He could not fail.

A bell sounded, reverberating through the granite wall at his back. Guards turned away new petitioners. Taul tugged at his collar. What he’d give for a glass of water.

The high matron was weary, like a bottle of gray ink poured out in blobs on that hard black throne. Her daughter dismissed the last supplicants with a wave. They bobbed and bowed their way out. It was an awkward scene. Since when had they become a people like this, bowing and scraping before thrones? Because the high matron was clearly atop a throne. It had been this way for three cycles, and until now, it had worked for Lor’Toshtolin. Barring the Naukvyrae’s graffiti, most Mornae had simply become accustomed to it.

He blinked hard, willing the useless thoughts away. He needed to stay clear and alert despite the tension squeezing his head.

An attendant motioned Taul and Ryldia toward a door tucked away in the shadows of an arch to the right of the dais. Behind the ancient door lined with kithaun glyphs was a narrow, dark hall ending in a small chamber. He imagined Maunyn killing him in that tight space. His sweat exhausted, clothes drenched, he trembled from the cold.

Taul whispered to Ryldia to wait for him, but she shook her head. Even now, she wouldn’t speak to him. He wanted to spare her this encounter if it went poorly, but maybe it was best they attended together. He didn’t think they’d dare kill Ryldia, but they had ample cause with him. Ryldia may even allow it, a concession between matrons, a divine reparation. Her face gave no sign of whether she thought that very thing. They entered the high matron’s parlor and waited.

Servants entered and fussed over the high matron’s chair. They dusted it, fluffed out the cushions, and arranged them expertly. The chamberlain showed them to their seats, insisting they sit. A servant poured two cups of hot tea and offered them. Ryldia declined, as did Taul. He sat on the edge of his seat, glad for the dryness of the chamber. Ryldia did the same, sitting on the edge, back straight, unphased by the room and its long, great history.

Circular windows sat along the top edge of the rounded wall facing the temple. During the goddess-dawn, light must shine in through them, marking the goddess’s progress over the crater. Marking time, as Balniss would say. The chamber was made of kith, and kithaun tiles separated the floor’s dark slabs. Gem mosaics representing all the goddess’s moods lined the windows.

The unhealed cuts in Taul’s hands throbbed. It was like being tested in the orchard’s womb again. Light-headed, he gazed at the steam wisping on the surface of the tea. They wouldn’t disrespect the high matron and drink before she’d arrived, even if they hadn’t come seeking favors. The rules of propriety and order, respect for the goddess’s power, still mattered in his house, even if the high matron was no more powerful than Ryldia.

The thought stuck with him for a moment. A matron, of the third high house no less, of an ancient line, without the power of a priestess? He wasn’t certain, but why then use thugs and thieves to assert their power? It filled him with disgust.

From this ancient chamber, the Hosmyr matrons had ruled for cycles. His ancestor Ginace, Hosmyr’s third matron, had walked these same black floors and imbued the walls with her call. The place held an undeniable power even though it wasn’t solid kith like the citadels of other high houses. Hosmyr had never focused on that aspect of power. He closed his eyes and recalled his trials. Hope surged afresh. A bright future awaited them, and he saw himself at the head of a strong branch. Because if he could get one child, and then another, why not more?

He ignored Ren’s death, that sad little man he’d left in the tunnels beneath the city. To strive, to struggle, to rise. Those were the words that mattered. And the ones few wanted to hear: to fall, to fail, to die. Each a step toward the gleaming Dark. Those were the words of the ancient texts that Balniss mentioned in his most inebriated moments. The gleaming Dark wasn’t just found along the sharp edge of a blade, the tip of a spear, or the call of a priestess. It was also in the orchard’s black rooted womb. He whispered the words again, under his breath, a prayer, and it occurred to him then that it was the prayer of his people.

The door creaked open. This moment was his trial, his goddess-court, his testing.

He straightened, chin up, aware of the weapons at his disposal, and he was without a blade. He had mighty weapons: bribery, deceit, threat of unrest, threat of terror at the hands of the Naukvyrae. But above all, he had truth, and if she dared attack them, there were courtiers in the halls, and the guards, many of whom had suffered her threats. They would know if she’d spilled blood under the guise of peace.

Of course, it would no longer matter. They’d be dead.

54

Gishna entered the hallway to the private audience chamber. The din of the main hall echoed behind her. Her birch cane—a new trinket from the Rilanik market—tapped loudly with each step, a sure herald of her coming. The drapes of her gown dusted the floor as she dragged herself to her chair. She glared at it, a bog waiting to swallow her whole, and yearned for the pyre’s embrace; for that long rest when the stars would accept the last drops of her ancient vessel. She rattled across the pavers and collapsed into her heavily cushioned seat.

Servants fluttered about her, arranging her drapes, fixing her veil, her robes, even her slippers. Wide silver-cloth bands with glyphs of onyx and other gems wrapped about her forearms from wrist to elbow. Had the Toshtolin been of higher rank, more jaded by her presence, she’d have the servants take it all off. Alas, like a general dressed for battle, the battle of a lifetime, she kept her regalia.

Julissa sat in a chair to her left and Maunyn stood to her right.

Mornae kill quickly, she thought, but for now she’d let them flail helplessly in an easterly wind… Until they’re exhausted. The Toshtolin consort’s self-righteous energy was already draining. The Toshtolin nodded to her, a proper greeting amongst equals. According to the First Accord, she and this young matron, her life a mere tenth of Gishna’s lifespan, were equals. But the Fifth Accord had changed all that. An understanding passed between them, masked by their polite greetings. No matter what the Toshtolin consort thought, he was of that rank of vassals that favored greater freedom from her house.

One thing was certain about this middling house, a simple fact: they’d taken one of her voravin. In her mind’s eye, she envisioned the empty slot and all the slots beneath, all the connections lost, and Hosmyr sinking forever into the mud like her body in these damnable pillows. She gripped the armrests, forcing blood to rush through her aged limbs.

Thankfully, one of her servants had thought to make the seer’s brew. Once that mysterious warmth met Gishna’s lips, a servant offered a tiny cup of tea, the ritual cup signaling peace and goodwill, to her guests and they accepted. Maunyn continued standing stiffly, no doubt rage-filled at having lost a son. He was unaccustomed to losing... anything. So was she, for that matter.

Julissa’s pleasant way smothered the Toshtolin consort’s bravery. He’d a list of accusations. She saw it in his face and in the man’s quivering aura. He’d probably rehearsed while waiting. But now, in the moment of truth, he just bobbed his head at her daughter. He may possess ancient sorcery, but this wasn’t a beginner’s negotiation. Gishna used Julissa to disarm him and then, once weakened, she’d unleash her kithvyrae needle. She sank into the pillows… two ears and a mouth. Her pinhole vision scoured the couple, taking in their details, tasting gently.

She stopped. The beady-eyed toddler was staring at her. She stared back, but he didn’t yield.

“Out with it then!” she said, jerking and twitching from the effort. She fell back into the cushions with a sigh. “We are pleased to meet your son, but what is it you really want from us?”

Taul cleared his throat, now as black as kith.

“High Matron, as you may know,” he started, “Matron Lor’Toshtolin has had difficulties…”

Such a weak opening! Did he learn nothing from his first audience? Maunyn shifted, confirming her opinion. Julissa inhaled too loudly. This would be a boring audience. Where was the vigor of old? Where the razor-fine wit?

Gishna’s mind drifted. She heard something in his voice like fresh blossoms on a breeze. Was that love? He loved his consort. Her heart sank. She had loved hers, and she’d made disastrous mistakes.

“We know things. What goes on here…” He stuttered. “What you all⁠—”

“All of what?” she snarled, interrupting him. A tickling cough was building in her throat. She hacked, but no servant came. There were standing orders not to disturb her once the audience had started.

The two Toshtolin looked at each other as she coughed uncontrollably, as if her lungs would spill out. The toddler remained impassive, like his true father. If it wasn’t killing or screwing, the man had no use. This is what her twelve hundred years amounted to. Julissa rose to the side door to seek a servant. Before she could sound the gong, the Toshtolin consort drew close with a linen cloth in his hand. Compassion filled his eyes, like she was a young shoot needing his attention.

“Forgive me, Face of the Goddess,” he said. “For my temper.”

She accepted the handkerchief, curling her gnarled fingers around it tightly, and wiped her lips.

He opened his hands, palms up, devout in posture and tone.

“So,” Maunyn said, his voice even. Did he admire this man? “What is it you request? I’ve heard only veiled threats against a high house and its matron.”

Taul’s face flushed harder, if that was possible; a living shadow, it was so dark. But he’d lost his list apparently and just gaped at them.

“We are all Hosmyr here,” Ryldia said, rescuing him. “Velaya Lor’Hosmyr was my mother. Thaelin Lor’Hosmyr my father.”

Gishna acknowledged that with a nod. The young matron’s voice was soft but strong, each word chosen carefully. Going back almost nine cycles, Velaya as the first matron and Thaelin the first prime consort founded Lor’Toshtolin. They had both come from the ancient trunk of Lor’Hosmyr. This was before Hosmyr had become ilor and Toshtolin was still an equal. By naming them her mother and father, Ryldia claimed direct descent. Bold, but if the trees were correct, also true. As if Gishna needed a reminder, a history lesson. Mornae had such long memories, especially where their houses were concerned. We are of the First Accord, the young matron reminded her. We are of a founding house.

Gishna sipped more of the brew, but its power was waning. She surrendered to the cushions, unable to fight them any longer. Fortunately, she was satisfied with the young matron’s gesture, obedient but strong, protective of its own rights. From this base, there could be more discussion.

“Is there something you would ask of your mother house?” Gishna croaked, her gaze on Ryldia, ignoring the consort. She motioned for Julissa to take over the conversation again.

Julissa complied and their conversation was a tinkling of cups, sips, and gulps. Taul seemed obsessed with discussing things Gishna already knew… a rot in the orchards, poor harvests, the usual excuses.

She drifted, half listening to the Toshtolin consort stutter his way through statements, accusations, warnings, threats even. The gall of him. Instead, she studied the young matron. She saw herself in that haggard face. Memories overtook her, memories of walking the fields, feeling the dense air, the salt in the wind, the deep, watery breaths that soaked her through with goddess-power, and other powers: earth, life, the throbbing of the leaves, the roots, the things in that rich soil. How her spirit lifted remembering it. She’d never felt old there. The cycles had loomed like a sunrise before her. What had happened to that woman?

Julissa was questioning him now, deftly batting away his barbs, exhausting him of ammunition. Who did he think he was coming here and threatening a high matron to her face? Maunyn remained at ease.

The consort was babbling now, and as he did, his matron’s face hardened. She wanted something else. He was skirting her request. Yes, Gishna thought. I see it, my dear. A breeze could knock this young matron over, but there was steel-hard strength in her eyes. She’d bound him to a request. Goddess above, if he failed to secure it, Toshtolin would suffer something worse than a rotting orchard. He’d be soured, and the priestess would shrivel in regret, unable to retract her demand. I see you, Gishna wanted to say. I know you, young woman. We are as one, you and me.

Something about the consort had been gaining her attention since he first opened his mouth. Energy radiated from him, only visible through her other sight. A throbbing presence. She wafted two fingers discreetly at him, drawing in a taste of his essence. It was invigorating and familiar, like the seer, but not an exact match. Similar enough to be a cousin or relation. She did the same to the young matron, as if enlivening a young flame to ignite. There it was, in her as well, but dormant.

The Toshtolin consort was threatening poorly now, enumerating reasons she, the ruler of forty thousand, should submit to a man who managed an orchard.

“What was that?” she asked, interrupting them.

“To allow Yatani in,” Taul said hesitantly, almost regretting he’d asked. “Formally… those that can endure. Those that can prepare for––”

She interrupted again, “Aren’t you a tender?”