He hid the needle in a secret cuff pocket, put the knife in its scabbard, and slid it into a loop on his belt. The other useful devices he tucked into a secret pocket lining his tunic. The rest he carefully wrapped and placed back in the chest.

Last of all was the spearhead. Balniss was right about the dangers of using it, but he wasn’t prime consort, sworn to Lor’Toshtolin unto death, bound in his body to its matron. Taul would find a smith to make the shaft. This was a new age. The court had made many things possible, Many grievances would surface, and he must be ready. Unlike Hosmyr’s sons, he would not wield a sunlit spear.

“No,” he said. “I will wield the Dark, as my ancestors did.”

37

Above, through a thick layer of rock and stone, the warehouses and shops were quiet as Halkamas slept through the sunlit day. It was decidedly the best time to meet, as neither high matron needed to be above ground to reach the alliance chamber.

One of Gishna’s great nieces made a blue-fire with an enchanted ferro rod—a precious device from a long-gone era—and the room erupted with competing strands of power. Gishna closed her eyes and waited for the length of five breaths before she reopened them. The whiteness blinded her for a moment. It was not the whiteness of her perpetual veil, but the whiteness of the brilliant, gleaming Dark. The dome of silence was smaller than usual, and she’d had the two seats set close to the fire. She motioned her people back, though. She sat, vulnerable but warmed, waiting patiently for the hope of her house.

Zaidra arrived quietly, her knights enveloped in the lightest, noiseless black steel, a recipe they had not shared with anyone outside their blood houses. Barely the tinkle of metal or footfalls of those majestic creatures sounded in the narrow tunnel leading to Velkamas. What she’d give for a stack of those men. What she could do with them!

Knights of Isilayne spilled into the room like a black wave, securing the chamber. When they’d performed their check, Zaidra entered. More knights crowded the hallway. It was impressive to be sure, but Gishna knew she was looking at the bulk of Vakayne’s forces. Elite, magnificent, but so very few.

“I took the liberty,” Gishna said, motioning to the flames. The sound barrier was not as secure, but sufficient for what she needed. At that moment, she doubted whether Zaidra could tell the difference. A fear welled up in her that maybe Zaidra’s exceptional girls were all beautiful, but empty vessels after all.

“You take many liberties these days,” Zaidra said sharply.

Gishna shifted in her seat but gave Zaidra no pleasure by acting hurt. Zaidra’s mouth was an endless source of barbs, hard and cutting like her house.

“Forgive me for drawing you out of confinement,” Gishna said.

Nine more years until she’d need to hear one of those barbs or complaints from Zaidra. She’d be glad to be dead for the next formal meeting. Poor Julissa, though. Zaidra would dominate her until she found her footing. Zaidra pursed her lips and offered no further information on the recent birth.

“Where is Joumina?” Zaidra asked. “Have you not summoned her as well?”

Gishna fiddled with a gown’s tie.

“I see,” Zaidra said. “What is it you want from me? What is so important?”

Gishna hacked through her next breath of air, and she wiped her lips with the back of her hand. “I need assurances.”

“And I need better pears!”

Gishna waved the suggestion away with a saliva-streaked hand. It fell back, weak, already exhausted. She’d not had a taste all day, but she dared not draw life from any present here, surrounded by so many ready to defend their matron.

“The pears will improve,” she said. “That is how things are in the valley. Sometimes up and sometimes down. Nature is fickle, neh? Like the goddess.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Zaidra retorted. “She is not so fickle in Velkamas.”

A silence settled on them. Gishna wanted to let it all pour out; to reveal the many lies in all their putridness. They rotted in her like the rot in the pit of a perfectly beautiful fruit. Yet Zaidra was ruthless. What would she say to it? How embarrassing it all was! Any true matron would do it for her house. The hard choices were always for a matron. Vakayne would welcome what she had done, surely. She must save Hosmyr if only to combat the dominance of such foul houses as the first and fourth. And yet, she needed more than her own excuses. She needed assurances!

Anything she agreed to here was between the two of them only. Eventually, she could bring Julissa into the arrangement and then transfer that agreement to her. Until then, everything was fragile.

“You are fortunate then, Zaidra,” she said. “I fear the rest of Vaidolin may not be so secure. If any should fail, then what of Vakayne, with its handful of knights and priestesses? Who will keep the tide of spears away?”

Zaidra’s brow twitched.

“Great knights, to be sure,” Gishna continued. “But how great? How strong, I wonder, after so much time since the Fall. Can they perform the wonders of old?”

She knew she poked too hard, but she didn’t care. To whom else could she say these things? Not Julissa. She’d never understand. Her consort? Ridiculous. The man cared only for his sport, drink, and games. No one understood the imminent collapse as well as Vakayne.

“What is the point of this, Gishna?” Zaidra looked at her like she was senile. Her fingers dug into the fine fabric of her dress.

Was Gishna losing her mind, or was the goddess coming for her right then? She felt like a breeze could carry her away; her fingers and toes were unresponsive. Resigned, she let out a long, raucous breath. A darkness rose before her and loomed over her like a menacing cloud. Her old heart thundered.

“Maunyn,” Zaidra said, “I didn’t think you were joining us.”

Gishna felt his lips on her forehead, and she blinked anxiously, struggling with the blindness and the shadows he projected.

“I am ever at my consort’s side,” he said. His voice was firm, cold. “Master Rythaen is not joining us?”

He’d score any point he could with Rythaen.

“He is busy with his students, master of Isilmyr,” Zaidra said.

The knights stationed around Zaidra drew close. Maunyn should know better than to spar with Zaidra.

“What is the matter in question?” he asked. He took a seat beside Gishna, his powerful leg stretched out, his thigh pressing against hers, defending her like a stone wall.

“We were reminiscing,” Zaidra said.

Gishna blinked. She’d not expected that. Zaidra must know that Maunyn was soured, and therefore not trustworthy. They had discussed something only meant for matrons. That was one assurance, at least. Zaidra would have spoken it all in front of Rythaen, though, because he was trustworthy and the most eminent consort in all Vaidolin.

“And speaking of the quality of your pears this year,” Zaidra continued.

Gishna sighed softly. She could always count on Zaidra’s sharp nature. She was never dull or tempered. She cut to the quick every time.

Maunyn chuckled. “Find better pears elsewhere, then. Perhaps Roturra or Daushalan. Zauhune has recently taken land down south. Fine for grazing sheep, I hear.”

Gishna sunk into her rattling frame, two ears and a mouth. Her champion had arrived, and he wasted no time in making a mess of things.

“Things change,” Zaidra said. “That is the one sure thing.”

She rose, done with this meeting. She never just bore humiliations. She was too far above them. In the past she might have drawn blue fire down on him for the insult, but those days were gone. Gishna had the distinct impression that someday soon, Zaidra would do exactly what her ancestors had done: change the world.

“You might have been more skilled in dealing with her,” Gishna said once they were alone.

The fire was dead, her legs warm only to the ankles.

“Get me home,” she croaked.

She batted his hands away and waited for her attendant.

“You were not supposed to be here,” she said to Maunyn. “Delicate diplomacy is not your strength. I’m uncertain what is. The least you could do is keep order in the valley and keep your heathens under control!”

She couldn’t see him, couldn’t see the smirk or sneer or whatever marred his lovely face. She didn’t care that he was soured or wounded. Her house was dying, and she needed assurances.