THE CRONE FINISHED the teaching story, gazing around at the group of children in the Children’s Home. Rose-cloaked women tended her little flock, which ranged from toddlers to youngsters just on the edge of adulthood, ready to be fostered to a trade. Most of the children were sons and daughters of the maidens of Ivanha though some were the children of Voras’s soldiers and some were orphans. Very rarely did children of the acolytes of Parasu or Aryn live here; those parents usually chose to raise their children outside of the Temple system. The Crone read scripture stories to the children several times a week, which made it easier for her to covertly oversee the development of the children and the maidens assigned to their care.
The Crone closed the book she was reading from and bowed her head to the blessing intoned by the children. Her gaze snagged on one of her heavily pregnant maidens. The blond woman glared back at her, hostility evident in every line of her being. The Crone met her glare evenly, trying to place the women. Oh, yes—that snip Joaquil from this year’s disastrous pledge class. It seemed that she’d fooled with the Templar before he’d invited the wrath of the One by killing pledges. Joaquil was now carrying the dead man’s child. The Crone drew her lip up in disgust and turned her back on the girl. That particular maiden would be reassigned after her child was born, as soon as the baby was weaned. She would not be allowed to corrupt the children of Ivanha. Maybe a position could be found for her in the Northern temples, far away from civilized company.
The Crone serenely blessed the house before leaving the front door, walking down the stone path in the front yard and out the iron gate. She walked across the street of cobblestones to the gate in Ivanha’s wall, and waited with her hands folded in front of her as her retinue of maidens opened the gate and held it for her. Her maidens parted the crowd ahead of her, and she slipped into her office at the back of the altar, closing the door. Her personal assistant Asan, a young man who had become a chosen maiden several years ago, set beside her a steaming tisane that stewed with her favorite herbs. It wasn’t common that men were taken as pledges by Ivanha, just as it was rare for a woman to be taken by Voras. But Asan was a good, loyal acolyte, and the Crone rewarded loyalty. She smiled her thanks, and he stood before her with her reports.
“Go on, then,” she nodded, sipping her tea.
“Voras’s soldiers still have not found the Forsaken who stole from the Temple warehouse last week,” he said, handing her a sheaf of reports. “They’ve disappeared, with the food and without a trace.”
The Crone frowned. This was the third such “disappearance” in the past month. The locks on the door were still in place, which pointed to the thieves either having keys or having a wild talent. The warehouse had been robbed of all food, but weapons, cloaks, and other items remained in plain view, untouched. It worried her that these thieves seemed smart enough to realize the Templar would not worry too much if food were stolen but would send out all of his forces if weapons were taken.
The Crone looked up at her patiently waiting assistant. “What else?” she asked.
“The watcher you set on the Hasifel hall has reported that their heir has come back to Illian. As you’d suspected, he had accompanied his wounded sister back to the desert.”
“Is she alive?” the Crone asked.
“The watcher did not say.”
It seemed impossible, with the amount of blood left on the flagstones of the Temple after her disappearance. The Crone had assumed the Hasifel heir had gone to burn his twin in a barbaric desert burial rite. But it was rumored that there were desert witches who could heal any manner of wound, and the girl herself had shown signs of being taken by Aryn’s healers. “Has the heir made any attempt to connect with anyone else in her pledge class?” she asked.
“No. He has kept mostly to the family home and the sales hall.”
The Crone nodded. “Tell our watcher to keep tracking his movements and those of the rest of the family,” she said.
He nodded, not writing anything down, just standing attentively in front of her, hands clasped behind his back. The Crone had chosen him for his perfect recall of everything he saw and heard. Before being taken by a feli, he’d been ridiculed and mocked for his supposed femininity. However, his gratitude and worship toward Ivanha for choosing him in the pledge ceremony was intense, and his loyalty to the Crone was implacable.
“The watcher says that Voras also has a man watching the Hall,” Asan added. “And the Templar has posted soldiers at each of the remaining warehouses to prevent more thefts.”
The Crone snorted. Locking the barn door after the horses escaped again, typical of Voras.
“Tell our watcher to also be aware of Voras’s man. And make certain Voras does not take an action Ivanha would disapprove of,” the Crone ordered. “Now leave me to my prayers.”
Asan bowed deeply and turned, his fuchsia robes flaring as he turned. Quiet settled into the room as he closed the door behind him—a peace that did not settle the Crone’s mind or heart.
She rubbed a shaky hand across her forehead, then placed her hands folded on the desk, smoothing the wrinkles, studying the liver spots and the papery-thin texture of her skin. She felt old. She was old, and she felt every year. She gave a slight laugh, realizing that she was at least a decade older than her own mother had been when she died and two decades older than her grandmother.
The Crone steadied her hand to take a sip of the tea. The deities had retreated after the pledge-class disaster. The Summer Curia, the meeting between the Voices of the four deities about the state of the territory, had been canceled, and none of the deities seemed inclined to guide their Voices since the desert girl Sulis had broken the Ceremony of Initiation.
Daily, the Crone called through her feli for guidance from Ivanha, and got no answer. The new Templar admitted that but for the first few initial commands, he, too, was acting alone. When the Herald and Tribune sent word that they were not attending the Summer Curia, the Crone realized that all of the deities had retreated—probably forced by the One to stay away for a time. There were records of periods of silence in the histories, when the One had intervened in fights between the deities.
Was this a silence of fortnights, or of years? Would Ivanha come back placated or vengeful? The Crone did not know but feared the answer.
A soft knock on the door brought the Crone out from her reverie, and she shook herself, preparing to give the final blessing to the waiting pilgrims at her altar. She scolded herself for woolgathering rather than praying to Ivanha as she’d told Asan she would.
“What good are prayers,” she wondered to herself, “if there’s no one there to listen?”
“WHAT GOOD ARE prayers if there’s no one there to listen? You are wrong, my child; I am always listening,” Sanuri muttered, bent over some cloth she was knotting as Kadar stepped into the sitting room. It was restday, finally, and he was going to take midmeal to Farrah and enjoy the afternoon hours with his love.
Kadar raised an eyebrow at Sanuri, and Dana widened her eyes comically, looking amused.
“I’ll be back late,” Kadar told her, dropping a kiss on Datura’s head before hefting his basket and stepping out into the sunlight.
Kadar had visited the southern outskirts of the city a few times before, but had never entered smaller roads that made up the district where the Forsaken lived. The more prosperous of the Forsaken—those who’d found jobs with the upper castes or desert merchants—were in sturdy houses closer to the city streets. The most poverty-stricken lived in the shanties at the very edge of the city, in tents and ramshackle lean-tos.
The tiny home Farrah’s family dwelled in was close to the city streets, and was almost luxurious compared to some of the run-down houses. It was set slightly back from the road, with a yard of packed dirt. Kadar stepped into the vented front work area of the house, where a cauldron simmered over a smoky fire for washing soiled clothing. Farrah’s younger brothers were hard at work wringing out the wet laundry when Kadar entered. Their eyes went wide when they saw someone in their home, but they dropped their work and gathered around his basket when they realized who he was.
As Kadar handed out meat pies, Farrah came through the doorway leading to the kitchen, frowning, her hair pulled back in a braid with damp tendrils escaping out the sides.
“Briant, where . . .” She stopped when she saw Kadar, whose heart dropped at her frown. Then his heart lifted again as her face was wreathed in a smile, a smile meant just for him. “Kadar!”
He left the basket to the boys and swept her up in a hug.
She tilted her head up and passionately kissed him. When her brothers started making puking noises, she stepped back reluctantly, with a laugh.
“What are you doing here? Is Datura ill?” she asked, her expression turning anxious.
“It’s restday,” Kadar said. “We planned time together, remember?”
She sighed and looked at the piles of laundry. “I had forgotten. I remember when restday meant I could actually rest,” she said. “How is Datura?”
“Datura is happy and healthy, growing every day,” Kadar said, kissing her on the forehead. He whisked a pastry away from the boys. “Our cook made your favorite, and I wanted you to have some.”
Farrah glanced around at the undone laundry, and her brothers paused in their gluttony like they expected a scolding.
“Ah, well,” she said with a sigh. “We’re almost done. Thea is in the kitchen,” she told her brothers. “Make sure you take a pastry in to her before you eat everything in the basket. Keep your sister out of trouble until we get back.” As an aside, she told Kadar, “There wasn’t as much to be done today. The weather has been cooler, so the families aren’t sweating through as many tunics.”
“Do you have enough to live on?” Kadar asked anxiously.
Farrah nodded as they settled down onto the steps leading into the house and took a bite. She closed her eyes blissfully, enjoying the pastry, and her cares seemed to drop away. “I do love curry,” she said.
“Come with me back to Shpeth, and you can have it all the time,” Kadar said, unable to help himself. “You’d be a desert queen.”
Farrah paused chewing and looked at him seriously. Kadar let himself feel hope for a moment, then she shook her head.
“Kadar, I’m a Northern girl,” she said regretfully. “Even if I send the rest of my family south, I belong here. It’s in my blood, the way the desert is in your blood.”
“You’re in my blood just as much,” Kadar said, taking her hand. “And wherever you and Datura are is home. I’ll become like my uncle Tarik, a man of both countries, and we can stay together.”
Farrah’s smile bloomed again, and he kissed her. Her lips were soft against his as she returned the kiss with fervor.
Gagging noises from the doorway broke them apart again, and Farrah tossed a stone at her brothers, who giggled.
“If these rascals will finish their chores, I believe we can go walking,” Farrah said with dignity. Kadar gave her a sweet fry pie as they started away from the building. He clasped her sticky hand, and they walked in silence a ways, just enjoying each other’s companionship. They’d reached the corner, when Kadar remembered that he had a letter for her.
“This is for you,” he said as he stopped and fished it out of his pocket. “I ran into Severin, and he asked me to deliver it.”
She stepped away from him to open the envelope and read the contents. Then she turned back, her eyes bright, an excited flush on her cheeks.
“He’s done it,” she burst out. “He’s gotten some of the Northern merchants to meet with the Forsaken resistance, to offer cover for the men and space to hide in. He’s set up a meeting midweek.”
Kadar frowned. “What about Ashraf’s plans, and the warehouse we rented?” he asked, puzzled.
“Ashraf went south and won’t be back,” Farrah said. “I had a letter from him. He wrote that Kabandha won’t work for the Forsaken, but he would work on finding homes in the surrounding areas. But he said he was ‘unavoidably detained’ and could not give a date for his return.“
Kadar frowned as they walked on. Kabandha had been their best hope for relocating the Forsaken. He was disappointed Ashraf would abandon their plan without much explanation.
“Besides,” Farrah continued, “I think we were wrong about migrating south. I’m a Northerner. This is my home as much as anyone in Illian. I should not have to leave to find freedom and respect. The Forsaken need to fight for freedom here, where we belong. Severin agrees.”
“How did Severin get involved with the Forsaken?” Kadar asked.
“After he saw my mother die, he protested again to his father. Who disinherited him in favor of his younger brother.”
Kadar nodded. As he’d admitted to Severin, he’d heard as much from the marketplace gossip.
“Severin was furious and started organizing the Forsaken youth to rebel.” She gave a short laugh. “He was doing more harm then good, getting kids beaten with no aim. I met with him, got him under control. Now he’s got a group of trusted Forsaken under him, testing ways we can undermine the soldiers.”
“I walked right into one of those tests,” Kadar admitted. “Farrah, innocent people could be hurt if you do that on a busy street.”
Farrah’s voice was low and intense. “None of the townspeople are innocent.”
Kadar stared at her, shocked. She glared around the marketplace they were strolling through.
“They just stood and watched while the soldiers killed my mother. They didn’t even stop to help while she bled out on the cobblestones. They don’t deserve your pity.”
“You don’t mean that,” Kadar said.
Farrah stared at him a moment, her face marble, that of a stranger. Then her expression melted, became rueful.
“I didn’t want to talk about this today. It’s our first day together since you got back! Let’s just enjoy the day, Kadar,” she said, smiling.
Kadar smiled back, and they wandered through the city, hand in hand until dusk fell and he returned her back to her siblings and kissed her good night.
But that night it came back to him as he tossed and turned, trying to sleep. His uncle was right. Farrah was deeply angry over her mother’s death. And she felt betrayed by Ashraf’s absence. Kadar needed to defuse that anger and find a way for her people to get to safety in the desert. It was time to tell his uncles about the plan he and Ashraf had concocted to move the Forsaken to the abandoned desert city. With Ashraf detained, he needed allies.
Something covered his nose and mouth, and he choked and flailed, shoving something fuzzy off his face.
“Mrrrr,” sounded beside his head, part growl, part inquiry. Then he felt claws on his nightrobe and a weight as Amber curled up like a rock on his chest. The rumble of the little cat’s purr lulled him to sleep.