Taul nodded.
“We should get her out of this room,” Balniss said. “A bath to start. I have a blend of herbs to soothe her.”
Taul nodded and scooped Ryldia up in his arms. Balniss lit the way with a handheld globe. The sheet caught, and he dragged it along, splotched with maroon globs, across the floor toward his own chamber, joined by a hall with an ample bath between.
Balniss should have been the one to consort with Ryldia. As first son, Balniss possessed more of the qualities sought after by the houses of this age. Yet his brother had seen the attraction between them from the first encounter. The sweet mingling of pear and apple blossoms, Balniss had said. Something so out of character for him; not a poet, but a would-be sorcerer.
It might have worked out; a matron having lovers was common. But Taul would eventually want a consort of his own, and that would make loving Ryldia an impossibility. So Balniss had taken another path, one he preferred anyway. Now his face was sad and vacant as he attended the second miscarriage in Taul’s sixtieth year with Ryldia.
There was no blame, no accusation in his voice. Just sadness. Regret. Had it been Balniss instead, Ryldia would already have an heiress.
A thought invaded Taul’s mind like an army sieging a fortress. They had tried too soon after the first failure. The pressure to produce an heiress had impelled them at first. Others in the house, from lesser branches, were fertile, but not Ryldia. Her mother had only birthed Ryldia, and after that declined precipitously. Her grandmother matron had withered away after birthing her heiress. His chest tightened. The outcome was clear: they had tried too soon, and he had pressed her to do it.
They could not try again, but she would because it was her supreme duty.
“Even if it kills her,” he whispered.
Balniss waved his hand over the spout and water sputtered out. He repeated the action, sometimes to the right and sometimes to the left. When the temperature was right, he let the bath fill. He sprinkled herbs in the warmth and drops of oil. His hands hovered over the water, imbuing it with the zaeress stored within his body.
They laid Ryldia in and Taul washed her.
“The almonds failed,” she said, her face crumpled with concern.
“Yes,” Taul said, cradling her face in his hands. This crop failure hit hard. Almonds were a delicacy, and Lor’Toshtolin had a special arrangement with the growers to be the exclusive seller in the upper market.
“And perhaps the apples will,” she said faintly. “Something about weak sap.”
Her eyes watered. The distillery would be quiet, the shelves empty.
Balniss fetched clothes from her chamber and barked orders at the servants to clean up her bed.
Taul wiped Ryldia down, removing the stains.
“Are you in pain, my love?” he asked. He did not speak to her this way except in private. She was still his matron.
She stiffened. “I wonder if the pears will be sufficient,” she said. “Brandy always sells well. Even our poor blend.”
“Yes, matron. The pears have come in well enough this year. We can age last year’s blend a little longer and sell at a higher price. We will cover the losses easily.”
What did lies matter now? Deception was cause for execution in some houses, but there was no love in those houses. Love between a consort and his matron was different. His duty was to protect her, and he had every intention of doing so.
Balniss returned and handed Taul linens and a fresh robe. Taul dried her face with a cloth. He lifted her out and together they dressed her. Balniss gave her a tonic, and they watched her drift to sleep.
“She is still a fine matron,” Balniss said. Taul agreed. His imagination took him somewhere he didn’t want to go. Her hair was dull and listless, devoid of goddess-light. In response, the tips of her hairs flickered faintly like the smallest stars, reminding him she still had a chance.
They stood watch over her, her shallow breath disconcerting.
“I suspect this is the last effort you can make,” Balniss said. “Even for a boy.”
Taul took Balniss by the arm and led him out into his sitting room. He took out a bottle of brandy and poured two drams. Balniss drank it down and Taul followed. He let out a long, throbbing sigh.
“What am I to do, brother?” Taul asked. “I have failed her.”
“Why do you say that? Their line has been failing for centuries. Why take this on yourself? Our line was not so weak.”
Taul frowned. “Don’t speak so. Her sire was of Hosmyr. Her mother of ancient Hosmyr.”
“My apologies, brother. Our house was fruitful, though. You cannot deny it.”
Their birth house, Lor’Nevtar, had its own share of problems, conveniently forgotten by the eldest son who’d left it all to become a diviner.
Taul poured another dram for each of them.
“I cannot bring myself to blame her,” he said.
“That is the binding talking,” Balniss said. “She is the goddess in your heavens.”
“Her cousins say we have lost the goddess’s favor. That another will rule Lor’Toshtolin soon enough.”
“Bah!” Balniss scowled. “Priestesses will blame everything on ill favor when it suits them and claim favor when it does.”
“That may be, but I cannot argue with it. The evidence is plain.”
“The commoner’s views permeate the city more and more. Already most valley priestesses, so-called, share the views. Most low tier houses as well. It is a superstition. The goddess of the Mornae was never what they made her out to be.”
Taul shook his head. “Now you want to debate practice with me? You with your three bells, ten stations, and all the rest.”
“It is the rhythm of nature we are marking.”
