Ryldia sat motionless, her dark-ringed eyes glassy and unfocused as women conversed around her like she wasn't even there. He should talk to her, ask her what she wanted to do. Ask her what the path forward should be. A prime consort should know what to do.

He'd failed.

And the thing he was thinking: dare he ask?

He could find a valley house, one desperate like Malmyr. Dark thoughts filled him. The high matron's banner waved above, shaming him. He smiled at Ryldia, but her gaze was vacant, distant. He straightened. The urge to protect her was a painful spike boring into his chest.

What wouldn't he do? It seemed so easy to go the wrong way.

No, he wouldn't be like these other consorts seeking the easy way. He would proceed with dignity. The goddess had set the path for him, one that was time-honored and respected. He only had to follow it.

16

Ren sat on a rented pony at a bend in the road overlooking a small, south valley estate. Fields sprawled out endlessly. Only the gray shadows of jagged peaks to the far east and west reminded him he was still in Vaidolin.

Brown and white sheep, long-haired, as was Roturra's specialty, pastured to one side of the road. A breeze graciously wafted the scent of damp wool and droppings past him. He wasn't delicate like the crater Mornae, who dictated that no common animal should be within a mile of the outer cities, and none should ever enter the crater.

In a field opposite the sheep's pasture, a yak shaped statue made of wicker and straw stood watch with wildflowers strewn about its feet. The Arms of the Goddess, the jagged ranges that jutted out from the crater for hundreds of miles, thinned out in these parts, as did her influence. On the other side of the estate, they grew grapes; not black vines like Hosmyr's, certainly not ancient ones, but better than Zauhune could ever grow in its rocky North Valley.

Since forever, the South Valley had belonged to Roturra and its branches, bloodhouses, and vassals. Until now, because the goddess's champion—he belonged to Zauhune, but the lowborn thought of him as the goddess's own—had won lands in these parts as part of the goddess-court settlements.

A bloody trade.

The previous owner's banners were coming down from the walls. A court order, sealed by a high council magistrate, had ousted them because the Zauhune lad had chopped their champion's head off. Ren hadn't seen the fight himself, but that was the gossip. Losing such lordly knights must sting because, at the next court, Roturra's vassals paid to delay the judgment rather than fight, and so more land changed ownership in the south valley. Odd how the highborn waged their wars. The properties won in spring were nicely clustered together. Had someone planned it that way?

His eyes narrowed. How convenient for Hosmyr's high matron! It made his job easier, too. Secretly, he thanked the high matron for thinking of him.

New banners would soon be up on this estate, an owl of some kind, and that meant fresh pickings for the high matron. The gate was wide open, with people shuffling in and out. He'd get himself in soon enough. With this assortment of faces, half-breed Mornae, it would be easy.

He'd been busier than usual since the godling had won the first bloody court three weeks ago. Estates shifted hands from Roturra vassals to Zauhune vassals. That meant getting more samples for his master. What a man like Maunyn wanted with a kid's hair, well, the truth was he didn't ask, and he didn't care. Maunyn was his lord, his savior from the border camps. Hordes of little kids ran about there, the orphans of raided caravans, the abandoned of fast traveling nomads with not enough food to feed them, or, worst of all, Mornae forced out by misfortune and who now lived on the fringes… forgotten. Their world had cast them out as unfit even though some still had the signs. Sometimes he plucked a hair or two from them, but Maunyn never mentioned whether or not it pleased him to get them.

Unlike those kids, Ren was lucky. His master was one of the most important men in all Vaidolin.

The pony stopped and whinnied, arguing with a draft horse in a field.

“Come on, you!” he said to the stubborn beast, digging his heels into the pony's flanks.

He wasn't much of a rider, but he'd had to learn. Most Hosmyr did. Who wanted to walk the length of a valley? Mounts didn't enter the crater, though. The crater was pristine and meant for goddess-blessed priestesses and knights. Just the thought of it gave him chills. It was not a place for him. He'd rather be a petty god out here among the lowest of the low.

“Liar,” he said to himself. Stop your lying!

He plodded down to a turn in the road.

A stream of farmhands, artisans, low-level diviners, cleaners, and every other necessary laborer trailed behind a caravan of carts up ahead. Little changed for these people. Their village provided workers to nearby estates regardless of the banner hanging from the walls. Out here loyalty was to one's village, not lofty crater matrons with their fancy banners.

If asked, he'd say he was a courier for Lor'Sitvir, a Daushalan vassal. They often traded at the southern border. If pressed, he could produce a badge—a fake, of course. It was the kind of magic he could overcome. Low-level diviners made most badges. Security glyphs were another matter. Sometimes the glyphs had a kick to them, giving him a headache for days or, if particularly fierce, nightmares. His job was full of such risks. He shrugged and spat away a sunflower seed shell. In the South Valley, sunflowers lined every road and path, tracking the sun faithfully. The seeds were a nuisance but eating them helped him look the part.

He plodded through the crowd and approached carts packed with furniture and goods. One large cart had a frame covered in felt with a small banner poking on top, an owl sigil he couldn't make out. Their matron must be its cargo. Or a priestess with a young child.

He rode alongside the caravan and took in the setting: the knight's livery and the sigil, the details of what they carried, the count of spears and daggers. He sized them all up. The goddess had given him an opportunity to prove once again how he was Maunyn's best… best…

He paused. What was he, exactly? A thief? An assassin? The word he really wanted to say twisted on the end of his tongue, refusing to come out. Maunyn had sons aplenty, and he held no light in his eyes for any of them. No, he was the son of Maunyn's fist, like a squire, like apprentices were the sons of a sorcerer's mind.

Ren shook his head. Maunyn gave him little sign of valuing him more than a servant, despite his dedication.

Cold, he was. Cold and hard.

More workers streamed in from between two barley fields.

He leaned down and grabbed one by the shoulder. The man, a common farmer, gaped at him.

“Who are the new lords here?” Ren asked him.

“Milord?”

“Who are these people moving into that estate?”

“Oh, uh…” The man just stuttered.

“They're called Laturnlis,” said a woman, butchering the name Lor'Trilnis. She was as common as the man, face wrinkled and tanned by working in the sun all day, but with a twinkle of silver in her eyes. “What you want with them?”

“Looking for work,” Ren said.

The woman yanked her man away from Ren.

“Well, go somewhere else. Full up here. Work goes to Palorit village, not outsiders. We're Saw'uns folk now, but Rotin's law still holds.”

Ren smirked at how she pronounced the name Zauhune. Rotin was the Great Ram constellation and the Roturra sigil. According to Roturra practice, villages governed themselves and negotiated work for their people with the estate's owners, crater Mornae.

“That's right!” the man said. “Rotin's law!”

“Guess you're the nanny then for the little lord,” Ren said to the woman, noting her garb and the telltale effect of scrubbing soap on her rough hands.

The woman scrunched her face at him, her hands balled up on her hips.

“I'm the washerwoman for the little lady. She'll be a great lady someday. Maybe take me into the goddess-place.”

“I'm sure she will,” Ren said. A girl! Still in confinement. Why would Lor'Trilnis move a girl, an heiress perhaps, into the south valley?

“Now get on with you,” she said, shooing him away, making a fuss, but not daring to pass her man. She knew a threat when she saw one.

Ren left the pair arguing with each other. He glanced over at the estate, at the layout, the walls, the number of guards. He could try on the way back, while things were still uncertain. The diviners wouldn't have set alarms yet. The girl might even still be in the carriage.

He rubbed his fingers together, forming a strand of shadow. The Dark called to him, and he wanted to oblige. Maunyn didn't like it when Ren took the initiative. Just do as you're told, he'd say. Ren mumbled to himself. He'd pass on the details though to Maunyn's scribe.

By late afternoon, Ren reached the village of Rulkamit, a village of several hundred cottages. This was Roturra land. A confusion of nomads, half-breeds, and those Mornae who did not thrive in the crater lived here. At the heart of the village was the Mornae section. An unhappy fate, living with so many foreigners. They were only a hair difference from these imports. If the imports could make the flax and barley grow better, if they could shear the ewes faster, then they may just be the next Lor'somesuch.

He dismounted, handed the pony's reins to the stableboy, and palmed a chit into his hand. The first floor was a tavern and eatery, while the second housed merchants and traders on their way to the border. It was a decent rest stop, and guards from major houses kept the peace. He pushed into men crowding the entrance.