The Diviner sighed. “It must be this way, you understand. We do not even know the full details. The moment a child passes the temple gate, he belongs to his new house. It must be this way for the safety of all. And believe me, many a diviner has tried to track their origins. The high council executes those who tamper with or try to control the outcome. A sad business.”
“Our need is so great,” Taul said.
The Diviner nodded sympathetically. “Many houses are in your situation. Some flourish and others fail. It is the way of things, the way of nature.”
“So, we should just allow ourselves to fail?”
“Oh no, don't take my meaning in that way. You must struggle. That, too, is nature's way. Struggle like a champion, my friend. But in the end, when struggle is at its peak and falling, you will need to decide. Some choose to die out nobly, scratching their names on columns before someone else takes over their estates, or having poems written and sung about the great deeds of their ancestors. In the end, they vanish from the minds of all. But then there are others who strive and struggle and overcome. They do the things which must be done.”
Taul let the words sit on the edge of his tongue for a moment.
The diviner's gaze fell away, a slight smirk on his lips. Did he relish this moment? To see the moment of another Mornae's defeat?
Taul's neck heated, and his armpits pricked. This stodgy little office could not be the end of his house.
"I thank you," Taul said. He bolted away before the diviner could reply. The glass pebbles couldn't ignite fast enough to keep pace. A man stood at the Voice's stone feet, not a diviner, but similar in dress. He had no glyphs and close-cropped hair. About his neck was a kithaun torc. Taul panicked and threw himself at the door. He looked about, but resisted, yelling to be let out. From within a stone guardhouse, the porter smiled and nodded at him, releasing the lock.
Once out, Taul sprinted to the southeast bridge. He didn't care about the guards. There were no rules about running. His jagged shadow flailed monstrously before him. Only when he was across the bridge, hidden in an alley, did he stop. He sunk into a shadow, hiding from the spire and the great globe. It had just felt… wrong somehow. Like dealing with an enemy. It sickened him to think that way. The temple was his legacy, the seat of his goddess.
A memory of soil and bark and sunlight filtering through dark leaves filled him. He could smell and taste the air. What he wouldn't give to be transported to Zeldra's dark womb at that moment.
He headed home to his withering consort. The pain was too deep to understand, like his guts and heart and lungs were being torn from his body. That was the power and the dread of the consort binding… sweet when all was well and terrible when not.
If the temple could not help him, there was no other way but an audience with his High Matron. There was a crate of fine brandy. Surely a bottle or two would ease the approval. He must request a private audience. He must not make the request in the main audience hall with all his rivals watching. The old matron had a way of crying out the pains of a vassal house for all to hear.
There didn't seem to be another way.
22
Ren waited in a cavern beneath the tunnels. It took his eyes a minute to adjust. In time, he saw it as pale white light, washed out, the intensity equal with the degree of Dark. He had good eyes, at least. If his master punished him and took a hand or other part, he hoped to at least keep his eyes.
A blast of warm air wafted up from cracks and fissures. This was as deep into the crater that he'd ever go by choice. The air, dry and burning, itched his throat. There was only darkness except for the sickly pale light emitted from the lichens and algae that grew in puddles and stone ponds. He strained to listen, but his ears rang in the stillness. Too still, like a sanctuary.
The darkness was the least of his worries. Things lurked in these deep caves and tunnel systems, weaving around the remains of ancient towers and temples. The world that never was.
It didn't seem to scare the Benthrae boy. Benthrae. Boy. The words repeated reminding of his double mistake. Ren bent over the child, shielding him. He patted down the boy's hair with both hands. Silver-white curls looped about his fingers. Despite being the right color, the boy's hair had an unruly nature, bending and twisting. Must have Kuxul blood from way back.
Air hissed out between his teeth as he recalled his failure. He smashed his fist into the side of his head, punishing himself in advance.
Benthrae.
Ren had read the glyph wrong and now intended to offer his master a boy instead of a girl.
Benthrae.
He relived the moment, no longer seeing how the glyph had been written on the scroll but twisting it to what he needed it to be. He knew what he was doing, twisting the truth, but he succumbed to the delusion.
“It said Belthrae,” he whispered. It sounded like a whine. He swallowed hard. Maunyn wouldn't care about his excuses.
The boy wobbled, but Ren held him steady. He'd given the boy a weak dose of guhla. Strong enough so the boy could stand, but the world would be a haze, not seeing, not hearing what happened around him. Whether or not it took effect was always a risk.
His stomach churned. He'd been a boy like this once. Yes, somewhere in his deep memory, he recalled such a trade. Had it really been him? Or was it his guilt playing tricks on his mind?
Maunyn cut through the cavern without concern or fear. He was a high lord after all and needn't slink around like a thief. He wasn't an empty vessel. No, the Dark readied itself for him, clung to him like he was its own thing, its creature.
Ren trembled and steadied himself. He always worried when transferring a child. The lower tunnels and caverns were free territory even if a house ruled above it. Things happened down here, stories only, but Ren believed at least half of them.
He stroked the boy's hair again, willing the curls to flatten with each breath. Would his master see the value in the boy just as he'd noticed Ren's? He'd treated the boy gently, tying his little wrists and ankles loosely with cloth rather than noisy chains or rough leathers. No need to damage the goods.
Maunyn stopped a spear's length away. A deep hood hid his face, but silver-blue light danced at the tips of his hair. He bore no signs of his house, but he was unmistakable.
“I hope you don't expect me to pay for that?” Maunyn asked.
Ren fidgeted with the boy's hair, unsure of what to say.
“A boy… that boy certainly… was not your task,” Maunyn said.
“He is a fine boy, milord,” he said. His voice squeaked out and echoed.
“He's too old,” Maunyn said, hard and growling. “Can't you see that?”
Ren turned the boy's face up. He was listening to them; the movement of his eyes told him as much. He'd seemed small at the time and folded up so neatly into the sack. Goddess above, was he already declared? Was he Benthrae's prized son, their last chance at alliance with another house ruined? Ren chewed his lower lip. But he was so small! He couldn't be older than five… six?
Maunyn's hand moved to the pommel of his short blade. “Will you do it, or shall I?”
Ren shook his head and pulled the boy away. “Why not look, milord? He has good qualities.”
He cupped the boy's chin and lifted his lip for Maunyn to inspect. “Nice coloring. Nice hair. Good teeth. Only three or four years old. I'm sure of it. Still in confinement. He had a minder.”
