Change wasn’t supposed to happen so quickly. Not here in Vaidolin, not for the Mornae who had made a servant of time.

Even servants rebel.

52

Gishna sat in the citadel’s main audience hall like a southern ruler upon a throne, and listened to a stream of vassals share their problems with the entire city. Such a weak lot they’d become, acting like lesser peoples. She was no queen or empress to care for them. Her only purpose was the care of her own house, but over time the vassals had become like whining nomad children pulling at her skirt.

The kithaun throne, lined with black velvet cushions, poked and prodded her bones. Nothing her servants did made it more comfortable. The hardness served her purpose, though. She couldn’t look soft to the train of mercenary vassals seeking her guidance. Every question, every problem, exposed her throat to the foxes. Houses had voiced the problem of the taint aloud, though they didn’t know what they were talking about, and she had squashed them. But it was a messy business because she needed them—the untainted ones, at least. The others she made beholden to her, servants to her grand enterprise.

The chamber flickered between the white spaces covering her eyes; shadows played with her mind.

Julissa sat in a high-backed chair placed slightly ahead of the throne, indicating to all that the heiress was presiding. Julissa had suggested presiding after Gishna had nodded off during a minister’s meeting. Gishna had concurred but insisted on being present. Julissa sat on the seat’s edge, as was proper for one still at the service of her matron. Not a great beauty, but regal and proper in all the forms. Not the hint of a slouch in her. What Gishna wouldn’t give for a fraction of that straight, taut back.

Lor’Selune was complaining about its struggles with its pear orchard, but Gishna had lost interest minutes ago. They wanted her, old and battered by time, to make the tough choices. As if her own didn’t already bury her!

Maunyn, like a shadow, emerged from a side door and stood at her side.

“Good of you to join me, consort,” Gishna said under her breath.

“As you say, high matron.”

She watched him out of the corner of her eye, where the white had not yet claimed her vision. Tall and strapping, dressed in the finest that her house, her coffers, could afford. And those kithaun blades—terrible things. The blades of Taiyra, an ancient priestess, had sat in Hosmyr’s vault for two cycles, waiting for a wielder. She’d gifted them to him, but not after he’d demanded them as part of the consortship. His squire stood behind him, carrying the ancient spear of Ilor’Hosmyr for him. Maunyn was a strange creature. Strong and loyal, but also petulant and cold.

She had dismissed his concern for the stolen boy, the latest series of mishaps and mistakes, even the loss of a valuable resource. He had told her tall tales about a missing agent, an agent who belonged to her, though Maunyn claimed him for himself. He often made her things his. She needed him, though. He spread his seed far and wide and with abandon. There was nothing—almost nothing—Maunyn wouldn’t penetrate.

Her heavy lids closed a moment, and she drifted into the sweet vision of a meadow, a place she’d been as a young woman. She did this more often of late. Someone nudged her, but she resisted. In her reverie, sayin was breaking over the valley and she relished that strange warmth. Someone squeezed her shoulder. Maunyn whispered in her ear. She stirred.

Through a blaze of white, she made out a willowy, pleasantly attractive matron, with her consort to her right. Plain, but respectable, with a boy dressed like the consort. Gishna craned her neck left and right to get a better look. Normally she didn’t care, but there was something about the boy. She knew that face, or the description of it.

“It would seem your seed is hardier than assumed,” she whispered to Maunyn.

He grunted and stiffened, gripping the pommels of his blades. She smiled, joyful when things didn’t go his way.

Gishna leaned forward. She wanted to see them for herself, the house which had usurped the limb of a very particular tree.

Julissa exchanged pleasantries with them, congratulating them on their son and the latest harvest, which had been mediocre at best. Vakayne had denied another pear shipment.

“Such a handsome house,” Gishna croaked, breaking the too friendly exchange between her heiress and these thieves.

Toshtolin’s matron, a slim, high-cheeked woman, gazed at her unperturbed. Good! She still had fire in her. Her consort gave a curt nod. The small boy, his slot on the tree now in question, stood motionless, without grace. Granted, he was barely of walking age. She didn’t breed Maunyn for good looks. They faded from common view as she turned her head, accepting the white haze. The Dark took over and presented a different world to her.

Julissa’s voice distanced. It was good for her to speak to them. Let them become accustomed to her manner. Abrupt handovers of power could be difficult. Gishna’s own ascension to the matroncy had nearly cost her her life.

The little boy continued to stare at her, though. His face was placid, dull even. Julissa said pleasantries and then motioned for them to bring the boy forward. Maunyn stiffened. His temper would be red hot.

“Move away, consort,” Gishna said under her breath. She reached out for the little boy, who dutifully stood beneath her clawed hand.

Julissa whispered the boy’s name in her ear.

Gishna nodded. Not a terrible name, harkening back to Toshtolin ancestors, born of Hosmyr. Pemzil? Yes, that was his name. Unremarkable, but solid. She grasped the boy’s head like an egg. A sigh escaped her lips. She would need to graft Toshtolin back into her house.

“May the goddess favor you, Pemzen Lor’Toshtolin,” she said.

She glanced up at the boy’s new father. His jawline had flushed dark gray, his eyes red and watery. Nervous, and rightfully so. In her mind, she crawled the web of names, searching for Taul’s true line. The names haunted her. She recited them like a litany. Maunyn would like nothing better than to cut him down and maybe in a long ago past he’d have the right. But not today. A gardener had outsmarted them and played an excellent move. None could deny it.

She allowed him this insignificant victory, this moment of happiness.

Now it was her turn to play.

“My chamberlain will see your consort a moment after,” she said to Toshtolin’s matron. “Minor business of little consequence.”

Minor enough to crush them and have the boy back in her power. No one needed to know the details. She relished the thought, and yet despised the idea of yet another house of useless sycophants.

The young matron nodded once, clearly pleased. She had the regal stance that once imbued all their people. Slightly taller than Julissa and slim, her matron’s dress fell perfectly from narrow shoulders, hugging gently at a small bosom, slim hips, down to her feet, revealing just the tips of her slippers. Her face, high cheeks, with silver-gray hair neatly gathered beneath a thin veil. She had failed to give birth twice, and it showed. Her eyes were hollow and ringed with shadow. Yet she grasped the boy and caressed his little head. She was so much better than the Lor’Sarstin slut. Gishna then decided she liked Toshtolin after all.

“Maunyn, the boy will squire for Saugraen someday,” she said.

Matron Lor’Toshtolin’s eyes brightened, and she patted the boy’s head, her lips widening into the only smile she had allowed herself since entering the audience hall.

“As you say,” Maunyn replied.

The young matron looked at her, the smile wiped away, a pained look on her face. The joy had been fleeting. They needn’t speak it. They knew each other in a way consorts could not. They had each spilled out their children in blood, their hearts hollowed out. Crushed! A mother may love his son while he’s still in her house. Now, Ryldia’s mourning might end. And yet, there was something else in those eyes. Gishna knew it well. The young matron had a plan.

Yes, yes, I see it in you… something more… a threat. Let’s see what you’re made of.

A fire stirred in Gishna. This could be her last battle. Her veins stung; her back twinged; all of her felt like it would become unhinged, and she’d collapse in shambles. Her liking of them diminished.

Gishna motioned to the chamberlain.

“I will meet them both,” she whispered into his ear.

The Toshtolin moved along, ushered to the side gallery with other courtiers, and another needy house filled the space they had occupied. Gishna wanted to rest, but she couldn’t. She struggled to keep herself upright. Every joint agonized and resisted. She held the position, her mind sharp, trapped inside a disintegrating scaffold of skin and bone.

Julissa continued her training, listening to the next house’s complaint, but Gishna’s partial gaze fixed on the flat-faced boy, Pemzen. Not because she wanted to observe him, but because he was still staring at her. He seemed to know where she looked and how, through the white veils, she still had sight.

She shook her head. How had she let this one get away? How had she let the webs of her own making entrap her?

She was too old now. Too old for these difficulties. How she longed to lie down her shell and let the Voice summon blue fire down upon her corpse. She imagined the smile on Beyyla Daushalan’s face. As always, she could never actually imagine it. The face, the loveliest since Savra herself, eluded her like in a dream, and all she saw was brightness but somehow knew it to be too beautiful for words. She shifted in her seat. A sharp pain wended its way up her curved spine.

Goddess above, she prayed, let me vanquish my enemies.

53

Taul and Ryldia stood to the side of the dais, in the shadow of an arched gallery which ran along either side of the hall. Pemzen stood behind his leg, clutching his pants and playing with the Isilmyr ribbons tied to his belt. He smiled smugly at the other consorts with their matrons still waiting for their moment before the throne. They must be envious of them, but he was not yet certain this special, private audience would serve them well. His armpits prickled; his tunic was damp with sweat and his hair was slick with it. He patted his upper lip with his sleeve’s hem.

Ryldia maintained her dignity. Not a strand of hair out of place, eyelids lowering regally. A true matron, she was, despite her condition. As she had wanted, Lor’Toshtolin now stood at the edge of greatness despite its losses.

Now it was up to him to make the last move. He summoned all courage, the strength he’d known from the assassin’s devices, the empowerment of those ancient voices that worked for his success. And yet, he couldn’t completely abolish his guilt in asking for that which his own house needed so desperately. He rehearsed what he’d say, the litany of offenses and crimes against the goddess and all Mornae. His scalp tingled and heated from the injustice of it. The goddess favored him just like the Zauhune champion battling in the court. The black rock rose to meet him. In his heart, the goddess dawned supreme.