“Not yet!” she declared, resisting a hacking cough. Her eyes watered from the effort. “Not for trifle complaints and the exchange of silver chits.”
Saugraen looked on her with those judging eyes of his, his full lips downturned, his square jaw tight.
“Well, speak up then,” she snapped, and then wheezed. “There is no blade to your throat, my son.”
“Yalin Ilor’Daushalan sits in judgment this year,” he said. “I think it is only right we stand with our allies. His victories could benefit us greatly.”
How he hated Daushalan! How he hated that Isilalan’s badge was more respected than Isilmyr’s. He could have stood for Isilayne, but she’d not allowed it. There was no need! Rumor was Saugraen and the eldest Vakayne girl snuck off together. They were quite adept, too, because her minister of secrets had not discovered their meeting place. Gishna was clearly not privy to his agenda. She needed more than a union between her son and Lissae Ilor’Vakayne. She needed a promise of more consortships: blood from Kiseyl, Zashtrin, and Lauxyn. All the strains of Ilor’Vakayne must be hers. She could not have him forging a way on his own. Was the girl already working magic on him and guiding his thoughts? Secret consorts were becoming an unfortunate fashion among the young, and they were so dangerous to her plans.
She tightened her lips and turned her head away so that the milky white haze that was her vision covered him like a veil. Saugraen needled her daily with questions and hinted that he knew more than he should. In former days, when matrons ruled absolutely, she might threaten, she might punish. In those days, a son knew his limits. She shifted again and took in his chiseled features, the serene gaze, the clarity of his lavender-gray eyes. He was perfect for her plan. She just needed to be patient with him.
He’d spoken the truth, though. The court could help Hosmyr, but not how he thought. Not just to poke the eye of a rival or gain some more land.
“When they are no longer trifles,” she said, her voice a grating whisper. “When there is blood, then you will go, my sons.”
Taum, her youngest, piped up with hoots, clapping his hands. Just fifteen, that one. Barely declared, and he already wanted to watch bloody duels. He was an excellent boy with fine roots reaching back into that great antiquity of their ancestors. The other three lads, Johir, Rauvon, Vezros, all between forty and eighty, clapped. Only the eldest remained quiet, leaning back, untroubled. Did he think he could use his brothers against her, commanding them like his personal army?
“Our vassals have asked to send a representative as well,” he said. “Shall I inform them of your decision?”
She choked on saliva and tried in vain to control her twitching bones. Everyone was waiting for her to speak, and she yearned to be free of their judgment.
“You may,” she said reluctantly. She lifted a gnarled finger. “But only one from each branch… I can’t have the valley emptying to see a Zauhune knight get himself killed.”
“He may live, matron mother,” Saugraen said with a teasing smile. “And then what?”
She turned away, veiling them all in white, shutting them out. Sometimes her blindness was a blessing. They’d no idea the role she’d played in starting the farce with this knight and the court. She only had hoped to stir Vaidolin, to unsettle houses, and give her own fresh opportunities.
His question was astute, though. If that Zauhune knight won… then what? The entire crater and valleys were roiling from the news of the court’s re-opening. What could she get out of it if he won?
There was only one thing she wanted: medicine to heal her ailing house.
“When there is blood,” she repeated, clawed hand to her breast. “Only then.”
4
At the tail end of summer, beneath an unusually warm sun, Taul traversed Zeldra’s undergrowth with his former teacher, Voldin Lor’Vamtrin. Goddess-light had left Voldin’s hair long ago, and he was mostly bald now, but his sturdy arms and calloused hands worked every day of the year, doing whatever the orchards, vineyards, and fields needed. He was born of a valley house, square and squat, a head shorter than crater folk, but his skin was solid gray and his eyes silvery.
Voldin picked at the bark of one tree and pulled at the branches of another. There was love in Voldin’s touch, even pity. His bare, open hands grasped the limbs like he knew each tree, like they were old friends.
Blossoms rained down. It was the second bloom of the year. There’d not be a third. Before the Fall of Saylassa, Zeldra had known five or six blooms. Everything failed without Sayin’s power, his grandfather would say.
Voldin shook his head. “Aren’t you a tender?” he asked, his voice pained beneath the gruffness. “What happened to your guild-oath?” He reached up and plucked a single pear, rubbing its skin. It broke easily, and the flesh collapsed beneath his thumb. He tossed it away angrily.
Taul pretended to inspect a cluster of young leaves and let the pause lengthen. The pear clusters had turned deep purple, not yet the required color. Their skin had a black sheen developing. The ripe pears would turn the color of the mythical goddess Savra had seen when she became the first priestess. That’s what the legend said, anyway. Everything this side of the steles took on unique characteristics. The Mornae had made things grow that shouldn’t be able to in the valleys around the crater, but none were like the east valley. From the beginning, Hosmyr and its blood houses had turned their minds to the cultivation of the land and created a new sorcery. A denser air, pregnant with moisture and light, all packed tight, pervaded the east valley. It was almost unbreathable without practice. That was the magic his ancestors had devised, a living monument as great as the black towers of Zalkamas or the blacksteel of Ilor’Vakayne.
The things which grew in the valleys should not be able to grow so far north and sunlight had little to do with it. His ancestors had brought saplings from other warmer, more suitable places, and over the centuries, with the care of their tending and their sorcery, they made them grow in unexpected ways. Like the Mornae, these plants had changed, adapted, and now could only thrive here in this inhospitable land. He pushed leaves away, revealing a large cluster that would become the luscious black-violet pears that held power to soothe and heal, to empower and elevate his people.
Voldin moved on into the cavernous growth of the orchard’s heart.
“I can’t believe you let it get this far,” he said over his shoulder, voice echoing. “It’s not what I taught you. You’ll need a dozen tenders—real ones—to turn this around.” His hands flew up and then dropped, shoulders sagging. He turned back sadly. “It’s possible. If you try.”
The last words stung Taul more than he would ever have expected. The accusation thrust true like a spear to the heart. He wanted to protest, to say that it was happening everywhere, and not just under his watch, but to what end? To blame his matron? His chest tightened. Had she ever commanded him to leave the orchard? No. Was her desire implied then? He sifted through his memories. No, she was too direct for that. He was not that much different from those consorts who’d long ago left the valley in search of the power offered by the crater. Not the power of old, nothing so lofty, just the power of commerce, of wealth. It was so much easier than struggling with these ancient trees. The Hosmyr matron at the time of Toshtolin’s founding had granted the new house the orchard. The first matron was the second daughter of a second daughter. Gaukaso was the ancient word for too many daughters in a house. The word had other meanings, but this one persisted—a danger for any house to have too many priestesses. It fomented rivalries that inevitably turned ugly. Vengeance today, or in a cycle, was the saying. Mornae tradition held that it was better to split the house and let a priestess form her own house. The important houses of Halkamas were offshoots of Ilor’Hosmyr or one of its offshoots. A Mornae house should remain small, with the highest quality.
He scoffed. That ideal had crumbled centuries ago. His own house had four mature priestesses already, and six acolytes preparing to make their trial.
Without these orchards, his house would eventually crumble, with nothing to trade except the produce of vassals. Without growth of their own, Toshtolin would become like stale houses, feeding off their vassals, sucking them dry of chits. And then all Halkamas would serve another master.
Taul grasped the side of his head, now damp with sweat and the water-logged valley air.
“What to do?” he whispered. How had this burden fallen on a second son? His brother, Balniss, wiser and stronger, should be the one dealing with this.
“This is our temple, Taul! Don’t you see?” Voldin asked sincerely, gripping his tender’s belt, now worn and frayed. “How can you be so dense?”
He let out a final huff and stormed off toward the estate. Hopefully, he’d not berate Zaknil and his house. This problem needed to stay secret until Taul devised a plan of attack. Once Ryldia delivered the heiress and they were both in confinement, he could give himself over to solving this problem. He covered his nose as a breeze wafted under the canopy. The orchard’s fragrance was off. None could deny it. A first-year apprentice could discern it.
He left the orchard’s heart, following a safe path out. The east valley sat atop a honeycomb of black rock. Ages ago, water and other forces had eaten away at the blackrock so that it was now like the holey cheeses made by the Kuxul. How deep it went, no one knew. Their ancient sorcerers had made of it a single enchantment. They wrote glyphs into them with their fingers and sung to the rock, imbuing it with their thoughts and desires. It was the greatest device ever made by the Mornae—or so the people of Hosmyr thought. Roots worked their way through those enchanted holes, and over time soil formed. The tenders marked out safe paths through it with white rocks.
He pulled his hood down over his eyes against the blazing sunlight and stepped through the edge of the old growth where younger trees were growing on the other side of a path. He glanced about for workers and, realizing he was alone, removed his right glove and touched a tender trunk. It throbbed against his skin. He crouched and followed the pulse through the plant to the ground.
Down by the crusted black soil, someone had tied a gray ribbon of tenth wool around the slim trunk. The ribbon was a simple thing with a name-glyph embroidered into it: Halnil. This was Halnil’s tree to care for during his apprenticeship. No house name was present. To the tenders, the orchards and vineyards were their houses, though they kept that to themselves. For the Mornae, there should be nothing greater than one’s house. Voldin had taught Taul and the other apprentices of his generation to give the young trees a drop of their blood every year; to let them know they were family. It was nonsense, of course, but they had done it anyway. So much did they believe their teacher’s words that they made a ritual of it on the first day of each growing season. They performed it like a knight’s ritual, or mysterious priestess incantation. They believed Hosmyr was surviving the drought that was the Fall of Saylassa because of their blood offering.
And the trees grew. Their high house could not fall while the orchards bloomed. That was what they thought then. It had been their youthful battle cry, their hands and feet scarred from their work among the sharp, black-barked roots and branches. As apprentices, they worked barefoot and shirtless like the knights of old. Like the trees, they let the goddess alone be their shield.
It felt so exceedingly long ago.
Fine wool garb covered him from head to toe now. Not even the cloth of his youth, woven by the village priestesses from the bounty of their fields, but expensive weaves from rival houses. Wasn’t it expected? He was an adult now, a grown man with obligations in which his appearance, his conformity, was a piece. Halnil’s commitment was admirable, though.
“Oh, to be young again!” he blurted to the young trees. He wiped the damp from his face with his hand, mingling it with budding tears, and whispered, “And bound to a single care. Thank the goddess there are still young men like Halnil.”
