Gishna coughed and wiped her mouth. She turned her blind eyes to Joumina and said, “You and I, we can negotiate, sister. We must be staunch allies. If Vakayne is conspiring, let them. We have power of our own. We must discuss consorts.”
Joumina lit up in the gleaming dark. Such joy at the prospect. Yes, there were lineages she needed from Zauhune and its branches. Joumina prattled on, prodded by the prospect of getting from Hosmyr what she’d wanted for centuries.
Gishna had not forgotten Saugraen, though. What if he messed it all up? The girl might fascinate him for now, but such things were for the young; the foundations they were to lay were for the cycles. Fog, vapor, smoke… nothing firm until they said the words, the ties bound, the bed warmed over and over until they were inseparable in mind and soul… building a new thing, a joint path to the goddess.
Joumina cleared her throat and bade her farewell. Gishna bobbed her head in her way, half-listening to the woman. Her body felt distant, unresponsive unless it was in pain.
She sighed. How she missed her own consort… the real one… the name got away from her ancient mind… she flailed in her seat… Kaulor! Kaulor! Yes, that was it. She sighed inwardly, and then a wave of regret swept over her. Sadness followed in its wake.
“I miss you,” she dared say sweetly, so tenderly it startled her. She glanced about desperately to see if anyone was nearby. Without thinking, she searched the chamber with that other power, but it was empty.
Except for Maunyn.
“Stop lurking,” she commanded.
He drew close.
“I think we’ll need to sample acolytes,” she said to him.
“The flesh of the acolyte is of the goddess,” he said.
“What is that to you?”
He snorted. Ah yes, he made much of his academy oath.
“Things are more dire than I thought, consort. We’ll need to press our houses to cooperate. Dangers are piling up on all sides.”
And now this hint of a Vakayne conspiracy.
“Sinnin will leave a new list of names for you at the usual place. I fear we will need to take more aggressive steps.” She patted his arm. It was the least she could do.
He leaned down and kissed her forehead. Then he left, a whirl of shadow.
“Check Zaidra’s seat for hair,” she said. There was something not quite right with her.
A scribe scurried to the seat and searched. He looked up and shook his head.
“Blast her,” she muttered. Not even her stray hair cooperated. Yes, it was better for Hosmyr to ally itself with Zauhune, and through it Xaeltrin. Perhaps the time was coming when they could openly trade east valley land to Zauhune. Not the superior estates, though. They wouldn’t know what to do with them. But there were less enchanted ones.
Yes, she must strengthen this alliance.
45
Taul walked the halls of the matron’s villa, ensuring guards stood ready at their posts, as he’d commanded. The events at the sanctuary and the truth of the rogue’s employer filled him with concern. The possibility that he was at fault for the death of that lovely acolyte, Deedra Lor’Briznil, tormented him. Had he not pressed the rogue, the shadowed fiend, it would not have happened.
Or had the girl been a target all along?
It was too coincidental, but after wearing the assassin devices, he realized such tasks were the focus of their lives. A kithvyrae may have taken advantage of the situation, of his obvious pursuit of the rogue, and sprang into action.
He shook his head. Despite his effort to vindicate himself, he knew deep down it must have been the rogue.
So brazen an attack! It was the talk of the upper tiers; an outrage for Hosmyr to strike a vassal so openly, so absolutely. There was no reason for an attack such as this, in such a public place. Unless it had been a genuine attack, and it could have been. He knew little about Lor’Briznil. Still, it seemed impossible to him, in the very halls of a sanctuary, beneath the gaze of the Voice in her statue form, beneath the goddess herself.
He couldn’t fathom it, and yet Hosmyr’s matron was not Briznil’s, not bound to its members in the same way. Before the Fifth Accord, they’d have stood apart in the council of matrons, each speaking for herself and responsible for her own house’s growth. Hosmyr owed them nothing, no matter what its matron inscribed on a kithaun tablet at the Fifth Accord.
Lor’Kiseyl, Vakayne’s favored blood house, had offered the aid of its mystical hounds to search for the killer. When they found him, if he was alive, he might claim an assassin followed him and he worried for his life. It wouldn’t be a lie.
In his own house, they’d locked up all their acolytes since the event. Even their priestesses feared to leave the safety of the estate. The attack had united them as no threat had before. For the time being, they had set aside all animosity and ambition.
It had certainly not been the Naukvyrae. No, it couldn’t have been. The girl was impeccable and from an observant house, devoted to the goddess, true in its comportment.
Such thoughts didn’t settle his fears, though.
Beneath the serene, cordial veneer of Mornae society lurked the black blades, the chaos pressed down deep by tradition and custom. After wearing the devices, he’d acknowledged the times he’d wanted to do such things. He’d thought of slicing a throat or two, of hobbling a rival house in secret, while publicly wailing in sorrow for the great offense against the goddess.
The goddess didn’t seem to care about Mornae deaths.
In the past, the might of a priestess, the power of a sorcerer or knight, had stayed many hands. The rules, the customs, the ritual, all compressed and constrained the outbreak of chaos.
What restrained their hands these days was the fear that someone might come for the offender. The concern went deeper than that, however. What no one wanted to speak openly was that had she truly been a priestess, the goddess would have risen within her to protect her. Such protections could even slow kithaun—so the stories told. The Zauhune knight had proven it in the court.
Did it matter whether she was true? Dread took hold of him. What did it mean for them, for the Mornae, if a priestess, the very pillar of their society, was so easily toppled?
Fear replaced the dread. Fear for his consort. What could he do? Who could hold back the torrent of chaos should that happen?
He gripped his blade. He’d been training with the guards and knights of his house, refreshing and reawakening his limbs. It was invigorating, but inclinations to slice throats didn’t make him any more ready for the real aggression lurking in the dark corners of their world.
A flicker caught his attention. He unsheathed the kithvyrae blade, twisting and turning it, gathering the shadow to itself. The presence in the blade was singular, as far as he could tell; deathly silent, but powerful. With each twist and turn, the blade shaped the strands. He’d told no one he could do this, and it had been a long time since he’d tried it. In Isilmyr, no one admitted what they could or couldn’t do with the Dark. He’d seen some mouthier squires end up dead in hallways or in the gardens. True practice happened in private. In tournaments, they used non-powered, or light spears these days, power that said nothing about the wielder. The only one he knew of that openly displayed his power was the Zauhune knight in the goddess court. People flocked there as if to a temple to bear witness to it. He’d seen it at court twice now, sitting in the Hosmyr stands in horror, the profound silence before that wildling knight cut his opponent in two.
