Taul clambered after him, slipping twice. He regained his balance and stood by Zaknil.

“There it is,” Zaknil said despondently. It was plain as starlight, but ugly and putrid like a gangrenous sore on a Mulkani’s face.

Taul crawled down the mass of coiling roots into a warm and throbbing darkness. This was the orchard’s womb, the place where he’d made his first tender trial as a boy.

“How can it be?” he asked, voice choking on the dense air. “It’s been ages and ages since it plagued us. Had we not beaten it?”

Zaknil shrugged. “I’ve never seen it in the old trees.”

Taul braced himself against the sides of the womb. “The young ones have it too?”

Zaknil nodded and shook his head with dismay. His house depended on the orchard as well.

Goddess above, Taul thought, how long had this been going on?

A sudden unease filled him, and he crawled out of that musty womb. He bent over on all fours, gulping down dense air. Since he’d arrived, his body had felt the throbbing of the place, the living sorcery, and with it came a crushing dread. Something was not right, not as he remembered. His nose crinkled.

The putrid scent prowled through the cramped air, an assassin lurking behind the sweetness of new fruit.

“Are you alright, sir?” Zaknil asked, offering a hand.

Taul stood and made for a break in the canopy, shielding his eyes with his hands. Streams of fresh air buffeted him through sun-filled leaves, and he basked in the light for a moment. Strange for a Mornae, a creature of the black rock and night sky, to find relief in the sun.

Zaknil stood at his side, awaiting his decision. Taul was a guilded tender, one trial from master rank, but he’d not been in an orchard, not felt the sap-life of a tree in… since he’d consorted.

“I will consult with my teacher,” he said.

Zaknil frowned and nodded. Valley Mornae valued the guild oath above all else, but Taul had no answer for what ailed the orchard. He avoided Zaknil’s questioning gaze.

“For now, continue with the work,” Taul said, pulling at his collar. “How many tenders do we have?”

Zaknil scowled, his gray face scrunching up, reddening at the temples. “Four. Can’t care for an orchard this size with four.”

“And the apprentices? Any others coming up? Journeymen?”

“Only two. They’ll make their oaths in twenty years, give or take. No journeymen.”

Taul hid his concern. Twenty years! The blink of an eye for the Mornae, but now that tiny fraction of time felt immense. The orchard needed them now! Today!

“Jerul is at the crater school getting his knighthood,” Zaknil said. “His house wouldn’t budge on that.”

“No, of course. Understandable.” Without knights and priestesses, a Mornae house could not rise in standing.

“Lor’Melath lost a boy,” Zaknil said. “A six-year-old.”

“Lost?”

“Taken before his mother could declare him. Taken by the goddess, they said.”

“I see.”

It was not unusual in this cursed age for Mornae babies not to survive their first winter in the crater where the black rock’s power was strongest, but he’d thought Lor’Melath to be of outstanding stock, an ancient bloodline. A six-year-old should have survived. Was something sinister at work? Had the War of Assassins spilled into his valley?

Toshtolin could never support the orchard at this pace. Zeldra was closer to the crater but needed more care. Just as for the Mornae, the crater was boon or bane to it. Without help, the orchard would struggle against the kith, contending with the goddess’s presence stored within it. Everything that grew near it, man, beast, or plant, had to struggle against the edge of existence to thrive.

It was the Mornae way.

Hood pulled back, Taul squinted into the blinding sunlight. Mornae didn’t praise Sayin for his rays of warmth and brightness, but he did as the sunlight soothed him.

“I’ll return in a few days,” he said. What did days matter, he thought. He needed sound advice.

“You could work the orchard yourself, sir,” Zaknil said, stone-faced.

“Me?” Taul exclaimed. “I’ve not tended for… for… many years.”

Zaknil’s brow furrowed. He barely held his anger, and blurted, “But you are a tender!”

Taul pulled on his gloves over the black stain of Zeldra’s soil and flung the cloak over his shoulder. He thought of his duties in the crater and the members of his house waiting for his matron’s consort to fail. Waiting for him, the second son, the less favored son, to fail. He undid the top button of his tunic. A trickle of air seeped in.

“One more thing, sir,” Zaknil said.

“What is it?”

“Our workers are asking for leave to attend the goddess-court.”

Taul scoffed at the idea of his laborers trudging across Vaidolin to watch a judge ring a bell and chits exchange hands, to watch a disgraced low-tier squire, recently returned from an ignominious exile, get himself hacked to bits by a true knight.

“They’re saying it will turn bloody soon enough,” Zaknil said.

“And?” Taul snapped. “It has nothing to do with our house or city.”

Zaknil grew pensive, patting the bark of a tree. “They want to see the goddess work her power.”

Taul let out a deep sigh. Who was he to deny them?

“Only one from each cohort,” he said. “I can’t have everyone leaving at once. Run a lottery. Let tall tales satisfy the losers.”

Zaknil bowed his head. “As you say, sir. Very generous.”

“I’ll return in a few days,” Taul said. “Weeks. By the end of the last harvest, certainly.”

Zaknil muttered.

“It’s the best I can do,” Taul said. The best a second son could do. He couldn’t avoid it forever. “Zeldra has stood for nine cycles! Surely you don’t think it will perish in four or five months, do you? Give me time to sort things out. Send word to my consort. I’ll return home by the next dawning.”

Dismissing Zaknil, he trudged through the throbbing blackness and emerged at the estate’s wall. He put a hand to the outer door, but hesitated. Instead, he walked the length of the wall to the road, avoiding Lor’Naxmyr’s matron, Zaknil’s consort. She’d surely have questions, and she’d be less easy to brush off. Lor’Naxmyr, Toshtolin’s vassal, depended on a successful harvest as much as his own house. She might take it as an insult that he’d not offered his respects to a priestess and matron, but he’d risk her ire for now.

He headed down the road, cutting through more orchards, vineyards, and groves. It was a two-mile walk to the nearest village where he could rent a pony. From there, he would ride another fifty miles to an estate near the border village of Selkamit. An old friend, the master tender who had taught him, lived there. It was unwise to share this sad news of Zeldra’s rot with a rival house, but it was the only answer he had.