“If the goddess favors us, yes,” Taul replied.
“There’s nothing important that happens in this valley that I don’t hear of it.”
“Thank you for welcoming me into your home, Matron Lor’Vamtrin.”
He sounded pompous and formal in this rustic place. Silla smiled and invited him to sit on the other stool.
“He’s a good lad,” she said, referring to the boy who’d led Taul in. “We took him in from a Yatani clan. The ones with the red felt hats.”
Taul raised a brow.
“They had a poor year on the steppes,” she said, “and only so much food for their family. We made a trade. It was only to be for a year, but the boy asked to stay. We teach him our ways. A day may come when he consorts into a house.”
“How is that possible?” Taul asked, unbelieving. His chest tightened at the thought that such people could walk freely within the goddess’s domain, the ancient lands upon which his people had worked their sorcery.
She chuckled at him. “You’ve been away a long time, Taul na’Nevtar.” She wagged a finger at him. “I remember you. You were just a skinny boy hanging on to my consort’s every word.”
Taul nodded, embarrassed to not remember. He’d pushed aside that time to make room for the more important duties of a prime consort.
“Many of these nomads have some Mornae blood in them,” she said, emptying the basket of acceptable seeds into a sack. “And the goddess works her power in them in their own way. I’ve seen it. Some can live close to the crater. We always welcome those who can.”
“And you’ll teach them your arts?”
Silla cocked her head. “And why not? It is not ours to give or teach. It is always only guided, neh? The goddess blesses whom she blesses. Sometimes they do better than apprentices of our own blood.” She grabbed another handful, rolling each seed over, ensuring it received ample attention. “My grandfather was of the Fringe.”
Taul stiffened at the matron’s admission of inferior origin. He cleared his throat and said, “I had hoped to speak with Master Voldin.”
“He is about his work,” she said. “His duty.”
Taul rose from the stool. “Yes, well. That reminds me––”
“And you rode all this way to not get the wisdom you seek?”
Taul paused, his backside half off the stool, and then sat again. “It is a tending matter, matron,” he said.
Silla gazed at him, patient but motherly. “And I am a priestess. You really have been away far too long.” She chuckled softly to herself and continued with her work. “I can see it written on your face.”
“What do you see, matron?”
“Worry. Trouble. I see it often in crater Mornae. You should come out more, to the orchards, to the vines. They feed you as much as you feed them.”
Taul sighed. “I miss it,” he confessed. “I didn’t think I did until I stood beneath Zeldra’s canopy.”
Silla’s eyes widened. “Oh, that one is ancient. Lovely and deep. But unwell?”
Taul’s eyes itched, and his jaw tightened. “It needs more hands. More capable hands.” He wouldn’t reveal to a rival just how unwell it was.
“Yours isn’t the only orchard that is suffering, Taul.”
“My steward has heard nothing.”
“None would say it openly, but there are whispers.”
Her soft, silvery eyes were full of concern as she continued imbuing the seeds. A valley Mornae’s day never ends, his grandfather had always said.
“What am I to do, matron?” he asked.
“I would think the answer is obvious.”
“I have so much work in Halkamas,” he said. “My consort expects it of me. Lor’Toshtolin has over ten vassals now. Shops. Contracts. Taxes.” The last words lurched out of him, strained and agonized.
“What use is all that if the land fails?” she asked.
Taul shook his head. He could share his concerns with Ryldia, his consort and matron, asking her opinion, but with the baby coming, he needed to prepare for their confinement. Nothing could disturb her supreme task. It would be at least ten years of confinement if it was a girl. For a people that had once lived for centuries, even millennia, they now fretted over decades. The doom of failure played out in his mind. Would they end up walking the Fringe, melted down into a Yatani clan? He wiped his watering eyes with his sleeve. He’d not meant to share his feelings with this lowly matron.
Silla shook her head. “I’ll speak with Voldin. It would dishonor the goddess to lose the orchard. We must preserve what we can.” She exhaled. “We have found some grafts do well further out from the crater.”
Taul gaped. That was a sure sign of the end. Surprisingly, the idea wounded his heart.
“What do you think we are doing out here?” Silla asked sharply. “We don’t have the luxury of crater folk, to sit on their wealth—the wealth we produce. If the harvest fails, we can’t make rent. We can't pay our tax. I don’t care two bits about this estate. I’d live in a cave to let the trees succeed. The goddess will decide, but I will do all I can, where I can. All in Lor’Vamtrin will, so long as I am matron.”
Taul tugged at his collar. He felt duly castigated by this valley priestess, her dedication a model for any Mornae. However, she was unfamiliar with the ways of power in the crater, the only power that mattered now. Silver and chits. Contracts and alliances. The orchards took precious time. Too much time. A single tree might take a hundred years to be set on the right path, and that was just the beginning. Then began the cycles of striving… just like the Mornae.
An acolyte and a young Mornae boy entered, his thin arms wrapped around another basket of seeds. He set it down by his matron and hid behind her shoulder. He was three or four, still in confinement with his mother. Silla elbowed him behind her, revealing a knife at her waist. She was ready to defend him. The acolyte, a plain young woman, stood at her right shoulder.
“The goddess doubly blesses your house, matron,” Taul said.
She nodded, glancing at her daughter proudly. Her right hand gripped the knife.
