#Review & Exceprt - A Rising Moon by Stephen Leigh #Historical #Fantasy

Series: SUNPATH (#2)
Format: E-Galley, 352 pages
Release Date: November 13, 2018
Publisher: DAW/Penguin
Source: Publisher
Genre: Fantasy / Historical

The second novel in this gripping historical fantasy series, set in an alternate first century Britain, follows Orla Paorach, freedom fighter and daughter of a Boudica-like warrior.

An intense, fast-paced novel, A Rising Moon explores trust, courage, and the deep seduction of power.

Story Locale: Alternate fantasy 1st century Britain

Series Overview: Set in a magic-infused alternate first-century Britain, the Sunpath series follows the adventures and legacy of a Boudica-like figure who may be her nation’s only hope for salvation.

 

A Rising Moon is the second installment in author Stephen Leigh's Sunpath historical fantasy series. Set in a magic-infused alternate first-century Britain, the Sunpath series follows the adventures and legacy of a Boudica-like figure who may be her nation’s only hope for salvation. While A Fading Sun was Voada's story, A Rising Moon is her daughter Orla Paorach's. If you haven't read the first book in this series, I shall spoiler free summarize.

Orla Paorach’s life was overturned for the first time when her mother Voada was beaten senseless, and Orla was taken by Bakir, a minor Mundoan army officer, as his second wife. Now her world is shattered a second time: Bakir has died in battle, and so has her mother, now known as the Mad Draoi of the Cateni. Orla flees northward to Onglse, the island home of the draoi that is the center of the Cateni rebellion against the Mundoa.

She becomes quickly embroiled in battle as well as deceptions from both sides of the conflict, as everyone expects that she’s come take up her mother’s mantle. Those who knew her mother offer their help, but can she trust any of them? Can she avoid becoming the Mad Draoi herself, lost in the magic her mother once tried to wield?  It's apparent that this story takes place several years after Voada's and that Orla is looked down upon because of who her mother was, and what she nearly accomplished against Commander Altan's army. 

But, Orla has something her mother never had. Youth, while lacking Voada's desire for revenge against the people who wronged her family. Once Orla gets to Onglise, it is her mothers former anamacha (a collection of dead draoi) that finds her and sends her off on her own journey that will be quiet different from her mothers. With Orla, she also finds a different sort of love. A love from someone who she shares commonality with; Sorcha. The two women formed a bond after the experiences that Orla faced by the Mundoan's and their wives.

One of the constants of this series has been the author's desire to pit two characters against each other. In the previous installment, it was Voada against Commander Savas who ended up on the winning side. But, Voada and Savas relationship wasn't always antagonistic, and that's where Orla stands as well. If she can convince her apparent enemy that senseless fighting and killing and unnecessary bloodshed should stop, then maybe she will be in a better position that her mother was. Orla's experiences are totally the opposite of her mother's. She really doesn't hate anyone, except she does have issues with same of the people that Voada did. But, she has someone with her to take care of her, and make sure that she doesn't lose herself. 

I am curious as to where this series goes from here. This book could in many ways be considered a standalone. But, we shall see. 

The Acolyte

Often enough, Orla wondered why she’d ever bothered to come to Onglse.

The opportunity to go to the island home of the draoi was the culmination of an impossible dream, a path she’d been destined to take from the moment back in Pencraig when she’d realized that-like her mother Voada-she could see the ghosts of the dead. The soldiers’ wives in the Mundoan army encampments had spoken of how Voada was an awful monster, how she’d been trained on Onglse before she’d taken on (or stolen, depending on who was telling the story) the title of ceanndraoi, joining with Ceannˆrd Maol Iosa to lead the rebellion against the Mundoa. Together, Voada and Maol had laid waste to the Mundoan settlements south of the River Meadham.

The camp wives had hated Voada-even those, like Azru, who had some sympathy for the Cateni. They hated that she had killed so many of their husbands and sons. In turn, most of them also hated Orla simply for being Voada’s daughter. Still, like all the Cateni attempts to throw off the yoke of Mundoan rule south of the River Meadham, Voada’s war was ultimately a blood-drenched failure.

It had been close to a year since Orla and Sorcha had crossed the River Meadham into Albann Brˆghad. Orla’s eighteenth birthday had passed unremarked. Orla had heard the tales of Ceanndraoi Voada whispered everywhere: in stories, in poems, in songs. She’d listened to the wondrous, contradictory, and still-growing legend of her mother hands upon hands of times, from hand upon hands of mouths, in every clan house she’d visited. Orla was hardly able to reconcile the fierce, vengeful, and merciless Voada they described with the woman she’d once called Mother.

Her mother was now famous, if not universally beloved, while Orla was a burnished copper mirror reflecting a warped image of that maternal fame. The northern Cateni passed her carefully from clan ˆrd to clan ˆrd, pretending to be pleased to meet the famous Voada’s daughter but heaving a sigh of relief when they sent her on her way again, as if they’d somehow escaped contagion or attack.

For nearly half a year, Orla and Sorcha passed from village to village, always hearing the words, “Oh, you must go on to Onglse. You need to speak with Ceanndraoi Greum. He’ll be able to help you. We wish we could, but we can’t.” What exactly Ceanndraoi Greum could help her with was never quite voiced.

When she and Sorcha finally reached Onglse, the Isle of the Draoi, Ceanndraoi Greum made little effort to mask his feelings toward Orla. The Red-Hand, as Greum was also known, remembered Orla’s mother all too well, and that was the problem. Yes, he had helped train Voada, and he had commanded the forces defending Onglse when Commander Savas of the Mundoa had attacked the island.

But Voada had stolen away Greum’s military chief, Ceannˆrd Maol Iosa, when she abandoned Onglse to organize the rebellion in the south. And it was Greum’s title of ceanndraoi that Voada had claimed as well.

Greum was obviously less than happy to find that Voada’s daughter had arrived on the island asking for training. His voice was a deep, rich baritone that lent authority to his words, and he leaned on a wooden staff he always carried for support, as his leg had never quite healed from a wound he’d taken in the battle for Onglse.

“You say you can see the taibhsean, the ghosts of the dead, and I’ll accept that,” Ceanndraoi Greum declared when she was presented to him at Bˆn Cill, the sacred temple set at the center of Onglse. Greum Red-Hand had the build of a warrior, with dark hair now well-laced with gray, a long braid down his back, and a thick, oiled beard. His eyebrows, like fat caterpillars perched on the ledge of his brow, were already more white than dark, though the eyes beneath them were the black of a moonless night. As ceanndraoi, he wore an outer cloak of deep red, sewn at the hems with silver threads in a knotted pattern. Orla immediately saw why he was called “Red-Hand”-not for the blood he’d shed in battle, but because the hands emerging from the sleeves of his lŽine were mottled with orange-red splotches, as if the Goddess Elia had splashed pigment on them as he was born. An older woman draoi, whom he introduced as Ceiteag, stood alongside him. The woman stared at Orla with an intensity that unnerved her.

“Given your lineage,” Greum continued, glaring at Orla, “I’ve no reason to doubt your word. But seeing taibhse doesn’t make you a draoi, only a potential menach-a cleric of Elia.” Greum bowed his head slightly as he spoke the goddess’ name.

“She sees the anamacha as well,” Ceiteag broke in. “Go on, girl-point to the Ceanndraoi’s anamacha or to mine. I know you see them, even if your friend is entirely blind to them.”

Greum scowled as Orla pointed to Greum’s right side, where a ghostly figure stood, its head flickering as several visages came and vanished, the faces of dozens of the former draoi caught within it. “Draoi Ceiteag is correct; I can see the anamacha too, not just the taibhse,” Orla told Greum. “I know now that back in my old home of Pencraig, both my mother and I saw Leagsaidh Moonshadow’s anamacha, and we all know what my mother became when she bonded with the Moonshadow.”

Greum’s scowl deepened at the mention, irritation knitting together bushy eyebrows. “And where is the Moonshadow’s anamacha now?” he scoffed. “Lost again, as it was for so long before it found your mam. I don’t see the Moonshadow’s anamacha or any other standing alongside you, girl. Do you think I need another menach or another servant to clean the temple? What use are you and your unsighted friend to me or to Onglse?”

Sorcha, who had been Orla’s constant companion since they’d fled the Mundoan army encampment, took a sudden step back at the ceanndraoi’s evident rage, as if afraid the man might strike them or cast a spell. Since their arrival on Onglse, Sorcha had become increasingly reluctant to speak out and more reserved, despite being the older of the two. Orla forced herself to stand erect, lifting her chin and staring silently at Greum, her lips pressed together tightly.

“Here’s what I will do,” Greum spat at last. “It’s two moons until the next solstice. You and your friend may stay until then. I’ll have Menach Moire see if you’ve any potential at all, and if you don’t, you’ll both be asked to leave.”

Ceiteag touched the arm of his robe. “Ceanndraoi, perhaps I should-”

“No,” Greum said loudly before Ceiteag could finish. “Not you, Ceiteag. Menach Moire will be in charge of the girl’s training.”

And with that he stalked away with a swirl of his red cloak. With a final glance back toward Orla, Ceiteag followed him.

—

Orla had little contact with Ceanndraoi Greum after that first day, though his red-clad presence was often in the periphery of her vision and the sound of his brass-tipped staff on the templeÕs tiled floors in her ears. Menach Moire undertook teaching Orla the duties and responsibilities of a menach. Sorcha, unable to see the taibhse at all, was taken on as a lowly temple servant-mostly, Orla suspected, because Orla had insisted that if Sorcha were sent away, Orla would go with her.

That was what little power she had from being Voada’s daughter. No one wanted her, but no one wanted to cast her away either.

Menach Moire was one of the staff members always hovering around Greum-nearly all of them women, Orla noted. She had a thin face and body that reminded Orla of a human-sized weasel, and her darker complexion along with the shape of her cheeks and nose made Orla wonder if she wasn’t part Mundoan. The woman treated Orla and especially Sorcha with a cold disdain that Orla suspected was simply a reflection of Greum’s attitude. Menach Moire was both menach and draoi, though the acolytes whispered that her anamacha was extremely weak and that she could barely control it. She was never referred to as “Draoi Moire,” and she refused to give any draoi training to Orla.

“If an anamacha comes to you, then Ceanndraoi Greum may change his mind,” she told Orla when questioned. “Until then, young woman, be content with your lot in life. You should be grateful that you’re suffered to be here at Bˆn Cill at all, after what your mother did to us.”

She waved a gaunt, wrinkled hand that was meant to encompass all of the temple grounds and Onglse itself. She’d kept Orla at her side the entire day, something that Orla was certain made the woman as irritable as it made Orla. “Most of the draoi here would tell you that your mother couldn’t handle the Moonshadow’s power and that it eventually drove her mad. She wasted Elia’s gift. It’s my task to see that you don’t do the same. Now tell me again the three ways to direct a taibhse to the sun-path that will lead them on to Tirnanog.”

With a barely suppressed sigh, Orla recited back to Moire the lesson she’d been given-one she knew from experience-stroking between her fingertips the silver oak leaf pendant that was her only legacy from her mother. She saw Moire’s gaze following her fingers’ movements, though the woman said nothing.

There had been taibhse enough in the army encampments Orla had endured after Bakir had taken her forcibly from her parents to be his wife. The Mundoa permitted no worship of the Goddess Elia in their camps, but there were Cateni wives among the men who still clung to the old beliefs and who celebrated on the solstices cautiously, silently, and in private. When it became apparent that Orla could not only see the ghosts of the Cateni dead but could direct them toward the afterlife that was Tirnanog, Orla became their unspoken and untrained menach.

Moire sniffed when Orla was done. “Adequate,” she said. “But only that. Go on and eat your supper, if Cook has anything left at this point. You have the night watch. And this time make certain the watchers don’t find you asleep.”

Bowing with relief, Orla left Menach Moire and returned to the acolytes’ dormitory on the periphery of the temple grounds, where both she and Sorcha slept when they weren’t expected to be at the temple. Sorcha was there already on the straw-stuffed bedding next to Orla’s. She was holding a crudely carved wooden soldier painted in the colors of the Mundoan army and no longer than her little finger, staring at it cupped in her hands.

“Difficult day?” Orla asked her, and the woman started at the sound of her voice, then tentatively smiled up at her, closing her fingers around the carving.

“It’s that obvious?” Sorcha’s smile vanished like thin frost under a spring sun, and she looked up at Orla with eyes shimmering with moisture. When she blinked, twin tracks slid down the slopes of her cheeks. “This is all I have left of Erdem and Esra: a silly, stupid toy they used to play with, and one I hated seeing them with. They wanted to be just like their father and go into battle. Now I can’t bear to throw it away because it’s all I have left of them.” Her fingers tightened around the carving, her knuckles turning white with the pressure. “I miss my children, Orla. It hurts. I thought…I thought that because Azru promised to watch over them for me, I wouldn’t grieve about losing them. I thought the pain would go away in time, but it hasn’t. It still hurts just as much as it did the day I left them.”

“Sorcha…” Orla felt her own tears emerge in sympathy. She sank down next to Sorcha and pulled the woman to her; as she did, Sorcha began to sob, clutching at Orla’s shoulders. Orla simply held her without speaking, feeling the woman’s deep sorrow as she stroked Sorcha’s hair and rocked the woman as she might a child. After several breaths, Sorcha sniffed loudly and lifted her head. She wiped at her eyes and nose with the back of her sleeve.

“Sorry,” she said. “Sometimes…sometimes I just start thinking about it, and…” Her voice wavered and broke.

“You don’t have to apologize. I understand.”

Sorcha gave a short laugh freighted with self-deprecation. “I know you think that, but you don’t really understand. It’s not your fault-you never had a child, so…” Her voice trailed off, and one shoulder lifted in a shrug. “But I love you for the lie,” Sorcha added.

“Then I’ll keep lying to you,” Orla told her. “And you can keep telling me how Onglse is where I’m supposed to be.”

Sorcha placed a hand over Orla’s. “Menach Moire acting the bear again?”

“The bear, the wolf, the ogre. All of them at once. She hates me, and so does Ceanndraoi Greum. They’ll be sending me away soon enough.” She grinned at Sorcha. “And when they do, maybe you and I will just go back across the Meadham, find Azru, and check up on your children.”

Sorcha’s smile returned for a moment before fading. “If Elia wills it.”

“Even if She doesn’t,” Orla answered. “I don’t care if She wills it or not.”

“Hush,” Sorcha told her. “You shouldn’t be saying such things, especially here. Sometimes I think that Menach Moire can use the walls for ears.”

They both laughed at that. Orla gave Sorcha another hug and stood up. “I have to be at the temple for night watch in three stripes of the candle. I’m going to try to get some sleep so Menach Moire doesn’t catch me dozing again. I didn’t hear the end of that for days. I still haven’t heard the end of it.”

“Have you eaten?” Sorcha asked her, and Orla shook her head.

“Then get to your bed and try to sleep,” Sorcha told her. “I’ll go to the kitchens and see what I can find and bring it back to you. Go on now.”

Orla smiled, sighed, and did as Sorcha requested. She fell asleep quickly, and when the evening watch’s acolyte came to wake her, she found that Sorcha had left a tray of bread, cheese, and an apple on the floor between their beds.

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#Review - A Fading Sun by Stephen Leigh #Fantasy #Dark Fantasy

Series: Sunpath (#1)
Format: Paperback, 352 pages
Release Date: July 4, 2017
Publisher: DAW
Source: Publisher
Genre: Fantasy / Dark Fantasy

In this new paranormal fantasy series, a powerful woman who can see the dead must choose whether to forge a new path for herself and her family….

“The problem with ghosts is that they don’t quite realize that they’re dead.”
Voada Paorach can see the dead. It is a family trait, but one that has had to remain hidden since the Mundoan Empire conquered her people’s land three generations ago. But this ghost isn’t the same as the others she has glimpsed, the lost souls she has helped to find their way to the land beyond life. This ghost demands that Voada follow a new path, one that will mean leaving behind everything and everyone she has known and loved.
Voada will come to understand the power that her people possess, but she will also learn the steep price that must be paid for such a gift.

Fast-moving and intense, A Fading Sun explores grief, sacrifice, ambition, and the forging of personality in the crucible of war.

 

A Fading Sun is the first installment in author Stephen Leigh's Sunpath series. From what I've read from various sources, this story is based on a Celtic Warrior by the name of Boudica. Boudica was apparently a Queen of the British Celtic Iceni tribe who led an uprising against the occupying forces of the Roman Empire in either AD 60 or 61. Apparently, she's some sort of British folk hero, but her rebellion is apparently only told from the point of review of the hated Romans.

In this story, Boudica has been renamed Voada Paorech, a Cateni who grew up in Mundoan occupied Pencraig. Voada can see and communicate with ghosts so not only do you have a Celtic mythology element, but a paranormal one as well. Seeing spirits is a family trait that she has kept hidden from all the Mundoan people for 30 years. Voada helps lost souls find their way to the sun path called Tirnanog so they are not stuck lingering in our world. 

But, after meeting a spirit that she is unable to communicate with, or send on their way to the sun path, things quickly unravel. Said ghost seems to want Voada to leave her home and travel north, but since Voada is unable to hear the spirit, she goes about her business. After her husband Meir dies of a long illness, Voada's world is shattered. Her daughter Orla is taken by a enemy commander, her son Haken is sent away to become a slave, and she is badly beaten and left for dead.

Guided by the unknown spirits to head north to where others like her called Draoi are fighting a war against the Mundoan Empire. Leigh mixes in Celtic mythology, along with a mother's desire for revenge, to create a action packed dark fantasy. Voada's revenge will take her from her home in Pencraig, to Ban Cill, the sacred home of the Draoi, back across the country that has been conquered by the Mundoan Empire. She will rise to the top, while learning all about the powers that she will soon have.

A reader could legitimately called this an alternative history historical fiction mashup. In this world, England is called Albann. The author also uses a Mundoan commander named Altan Savas to tell his story. The Mundoan Emperor sends Savas to conquer a place called Onglise & Ban Cill, home to a group of magic users called the Draoi. Draoi actually use a collection of spirits called anamacha to draw their power from. I think it was a good choice to alternate between the characters for this particular book. Why? Because it  the story more depth in that you get both sides of the conflict, and what they are each fighting for. 

There is a message within this story and it falls right on Voada's shoulders. "Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely." It pretty much means literally what it says. Voada's desire for revenge is such a driving force, that she allows a much powerful entity to push her to become an even more powerful Draoi who can defeat any and all enemies. But, can Voada handle all the power without losing control over her own mind and body?

1
The Wraith in the Shadows

The problem with ghosts is that they don’t quite realize they’re dead.

Voada entered the Temple of Pashtuk, glaring at the muddy tracks of feet on the stone flags, and it was then that she realized she wasn’t alone. The ceramic bust of Emperor Pashtuk was illu­minated by the sun slanting down from the open roof above the altar in the middle of the room. The pair of east-facing open win­dows also allowed in shafts of dust-speckled light, creating heavy shadows around the remainder of the circular room.

Once, the temple had been dedicated not to Emperor Pashtuk but to Elia.

Voada noticed the ghost—that her own people, the Cateni, would call a taibhse—as a shimmering, nearly transparent pres­ence in the shadows; when it passed through sunlight, the appari­tion vanished entirely. It paced the room’s perimeter, as if it could not bear to keep still. But this one...it was entirely unlike any taibhse Voada had ever seen before. Voada first thought the wraith a woman, though the face shifted and changed in the light and sometimes seemed male. All the ghosts she’d seen before had looked like the people whose bodies they’d inhabited before death. But this one...It seemed to be not one soul but many.

And before, Voada had always been able to hear the taibhse’s voice as well, but not with this one. Its eyes were always on Voada, and its mouth moved as if it were trying to speak to her. Voada almost imagined that she could hear sibilant words, but that might have been the wind that tossed the leaves outside the tem­ple. Voada set down the heavy wooden bucket of water and rags with a grateful sigh as water sloshed over the leather of her boots. She rubbed at her back to ease the kink there, the ache that had been present ever since the birth of her second child, her son, a decade ago now.

When the ghost passed near her, Voada reached out to it and felt a winter cold as her hand passed through its body. The ghost stared at her, its features dim and difficult to read. “Who are you?” Voada asked the ghost. “I’ve helped others trapped like you be­fore. How can I help you?”

The creature only gave a doleful shake of its head and contin­ued pacing the room.

The temple had been built by Cateni two centuries ago for Elia, the goddess whose visage was the sun. Voada’s great-grandparents and their family had served Elia as draoi: those who could wield the magic of Elia and the sun-paths that coalesced here in the building, if the old tales could be believed. They’d also been men­ach, the clerics of Elia. The sun-paths were still marked on the floor: pale tiles set against the darker marble in two diagonal lines that crossed where the altar sat and ended at the four great win­dows that framed the solstice suns at dawn and sunset.

But those days were dust and legend since the arrival of the Mundoa, and the statue of Elia that had once graced the altar had been hidden by Voada’s grandparents because they knew that the Mundoa would simply smash the figure and melt down its golden crown. Voada knew where Elia’s statue was buried; her grandpar­ents had told her mother, and she had told Voada.

To Voada, this was still as much Elia’s temple as Pashtuk’s, de­spite Emperor Pashtuk’s dour and serious image replacing that of Elia. Voada had to admit that the Mundoan sculptors were supe­rior to those of the Cateni. One could almost imagine Pashtuk’s eyes blinking or his mouth opening, but for now he only stared blindly at Voada and the ghost.

“I can show you the sun-path,” Voada said to the taibhse, pitch­ing her voice so that it echoed in the round chamber, shimmering as the words rebounded from the curve of the roof. “You can still find it. I’ve shown others.”

The ghost seemed to wail silently at that, its mouth open in an “O” that mimicked the central opening in the temple’s roof, and Voada saw its head shake violently. It pointed emphatically north­ward, not to the solstice windows or the sun-paths that led to the plane of the Cateni gods when this had been Elia’s place of worship.

The absent gods, now. The forgotten gods, for most. The forbidden gods.

“I don’t know what you want if you won’t follow the sun-path,” Voada said. “I wish I could talk to you. I wish you could hear me. Perhaps my seanmhair Ailis could have done that. She knew the spells...”

In answer, the ghost pointed northward again, imperiously, then continued its pacing. Voada watched it, then sighed. She knelt down alongside the bucket of water and wrung out one of the rags. She began scrubbing the stone flags around the altar, marveling at the hollows worn into the golden-brown stones by generations of feet. The ghost watched her, still restless.

When Voada had finished her task a few candle-stripes later, she put the rags back in the twice-refilled bucket and stood, groaning and rubbing at her knees. The ghost had stopped and was standing directly in front of her. Voada could see the temple doors through its body, as if she were peering through a thin morning fog. The features hovering in front of her remained in­distinct and genderless. “I’m leaving now,” she told it. “I’m sorry. I wish you would let me help you.”

Once more, the ghost lifted a pale arm and pointed northward. Voada hefted the bucket; as she did so, she saw movement at the door, blurred by the ghost. “Voada?” a deep voice called.

“Meir,” she answered. “Sorry. I was just getting ready to leave.” She took a step toward her husband, shivering as she passed near the ghost’s frigid presence. Older than she was by decades, Meir’s hair was now largely silver-white with his scalp gleaming through the thin strands at the top and back of his head. His breathing after climbing the hill to the temple was harsh and loud, as it was too often lately whenever he exerted himself. Even a short walk seemed to exhaust him now.

Meir wore Mundoan clothing: loose pantaloons and a vest dyed the rich blue of an administrator, as befitted his role as the Hand of Pencraig, with a simple white linen tunic underneath. Voada noticed that the servants hadn’t properly polished his boots that morning—there were still traces of mud from yesterday’s rain. Voada was wearing clothing that her grandparents would have found familiar, in the style of the Cateni who were both her and Meir’s people—a chiton (which the Mundoa scoffingly called a “bog dress”) and a woolen wrap in brown-and-ivory plaid, em­broidered with elegant, brightly colored knot work around the neck and hem, belted and pinned around her body. Her long, reddish-brown hair was wound into intricate braids, the end of each held by a small gilded ball.

The thought of how they looked together, so vastly different, amused Voada suddenly. She gave Meir a smile, then peered back into the room toward the ghost.

“Thank you for cleaning the temple for tomorrow,” Meir said. He was still breathing heavily, leaning over and bracing himself against the railing around the altar. In the heavily shadowed tem­ple, his blue eyes seemed more gray to Voada. “I’ll send Orla up to the Voice’s estate. That way, Voice-wife Dilara will know she can have her slaves bring in the flowers and decorations for Emperor Pashtuk’s birthday celebration tomorrow. Since we’re also cele­brating his twentieth year on the throne, it’ll be a special cere­mony. You did well.”

Voada shook her head slightly at her husband’s misunderstand­ing. She watched the ghost, which had resumed pacing: glinting in the shadows, lost in the sun...“I didn’t do it to impress Voice-wife Dilara,” she said. “I only thought Elia deserved a clean home, and the temple was getting filthy. The Voice-wife doesn’t have her people take care of this place as she should.”

“This isn’t Elia’s temple,” he reminded her. “It hasn’t been now for three generations.”

“Really?” Voada answered gently. It was an old argument be­tween them, their lines as deeply worn as a rutted road so that they didn’t even have to speak them now. Instead, she watched the ghost moving in and out of the light.

“What are you looking at?” Meir asked, still leaning on the rail­ing. “Is there...?”

“Yes,” she told him.

“I don’t see anything.”

“I know. But that doesn’t mean it’s not there. I can see it.”

“Can you make this one go away like the others?”

“I tried to show it the sun-path, but it ignored me.”

Meir gave a grunt as he pushed himself upright, and Voada knew that meant the conversation was over. She hefted the bucket and turned. “Come on,” she said to Meir, taking his arm. “Let’s go home.”

The temple stood at the summit of a hill: Pencraig Bluff. Voada and Meir could see the town spreading out below them, looking as if it had mushroomed from the lush greenery. Pencraig, the village, stretched out along the shallow slope, overlooking the River Yarrow and a small dock extending out into the shallow brown water. A few boats were tied up there, and Voada could see the bustling of workers offloading supplies into the warehouses on the bank and others loading sheep, timber, and produce— Pencraig’s usual exports—onto the barges for transport to larger towns and cities upriver. Smears of thin gray smoke from hearth fires drifted above several of the buildings, pushed sideways in the breeze and bringing the smell of burning wood and peat to Voada and Meir. To either side, in the pastures, they could see sheep grazing and hear their bleating calls. The percussive, rhyth­mic ring of a hammer on hot metal came from the blacksmith’s shop, halfway down the hill.

The lowest and poorest houses, just past the river dock, bor­dered a fast and cold stream that led down into the marshes at the meandering river’s edges, while a single lane of increasingly larger dwellings ascended the slope to the temple. The houses were a mixture of round, thatch-roofed, Cateni-style buildings—usually farther down the slope—and the newer rectilinear and distinctive Mundoan style faced with polished, gleaming stone.

The latter were poised high above the valley and just below the temple so that anyone looking up from the river or the road the Mundoa had built would see them: resplendent, polished jewels glistening in the sun and nestled in the verdant landscape. Those estates, with few exceptions, were occupied by those of Mundoan blood who had come to settle on Cateni land, almost all of whom were connected with the Mundoan administration or military.

The lane here was stone-paved, though Voada remembered that in her childhood it had been only packed and rutted dirt; in the Spring rains, it would send muddy rivulets rushing down the hill to pool against the raised stone thresholds of the houses lower down or join the water thrashing against the rocks of Pencraig Stream. The Mundoa seemed to have an aversion to muddy feet and the earth. Voada had heard tales that on the mainland across the Barrier Sea, the main roads leading to the Mundoan capital were decorated with brightly colored tiles and were so smoothly paved, straight, and flat that one could roll a ball down each and it wouldn’t stop until it reached the far ocean.

She dismissed those tales as stories meant mostly to impress the listener with the teller’s wide travels and importance. The roads the Mundoa built here were, she would admit, a modest improvement over Pencraig’s lanes of her youth. But her mother and grandmother had told her about the roads of the northern Cateni sun-paths, which—at least according to them—had once been superior to even those mythical Mundoan roads.

“Hand Paorach,” she heard someone call as they walked slowly down the hill, Voada holding Meir’s arm. They both turned to see Voice-wife Dilara standing at the gated entrance to the Voice’s es­tate, the courtyard green and cool behind her with simply clad Cateni slaves washing the flagstones and pruning the garden around the fountain. “Hand-wife,” she said, with a bare nod toward Voada before turning back to Meir. “You were just at the temple?”

“Yes,” Meir answered, “and Voada has cleaned it for the cere­mony tomorrow. We were going to send our daughter to let you know.” Voada noticed that Meir carefully said nothing about the ghost she’d seen there. It wouldn’t do to remind the Voice-wife of Cateni superstitions, especially when they weren’t visible to her.

Dilara lifted her chin. She was a dour woman, thin as a marsh reed and as brittle. Birthing nine children had left her haggard and gray-haired, despite the numerous slaves the Voice owned to run the household and care for their brood. Both Voice Maki Kadir and Voice-wife Dilara were Mundoan, speaking with the nasal accent of the mainland. Dilara was dressed in Mundoan fin­ery, a long dress dyed a blue so intense it made Voada’s eyes burn, richly embroidered with golden threads at the hem and neckline, with a stole of expensive white linen over it. Gold-set jewels gleamed at her throat and in her hair, and her fingers were adorned with rings.

“You did that drudgery yourself, Hand-wife?” she asked, her eyes narrowing as heavy lines creased the corners. Her eyes were the dark brown of sweetnut shells, and she glanced at the bucket and rags Voada was carrying. “That’s servants’ work. Why, I was intending to send some of household slaves to the temple later today.”

“I wanted to do it myself, Voice-wife,” Voada answered. “Our temple deserves the touch of someone who honors its history, not just someone who’s following her mistress’ command.”

Dilara’s eyes narrowed further, as if she were turning over Voa­da’s words to see if there was something unpleasant buried in them. “Then I must thank you, Hand-wife,” she said finally. “It’s good that at least some of the Cateni understand their roles, as do you and Hand Paorach.” She glanced back into the courtyard, where her slaves were working. “You!” she shouted at one. “Look at the mess you’re making. Be more careful, or you’ll find yourself cleaning the midden.” With that, Dilara turned back to them. “We’ll see you tomorrow at the ceremony?”

“Of course,” Meir answered her. “We’re looking forward to it. Aren’t we, Voada?”

Voada forced a smile onto reluctant lips and nodded to the Voice-wife. “We certainly are.”

Dilara’s sour expression didn’t change. “We’ll see you then. The Voice and Hand must show the rabble the importance of the em­peror and how we’re proud and united behind him. Without Em­peror Pashtuk and us Mundoa, the island of Albann would still be nothing but an uncivilized wilderness.”

With that, Dilara took her leave, going back into the courtyard to scold those working there, and Voada and Meir continued walking down the lane. “I’m sorry,” Meir said when they were out of earshot of the Voice’s estate. “She doesn’t think about who might be hurt by what she says. I’ve known other Mundoa in other cities; not all of them think as she does.”

“It’s fine,” Voada answered. “The Voice-wife is only saying what she’s been taught.” Still, part of her wanted to rage and rant. Unciv­ilized wilderness? We Cateni had cities and temples everywhere in Al­bann before the Mundoa ever came here. We had our own ways, and they were good. Why, the tales my grandmother told me before she died...But no, saying any of that would only start the old argu­ments again. Meir might not like the Mundoa, but as the Hand, he was simply another one of the overlords to most of the Cateni.

And therefore, as his wife, so was Voada.

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