Everyone knew the temple was Ilor'Daushalan's domain.

Taul looked up at the blazing white light. “To seek a child, high matron. A foundling,” he said.

The audience chamber hushed to an unbearable silence, and he glanced about. None met his gaze.

The high matron's hands balled up and trembled. Maunyn unsheathed his blades in perfect silence.

“Surely you did not mean what you said, Taul Lor'Toshtolin?” Julissa asked, her eyes wide.

Taul gaped.

“Remove this man from my sight,” the high matron croaked. “Let a worthy vassal come forth.” Spittle dribbled down her chin. Julissa sat rigidly and offered her mother no contest.

Taul made an awkward bow and stepped back. Courtiers shoved him away as he collided with a line of them.

He glanced back at the throne one last time. Maunyn spun a blade in one hand and sheathed it, a cruel smile on his lips.

Taul turned, head bowed, and made for the exit. Steps from the door, someone grabbed his arm and pulled him aside.

“Don't look up,” the man said. Clad in fine silks, an embroidered silver fox circled his chest. Glossy, silver-white hair flowed down his shoulders. He was at least a head taller, and Taul didn't dare look up. The man bore knives as lethal as the prime consort.

“If you wish a remedy,” the man whispered, “you will go to the Telaugir, the Blue Wolf Tavern, in five days. Dress for the Bottoms. At Sayin's dawn, a man will meet you. He will tell you something. You will listen. The goddess looks upon you kindly, Taul Lor'Toshtolin. Do not forget that.”

Behind the man, the high matron continued to rail against Lor'Toshtolin.

“Are you agreed?” he asked, shaking Taul gingerly.

Taul trembled. “Yes, yes, my lord.” He'd called no man lord before, but there was something about this man that drew the word out of him.

“Good. Be off then,” the man said. “Do not wait. The crowd here is a band of vultures looking to feed. Find your strength.”

Taul kept his gaze low and turned away. As he left, he dared look back, but the crowd had shifted, and he saw no one dressed as the Hosmyr lord had been.

Outside the hall, he breathed deeply and made his way through the many halls and gates of the citadel. He wanted to rush back and tell Ryldia. He felt compelled to, but he resisted, keeping to the southern chasm and toward the diviner's hall where his brother worked.

The need to help her outweighed the need to tell her. Neither felt good, like a raging drunkenness had overtaken him, a terrible fear and crushing guilt all rolled into a torrent of despair. At the pinnacle of it all was her face, emblazoned in his mind, sadness etched deeply on her fragile face.

Fear of the high matron drove him as well. The lord was right. Everyone in that audience hall now had unspoken permission to come after him, like poor Bayll. He rushed up the steps to the hall and pushed open the door.

He gave his name to the porter, and within minutes, his brother appeared. Balniss led him to a quiet place where they spoke mouth to ear as quietly as possible.

“I have doomed us,” Taul whispered.

27

Ren ran through Halkamas toward the citadel. Maunyn's tavern was near there, and his henchmen always talked about it, proud to be invited to stand guard there. Ren's envy served him well now as he made for it like he'd been there before. He shed whatever dread he had about entering the crater. He had to know what they'd done with his boy.

No one stopped him as he tore through the pretentious tavern until he met a wall of men blocking the back door.

“Shouldn't be here, Ren,” Nevyll, their captain, said. He was a burly man of lesser quality.

“I need to see him,” Ren said.

The others crowded him, shaking their heads.

“Not today,” Nevyll said.

Ren's hands brushed his blades.

“You don't want to do that,” Nevyll warned. “We have our orders.”

“I need to see him,” Ren said.

“The master has taken care of your charge. You don't need distractions from your work. Be thankful he didn't take care of you, too.”

It irked Ren that this man thought himself Ren's equal. Had he learned to weave a shadow? Not likely. He was a slovenly pig, a mongrel. And yet the men, each of them, had gray hair, closely cropped, and silver-gray eyes. Ren blushed then as smirks formed on their lips.

Ren leaned in closer, his left hand wrapping around the dagger's handle.

“Careful there, Ren,” someone said behind him.

A blade tip poked his side. Nevyll's men closed in.

“I need to know what happened, Nev,” Ren said.

“You couldn't act, so he did.”

“Getting soft, Ren,” someone said behind him.

The men snickered and hissed.

“Ruthless Ren, brought down by a babe,” another man said.

Ren looked over his shoulder to note the face. He could take them out later. He scanned them all, taking in their movements, looking for the smallest hint of a gift. They'd none.

“Tell me where he is,” Ren demanded.

Nevyll shook his head. “Be off with you. You'll get more work tomorrow. Make sure you're packed warm. Going to the Southern.”

The men snickered.

Picking hairs off nomads. That would be his duty from now on, and his powers wasted. Shadow swelled from his right hand and the left wrapped around the dagger's handle.

The men stepped back from him, knocking over mugs and glasses on the nearby tables. Patrons complained and shoved them away.

A knock sounded from inside the back chamber. Nevyll stepped back from Ren, his own hand on his short blade. These men were thugs, not assassins. In this small space, they'd have to swamp him and risk losing an eye, finger, or worse. Nevyll listened at the door and nodded several times. He straightened and looked Ren up and down.

“The master will see you,” he said.