“All of what?” she snarled, interrupting him. A tickling cough was building in her throat. She hacked, but no servant came. There were standing orders not to disturb her once the audience had started.
The two Toshtolin looked at each other as she coughed uncontrollably, as if her lungs would spill out. The toddler remained impassive, like his true father. If it wasn’t killing or screwing, the man had no use. This is what her twelve hundred years amounted to. Julissa rose to the side door to seek a servant. Before she could sound the gong, the Toshtolin consort drew close with a linen cloth in his hand. Compassion filled his eyes, like she was a young shoot needing his attention.
“Forgive me, Face of the Goddess,” he said. “For my temper.”
She accepted the handkerchief, curling her gnarled fingers around it tightly, and wiped her lips.
He opened his hands, palms up, devout in posture and tone.
“So,” Maunyn said, his voice even. Did he admire this man? “What is it you request? I’ve heard only veiled threats against a high house and its matron.”
Taul’s face flushed harder, if that was possible; a living shadow, it was so dark. But he’d lost his list apparently and just gaped at them.
“We are all Hosmyr here,” Ryldia said, rescuing him. “Velaya Lor’Hosmyr was my mother. Thaelin Lor’Hosmyr my father.”
Gishna acknowledged that with a nod. The young matron’s voice was soft but strong, each word chosen carefully. Going back almost nine cycles, Velaya as the first matron and Thaelin the first prime consort founded Lor’Toshtolin. They had both come from the ancient trunk of Lor’Hosmyr. This was before Hosmyr had become ilor and Toshtolin was still an equal. By naming them her mother and father, Ryldia claimed direct descent. Bold, but if the trees were correct, also true. As if Gishna needed a reminder, a history lesson. Mornae had such long memories, especially where their houses were concerned. We are of the First Accord, the young matron reminded her. We are of a founding house.
Gishna sipped more of the brew, but its power was waning. She surrendered to the cushions, unable to fight them any longer. Fortunately, she was satisfied with the young matron’s gesture, obedient but strong, protective of its own rights. From this base, there could be more discussion.
“Is there something you would ask of your mother house?” Gishna croaked, her gaze on Ryldia, ignoring the consort. She motioned for Julissa to take over the conversation again.
Julissa complied and their conversation was a tinkling of cups, sips, and gulps. Taul seemed obsessed with discussing things Gishna already knew… a rot in the orchards, poor harvests, the usual excuses.
She drifted, half listening to the Toshtolin consort stutter his way through statements, accusations, warnings, threats even. The gall of him. Instead, she studied the young matron. She saw herself in that haggard face. Memories overtook her, memories of walking the fields, feeling the dense air, the salt in the wind, the deep, watery breaths that soaked her through with goddess-power, and other powers: earth, life, the throbbing of the leaves, the roots, the things in that rich soil. How her spirit lifted remembering it. She’d never felt old there. The cycles had loomed like a sunrise before her. What had happened to that woman?
Julissa was questioning him now, deftly batting away his barbs, exhausting him of ammunition. Who did he think he was coming here and threatening a high matron to her face? Maunyn remained at ease.
The consort was babbling now, and as he did, his matron’s face hardened. She wanted something else. He was skirting her request. Yes, Gishna thought. I see it, my dear. A breeze could knock this young matron over, but there was steel-hard strength in her eyes. She’d bound him to a request. Goddess above, if he failed to secure it, Toshtolin would suffer something worse than a rotting orchard. He’d be soured, and the priestess would shrivel in regret, unable to retract her demand. I see you, Gishna wanted to say. I know you, young woman. We are as one, you and me.
Something about the consort had been gaining her attention since he first opened his mouth. Energy radiated from him, only visible through her other sight. A throbbing presence. She wafted two fingers discreetly at him, drawing in a taste of his essence. It was invigorating and familiar, like the seer, but not an exact match. Similar enough to be a cousin or relation. She did the same to the young matron, as if enlivening a young flame to ignite. There it was, in her as well, but dormant.
The Toshtolin consort was threatening poorly now, enumerating reasons she, the ruler of forty thousand, should submit to a man who managed an orchard.
“What was that?” she asked, interrupting them.
“To allow Yatani in,” Taul said hesitantly, almost regretting he’d asked. “Formally… those that can endure. Those that can prepare for––”
She interrupted again, “Aren’t you a tender?”
Flustered, Taul stared at her, eyes and mouth wide, caught in mid-demand. “Yes, high matron, but you know this. I’m certain you do.”
Yes, she knew it on paper. But now she really knew it. She could see it. He babbled again, and she raised two fingers to silence him. More than two would invite Maunyn to slice his throat.
“A real tender?” she asked. “You sat the womb for a night?”
Taul nodded.
“And you, Matron Lor’Toshtolin?” she asked. “Do you have the gift?”
Ryldia’s high cheeks flushed dark gray. Not for a cycle had Ilor’Hosmyr’s matrons walked through the fields or the dusky mazes of the ancient trees. These days, such gifts were the purview of valley priestesses. Mixed breeds. Nomads, even. Yes, blush black as coal, black as the earth whence you’ve come.
Gishna chuckled at her silence. “Yes, of course you can. A remedy for your broken heart? And yet you are not the daughter of nomads or lesser folk. No, I know your line very well.”
Her mind’s eye recalled the canvases nailed to the scriptorium walls. Both Taul and Ryldia’s lines reached back to the founding. What about those little marks the seer made by the names? Was one for tenders? Scribbles, he’d say. Notes for himself. Of no consequence. The discards….
“Tell me about the orchards, Taul,” she said. She’d speak informally now. Fencing with this man would only produce his bloodied corpse. “I hear they are ailing.”
Maunyn groused. He’d been telling her for years. She’d been so cunning, so focused on solving this one problem, the one that mattered most, that she’d not seen the whole. I’ve taught you everything I know, the seer would say. But the decisions were hers, and she’d chosen, again, not to focus on the real problem. Had he ever defined it clearly, fully? He’d suggested, letting her guide the discussion. What did he really know? What was it really, this taint? It was not something she could beat into submission, not rip out by the roots.
Roots.
“Lor’Toshtolin oversees…” the Toshtolin consort started, prattling on about the number of pears produced, contracts, wealth.
She stifled the urge to raise her voice. “No, tell me of the orchard.”
“Are those fresh wounds on your hands?” Maunyn asked. “Have you undergone the test again?”
Gishna glanced up at Maunyn. He was gaining respect for this unimpressive young consort.
Taul considered what to say.
“Oh, I see,” Gishna said, wagging a finger at him. “Your matron doesn’t know what you’ve been up to.”
Taul looked down at his consort’s feet, who remained still, composed. Fine stock that one, but enormously burdened.
“I had to try again, high matron,” Taul said. “I needed to see if I still had the gift.”
“Risking your life. Risking your house,” Gishna said, fixing her gaze on Ryldia’s face. “And do you?” Gishna asked. “Have the gift?”
