Another clang sounded from far below. He was curious, and wanted to know what was down there. His eyes watered, staring into the void. What secrets did it hold? Who traded down there? He stepped toward the chasm and a shape blocked the way.

“Not for the likes of you, border rat,” the shadowed form said.

Ren bowed his head and walked down the well-worn tunnel to Outer Halkamas.

“You’re a fool,” he whispered to himself. “No better than a slave.”

His own shadow-gift might be enough to make a place for himself among the true Mornae, but he’d never know until he pushed himself.

“Yes, yes,” his mentor would say. “Strive! Strive! That is our way!” His mentor’s voice would grow hoarse from the emotion, and he’d weep. His mentor had given up striving long ago, and Ren had always sensed he wanted Ren to pick up the banner he’d let fall on the battlefield. Ren had left that banner on the field too, and regret gnawed at him. It had taken root in his mind and heart.

He shook his head. Nothing good came from dwelling on the past. What use was there in waiting for his master to look upon him and give him a future? He needed to seize it somehow. He needed to carve out that regret and put something else in its place.

3

Gishna, High Matron of Ilor’Hosmyr, sat in a gray pit of soft silk pillows. Her ancient bones sunk into them, trapped in their embrace. After three hundred years in a state of decrepitude, she’d grown accustomed to such seats. Her eyes were near useless, mostly blind, white dots where once they’d been silver-gray river pebbles. Her first consort had called them pleasant, but he’d loved her. She thrust a bony elbow into a thick cushion and heaved herself up an inch.

The stars above twinkled coldly.

“Not yet,” she rasped. “The pyre can wait!”

“What’s that mother?” Julissa, her heiress, asked.

Gishna muttered and sank back into the pillows, her arm now trapped behind her.

Milky drapes hung from a cable running along the perimeter of the atrium. Behind the silk shield, an army of servants, and the sons and daughters of her vassals, stood at attention. Sweet-smelling incense burned in wide, flat braziers with light that filled the atrium with a gentle blue glow beneath the starry sky. Suvae, the fourth consort moon, a gray sliver, skimmed the edge of the atrium’s roof. She pitched her head left, then right, but could not take in more than a small section of the night sky at a glance. With a rattling sigh, she settled her chin on her chest.

She was hungry, though. Hungry for knowledge and information that might save her house from the utter disaster it faced. She had other ways of knowing the world her eyes denied her. Her skeletal fingers wafted the air nonchalantly—her family accepted her eccentricities—and leeched wisps of life from those nearby. Only a taste, though, just to get through another day. Those around her were young, and even if they were not so young, could stand to lose a smidge of life force. She savored each of her family, the faint hints of difference in each, and she sipped their signature power like a master steward savored a century-old vintage. Her daughters and sons were talking of trivialities, energetic, full of life, and that life pulsed through her twelve-hundred-year-old veins. She didn’t feed on them for her own pleasure, though. She licked her thin lips. No, she had a higher purpose.

She knew this magic was contrary to Mornae tradition, to their quest for the Dark. It was blasphemy, diviners said. She was a blasphemy. But all she did was for her house, for Ilor’Hosmyr.

Her limbs protested as she tried to free her arm. She creaked and cracked from the exertion. The pillows conspired against her, crushing every effort to move in their plush walls. She batted one angrily.

“Mother, let me help you,” Julissa said.

Without waiting for a response, Julissa propped her up, placing a firm pillow behind her. The young woman’s hands were like steel, full of youthful vigor. Gishna did not resist. Julissa had governed the third-hour gatherings of Gishna’s immediate household for twenty years now. She sat at the high matron’s left, increasingly comfortable in her role as heiress. Spittle bubbled on Gishna’s lip, and she wiped it with her sleeve. Goddess above, not yet! Give me time, she thought. Time to set things right. She glanced to her right, forcing her stiff neck to move, but the seat was empty.

Maunyn, Gishna’s consort, should be at her right, but he was not present, as usual, busy about his tasks. Her tasks. Let him wander, she thought. That was his duty. The days of sweet consortship had never even been for them. Maunyn had become her consort when she was beginning her decline, his purpose for her to know. Julissa’s father was Kaulor, Gishna’s first consort, the consort of her heart. Not much good had come of that affection. It had been a cursed distraction from her duty.

She spied Julissa through a crack in her white veil and fanned the air with her left hand. Julissa’s limbs tasted of youth. Julissa was not even that young, but she was still unconsorted, childless, pristine. Gishna sucked in a breath as her daughter’s life coursed through her. Again, she urged her arthritic hand. So it had felt when she was pregnant with Julissa, a sweet exchange, but all for the benefit of the girl. Now, Gishna took back what she had given.

Her lips tightened to a slit. It was necessary.

She jerked her head to the left and spied her five sons sitting across from her. All of them were magnificent, tall, strong, with long, silver-white hair suffused with goddess-light. Each was handsome in his own way and would make a fine consort for any high-born priestess. Matrons, she thought. Her sons would lead houses. She’d birthed none of them, but they didn’t know it. Even if they suspected it, it was not a thing one discussed openly. Mornae accepted their matron’s word as divine. If she said they were hers, they were hers. At the end of the couch, sitting languidly, the eldest, her prize: Saugraen. He was of the most ancient stock, a godling among them. Like Maunyn, but without the sour heart and surly disposition.

She drew in more of the youthful energy bubbling around her. They were laughing, content and safe in the world she had made for them.

Saugraen’s gaze settled on her. He was so patient. He knew it would take her a while to notice.

“I’ve not agreed yet,” she said to him.

“Our allies could misunderstand our absence, matron mother.”

“So, the sons of Ilor’Hosmyr must make some presence at the goddess court?” she asked, her hoarse voice struggling with each word.

He nodded once. “To stand with our allies, matron. And we should all be there, mother.”

She scoffed. Did he think to sooth her with talk of matron and mother?

“Do you know the boy?” she asked. “Is he some comrade of yours from Isilmyr?” Her words came out strangled and weak.

Her five sons stared at her, eager for permission. Five for the goddess’s auras, her mind intoned. Five, her consorts.

Five was a divine number. She’d played the ruse well, feigning the pregnancies and confinements. She doubted anyone really thought they were hers—or Maunyn’s, for that matter. Their coloring was different. It didn’t matter what anyone else thought, though. Once declared, they were what she said, sons of her blood. More importantly, these boys were all hers to do with as she wished. No houses to repay later! Her first consort’s house had failed two hundred years ago, absorbed into a stronger one, and Maunyn’s house was defunct. Each boy had a purpose, too, much more important than making alliances. Their only task was to lure the medicine she needed into her house.

Especially her glorious first son. He was her sharp-tipped spear.

“They’ll expect it, matron,” Saugraen said. He sat up and leaned forward.

“I don’t agree,” she replied.

Alliance was such a fluid thing, open to interpretation, subject to reconsideration. She’d agreed to Joumina Ilor’Zauhune’s idea of sending an ignominious self-made knight to challenge Ilor’Roturra in the goddess-court, but Gishna had no intention of displaying her support. Not until it favored Hosmyr more. She had little interest in challenging Roturra even though it sat at fourth and threatened her own house’s place at third with ever-increasing numbers. None of the high houses seemed interested in changing the order, though. They had settled into an uneasy resignation.

When was the last time the high council had commanded a count of priestesses and knights? Not in her lifetime. A census was due soon. By then, she must have the cure and her city in full bloom with healthy children capable of becoming priestesses and knights to increase their count.

They were close now, those handsome boys, to consort age.

Saugraen moved to her right and sat in Maunyn’s chair.

“Not yet!” she declared, resisting a hacking cough. Her eyes watered from the effort. “Not for trifle complaints and the exchange of silver chits.”

Saugraen looked on her with those judging eyes of his, his full lips downturned, his square jaw tight.

“Well, speak up then,” she snapped, and then wheezed. “There is no blade to your throat, my son.”

“Yalin Ilor’Daushalan sits in judgment this year,” he said. “I think it is only right we stand with our allies. His victories could benefit us greatly.”

How he hated Daushalan! How he hated that Isilalan’s badge was more respected than Isilmyr’s. He could have stood for Isilayne, but she’d not allowed it. There was no need! Rumor was Saugraen and the eldest Vakayne girl snuck off together. They were quite adept, too, because her minister of secrets had not discovered their meeting place. Gishna was clearly not privy to his agenda. She needed more than a union between her son and Lissae Ilor’Vakayne. She needed a promise of more consortships: blood from Kiseyl, Zashtrin, and Lauxyn. All the strains of Ilor’Vakayne must be hers. She could not have him forging a way on his own. Was the girl already working magic on him and guiding his thoughts? Secret consorts were becoming an unfortunate fashion among the young, and they were so dangerous to her plans.

She tightened her lips and turned her head away so that the milky white haze that was her vision covered him like a veil. Saugraen needled her daily with questions and hinted that he knew more than he should. In former days, when matrons ruled absolutely, she might threaten, she might punish. In those days, a son knew his limits. She shifted again and took in his chiseled features, the serene gaze, the clarity of his lavender-gray eyes. He was perfect for her plan. She just needed to be patient with him.

He’d spoken the truth, though. The court could help Hosmyr, but not how he thought. Not just to poke the eye of a rival or gain some more land.

“When they are no longer trifles,” she said, her voice a grating whisper. “When there is blood, then you will go, my sons.”

Taum, her youngest, piped up with hoots, clapping his hands. Just fifteen, that one. Barely declared, and he already wanted to watch bloody duels. He was an excellent boy with fine roots reaching back into that great antiquity of their ancestors. The other three lads, Johir, Rauvon, Vezros, all between forty and eighty, clapped. Only the eldest remained quiet, leaning back, untroubled. Did he think he could use his brothers against her, commanding them like his personal army?

“Our vassals have asked to send a representative as well,” he said. “Shall I inform them of your decision?”