They all turned to him. Had they been thinking the same? None rebutted with the most obvious answer: only if Hosmyr turned its strength to it. Its true strength. And in ten thousand years, even fifty, it might produce a pear like those in the east valley. It didn't have the east valley's unique foundation.
“I plan to try,” Tris said. “And grapes as well. Whatever will take.” He hesitated and added, “Lor'Baldir received twenty acres from this court. Unfavored or not, we'll make it produce.”
“How many tenders have you for the task?” Taul asked.
The men turned to him with an air of disdain.
“What does it matter?” Tris said.
Taul nodded, pursing his lips. “Indeed,” he said. Goddess above, what were they all thinking?
“I won't move my house out there though,” Tris said. “Savages pour through the border daily. The southernmost villages are full of foreigners. Let my steward's house do it.”
“I hear a horde has invaded the Southern Reaches,” Zadar said. “A rabble of tribes led by a witch or shaman… or both!”
Gaur sighed. “Roturra is always claiming the southern border is at risk. An excuse for Daushalan to hire more spearmen and use their new steels.”
“When that steel approximates a Nishmur, then we can worry,” Tris said.
They watched the next bout in silence. The Sons of Ilor'Hosmyr had taken the field. They fought well, agile, like the knights of a past age, but not bearing the Dark. Light shells clashed; light spears sparked.
Taul slipped away unnoticed and walked toward the other end of the hall. He'd been able to forget his troubles while they chatted about the issues of the day. Not for long, though. Upon a great dais sat the matrons, watching the men fighting in the pit. Ryldia sat to the side with matrons she knew well: Lor'Haimyr, Lor'Nadmyr, Lor'Viclyn, and Lor'Mirayne. Small houses, but true. They hemmed her in, protecting her from the careless, unfeeling words of others who rejoiced in Toshtolin's downfall.
Ryldia looked diminished. They didn't seat her near the heiress where she ought to be. If the girl had been born, she'd be sitting at Julissa's left hand. But now she was a curse and relegated to the edge. He was grateful to the four matrons who sat near Ryldia and would not forget them.
Guilt for every conversation he'd had or heard so far filled him. None here cared for Toshtolin's woes. He deftly maneuvered around the thing in his heart, the problems he put aside in the name of other, less important things.
A cheer roared through the gathering, breaking his concentration. Victory for the high matron's third son, Rauvon.
But what could he do to achieve victory? He toyed with the idea of getting land in the south valley for Lor'Toshtolin—to be like the rest and look for easier prospects.
He flushed with anger. That would be cowardice.
He passed behind a crowd of impeccably dressed men. Embroidered down the sleeves of their tunics was the Zauhune owl. They were discussing the break-up of a large estate with Lor'Malmyr's prime consort. There was an enormous debt. In those few minutes, while Taul listened at their backs, Zauhune made a deal, making it the effectual owner of hundreds of acres of Malmyr land. No one would call it a loan. No one would mention it, but behind Matron Lor'Malmyr, Joumina Ilor'Zauhune would dictate what happened in that part of the east valley.
Why worry about globes, barbarians, and giants? A silent invasion was already underway. What would Zauhune do to their land? They weren't tenders, but miners and ironwood forgers. Nothing grew in the north valley but rocks and ironwood.
He walked on, furious. Did the high matron know this was happening? She must. He felt foolish. Balniss would have known. He was clever.
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.
