guards, many of whom had suffered her threats. They would know if she’d spilled blood under the guise of peace.
Of course, it would no longer matter. They’d be dead.
54
Gishna entered the hallway to the private audience chamber. The din of the main hall echoed behind her. Her birch cane—a new trinket from the Rilanik market—tapped loudly with each step, a sure herald of her coming. The drapes of her gown dusted the floor as she dragged herself to her chair. She glared at it, a bog waiting to swallow her whole, and yearned for the pyre’s embrace; for that long rest when the stars would accept the last drops of her ancient vessel. She rattled across the pavers and collapsed into her heavily cushioned seat.
Servants fluttered about her, arranging her drapes, fixing her veil, her robes, even her slippers. Wide silver-cloth bands with glyphs of onyx and other gems wrapped about her forearms from wrist to elbow. Had the Toshtolin been of higher rank, more jaded by her presence, she’d have the servants take it all off. Alas, like a general dressed for battle, the battle of a lifetime, she kept her regalia.
Julissa sat in a chair to her left and Maunyn stood to her right.
Mornae kill quickly, she thought, but for now she’d let them flail helplessly in an easterly wind… Until they’re exhausted. The Toshtolin consort’s self-righteous energy was already draining. The Toshtolin nodded to her, a proper greeting amongst equals. According to the First Accord, she and this young matron, her life a mere tenth of Gishna’s lifespan, were equals. But the Fifth Accord had changed all that. An understanding passed between them, masked by their polite greetings. No matter what the Toshtolin consort thought, he was of that rank of vassals that favored greater freedom from her house.
One thing was certain about this middling house, a simple fact: they’d taken one of her voravin. In her mind’s eye, she envisioned the empty slot and all the slots beneath, all the connections lost, and Hosmyr sinking forever into the mud like her body in these damnable pillows. She gripped the armrests, forcing blood to rush through her aged limbs.
Thankfully, one of her servants had thought to make the seer’s brew. Once that mysterious warmth met Gishna’s lips, a servant offered a tiny cup of tea, the ritual cup signaling peace and goodwill, to her guests and they accepted. Maunyn continued standing stiffly, no doubt rage-filled at having lost a son. He was unaccustomed to losing... anything. So was she, for that matter.
Julissa’s pleasant way smothered the Toshtolin consort’s bravery. He’d a list of accusations. She saw it in his face and in the man’s quivering aura. He’d probably rehearsed while waiting. But now, in the moment of truth, he just bobbed his head at her daughter. He may possess ancient sorcery, but this wasn’t a beginner’s negotiation. Gishna used Julissa to disarm him and then, once weakened, she’d unleash her kithvyrae needle. She sank into the pillows… two ears and a mouth. Her pinhole vision scoured the couple, taking in their details, tasting gently.
She stopped. The beady-eyed toddler was staring at her. She stared back, but he didn’t yield.
“Out with it then!” she said, jerking and twitching from the effort. She fell back into the cushions with a sigh. “We are pleased to meet your son, but what is it you really want from us?”
Taul cleared his throat, now as black as kith.
“High Matron, as you may know,” he started, “Matron Lor’Toshtolin has had difficulties…”
Such a weak opening! Did he learn nothing from his first audience? Maunyn shifted, confirming her opinion. Julissa inhaled too loudly. This would be a boring audience. Where was the vigor of old? Where the razor-fine wit?
Gishna’s mind drifted. She heard something in his voice like fresh blossoms on a breeze. Was that love? He loved his consort. Her heart sank. She had loved hers, and she’d made disastrous mistakes.
“We know things. What goes on here…” He stuttered. “What you all—”
