No, she couldn't, he wanted to say. She mourns still. He couldn't say that, though. Ryldia had exceeded the time allotted to mourning. Mornae didn't mourn like other people. There was too much danger in such emotions. Death was the safest, quickest journey to the stars, back to the goddess.

“I am her consort,” he said.

She shook her head. “Even if there was a bounty. It ought to be a matron asking.”

“Would the answer be different if she made the inquiries?”

The priestess looked at him unamused. “No, Prime Consort. She'd know better.”

He restrained his growing annoyance. Was there a bounty or wasn't there?

Ryldia hadn't given up yet on bearing her own child. He could tell. No matter what Balniss said about her chance of success, Ryldia's duty was the single most important thing in her life. She would try again sooner than was wise, and she would command it of him.

“And the high matron?” he asked. “Would she help us?” Clearly there was some kind of bounty, but this priestess didn't want to share it with a mere consort.

Her eyes twitched. She hesitated then said, “You should go. There's nothing here for you.”

She rose, took him by the arm, and led him out.

Taul left but felt a strangeness in the place. He knew her words to be true. It was a matron's place to ask. His place was in the shops, overseeing the workers, obtaining and fulfilling contracts. But Ryldia didn't speak, did nothing but stare blankly.

Was his house right to whisper that she was failed somehow, like a priestess at a trial? Lost?

Taul was determined to fix it all. His chest welled with the willpower to take it all on. But what use was willpower when he didn't know how to continue?

The temple globe swirled high above. Yes, the temple. This was a problem of a magnitude far beyond his mid-tier concerns. The temple was the throne of the goddess. But Ilor'Daushalan, the first high house, had controlled it since the Fifth Accord. The largest, the most powerful house in wealth and spears. Its citadel, the egg, occupied a quarter of the crater, and the temple district called its foyer.

Now he thought to enter that space, seeking favors without his high matron's permission. It was a political step for which he had no credentials, and yet, the temple was supposed to be for all Mornae. His temple. His goddess.

The milky swirl of light within the globe beckoned.

Daushalan, no matter its might, could not own that light. It was still for all, no matter whose banners or crests adorned the buildings below.

He would seek the goddess out. The bounty was an ancient tradition, from the third accord at least. Balniss would be proud of how he'd remembered it all.

19

At times like these, Ren realized he wasn't so godly. He wiped his face and blew out dense white air. The black rock didn't outright kill him, but it wasn't helping either. He patted his arms and stomped on the muddy ground.

Sheep bleated on the pastures as the dark sky rumbled and drenched everything again in a deluge. Then it quieted to a drizzle. It was summer, but when a storm rolled in from the sea, everything got cold. When Sayin hid, then the black rock came awake, vengeful, demanding its due, wrestling warmth away from all living things. The rain only made it worse.

He'd been at this border village on the edge of the Southern River for three weeks. Waiting and waiting for word of his next job. But the dead drop remained empty. Not a hair plucked. Not a child bought or sold. No one bullied or beaten. He'd expected to work at the Trilnis estate, the one with the girl, but his master had sent him to this horrid place instead.

Banners had already changed on three estates in this region. It amazed him that Zauhune had accepted lands so far from the crater. They congratulated themselves on these victories, but as he glared across the Southern, he wondered who the true victors of those court bouts were.

He spat out a wad of chewed sunflower shells. They weren't the only fools. Had word gotten back about the botched job? Had Nizaer betrayed him? Every day that passed without a job, Ren wrestled with the same thoughts: either his master had forgotten him or was showing him the door. That door was sixteen miles away. Further down the river was the main crossing out of Mornae lands. On the other side of a massive ten-mile-long wall was a mass of tents and ramshackle settlements surrounding a ruin of ancient standing stones. Kikuneh, the nomads called it, but no one knew who'd erected them. Mornae lived on the other side of the river as well, like a dribble of civilization down the goddess's chin. That's where he'd lived as a child, a rabid little beast, until his master had saved him and brought him across onto sacred land.

He'd thought of leaving Vaidolin. He'd dreamt of what he might do and see beyond the Moon Sea. A dread had overcome him then, the deep-seated fear every Mornae faced. Could he survive without her?

Beyond the estate wall, a massive black rock slab rose from a hill to the south, the size of a guard tower. Carved with enchanted glyphs, it stood sentinel over the village. Over the centuries, villagers had painted threatening marks on the south face, warning those across the river to stay out of their lands. A monolith stood watch over every village—the old ones—along the river. Ren suspected they were part of the magic Roturra devised to help things grow in their valley. Not as good or strange as Hosmyr's produce, but nothing was like the east valley with its strange ground. Even if the Mornae themselves didn't understand the magic anymore, the slab still did its duty, performed its magic. He needed to be like these ancient relics. He may not understand how it all worked, but he would use his power and do his duty.

A gray shape passed by a loose stone in the estate wall and deftly placed a message scroll behind it. Then he stalked off, leaving behind a thin bundle of flax leaning against the wall beneath the stone.

Excited, Ren waited for a span, and then fetched the message. He knocked away the flax, didn't linger, and made his way to the most private spot in the village tavern which served as the meeting hall, boarding house, inn, and stable.

He settled in, waited for his food and drink, and when certain no one would disturb him, opened the minuscule scroll under the table. A lengthy list of tiny symbols filled the message from edge to edge. He'd memorized the cipher as a boy and worked through each set of marks. Then he grinned. It was just the work he'd wanted all along. A dangerous mission that would require his unique skills. Skills he was sure others in Maunyn's service didn't have. The hope of promotion, of earning Maunyn's favor at last, of standing behind him in the high places like a proper man-at-arms kindled bright in his breast.

He'd only have this day to act, though. The girl had to be at the meeting place during Cassan's fullness. That meant two days of hard riding with a live package.

His stomach churned, so he pushed the plate away, left the drink untouched, and dropped a silver bit on the table. When the path cleared, he darted upstairs for his bag, exited, and circled the village four times to confuse anyone who may have noticed him. Villagers always noticed strangers.

Unlike the upper south valley, where a house ruled a chunk of land, the lower south valley had village councils to manage the land on behalf of the owner. It also doled out the work to its inhabitants. Some even had militias, gangs of farmers with hoes, to beat off squatters and people trying to harvest their fields in secret. All worked together to bring in a harvest or care for the flocks, but likewise, if things went poorly, they all suffered. Half this village's land now belonged to a Zauhune vassal, and they would try to impose their authority. He hoped the commotion of the exchange would help him. If he was lucky, a child like the one he was after would be unattended.

He approached the neat rings of cottages radiating from a central plaza, at the foot of a terraced vineyard clinging to a rocky slope. The rain strengthened again and made everything look slick and white. Each cottage bore a shingle with its name, Lor'something. Just like Lowkamas, hovels and tents crammed the outermost part of the village. The villagers made it clear who belonged and who didn't with banners and stakes in the ground—and house names, always house names.

He could cast the blame for a missing child on migrants rushing north for fear of the great enemy to the South. Ren didn't think it could be as bad as they all made out. Still, there were rumors of terrible things done south of the crossing. Children and even adults disappeared all the time because they'd given up or traders poached them. Mornae bones and hair held power. He shivered, imagining a shaman or witch brewing a potion and stirring it with one of his bones.

Behind a cottage of the outermost ring, he prepared himself. His sleeping powder was ready in a tunic pocket and his small blades for quick release. Satisfied, he raised his hands, splayed them open before his face, elbows out, and imagined the Orlin constellation, the Spider. Seconds later, threads of Dark appeared. They were always there, his teacher had told him, he just wasn't paying attention. Now he gave them all his focus, joining them, pulling on them in his unique pattern. Everyone had a pattern his teacher had taught him. He performed the motion until a haze of Dark wove about his person. It was only a ruse, a trick of the mind. Not like he'd joined the Dark. He wasn't so gifted. It was just enough to blind others to his passing.

Padding on the wet pavers, he traversed each ring, looking for the house. His target must be in the inner ring. More difficult, but possible for someone like him. He paused at an opening to the plaza.

The rain made a white haze of it all: the clouds, the buildings, the plaza. Then the rain relented, and the world turned a familiar gray. Across the plaza, he made out a shape. It must be the village priestess. She walked to the plaza's center where there was a pillar shaped like the crater spire. She changed out flowers and light globes at the spire's base. He scoffed at their efforts to reproduce Vaidolin with their circle of tiny stone houses around a temple spire. They wanted so much to be like the crater Mornae, but they were no better than the villages beyond the crossing, or a camp of yurts.

He skirted the plaza; she might yet see him. Even the valley priestesses had power, so he waited for her to finish. She entered the ancient kith sanctuary at the far end of the plaza and lowered two leather flaps that served as doors.

He snuck around the ring, searching for a shingle with the name Lor'Belthrae. Two shingles to the left of the sanctuary looked similar. The leg of the first glyph on the left shingle did not curve up or down. It just sat there, either Ben or Bel. They were both Bel or Ben or one of each. In fact, several shingles on that side of the plaza looked similar. Had they once been a larger house now splintered into smaller ones? Whatever the history, it didn't matter. Get the child and ride hard to the meeting place. Easy.

He backed into the alley between the two cottages and read the message again. The tips of his fingers were numb when he finished deciphering the message again. He couldn't mess this up. Not after his last job. He couldn't take just any child. It was bad enough that he was robbing a house of its future. He shook away the concern.

“Get it right,” he whispered. Get it right and your life changes forever. He rubbed his hands and blew on his fingers, all the while repeating the name Belthrae in his head.

The clouds above thundered again.

The two cottages, drenched in white rain, loomed like citadels before him. They had gates and fifteen-foot-tall walls. What were the chances both had three-year-old girls? He licked his lips. The girl would earn him a whole silver talent, but the money wasn't important. Maunyn would be proud, and the other agents would stew with envy at his good favor. The girl would scream, a little priestess voice in the making. He needed to get the powder in her fast.

He settled on the house he thought was most likely to be the one. The glyph's leg was just slightly more pronounced. He went around the back, and aided by his magic, leapt up its wall, resting on the lip. Country estates by woods or the border often had hunting dogs or even just yapping mutts to warn of trouble. The better off houses had diviner-trained sentinel cats or owls. But here, only a few hours' ride from the Crossing with its garrison of Roturra soldiers, no one bothered. Lucky for him, this house had no dogs and was using every inch of its small yard to grow vegetables.

He alighted on the soft soil and didn't bother to clear his way; he needed them to think an intruder had come. Everything had to point to the Naukvyrae: his black clothes, his boots, his hood with a wig of long white horsehair sewn into it. He pulled out the hair and let it flow down his chest.

The back door gave slightly to his hand, but a bolt held it. There were no windows, as in the Mornae style, only slits in the wall. The roof was thankfully low by the door. He grabbed hold of the edge and swung his legs up to the roof. On the slant facing the goddess-path he found an opening, closed because of the rain. During her dawning, the residents would open it and allow her light to bathe whatever kith they had. Even themselves.

He worked the wood frame with the slim blade he'd tucked in his right boot. The knife tapped against metal, and he pushed the inner catch to the open position. He lifted the door just enough to look inside. The cottage was a large room partitioned with screens into sections. He didn't count himself lucky yet, but he grinned. A child lay in a small bed. Better fortune followed. There was no minder, no keeper. Had they really left a girl unattended?

He risked opening the skylight even more. A low fire still burned in the hearth. He took a better look, focusing on the dark corners. His heart leapt in his throat. There in a corner, a man was sleeping in a chair, head down to his chest. A sharp sickle rested across his thighs. If the man was a problem, he'd kill him. Not like anyone would care much about a Lor'Belthrae farmer.

Ren's illusion was still active, but so much depended on the viewer, whether they looked too hard, whether a tingle of something not right moved them to consider the shape before them. Or nothing at all would happen.

He set the skylight cover aside. Drizzle preceded him as he dropped to the floor below with a soft thud. The man didn't stir, but Ren took no chances. He took a deep breath, a pinch of the powder, and sidled over to the sleeping man. With a quick exhale, he blew the powder in the sleeping man's face, and stepped back into the darkness, away from the fire. Patience was his gift; no magic needed. The man shifted and coughed, rubbing his nose and face.