White light swirled in the massive globe at the spire's peak, floating in the grasp of a massive kithaun hand. He lost his balance and stepped back. The last time he'd been this close to the temple was the funeral of an important matron. He couldn't recall her name. She'd not been from his house or bloodline. He'd not crossed the bridge then but saw the blue fire from Halkamas. As hard as he tried, he couldn't remember the Voice who'd presided over the rite. Hosmyr priestesses performed funerals with normal fire, its garish orange and yellow flames mingled with a special resin to turn it blue, and fanned quickly so they did not have to see the wrong color for too long.
Five squads of Daushalan ceremonial guards marched along the outer perimeter of the temple’s plaza, saluting the four guards stationed at each of the five bridges.
Taul waited until the guards passed and then stepped onto the bridge. The waters of the Vaissin roared far below. As he moved across the fifty-foot span the sound muffled, and then vanished. He walked past the sentries toward the Temple doors. An oppressive silence dominated a plaza so vast it could hold thousands. The faster he walked, the further the doors seemed. He felt exposed and suddenly ashamed. He should turn back.
The ceremonial guards didn't acknowledge him or seem to notice which city he'd come from, but he knew they'd report it. What could a lone Hosmyr, neither diviner nor priestess, be doing at the temple?
He walked over the stone tiles at the plaza's center, shaped in a great circle, the form of the goddess. Every festival of Nilas, he watched from a terrace of Hosmyr Citadel as the stones altered from black to white under the goddess’s path. Close-up, the stone looked like ordinary kith. It always amazed him, but he took it for granted that it just worked that way. Why did he not question more? He lacked Balniss's curiosity.
To the southwest sat the brooding halls of Isilayne, a row of black against the white towers and villas of Relkamas and Halkamas. He turned away. It had been Isilmyr for him. It was enough.
His legs strained as he pushed himself to go faster, but without obvious haste. He avoided looking up at the globe, whose light made strange patterns on the stone ground. Ten Daushalan knights stood in the forecourt, at the top of a stone staircase with ten steps, each of their tabards marking a phase of the goddess as she took her throne and then ascended to the blackness beyond.
They said nothing as he passed between them. Their full suits of gray steel were as menacing as their tall spears. They bore the temple sigil encircled by a scorpion's tail.
The temple facade was old, in the style of Isilayne. Newer buildings sprawled like unwanted growths, lacking the beauty and simplicity of the older buildings.
The globe loomed above, like a small replica of Vai, almost empty now, its thinning, milky light down to the last tenth. Hands out to his sides, he steadied himself and stared up at it, marveling at how it kept its position, floating in a silver, claw-like structure which held it like the hand of a priestess wielding goddess-light.
He approached the closed great doors and pulled the cord, sounding a dull gong within.
“Name?” asked a voice through a slat to the side of the cord.
“Taul Lor'Toshtolin.”
“City?” asked the voice.
“Halkamas.”
“What business have you with the goddess?”
“I seek her bounty.”
The slat shut and the right door opened a crack. He pushed it open and stepped inside. The door slid back to its closed position.
A magnificent statue of the Voice welcomed him, her nude form on display. Her arms reached out, her face looked up, and the faint light of the globe bathed her. His mind wandered for a moment.
“You'll want to go to the diviner's registry,” said the voice. “To the right, down that hall. Just follow the lights.”
Glass pebbles embedded in the stone path lit up ten feet ahead of him. The path curved around the courtyard to a set of buildings behind the statue. From every angle of the courtyard, the statue of the voice loomed large. She was unavoidable, like the goddess herself. He tugged at his tunic collar as her rounded buttocks curved above him. From the outside, only her fingertips were visible, the outer walls acting as a curtain.
The lights guided him to an atrium lined with rooms filled with diviners and then deposited him in a large, tall chamber. At the far end, another statue of the Voice sat in the goddess's stead. This was a demure, stolid figure, dressed in a diviner's habit, her hands open on her lap as if bequeathing knowledge. Yet as he approached, her form grew. She was twice the size of even a tall woman. Little scrolls piled up at her feet and around her throne.
He chuckled to himself and would remind Balniss later of this strange display.
“Can I help you, sir?” asked a gentle voice.
Taul turned to his left where an old diviner sat at a small desk. His silk tunic was dark blue, lined with shimmering silver, with a scorpion badge embroidered over his chest. Like all diviners, he was bald, this time naturally, and dull glyphs covered his head. Taul couldn't tell whether they were real.
He got the urge to leave again.
“The gatekeeper mentioned the bounty,” the old diviner said. “Are you certain?”
“Yes, I had… I had thought to inquire.”
The diviner smiled warmly. “These are strange times, and all must have a home. A Mornae child's value is beyond comprehension. Don't you agree?”
Taul nodded. Pressure welled in his chest. He was desperate to help Ryldia out of this quandary.
The diviner led him away from the scriptorium to an office lined with shelves of scrolls and ledgers.
“Your name is?” the diviner asked from behind a lectern. He opened a ledger, his pen poised to write.
Taul hesitated.
“Taul Lor'Toshtolin.”
The diviner scratched the name into the ledger along with a note.
“Don't worry. It's a habit to mark all events. No one ever reads it once written.” He waved to the stacks. “All kindling.” He pushed the ledger away. “So, back to your business. You know it's a serious thing to request the bounty. The law is simple and unchanging since the Third Accord: you must accept whomever the goddess provides.”
Taul drew closer. “Yes, you see, there is a problem there. My matron… I mean the high matron of Ilor'Hosmyr, has bid us not—”
The Diviner was shaking his head. There was no consorting between Hosmyr and Daushalan on pain of exile or death. He had no problem accepting one of theirs just to satisfy this need, but Ryldia… she would never. It went against all she stood for, her proud heritage going back to the founding. Daushalan was no founder. A parasite, many called it.
“You must accept the child given,” the diviner said. “Even from a house you do not approve of.”
“Is there no other way?”
