Xabrin walked up and down the line one more time before selecting those he wanted. He didn’t pick a single woman, and they whispered insults at him. What could they do? They were the flesh of the goddess, and the goddess didn’t haul rocks. The selected fell in line behind Xabrin, Ren in the third slot. If they only knew who he really was, whom he served, they’d have put him first. Still, he’d passed the first test, now onto the second.

They walked in a train through the crowded streets to the mouth of the Hesvinan way, a narrow street leading away from the gate to the northeast. They shuffled through the crowds and a man bullied his way into the line in front of Ren. Ren grabbed hold of him and shoved him out. The man looked back wide-eyed and desperate. His clothes were dirty and frayed beneath a newer tunic. The other hires grunted their approval, and someone behind Ren patted him on the back. Ren’s hackles rose, and he shot a murderous glance over his shoulder, shadows gathering around his hands. Good for that man that he didn’t have his blades on him.

It was even better that Xabrin hadn’t noticed the swell of shadow about him. He turned back, muttering curses, and followed the steward. The shadows receded but tickled his fingertips. He’d almost blown it.

The Lor’Hesvin estate may have been grand for the east valley, but it was a pale shadow of those in the crater. In his mind’s eye the crater was a hive of white walled estates, villas like temple spires, marbled and lined with silver, soaring ceilings of stone arches and domes, shining white or deepest black if ancient. Sorcery shaped the world inside the crater. Outside it, at this estate, there were the ordinary matters of life: flowering vines for the beehives, a small vineyard, and a silk farm. The silk farm was the most valuable thing and ancient. Only an ancient farm could produce silk these days.

Yet, for all the greatness of the crater, Ren preferred the outside with its sunbathed warmth and inviting scents, full of life. As they approached the gate, he noted the glyphs adorning the frame, the doors, the iron bands stained black to make it look like kithaun. The trick, the danger, was to know how far the power extended. It all depended on the diviner that had put his intention in it. It could be trivial or lethal, and anywhere in between. No one in Lor’Hesvin would say, of course. There was a saying amongst the Mornae: a silver dagger works if the target thinks you’re carrying black. Everything, everything, was a ruse from low to high. For all he knew, the glyphs were nothing at all, artwork to keep away thieves like him. Or they could kill him instantly. He had ways of testing, of course. No need to take the hit if another will do it for you. That was the thrill of his work, the real challenge.

Xabrin, his lord for the day, had hired him to move rocks around the estate, but his real lord had other work for him. He’d trained all his life for this kind of job. As soon as he was past the lintel’s alarm glyph, granted permission by the steward, he would have access to the courtyard at least. That would be enough. Everything else he could manage.

The outside world, the sound of the farms, even the wind, seemed distant as they entered. The glyphs worked their magic to make the inside still, to recreate the crater. He assessed the power of the glyphs by how distant the sounds were. His teacher had taught him the degrees of power, as he knew them from experience. His teacher told of being stunned, burned, maimed, even cursed, by an underestimated glyph.

It was like child’s play, his old teacher would say, getting past these Mornae. His teacher was Mornae himself, but like Ren, with a muddy past. His teacher meant the rich Mornae, the ones that looked the part but were empty vessels—the word for a priestess who could not summon the Dark—but he used it for the men, too, the ones with badges and ribbons who could do nothing but look the part, cracking from the inside out. Men like us, he’d say, we are the sons of the goddess now. Like little mice with the power of giants.

The courtyard was expansive, with a cover of fine gravel, the center dominated by a miniature marble spire meant to emulate the temple. Four statues of the goddess, each in a different pose, hands poised to receive or grant the goddess’s blessing, stood at each corner of the spire’s base.

As they made their way through the courtyard and past an arched trellis of flowers over a ten-foot-tall marble statue of the Voice, the men groveled for a moment, worshiping each in his own way, begging her for the strength to endure to the last and win the bonus. They touched their fingers to their lips and then to her feet, well-worn from so much worship. Ren obliged and made a series of bows, keeping his hands to himself.

Xabrin didn’t bow but stood apart. The statue was for poor folk, not true Mornae. He wasn’t foolish enough to think the Voice was the goddess no matter how lovely the statue. Satisfied with their obeisance, Xabrin led them further into the estate.

They were walling up an orchard of prized fruit to protect it from the increasing crowds living in Lowkamas. The rabble was sprawling out into estates now, pressing up against their walls and lowering the standards. They were stealing, too. A pear or apple or fig from a prized orchard could bring ten silver bits. Alchemists made syrups, ointments, and tonics, claiming they could heal or grant a long life. It would take more than a pear to do that much for this lot.

Now he understood the reason the steward hired the entire line of men, even the scraggly ones. They needed to finish the wall or else the back gate was vulnerable, wide open all day, with an untold number of strangers moving in and out. Winter always brought more undesirables in. They sought refuge within the walls, or to steal.

The glyphs must be weak, just enough to let the steward know who came and went. Or the mesh was off. Who’d want to deal with all that buzzing in one’s head?

The estate was large, walled high and with an inner wall for the main house. Nothing to trouble a thief like Ren. The workers were sorting stones by size, hauling them in by cart through large double doors at the back of the estate from a quarry on the southern edge of the valley—the obvious entry point for a thief.

Xabrin pointed at a foreman and a dozen brown shapes already hauling rocks. Ren nodded and bobbed profusely, imitating the slavish workers. A sly grin worked its way across his lips as the lord held his chin up. That perfect chin, those long, perfect lines. The lord walked away and Ren stood counting the lord’s steps, the stride. His breath fell into line with the lord’s gait, the smooth rhythm of his body. The lord’s shadow beckoned him. Ren thought, he had always thought, that someday he might take form in that shadow. It would be a great power to have.

The foreman was staring at him.

Ren bobbed his head again and shuffled toward him, the hood covering his face. He squinted hard to keep the foreman from noticing his silver eyes. Here everyone was trying to look more Mornae, but he was trying to look less.

He brushed past the foreman, noting the glyph embroidered on his tunic. Later, at his place at the tavern, he’d write it all out, every detail of what he saw. He hated writing the reports, but it was part of the job, and he was not one to offend the goddess through laziness, no matter how laziness beckoned him. Writing what you saw was just as godly as wielding the Dark, his teacher always said.

The sun was going down, and then his actual work could begin. Valley houses followed the sun and its light, unlike the people within the crater that followed the night and lived by star and moonlight. He preferred working at night; easier to get around, easier to use his skills. That’s why he rarely got jobs in the crater.

But today his job was not so sinister. All he needed was a hair—a particular hair. More than one would be ideal. Still, it was dangerous. The girl would be in confinement, in the deepest part of the estate, even underground, and guarded. The guards didn’t matter; he could kill them if needed. It was always better if he didn’t, though. Dead guards meant more guards the next time he visited.

And his master would frown. Maunyn’s long, dark fingers would dance on the pommel of his short blades and his words would shred Ren. So long as the blades stayed sheathed, he could take the lashing.

A chill ran through him. He’d rather have neither if he was honest. For now, it was a simple enough mission.

Ren worked his way to the edge of the line of shuffling brown shapes and scanned the surroundings. He needed just a moment out of sight of the steward, and that would be easy because he was thorough and had prepared a diversion.

Never leave to the goddess what you can do yourself, Ren’s teacher would say. The goddess was fickle. Everyone knew that.

After a half hour, a man rode up. No one noticed the rented pony. All eyes were on the man’s Ilor’Hosmyr livery, just as Ren had hoped. He’d get the tabard back later and pay the man his two silvers. A messenger of the third high house demanded attention, and the foreman didn’t hesitate to run to the gate. Ren broke away from the workers, barely any dust on his gloves. It was so easy to look like you’re working and really doing nothing at all. These workers knew to mind their own business, heads down.

Darting into an arched hallway, he tore off the brown garments and tucked them behind a water barrel. He brushed the dust from his hair and washed his face in a basin. And just like that, dressed in servant garb, he moved inside to the servant’s quarters.

Everyone was too busy to notice another gray shape moving through the half-lit tunnels of the servant’s quarters. He blended in perfectly. One, a young man, paused for a moment, deciding whether to ask who he was, but decided against it.

His teacher had explained that Mornae were so concerned with keeping their station, their fragile positions of power, that none would dare ask who someone was, or what they were doing there. It would look weak. How could they not know? If their matron or her consort did not deign to include them in their plans, who were they to question? As Ren hoped, the teaching paid off over and over, predictable as the stars traveling the night sky year after year.

He knew well the pattern of the newer Mornae houses, less like mazes than the ancient ones. As expected, small kithaun plaques with a symbol etched into it by the sorcerer’s finger or a stylus dotted the walls—priceless things. He’d never seen the real ones. Here, etching was a stretch. This sorcerer’s mark was barely a scratch, and most were just gray steel covered in black paint! Diviners had their own style, but the lazy ones—and there were plenty of those—just copied what they’d seen before. None took pride in his work anymore. This one preferred a circle—for the goddess—with three dots around the top half. Did the dots stand for the Raven? Ahead, a maid leaned against a wall, and he dared brush a finger along it. The glyph’s power was light, he could barely sense her through the darklight mesh.

Alarms were just for the night when servants would be in their quarters. The matron’s apartment would be even more secure. He just needed the countersign. It would be a badge or a garment, something a high-ranking servant might wear, or a special servant allowed into the confinement apartment. Like a nanny.

A woman walked past with a basket of bed linens.

“Or washerwoman,” he said under his breath. He grinned at his cleverness. No need to go in. He just needed the soiled linens.

The woman turned into another hall. He plunged through the shadows after her. After wandering down a long hall, he spied another servant with a basket of dirty clothes and followed him. The man led Ren straight to the laundry, where the baskets waited for him. A small one with small garments drew his attention. It held delicate clothes for the prize and pride of the house. A daughter, only three years old, with ample time for the matron to decide whether to declare her. A ten-year confinement was the norm for houses of quality. Valley houses tried to imitate this, but often declared earlier. Why they waited made little sense to Ren. What did it matter? Not like any priestess wanted to give up a child, especially a girl.

Unless there were men like his lord, ready to pay handsomely for one.

More men entered and got to work with the wash. Ren poked at the garments in the basket and found a tiny tunic sleeve. Lamb’s wool. Precious, this one. Had to be a girl.

“Leave those,” grumbled the washerman. “Nanny Gala will wash those. Princess doesn’t need our hands all over them.”

Of course, the nanny. He waited a moment. So much of his job was spent waiting, and he was good at it.

The men laughed at him. They were of nomad origin—no one north of the Moon Sea used the word princess.

A darkness rose in Ren—so familiar yet controlled—to cut these insolent men down. Dark wisped about his fingertips, beckoning. It was his duty to the goddess to cleanse the blackrock of these foreigners, these unworthy clods. Why didn’t the high matron just take what she wanted? Not like any of these men mattered. He grimaced at the thought of them crowding his homeland with their stench.

The men turned back to their chores, their shapes dark shadows in the mist of heated water. Ren’s heart remained even, not a jot above normal. This day was not a bloody one. One, two, three, he counted, and he stepped out of the room with the basket. He ducked into a storeroom, hid behind wine casks, and lit a pea-sized globe. He opened an empty sack on the floor and laid out the clothes and linens. Time ticked ever so slowly, his breath slowing with it. Something glimmered in the light. He passed the globe over the garments. Two flickers.

He took a pouch from inside his tunic, the one next to his pouch of chits. A thin blade slipped from a sheath at his wrist into his hand. Carefully, he lifted the curling silver hairs from the cloth and dropped them in the pouch. Like little slivers of the goddess, they were. He turned over the garments and continued gathering samples.

Ren the god, he thought. It had been so easy. Not every mission had to end in blood. This day, this auspicious day, Ren the god had found another way and spared the filth. But there would come a day that he, too, like the Zauhune champion, would exact justice for the goddess.

Once done, he tossed everything back in the basket and set it at the back of the laundry.

The men had not even noticed.

WINTER

It was from the natives that Runa developed an affinity for the Fox, Hosin, as the natives called him. She named her house Hosmyr to honor him and the goddess’s phase during his peak in the night sky.

Over the following cycles, the original people of the east valley disappeared, absorbed into Mornae houses or blended in with the same nomads who walk the Fringe to this day. Some think they fled to form a society of their own based on what they’d learned from Runa’s house.

Whatever the facts of that union, the groves and orchards remain, the fields teem with flowers and grain, the soil black as kith and as powerful as kithaun. Each is a testament to that alliance made long ago when the Mornae were yet to be, when they still shone golden, filled with Sayin’s power.

They shed that power, risking everything, their very lives, to turn themselves toward the goddess and evolve to something new.