“Yes, a bad stitch in the weave,” Gishna said. “A child might be born with only two, or sadly one quality. And sometimes, as if cursed, none of our qualities. So, during confinement, a matron judged whether the child was acceptable to her house. If not, they secreted the child to the temple for adoption into a lesser house. This is one reason for confinement. And Mornae never, ever mentioned a child's origins, even if they knew perfectly well where the child had come from. The valmasin always knew where the children went. For them, each of us is an open book, a living history. They know all the notes which make up our music.”

“How lovely, high matron,” Kandah said, his eyes narrowed. “I had not thought of it that way.” He smirked in his way, charming, but hideous to her. Treachery coiled behind those feline green eyes.

“After the Fall, it became difficult for the valmasin,” Gishna said. “Many were assassinated for fear of their knowledge being revealed.”

“What knowledge?” Julissa asked. She was angry now, and rightly so. The implications became clear.

“That you were unraveling,” he said, “as a people.”

Julissa straightened, imperious. “And not you?” she demanded.

Pride swelled in Gishna’s cantankerous chest. There was the future matron.

Kandah made a slight bow. “Ours is a different power.”

“But ours is the greatest, the power of the goddess!” Julissa said.

Kandah steepled his fingers below his chin. “Have you played the game with blocks?” he asked. “The fortress, I think you call it.”

Julissa shook her head and lifted her hands questioningly. She was furious. Gishna just listened. Best to let the strange, green-eyed man tell her everything and receive the brunt of her anger.

“If the base is weak, it all collapses,” he said. “No matter how great the towers and the heights. If the base crumbles…”

“The Fall?” Julissa asked. She was grasping now, searching her mind. Everything was there in their history if one had the key to unlock its meaning. It never lied, it was just couched in legend and metaphor.

“The power of your goddess is on the same axis as sayin,” he said. “When Saylassa turned to dust, the base fell out from under your people. Mornae are still fundamentally⁠—”

“Inexorably,” Gishna interrupted.

“Yes,” he said. “Inexorably, Alcar. They are still your foundation.”

“But it's been cycles. Fifteen cycles!” Julissa exclaimed.

He shrugged.

“He's correct,” Gishna said. “We are a hybrid form.”

“To pursue the Dark requires a sturdy base on which to build,” he said. “Like a great eagle taking flight from a lofty mountain peak. But ask it to take off from the flat ground, and it must struggle to lift itself.”

“Many of our people no longer know how,” Gishna said. “So long have they lived off the struggles of others.”

“The blood of others,” Julissa said.

“Exactly!” Kandah said with a clap. He delighted when lesser minds made simple connections.

Gishna waved him on to continue.

“And so, your people learned little by little that everything they once did was so hard, often treacherously so. To touch the Dark is a dangerous business. All power is.”

At this, he stopped. His aura shimmered. How Gishna longed to discover his people's weakness.

“As the effects of the Fall rippled through the world,” he said, “your people settled for less and less. And with less and less, they became exactly that. They mingled with nomads and barbarians, further diluting the power. Like a crumbling mountain which once touched the stars, your people now huddle on low hills, barely better than the barbarians around them.”

“That is enough, Kandah,” Gishna said, scowling. “I'll not have you exaggerating.”

Kandah chuckled. “I was only following your example, matron. To wax eloquent over the demise of so great a people. But it is the way of nature. Some rise, some fall.”

“Some rise again,” Gishna said.

“Yes!” Kandah said. He fetched another canvas. “See?”

Julissa gripped the edge of the table to keep herself from collapsing. Gishna would comfort her later.

“These lines now live in Hosmyr,” he said, pointing to a lengthy list of house names. “It will take time, but eventually they will reform into a stronger branch and remove the taint.”

“You promised my grandmother it would be gone by now,” Gishna said.

“Nature is more fickle than we might want,” he said. “To weave the strands into the proper fabric takes time.”

Gishna cursed herself for starting with the metaphors. He toyed with her while her house died out.

“What taint?” Julissa asked, exasperated. She'd just caught up to the conversation.

“The taint brought on by a weakness long hidden,” he said. “For years, cycles even, it ate away at your bloodline, but there were protections in place.”

“What protections?” She was seething now. Despairing. All at once. Gishna sighed.

He always hesitated when asked. Did he know the true source? The ancient valmasin must have known. Surely. Why else stay here studying a broken people?

“The Fall, dearest,” Gishna said, weary of the topic. “Everything points to the Fall.”

“You will have one child if you are lucky,” Kandah said.

“It must be a girl, so you will wait as long as you can,” Gishna said. “Kandah has found you an adequate consort.”

“What?” Julissa asked. “I have already chosen Rodin.”

“No, my dear, we will choose one for you. Your father was selected for me, and together we made you. We can lessen the risk, but we must be sure. You will consort Gadon Lor'Mardaer. He is of a good line. You can see him there.”

Gishna motioned to another folio, which Kandah fetched. He opened it for Julissa to peruse. She may not be able to read the notes, but she could make out the names.

“I see,” Julissa said, suddenly pleased by the prospect. The man was a convergence of the best lines. Like Saugraen and her other sons, he was not born of his matron.

“With him, you may yet recover this house,” Gishna said. “Your brothers—yes, they are your brothers and your sister—you will make judicious pairings for them to continue to grow a new trunk for Hosmyr.”

“Out of the ashes…” Kandah intoned.

“We don't need poetry now,” Gishna said.