“I can request an audience with Matron Lor’Toshtolin if you think that would help,” Xoural said.

Taul’s face hardened. There was nothing more shaming to a prime consort than troubling his matron with his responsibilities.

“That will not be necessary,” he said.

The magistrate sighed. “That pleases me, as I would hate to disturb her recovery from such a tragic event.” He shook his head and sighed some more, waiting for Taul to say something.

Taul’s mind raced, thinking about how they could raise the money in a month. They’d have to cut flesh from their bones. Anything but the orchards.

“Lor’Toshtolin will pay the tax on time, magistrate,” he said.

A broad smile formed on Xoural’s face, his ears lifting like spears.

“Excellent. I’m sure your efforts will please the high matron.”

He turned to the store entrance.

“Let it be known,” he proclaimed to the assembled crowd, “that Lor’Toshtolin is a faithful steward of the third high house.”

A steward? Not even a vassal. And since when, and by which law, had all property within Halkamas become Hosmyr’s? Longing for the fields and orchards welled in Taul. The dry air was slow to fill his lungs, almost alien.

Xoural had applied pressure and enforced obedience. Now, all could go back to normal.

Until the high matron squeezed again. They were now lackeys, their freedom lost, all because of this need of his to solve Ryldia’s problem. His problem, he corrected. Everything that was hers was his. The power of the binding twisted his heart. Now he had to extricate Lor’Toshtolin from Hosmyr’s grip. His birth house was a Hosmyr branch, and he had always been proud to be a part of it. Today, that fact cramped his belly.

Three days remained until the meeting with the lord’s agent, but who was that lord? Was it a trap to lure him in and lead Lor’Toshtolin to exile, or worse, to steal Zeldra from them?

He needed time to think. There were too many threads, all fraying.

“Sildor, take charge here,” he said to the shop attendant. “Tell Rolos to fetch all our crates from the vaults. Store it all at the Halkamas estate if necessary.” He thought for a moment. “No, send it to the east valley, to the main house. Summon our knights.”

Sildor protested. It was the season for tournaments.

“Phrase it as a command,” Taul said. “Weapons sharp. Do not stop for anyone.”

Sildor nodded.

“Send word to Matron Lor’Toshtolin that I will go with the goods,” Taul said. “I’ll be away for a day or two. Then she should be ready to move as well. Remember to speak the words exactly right so she’ll know it’s urgent. Have the knights meet me at the east gate by sundown.”

Taul turned and found himself blocked by the priestesses of his house.

“We will make ready,” Xura said.

“An attack on one is an attack on all,” Naldira said. “Ryldia is blessed to have such a dedicated consort.”

They all offered a nod, displaying their obedience for the onlookers to take note. They seemed genuine. His jaw tightened, and he nodded back.

He’d not trust them yet.

31

Leaves unfurled silently. They breathed, and Gishna with them. She sat on a plain wood bench in the seer’s greenhouse. A variety of potted plants with dark leaves and stems, near black blooms, surrounded her. On the table behind her, the remains of his meals hemmed her in. Worms and other insects, beetles, he called them, rummaged through the composting matter. A pointless skylight opened to an always hazy gray sky.

The man was a pig. Still, she needed him, and must tolerate his eccentricities.

“They are necessary to the process, high matron,” he’d said. “They need it, and it needs them. Magic, neh?”

She allowed no one else in this room on pain of death. Not because she didn’t trust Thensil and Sinnin, or even Maunyn, but she needed a place to be herself with him.

He handed her a letter, a smirk on his face, and said, “Your heart’s desire, high matron.”

She snatched the folded letter with two crooked fingers and placed it on her lap to open it. She struggled with it. Blast her decrepit claws! Once open, she gaped at the contents. The script was circular, like a whirlpool, and blurred. She held it close to her eyes as if she could absorb the script's meaning.

“Touch it,” Kandah said. “Run your finger along it like so.”

He showed her with ink-stained fingers. She’d asked him once to wash the stains, but he’d said the stains were permanent. An ink that penetrated to the bone, he’d said. He harbored too many secrets.

“It looks more like a drawing than a letter,” she said.

“It won’t harm you, high matron,” he said. “I promise.”

She set the letter on the table. “Tell me what it says,” she demanded. She covered her mouth and wheezed.

Kandah sighed and strolled through the plants. “Unexpected difficulties,” he said.

“My spies tell me Uthkaea burns,” she said as she watched him through a tiny patch of vision in her right eye.

Kandah pursed his lips, his eyes growing distant like he was in a trance.

Gishna jerked her head left to get a better view of him. “Well?”

“Yes, high matron. Your spies are correct. An unfortunate outcome, but alas, one we cannot avoid.”

Everyone beyond the Southern was a heathen mass. There were giants and other vanalo, but they were of no consequence to her schemes.

“We?” she asked with a wet growl. “I’ve no interest in what is happening beneath the Southern. Get them here. Do you need silver? Gems? What does that rabble trade in?”

Kandah chuckled at the mention of gems. “No, but do you have spare kithaun trinkets lying around?” he asked.

She looked away. “I’ll not plunder my vaults just yet, magister.”

Her mind wandered to the ten impregnable vaults at the core of her vast citadel. Within them were precious memory tablets and tubes, trinkets and devices, weapons and bracers. All kithaun. All imbued with powerful sorcery and the memory-presence of her ancestors.

He grabbed a stool and sat down in front of her. “Then all we can do is wait and hope they find a way out.” He winced, touching his side.

“What is it?” she asked, leaning forward. “Are you unwell?”

“An old injury, high matron.”