The green-eyed seer would blame the goddess's fickleness, but she was not so sure. If only she could see what he saw, to understand it all for herself. Something itched the back of her mind. There was a yet unperceived truth about Kandah An'Harahn and his declarations, all hidden behind the green veil of his eyes. He kept his secrets as well as a high matron.

She trusted him far too much, but what choice did she have? He only asked for more samples, always more samples. More work, time, and coin, with little to show for it all. If her people only knew the mess she'd made, the dishonorable things she'd done, they would revolt, and who would protect her from them? Her consort? He'd be the first to stick knives in her.

She sighed. How could they turn on her when it was all for their benefit?

She lowered her chin to her chest and rested. No, the work was ultimately for her own benefit, to assuage her own guilt that she was doing everything possible. What a swath of destruction she'd wrought in so many families! In her own family, she'd been a font of lies. So many lies, so many secrets. The Mornae had come to the crater to establish family bloodlines, the bonds of blood again, but she was tearing it all apart, quietly but truly.

Like an ancient priestess summoning a wind of blue fire and devouring an entire tribe.

Just like that.

Casting the Toshtolin consort out from her presence was the right thing to do. What did their ancient heritage matter if they were too stupid to see the truth? How dare that consort demand something of her only a matron should request! Not to mention he'd asked in public. His simple request had ignited a conflagration of gossip. Many in her hall had taken part in that cause. What anger seethed in those houses?

She shifted her head to the right. Saugraen was staring at her with his thoughtful eyes, his perfect jaw clenched.

“What is it, my son?” she asked him. “What troubles you on this perfect day? Perhaps you should visit the Rilanik pleasure houses to smooth out that brow and bring a smile to your handsome face.”

Saugraen looked up to the ceiling and grinned. Ah, he had something better. Did he meet her in a storefront in Velkamas? Or was it in the Rilanik, behind enchanted walls and secret portals? Her spies would find out soon enough. Her heart fluttered a moment, hopeful that he'd made a significant liaison, but that liaison had to be made with great care. Hosmyr's future teetered on the edge of its outcome.

“I thought you rather harsh with that tender, matron mother,” he said. “Is that how my dear sister should treat with those that made Hosmyr what it is?”

He held up a small glass of sweet liquor, made by one of Ilor'Hosmyr's vassals with pears from the most ancient orchards. Damn Toshtolin! Had they simply done what she wanted, what she'd conspired, it would all be different now.

Gishna wanted to sit up, and in the past, she might have, waving a crooked finger at him and even threatening to take his head for speaking so forwardly. The cushions held her captive. Spittle built up on her lips. What did he know? She exhaled through her nose, and it came out like a snort, louder than she intended.

“Was the additional threat also necessary?” he asked. “Doesn't he have enough burden to bear?”

“Threat?” she snapped. “Do you spy on your own house?”

She didn't ask if he spied on behalf of his secret Vakayne lover. Was he already bound to that girl? Working on behalf of a rival within her own citadel? She coughed. No, no! She had to guide and nurture that alliance.

“Our matron mother does what is best for our house. As will I, some day,” Julissa said. She fixed her gaze on her brother; brother in name only, by pronouncement of the high matron, the Son of Hosmyr.

He was too much like his real ancestors, that self-righteous spirit that kept them so powerful for twelve thousand years. It irked Gishna because he was right, but she had a bigger scheme than adhering to the respect and values of the past. She was saving her house from certain annihilation, and she would keep doing it if only to satisfy the urgent need housed in her bones. House above all, her bones seemed to scream with every ache. So much kept buried it ate at her. She wafted her fingers gently, taking from them all the life force which could keep her inching away from death. Let them share her burden. A dribble of drool welled at the side of her mouth.

Saugraen squinted at her. There was no love in him for her. His eyes pierced her with judgment. He still had his part to play. She didn't need his love.

Did he think she took pleasure in crushing the Toshtolin consort? He who was a good seed on that third tree left of the scriptorium's door. She slammed her skeletal fist on the armrest, sending a sharp ache rattling through her body. All must play their part!

“Is it too much to ask?” she asked softly. “Must I do everything?”

He turned away, languid.

Oh, to be so free of concern! She couldn't blame him. This was the world she'd made for her children. He could afford to sneak off for secret trysts and love that precious girl. Gishna couldn't enjoy the world's pleasures, though. No, she had sinned against it and must make amends. That was her part to play. What she'd done to the Toshtolin consort was nothing compared to what she'd already done, and what she intended to do. Julissa would be the one to live a sweet, virtuous life, and her daughter after her.

She twisted her shoulders and peered through the skylight at the crater's jagged peaks. Winter had arrived a week earlier than expected. It pressed on the crater with heavy, billowing clouds. The puul berry trees surrounding the solar were just sticks. So fragile.

She grabbed at her shawl.

Survive until spring, she commanded her body.

One more season. Just one more.

SPRING

Power guarantees nothing.

Some people have every gift. Lush lands, pleasant weather, and still they die out.

The Mornae had to die before power became more than a trick.

You’ll say I’m cryptic and vague, avoiding a simple explanation. But how to explain the nature of it, the infinite striving? It is a desperate act to seek this kind of power. Once embarked, once it sticks you with its hooks, piercing your marrow, gripping you to itself, all you can do is continue.

That was the ideal, and only a handful ever saw its full potential. The rest of us grabbed hold of whatever we could, what help and steps we could avail to climb the heights. The greatest of these steps was the Alcar blood within us for ten thousand cycles.

It could only take us so far.

FROM MEMORIES BY JEVAN LOR’VAKAYNE, SON OF SAVRA.

29

The crowd roared as the final trial began. The first two had been laughable, but still the Mornae loved their Zauhune champion. Of course, it had taken two excruciating bouts to win them over. The man had heart.

Ren sat in the top row of the commoner section from where he could watch the crowd. The court’s arena was minor compared to other tournament venues, but it was deep, like peering down into a dark pit. It was a pit because the ancients had carved it out of solid kith. The commoner’s seating was mostly granite, but the kith still warmed their asses.

Despite the peasant’s exhilaration, Ren sulked. He’d felt so proud entering the crater, having crossed Vaidolin for the first time as part of a throng of workers. Daushalan soldiers had herded them through the crater. They’d gawked like nomads at the monumental estates and citadels, and mostly at the temple spire. He’d expected the crater to attack him, stealing away his strength, but he was true Mornae. Unlike others in the crowd, who complained of the cold and headaches—one even gushed blood from his nose—Ren walked through unharmed, feeling stronger than ever. Crater Mornae stared at them, disgusted, as they tramped through their pristine home. He knew himself to be better than them, but he suffered their derision. None could deny Maunyn’s preferential treatment in selecting Ren for this task. Surrounded by his trusted lieutenants, dressed in their silks, tassels and sashes and ribbons fluttering, his master had called him close. They’d lifted their chins when he approached. He was a bug to them, nothing more, and a fiery heat had burned in his gut.

Trust nothing these high lords say or do. Be on guard for their tricks, his mentor had told him.

It wasn’t the finery or superior qualities that bothered him most. He’d been angrier since they took the boy, his son. He could have been his son. He’d imagined the start of a new life far from here. The arena’s craggy walls loomed behind him, and he felt like fleeing, now, down the West Valley Road, away from it all.

A man next to him slapped his shoulder with a straw hat and yelled something incoherent. Ren just squinted. He refused to stand and cheer. The pain of losing the boy dampened all enthusiasm.

He’d been that boy once. Nightmares plagued him, too. Tall shadows standing over him with cruel knives at his throat.

The crowd roared their approval. He didn’t see what the fuss was about. The Zauhune champion couldn’t even keep his footing in the Dark. Heat rose through Ren’s feet and up his spine. He glanced about, but no one else seemed to have felt it. No, and why would they? The goddess didn’t favor them as she did him. Ren’s mentor had always said this was a decayed age, spoiled by the successes of the past, having nothing to show for itself, and that truth played out before him. What was Roturra thinking, sending in their champions clad in foreign steel? Hadn’t they learned their lesson already?

Unless, of course, that was the point. This time they’d sent one in rust-colored steel. Something new.

That lad, the Zauhune champion, was wielding a legendary spear with the skill of a farmhand. Certainly he was of an ancient lineage. No one could deny his appearance. Ren’s eyes narrowed to slits and he hissed.

“Unworthy of it,” he said.

None heard him. The din was unbearable as the champion sliced his opponent in two, like a sacrificial pigeon used by the nomads to ask the wind which way to go.

“Goddess above, what is he thinking?” he asked as people jostled him, pressing down toward the rail surrounding the arena.

It should be him wielding that legendary weapon. Didn’t the Dark beckon him with sweet whispers—sultry whispers, if he was honest—to show all his talent?