Maetron released the blade, and Nazareth's arm fell down lifelessly, as if holding the weapon was a new labor, as if her mother had somehow made it several times more dense. Val, a face filled with an absolutely astonished horror, saw only two syrupy motions: his sister's blade collapsing so slowly that it appeared as though it were cutting through water, and the pins of crimson that flowed rhythmically from the graceful slash in his mother's open palm; the red of the wound was menacingly queer against the powdery flesh his mother wore.

With a sharp little sound, the tip of Nazareth's weapon fell to rest against the stone flooring of the long, curved porch. The inexorable, the disbelief, it was all gone from her face now. Ruination: thin, calm eyes; a wrinkless nose; neutral lips: these were the components, the products of suffering and defeat. Her mind did not move because the quaking heart in her chest screamed madness into it, swallowed all the meter, all the fairground and left only a thousand twisted, bloody blades, each one either an ideal or drastic course of action yet to be thoroughly plotted, scattered across the burnt, ashy desert that was her mind. In agonizing concert they rusted and decayed; all at once they were made useless by the very woman who had given them shape. Her face a paradise of pretty, pompous petulance, Nazareth began walking towards the stoop on the edge of the porch.

Maetron moved her arms towards her daughter, and although Nazareth had given the woman her back, she sensed them and halted step. Her mother placed a palm on each of her cheeks. Slowly she descended until her chin was rested atop her little mirror's whitegold scalp. "I have not dismissed you, Nazareth," Maetron said. She then, with a smile heinously quaint, motioned her right hand, smearing a ribbon of blood across daughter's flesh. "There we go?"a gift. You do adore it, do you not' You always smell of blood, Nazareth. When you returned with my son and my Pilot, you made me sick with the smell; I am still sick with it."

The young girl tried to slash her head around, something imperative in her eyes and morosely crested eyebrows?"explanation perhaps, or maybe a plea. Her lips even began to shape this amoebic, hastened apology, but with pressure-enough to dimple the flesh where her fingers were placed, Maetron halted the jerk of her daughter's head and turned it so it again faced forward. "Say nothing, child. You are eternally wounded, and yet no one has forced a blade through you; none but yourself. Stories that were meant to inspire and sharpen your mind have made it ugly and serrated instead. This is my failure. Say you forgive me, and I shall grant you passage to Darkoukka; I know that you wish to see the ruins of Forez" Circle; to stand on the ground where she and Bith locked swords for the first time when they were both but children not much younger than you. Is this adequate compensation for but single verse?"

It was.

But there are hatreds I would not trade-away for every meter of sand in Gailey; hatreds I cherish more than even the stoic ruins of the exalted Reika; over every drop of Dominion blood.

But for this, for the acceptance of an esoteric apology she cared little about, the reward was immense, and therefore. . . it was a facile exchange. Nazareth felt warm, lush waves of childish excitement crash over her and neutralize her anger. When Maetron released her grip, the young girl sprang around, her face (sans the streak of blood that ran vertically up her right cheek) sincerely aglow. "Of course mother. . . Of course! Don't be silly, I could never be angry with you. I will even my temperament, I promise. But do you really mean it?" Circulating eyes widened like engorged balloons inflated with all of her resolve, all of her hope and joy; popping them chanced a struck nerve even within the brother (who was still on his back and quite sore) whom she rarely got along with; he who mocked and cared little about her aspirations and ideals: it was but an insightfully genuine desire for the integrity of adolescent idolatry to remain upheld, even if he could not, or cared not to understand the desire.

Smiling warmly, as she often did, the tall woman bowed her head a single time. "Of course, child. You may go at your earliest convenience. I give you two-days-grace for travel, one there, two back"'so I expect you before the moon is new, Nazareth. Can you uphold?"

Quickly, excitedly, her face in a rosy-cheeked fervor, her daughter nodded. "I can! I will leave immediately, mother. I will make it there in mere??"

"Do not," interrupted her mother sternly, "stop at any of the camps on your way; you are forbidden to make trouble. It is for this reason alone I give such lax traveling conditions; do not file upon the main roads. It's best you follow the dunes north. As you know the terrain is unforgiving, but you are a strong thing, yes" This will not be a problem?"

For a moment, and just before her mother blessed her with compliments of power, Nazareth frowned, appearing severely crestfallen. And even despite the bright smile that followed, her disgust was earnest: she did not wish to crawl over the rippled dunes like a ragged hermit for the sole purpose of avoiding the Labor Yards where the inbred imbeciles, with whom she shared blood (doctored, disarmed and inferior as theirs was) toiled and groaned. The nearest to Remeer, and just twenty-four kilometers from Narvoble's edge, was the Decisole Camp, one of the newest sites, and also one of the most remote, as it was more than a day's travel from the bannered lands of the Bride. Although few patches of land were not under their flags in this age, the wisest and most worldly of The Empire's Court knew better than to claw at territory purportedly under the jurisdiction of The Last Four Sisters of The Gail (Maetron being one of these four). Nazareth had only heard talk of the others, and many times wondered if their existence was merely the wild old talk of her mother or off the delusional, literarily-foamed tongue of her strange little encyclopedia of a brother. What Nazareth did know was that besides herself, Pilot and her mother, she had never chanced across another woman of Dominion blood. She had been told many times the sun was setting on their order; her rarity could not dispute this: it made her feel special, lonely and angry all at once. Yet Pilot always smiled, despite knowledge of their fleeting line, and for that reason alone Nazareth detested her late sister.

Without any objections, Nazareth accepted her mother's order and (after a quick trip indoors to collect her red cloak) set off down the macabre tunnel of black, twisted foliage. Not until her red and gold form vanished would Val pick himself up. A quick examination of his flat, rib-etched chest thereafter revealed a wondrously designed blot of purple and black; the bruise was so sensitive that even the most mild ticks of wind brought electric pricks. He was limping his way towards the door (he had yet to address his mother) when Maetron spoke:

"Did she hit you very hard?"

Wounded, leaning into the doorframe in exhaustion, in frustration, looking indoors rather than at her, he replied, "She always hits hard, mother," before making his way in. The main room of Remeer was spacious and furnished luxuriously. And yet despite the classic prints, long parlor sofas richly plump and lined in shiny crimson velvet, leather chairs and the decorous candle-chandelier suspended from the high ceiling, the room, and house as an entirety for that matter, seemed to be the kind of place more likely to be inhabited by rancorous old spirits than the corporeal; Val had such thoughts often and knew, in a figurative way he could not quite articulate, that he was not incorrect.

In the room's corner, near a window that viewed the porch, stood Judace, his hands tethered together apprehensively, his head bowed, his face masked completely by a wealth of heavy, blonde curls. Because Judace was a boy rarely without input of some kind, Val was immediately injured by his abject silence. Eyes slender and mean, he stabbed, "Get a good show, Judace?"

The little boy, standing a mere 131 centimeters, with twig-like limbs and flesh ghostly pale (as was uniform for all but Nazareth, who was not ripely golden, but had acquired a faint bronzing as she was outdoors often) shot his head back in shock; one eye of bright and wet red burned-free of the curls; Val saw terror in it, which he found satisfactory. Meagerly voiced, Judace defended himself: "No. . I?"I heard the yelling and. . I was just worried, so I went to see. . . Are you oka?""

"Silence," interrupted the irascible Val. The tall, dark-haired young man limped over to one of the long, crimson sofas, laid down, closed his eyes and, shortly, fell asleep.

Judace did not retire his spot by the window (although his attention was paid entirely to his brother now) until disturbed by a command in his mother's melancholic voice. For the entirety of his (short) life, Judace knew Maetron to be a woman that could be counted on for one of two things always: being in a single place and pose for impossible periods of time, or being nowhere at all. Of all of Maetron's children, Val's five senses were the most useless; he had not Nazareth's ears nor her eyes, and most definitely did not have her acute nose; Judace was not quite as sharp as she, however he had little difficulty sensing those approaching Remeer from as far as a kilometer out, even through the stormy sands. Secretly coveted, as precious an ability as a child may possess, Judace was capable of sensing the presence of Maetron. . . always. When up close, nuzzled into her breast; when at the table for meals (a rarity), their mother did have an especially captivating scent, something rustic and fine and vernal, like freshly watered flowers (despite this scent being alien to her children); so bright and invigorating; so clean and pleasing. But unlike every other object in their sensorium, once she was but a few steps away, the woman slipped away from every sense besides the eye. Yet, somewhere in his mind, in a warm, knotted region aware to him even when not signalling, Maetron existed always. Be-it a little tickle; a sonorous bleep; a fuzzy numbness?"if the woman was near, that little ear in the young, blonde boy's brain could always point him in her direction. For a boy of tender age, this was, again, a most coveted sense. Of course, when the region was empty. . when it felt cold and failed to register, Judace felt agonizingly empty.

The night previous to this: this day that had, so far, seen Val injured by Nazareth, and Nazareth given a strange leave, or, even queerer, seen her seemingly rewarded with it, Judace had felt, for the first time in a long time, that empty feeling; it had actually driven him out of a particularly deep and satisfying slumber that night.

But now, that good old sense ringing melodically, his mother called. Judace ran onto the porch in bare feet and looked at his mother in wonder.

"Judace," she said (she was seated on stone edge, her feet resting on the steps, her gaze cast through the quad-row of skinny death). "Have you read every tome I possess?"

The boy nodded in excitement (for the question was not "had" he, but rather, "how many times each?"). "Unless there are more, I have! I've read every one."

"There may be more; in fact I am certain there are. I will gift you a completed collection in time. It's just that I've been very tired lately, sweet Judace. Even worse, mother's mind is. . . blurred; her heart is confused."

Visibly wracked by this expressed weakness the little blonde lad slowly approached his seated mother, placed his hand on her shoulder and leaned over so that he could examine the side of her sharp, flawless face, a face maybe eons old, but woven with twine undying; unaged. "Mother?"

"Shh. Do not concern yourself." Maetron wrapped her arm around Judace's hip; her grip was loose, but perfectly-so. "Everything passes. This will. But, I wanted to ask you about a specific volume: have I any notes, be them extensive or otherwise, on Melia of Porta?"

Her child's eyes danced with intrigue. "Melia of Porta. . . I know the name, but there is no specific volume that I've read on her?"'do you know where one is!"

"I know you are a child fond of literature," said Maetron with a savvy grin. "But I wonder if you might enjoy a spoken tale this day.?

Out of respect for the long-since-passed Rin, Maetron bowed her head. Eyes closed, she drifted slowly over to the edge of the porch and took a seat next to Judace. The little boy's eyes were wide; his mother could see inside them: his articulate brain was rerunning, in terrifying detail, Rin's murder scene. Maetron rested her arm across her son's shoulders. "Come, come," she said with cheer, 'do not let it bother you. As you know, if a child refuses to give concession he-or-she is opening themselves up to the possibility of severe injury. Deaths are not uncommon in Evenings. Tempers run high: pride is an addictive stimulant."

At last, and after some massaging rubs from his mother, the boy smiled. "I know," he said. "But it's. . . . well, it seems very unnecessary. At least what that boy Gont did at least. Was there was no punishment for his actions" The Evening just went on?"

It was now Maetron who wore a grave face. To the sky went her eyes. "For many years I pondered on it. You see, the staff that broke Rin's neck broke a great many more things. The Idol in me, the woman who once told stories of the past, told legends of wondrous Dominion artifacts, was sometimes saddened by the fact that the severed ritual band Gont used to murder Rin was never recovered. Because it changed the destiny of two clans forever."

Judace could not have appeared more intrigued. "Will you tell me how" I've never heard this story. . . in fact, Porta is only mentioned several times within your tomes."

"That is because," replied the boy's mother knowingly, "it was but a fleet, although excellent, instance of what Dominion are capable of accomplishing when our minds reject the old, primal ways. Silly words from a historian, I know, but historians preach to solidify the future's foundation: as much as our race detests the Brides and their craving for expansion; their ravenous technological ascension, we would have been wise to learn from them instead of tossing them aside for generations: it is of my belief that the war we fought, and the war we lost, was their revenge for the concentrated hatred that mixed and toiled in their fragile little hearts for eons. Before they were smarter than us, they were nothings; they were peons, weak and frail and in possession of emotions that confused and angered us.

"But Porta was the birthplace of several grand inventions, inventions forged from Dominion hands, including the steam heater, that which keeps even Remeer warm on colder nights."

With a somber face, Judace informed, "Ours does not work anymore."

Sharply did his Maetron grin. "I know. But there is one installed in the main column. I had an apprentice of the original inventor install it personally. The ones used in this age are far more advanced, but the concept and design has not changed drastically."

It was a time before either spoke. Easily caught in the winds of inspiration, Judace dreamt of walking upon the streets of the grand City of Porta; played out little scenarios that saw him witness the construction of these aforementioned inventions. He would have loved to have been there. Yet, delightful as these fabricated experiences were, he hungered for the conclusion of his mother's tale.

And clairvoyant as always, Maetron continued her piece the instant her son glanced over to speak:

"The crowd grumbled: no one likes death at an Evening. Yet, there are banners to consider, and if some of the Uegodora believed that Gont was justified, it became the duty of all Uegodora to unify under that belief. It was strange, for Rin was a member of their clan, and here they were, getting the filthy looks of outsiders for an in-house death. This was because Melia revealed her affections, and thusly. . the dead child, Rin, was Uegodora no more: he was Exa; adopted in death.

"Seated just behind the pedestal upon which the Evening Master stands when the fights engage, the very Evening Master who was then trying desperately to calm Melia with emphatic hand gestures and soothing words, were the three clan leaders: Torrea of Porta, Exa; Messeth, Jint; Venzis, Uegodora. Venzis, who was a very tall, regal and beautiful woman with extremely long and straight hair, was burning a fierce gaze into Torrea, who was sitting a chair over. Messeth, seated between them, dressed in that hoighty Jint way of fabricated majesty, was visibly nerved, as she'd clearly sensed the grown tension. Torrea's head was down, her eyes were closed and partly veiled by short, choppy bangs of white, mouth calm, her right hand resting upon the waxy onyx pommel of her hip-sheathed rezormora."

"A real rezormora?" cried Judace excitedly, his eyes bursting with anticipation.

His mother nodded. "Indeed," she replied with some astonishment of her own. "It was the first authentic Reika weapon I'd ever seen; I've seen only one more since then. As you well know," and she grinned, "Nazareth's is but a reproduction; functional and deadly, but it is not made from the same fantastic steel, and was certainly not forged by a master smith. But I'm off-topic again.

"I saw, from where I stood amongst the crowd, Messeth stand and saunter towards the enclave of Jint that had, wisely, chosen a stance of neutrality in all the madness: awkwardly they looked on as the Uegodora and Exa exchanged threats and insults. Next, Venzis stood and approached the calm, stoic Torrea. I saw her lean down and whisper in Torrea's ear, but Torrea, of course, did not react at all; it did not appear as though she were even listening. Venzis slipped away after speaking her piece; two sisters under her colors rushed up and escorted her off the Evening grounds.

"I finally saw Melia rise. She was done with the shouting, with the shaking, with the crying"'she chose the death of it all, for it's what she understood best of all. I would come to learn this in time. Gont hadn't moved. Like an imbecile he stood, shirtless, both his head and face boulder-like. From the chaos in the crowd, I was able to discern his relatives: they were trying to make their way through the fray to reach him. They probably understood the sensation bursting from the crowd and knew we Exa would brand that boy a senseless brute; neither concepts were incorrect.

"Melia sprinted over to Torrea, the only seated patron now, all alone and private as always; apart from all the hustle of the world. She was not lethargic, but rather intolerant of sensationalism and wasted energy. So one could conclude, as I had at the time, that she found the death of Rin inconsequential, and was thusly annoyed by the proceedings yield. I cannot say whether or not Torrea's daughter found her mother's nonchalance offensive, since it was of course her precious Rin who had perished, but what I do know is that young Melia began to beg her mother."

"For what?" Judace asked.

"I could not tell you in earnest, for I could not hear. But what I saw was this: Melia was screaming, as the language of her body told: hunched over, arms waving, jaw nearly unhinged to allow the passage of titanic words of anger. Torrea did not move; did not answer. But Melia continued to holler and gesture. What happened next perplexes me as much now as it did then, for even ages after this event Melia remains silent over the exchange. . . the little girl turned and found me?"me?"-just another appalled onlooker in a sea of gold hair and shouting. She pointed at me and her lips moved; our eyes were connected; I felt exposed and uncomfortable. Whatever words she chose struck her mother, for Torrea's eyes opened at last; they too locked onto mine. Melia flipped around; I could discern her expression no longer. Once more she dipped and pleaded, and Torrea engaged her now, for I saw her placid mouth move within that stern face. She uttered a passage and her daughter nodded. Torrea's eyes then closed and she removed her hand from the hilt of her rezormora; calm again, closed again. Without any pause, little Melia wrapped her fragile white hands around the lengthy handle of that relic weapon and tore it out of the sheath latched to her mother's belt."

"Brave!" Judace hollered anxiously, his face a well-wedded union of fear and astonishment. "To simply steal it the moment her mother let go. . ."

"Aye. But it was no theft, child: as I said, I could not hear the words of their exchange, but I know for a fact that some deal had been struck, for Torrea moved not a muscle, opened not an eye as her fabulous blade was taken into her child's hands. Rather, she blessed her daughter with it, payment, I can only assume, for indenturement to a contract unknown. Unknown to all but they, of course."

Breaks in the lofty sheets of heavy cloud above Remeer and the valley of sand and dead trees gave superb definition to the organic shadows that scudded across the desert floor. Judace looked up at an approaching bar of crisp, sharp sunlight that had cut through the deep shades. When the warmth bled over him and the light illuminated his face, the little boy closed his eyes. He asked sadly, "She went and killed that boy, didn't she, mother" Gont' Did she kill him for what he did to Rin?" She too had sealed her eyes. She nodded. "Aye. When she ran towards the mighty oaf, he tried to flee: were they engaged even in simple hand-to-hand combat she would have easily bested the clumsy Gont. But with a craving for blood on her tongue and a most excellent weapon in her grasp, every onlooker knew that the mighty Uegodora boy was about to be cast into the void. There was a great, appalled silence shared by all in the crowd as the premonition of death was understood universally among us. Gont sprinted like a beast from a huntress. The impossibly nimble Melia caught up to him easily and caned the large boy at the shin with the broad, unsharpened side of Torrea's rezormora. Gont fell, rolled onto his back, raised his hands and screamed for mercy. Melia, deaf to his pleas of course, stood over him, raised the blade over her head??" Judace threw his arms around Maetron's hip and buried his head into the giving cloth of her glamorous white cloak. "Mother," he wept, his little voice muffled. The woman kissed his curls. "Forgive me, Judace. I know you detest the world's violent things: there's no need to get into every detail. What matters is that the blow she delivered was fatal; was an act of clean, though perhaps questionable, vengeance. I can agree that Gont was a violent fool who deserved punishment, but Melia. . . Melia and Torrea wagered the fate of an entire city on this cavalier instance of justice. It was selfish. Rin deserved better than that." "How do you mean' You didn't agree that Gont should've been killed for the murder of Rin?" "I did not, child. The sisters and governing clansmen of the Uegodora set that match up to put the strength of their prize on display. Rin was a nothing to them; an embarrassment. There are those that believe that they wished the death of Rin; I did not delve into such heinous claims of conspiracy, but I do believe his life was inconsequential. Gont did not kill Rin, the clan as a whole did. Gont was but a child high on the emotions of battle; his strength was out of Rin's league: the hit he delivered may not have killed any of the other boys in the Evening: that is my point."

Judace, now calm, began to chew on his bottom lip contemplatively. "So," he asked in a voice melodic with inquiry. ?"how does it all end" What became of the clans; what became of Porta?" "Almost every resident of the city, outside the Exa, demanded Melia be taken to the pole. Many agreed that Gont's actions were outrageous, but deaths happen in Evenings. . this is simply a fact, and one a combatant must accept if they choose to get up and continue to engage in a losing battle. I, along with every sister and clansman, stayed within the walls of the clan house for the remainder of the week. We needed solutions, for we could not wage a war against the Uegodora, what members of the Jint were combat-enthused (a small number, but numbers that needed considering) and the general guard of Porta. Despite the accepted knowledge that the three clans held massive influence over the city and its policies, Porta still had a polished little panel of ministers and jurors that enjoyed the festivities of governing without any of the actual powers or stresses of it: the actual ruling was left to the clans. So when I say the city 'demanded" Torrea's daughter, I mean of course that the Uegodora demanded her. Thusly the Jint, who were weak and easily influenced, demanded it. With the majority rule, the panel of ministers of Porta's court ratified the sentence. It was a waiting game now. Try as I might, I could not offer Torrea any caveat to side-step the ruling. The option of fighting our way out of Porta to find claims elsewhere was evaluated, but very few would have survived the likely pursuit to follow: this plan was abandoned.

"And so I sat in my room for a week in deep, filthy depression. I liked Melia, just as I liked Torrea, despite the fact that she was a woman with whom I rarely spoke. In fact, it was her subordinates that asked for my advice, not her. . nothing about the situation seemed to bother her in the least, despite the glaring issue with which she was presented: sacrifice her daughter, or sacrifice her clan' She was stoic as always, locked in her chambers with her tomes and her thoughts. It was not until the sixth day of our self-imprisonment that I saw her, and what a shock indeed: Torrea of Porta came to my chambers and asked if I might allow her to speak for a moment. I was elated, intrigued and terrified all at once.

"I remember everything about not only this moment, but the day as a whole. Selfish as it might seem, I was actually writing an account of what I saw at the Evening?"even we teachers take stabs at chronicling history from time-to-time: I titled it, The Last Evening; a pious title my younger self adored, but we as a people were outgrowing ritual during that age. The Brides" borders were expanding, and with them came technological marvels, riotous satires and strange art; cultures of all kinds that were blending in with our own. Because Brides are. . . loosely moraled, to say the least, in all their endeavors, I predicted that it was their sexual immorality that would bleed into our veins first. This prediction was not incorrect.

"Assessments aside, Torrea came to my chambers. She sat in front of my desk, leaned into her chair as if she would nap and closed her eyes. She spoke with incredible knowledge. . . she also stabbed at me with several unusual accusations."

"What kinds of things did you and she talk about' Of what did she accuse you?"

"Oh, another time," Maetron said with amusement. "The things she spoke of initially are between she and I only?"the point of her visit was revealed later in the conversation. Her proclamation was this: Torrea of Porta was going to offer herself, the choleric master of the raucous Exa clan, as a substitute for her daughter. She was going to choose the pole; she was choosing to die for the one thing in the world for which she cared. I am embarrassed to mention the astonished look on my face after she told me this, because at heart I was not surprised in the least. Before she took her leave, Torrea opened her eyes, and with those brutal little red daggers fiercely cutting into me, she requested that I stay at Melia's side until she turned twenty. I agreed, and Torrea departed. She then exited the clan house alone, marched to the grand hall in the city's center and issued her demand. Many of the Exa thought the plan was foolhardy, for they figured the clans, as well as the city officials, would simply take Torrea to the pole, then come for her daughter. But I knew her sacrifice would succeed?"try as they might to seem cool and confident, there wasn't a Dominion in Porta that didn't fear the wrath of Torrea?"whether in life or in death. Thusly, the Uegodora, as I figured they would be, were delighted to accept her body as tribute. When news came of the panel's amended sentence, we all left the clan house and made our way to the cobblestone square. Torrea's hands were bound; the fat, ugly ministers shouted their victory; Venzis sat behind them, grinning. I was repulsed.

"The ceremony held in 'reverence' of Torrea's life and death was unheard of: it was truly barbaric. Executions are rarely things to be celebrated, as history often sees the worst villains of our culture killed in battle, thusly those taken in for sentences of death are often enemies of clans and are guilty of very little. Torrea was a woman that deserved a valiant and respectable death, but was instead tied to the bedamned pole and left in the intolerable sun until her body withered. However, I again was the fool. . . Torrea died on her own terms; she designed it; she embraced it. Her daughter would be free. I can't say for certain whether or not she cared deeply for the Exa, which might sound silly when one considers the fact that she was the founder, but I say this because I never found Torrea to be the kind of woman in possession of the tolerances needed to navigate the bureaucratic hells of clanship. Being a leader requires much patience, add in the fact that the territory upon which she founded the Exa was already under the jurisdiction of the Uegodora and I'd say that the scant bloodshed and battles on Porta's street were ultimately evidences of her suave guidance: Torrea of Porta may have been a secret bureaucratic dynamo all along.

"I am not sure how many weeks Torrea survived on the pole. They say that the longest a Dominion woman ever lasted was eighteen weeks, which is a marvel! Have you not read Boscenia Hung, I must recommend it this instant, it is an engaging account."

Judace nodded excitedly, despite the fact that he had indeed read it.

"But for all I know, Torrea may have lasted longer. As I have mentioned innumerable times throughout this tale, she hardly emoted in life. The instant she was tied and dangled on the outskirts of Porta, where dozens of other skeletons hung from their dooming poles, Torrea closed her eyes. Melia visited her often. I accompanied for as long as my stomach allowed, which was a little over four weeks. I tried to engage the little girl, but she had recessed: seeing Rin killed; facing the fact that her mother hung for her. . . heartbreaks such as these cannot be assumed to be understood by any other than the sufferer. So I ceased my bothersome sermons and focused on clan affairs. Torrea's second, a woman named Gesla, who was as talkative as Torrea was silent, assumed the role of Clan Master. Gesla was a skilled combatant, and had been fiercely loyal to Torrea, but many of the sisters of Exa knew the clan's end was drawing near because Gesla was neither calm nor tactful. Much pressure was put on all of our affairs; restrictions, all of that. The Exa had proved themselves the radicals they'd been assumed to be in the past, and were thusly punished. Had it not been for the promise I made to Torrea, I would have left them, I am ashamed to admit."

"So you did stay?" asked Judace. "All the way up to Melia's twentieth birthday' Did much happen in Porta?"

"Certainly," replied the boy's mother, nodding. "To summarize quickly, the Exa disbanded less-than a year after Torrea's sentence. Gesla got caught-up in a heated exchange with several Uegodora during the Union Sitting, which was the rare counsel setting that was created in Porta due to the unusual presence of three clans. In anger, she slew three Uegodora before finally catching a blade herself; I heard it was Venzis that delivered the deathblow. Five weeks later there was an attempt on Melia's life. . . four women in deep hoods and black robes snuck into the clan house with the intent to kill. The sisters of Exa fought them off, but one had indeed made it into Melia's chambers while she slept. Thankfully the assassin was killed by a spry guardswoman that watched-over Melia always: the attacker was identified as a loose relative to Gont. This meant that she was Uegodora, but the clan, of course, absolved themselves of responsibility, citing the attack as personally motivated by a splinter group that still held contempt for Melia.

"And so the laborious turning of the great wheel of dry ceremony that constricted Porta continued; continued for five more years. The Uegodora were the only clan left in Porta when Melia came of age. A fine woman she became. . so strong and beautiful. The very same way I discovered little Rin's handsomeness when he confidently battled that heinous oaf, I discovered Melia's resemblance to Torrea when she grew tall enough to carry that rezormora around without it seeming a burdenous absurdity; she'd also acquired her mother's dry, sensible, and sometimes wicked, countenance. The years Melia spent under my supervision were spent mostly in training. I tried to stress the need for education, but she resisted, as I knew she would. She became rapt with the Reika sect, for the tomes that I had on them enlightened her to the possibilities of ascension. . . of true, unfathomable power. Although no Reika ever achieved the kind of power Forez and Bith possessed, those two women, who died before the age of the Reika truly even began, showed just what a Dominion is capable of with discipline and a generous portion of raw talent. Throughout the course of those five years, I learned that Melia possessed both qualities. She became something truly rare. And truly terrifying.?