Reirn is the highest position within a house. Almost always passed on in a direct line from the purest, oldest family, the title cannot be held by anyone not directly related to the house.

Outside spouses take instead the title of Heirn or Heirna, since they do enjoy a special position above ordinary Eirn, but even in the event of a Reirn's death, they cannot claim the position which will instead pass directly to their children.

If there is no Reirna, upon the death of the Reirn the position passes to the reirn's oldest child. If there are no children, the position passes to the next eldest member of the closest family branch to the deceased.

-Titles, Ranking, and Structure of the Noble Houses

The way I saw it, there were two main things I had to do.

First, hide this power. Hide it so thoroughly that no one even thinks ‘powerstone’ and ‘traveling scribe’ in the same week.

Second, research powerstones, the nobility, inheritance, and if it was possible to remove the stupid thing without dying in the process.

The uncomfortable proximity of the glow to my heart made me doubt the possibility, but even if I couldn’t be rid of it there were other questions I needed answered. How could Eirn Fylen have had a second stone? They were inborn, innate. And, from what I’d witnessed the previous night, big, round and colourful. The blue stone Eirn Desten had taken away filled his hand completely and glowed far brighter. Whatever this tiny crystal shard was which I’d somehow obtained, it wasn’t the same.

I had to get back to my main office. There were resources in the city that a little town like Woodedge couldn't provide. Contacts I could call upon. The library for reference materials. But travel would be difficult for the next couple days, even more so closer to the lakes.

I spent some time in restless contemplation, trying to think of a good way to hide this. Having your blood glow was not the sort of thing one usually has to conceal. Thankfully, clothing seemed sufficient to cover it, and with the winter weather no one would question if I chose to wear heavy gloves and a scarf.

It might seem odd if I continued to wear full winter gear indoors at all times, but not nearly as noteworthy as if I went around glowing like a lantern. Or, should it be, glowing like a noble? I shuddered at the thought.

Thankfully, no one in Woodedge would have seen nobles up close. The streaks of colour as they flew by far overhead didn't count. I hadn’t ever really seen them, even in the city, not until the fateful duel in the night. That was the closest I’d ever been to nobility, the clearest view I’d ever had of their magic. Even if a small amount of glow was visible, people would probably discount it as a trick of the light rather than jump to insane conclusions.

So I was probably safe here for the moment, as long as I didn’t do anything too crazy. I could bundle up for the trip to Midpeak, and once safe in my own office I could begin to conduct research. Not too blatantly. Probably I should fabricate a commission to provide reasons for my sudden interest. The library staff would never question me, they knew me. But if I had to send others instead of visiting in person, they’d need to provide an explanation.

I should find someone else to actually write it. I could alter my own hand as necessary to accommodate the style of the work I’d been hired to draft, firmer and clearer for contracts, softer and elegant for love poems, ornate and antiquely tilted for epics and so forth, but I wasn’t confident I could manufacture a completely distinct handwriting style. And, ideally, someone else should choose the wording. My own vocabulary was by necessity rather more advanced than the average, and it would be stupid to give away the subterfuge with something like misplaced phraseology.

It may be excessive, but I had nothing else to do but plan out every detail. It made me feel a tiny bit better, having something to focus on besides the chances of my own doom.

My stomach growled loudly, reminding me that I’d eaten nothing all day besides Mother’s excellent soup many hours previous. I dressed, donned my coat and hat and gloves and wrapped a scarf around my face, so the only light was from my faint-glowing eyes. Not quite enough to see by, but more than enough to give me away in the dark.

No, this was stupid. I had a perfectly valid alternative.

I divested myself of the outer layers, but kept the gloves and wrapped the scarf around my neck, then lit the lantern. Checking in the mirror, I nodded. Yes, unless one looked very closely, the lantern masked the source of illumination perfectly. If I held it close in front of me, it concealed the faint glow completely.

I exhaled in relief, then crept out of my room and down to the kitchens. The front room had closed some time previously, which meant it must be closer to morning than midnight. The kitchen lay empty, the fire banked for the night. It took me a while to find the coldbox, but I located the leftovers from the previous day and helped myself to several plates, leaving a brief note with my name and room number enumerating what I’d taken so they could charge it to my account properly. Then I hastily retreated back upstairs.

I felt the faint weariness of staying awake too long, but I knew I would never be able to sleep. Too much worry and too many plans chased themselves around in my mind.

I finished off the last plate of food before realizing that it may have been prudent to save some for the morning.

My breath frosted in the air, and I blinked in surprise. Well, I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. The fire had been out practically all day. I’d locked the door, so no one had been able to come build it back up.

It would be endlessly suspicious if I went to sleep in a room barely warmer than the outdoors. And most particularly if I then didn’t complain about it. With a sigh, I collected the lantern and made another foray downstairs to collect wood. I may not have started a fire in years, but I did it enough as a child it came back to me quickly. Start small, with kindling and sticks, then work up to the bigger logs. It wasn’t entirely up to professional standards, but it was a fire, and would take the chill off the room in time for the attendant to fix it in the morning.

I wrote another missive, explaining that I’d worked late into the night on an epic and would appreciate food brought around noon, at which time they could also fix up the fire properly.

I glanced out the window, but the snow hadn’t stopped. And then I groaned and pulled the curtains closed. I’d overlooked the fact that anyone looking in could have seen me at any time in the past several hours. True, the window looked out over the hillside and pastures beyond, and no one was out there tonight. But it was the principle of the thing. I’d neglected to consider a very possible threat at all.

I had to be more careful.

I felt the panic threatening to overtake me, then that pulse of calm radiated out from the shard in my chest and I tried my best to accept the peace instead of fighting it. I put the future out of my mind for the moment and returned to checking over my most recent composition. If I were to throw myself into a new project upon my return to the city, it would be best to get all the current outstanding requests done before then.

Two days later, the storm finally left us firmly in its wake, the clouds broke up and sunlight graced the town with its light. Though its warmth lacked somewhat in the face of a brisk wind that blew the snow into drifts.

But I wasn’t complaining. A perfect day to wear a scarf or three, leaving no skin exposed, seemed just perfect to me.

I paid my remaining bill for the extended stay, gathered my papers, and retrieved the horse I’d rented for the trip.

It was a beautiful morning, glittering snow brilliant in the sunlight, giving the entire town a crisp clean feel. People shoveled their walks, and the town plow team had already come through to make the main street passable by foot and horse. A shovel crew came behind, more slowly, to clear the way for carriages.

As much as I wanted to gallop straight for Midpeak at top speed, I detoured back to my mother’s house to check on her. She stood on her back porch, arguing vehemently with a woodsman as he unloaded his cart, no sign of a cough remaining. Good.

She glowered at me when she noticed my presence, then made a shooing motion with her hand at me before returning to her tirade.

Yep, she’d be fine.

I turned the horse and set off up the road.

The trip to the city wasn’t as straightforward and easy as I’d have hoped. Several times I outpaced the plow and shovel teams, forced to slow our pace as the horse struggled through knee-deep snow.

Before we’d traversed half the distance, a small cavalry of House Sarosa guardsmen in full regalia galloped past in a great hurry, even their horses decked out in the blue, white, and yellow of Sarosa. I respectfully cleared the road and waited with head bowed as they passed, then watched them go with a strange mixture of relief and dread. They didn’t even glance twice at me. But if Sarosa got involved, if they were searching for Eirn Fylen whoever he may have been, things could get complicated.

I suddenly was very glad I had forgotten to show Mother the crystal I’d found and neglected to mention anything about the duel. If Sarosa guardsmen came questioning, she could honestly tell them everything she knew and betray nothing.

I watched them until they were out of sight, then spurred the horse on toward Midpeak.

By the time we arrived, evening had fallen. I hastily ignited my lantern to conceal any signs of glow from my eyes, returned the horse to the rental company and paid my bill, then walked briskly to my building.

It was a small building, modest in comparison to those around it, but I’m a scribe. I didn’t need anything flashy. The people who needed me knew where to find me, and I was out of town regularly enough that more local work would only be detrimental past a certain point.

The front, where customers could come in, I shared with an illustrator/illuminator couple. We had a standing arrangement where they took down any orders given in my absence, and I let them the space at a discounted rate. We also collaborated on more expensive projects, though those were few and far between.

The back contained my office and their workroom, with our living quarters upstairs. I stopped by the front to collect the stack of scrolled requests from my box, sighing at the quantity of them. Well, it would keep me busy at least.

I retired to my bedroom, pulled all the curtains, and collapsed into sleep.

I woke in familiar dim light, which brightened as I climbed out of bed. It was very convenient, I thought, not needing to fumble for the lantern or curtains. If not for the threat of, well, mysterious doom, I could get used to this.

But, mysterious doom still hung over me, and would until I discovered the precise nature of said doom. To which end, I must to the library. The mirror in my room didn't compare to that in the inn, but it was sufficient to discern that my faint glow became practically unnoticeable in bright daylight.

I took a lantern with me anyway. I couldn’t wear all my layers in the library without attracting notice, and it would hinder my ability to move freely besides.

I did stop by a clothing shop to buy a thinner pair of gloves, so I could turn pages easily without exposing my glowing-veined hands which seemed the most likely to give me away. At least the glow of my eyes was faint enough that they only really became obvious at night. Like a cat.

The shopkeeper looked at me oddly when I insisted on buying the gloves without trying them on, but was more interested in my money than my reasons. He did assure me that, if they didn’t fit, it was my own fault and he would not be making modifications without additional fees. I thanked him and left.

I hadn’t found the right person to feign interest in the nobility yet, so I restrained myself to mostly ordinary types of books, adding only a handful of the thick ornate tomes dealing with lineages, power inheritance, and the territories of the respective noble houses.

I knew all the houses by name, reputation, and could recognize their colours by sight. Everyone could. You had to be able to treat Sarosa with the right kind of respect, which was not the same kind of respect as the Novarot demanded. But I wouldn’t know any individual Sarosa from any other. Their colours were what mattered, not their face or name. You see Sarosa colours, you bow and get out of the way.

Sarosa, Varon, Metako, Novarot, Utrenad, Raysh, Oros, Leetan, Wightok, and Teshron. The ten noble houses, each with their main lineages and branches, divergent sub-houses, scandals and betrayals, secret loves and defiant youth, old fools and great masters.

Sarosa and Varon were the two most involved in this region, with a long history of alliances between them. And it didn’t take long searching genealogies before I found Fylen. Eirn Fylen Sarosa, sixth of that name, first son and only heir of Reirn Ovnon Sarosa and Heirn Eytra Sarosa.

This was so much worse than I’d imagined. And there was a childline inscribed but without a name, so he was going to have a child.

This was beyond terrible.

No wonder Sarosa troops were searching everywhere. His wife was probably going crazy, not to mention his parents!

I didn’t feel any better when I looked into Desten. Apparently, Desten was an old Varon family name, because there were about a dozen of them. And even ruling out anyone younger than twelve or older than fifty, that left me with eight potential Eirn Desten Varon candidates. And, worse, sometimes the Varon line had married into other lines, so I also had to deal with a Desten Metako, a Desten Utrenad, and for some reason two different Desten Oros, though the Varon and Oros families didn’t have any links that I could find, even looking back over a hundred years.

Even if I were inclined to risk my safety and security by informing the Sarosa about the identity of their heir’s murderer, my word wouldn’t be enough to actually track down the culprit. He’d surely learn about the investigation in plenty of time to frame someone else with the same name.

Or simply remove the sole witness.

Maybe I’d read too many unlikely stories, written one too many story of success against unlikely odds, but I was starting to get an incredibly stupid idea.

I called over a librarian I’d worked with in the past.

“I have a rather unusual commission to research today,” I told her. “A silly thing, really, but I’m supposed to come up with a way a commoner could be discovered as a secret child of nobility. I was under the impression that all nobility are identified at birth by their stone, and there’s no way to forge that. Is there any way that such a person could possibly go unnoticed until adulthood?”

“Not at birth, no.”

I waved away the correction. “Three months, basically the same thing. Still too young to be the focus of an epic.”

She stared at the ceiling for a moment in thought. “I suppose your hero could find a stone, perhaps from a family member who died, and it calls out. I don’t know how historically accurate that is, but it sounds right for a fantasy.”

“Would that even work?”

“Oh yes. There are stories of lost heirs. Not many, but they do happen on occasion. Childstones can be misplaced or stolen before they can be used.”

I wasn’t familiar with the term ‘childstone’. I’d have to look it up.

“Thank you. I think you’re right, this will work.”

We spent another moment exchanging pleasantries, then she departed to return to work and I made my way back to the table I’d appropriated.

The stupid idea kept getting stupider, and more alluring.

But first I had to do some more research.

I spent the next weeks reading everything I could possibly find about stones, nobility, and inheritance. There wasn’t much, that particular topic wasn’t readily available to commoners. Stones were inherited through some unknown process. Childstones would just show up at the proper time, and where or how was never written anywhere I could discover.

Disappointed, I switched focus and delved into history, reading political maps from the past hundred years, building up a patchy timeline for the division of districts and territories.

While for us the past century had been one of peace and relative prosperity, I was astonished to learn that the upheaval between houses had actually been fairly violent, cutthroat, and ongoing. The territory maps I compared painted a dramatic picture of shifting alliances, betrayal and deception.

Sarosa wasn’t always this powerful. Until about two hundred years ago, Varon and Sarosa had been rivals instead of allies. Eventually ‘The Great Alliance’ was agreed upon and later formalized with a union between the young Sarosa Reirn at the time, Reirn Jayosh Sarosa, and the second daughter of the Varon Reirn and Reirna, who became Heirna Anrya Sarosa. This unheard-of marriage between the purest house lines tied the families together in an unprecedented way.

From then on, intermarriage between Sarosa and Varon became nearly as common as unions between branches of the same house. There did remain the occasional Novarot, Metako, or Utrenad in the mix. One notable Whightok actually managed to become a Varon Heirna, after something of a scandal prevented any Varon minor lines from being willing to partner with Derend, the young Reirn-in-waiting.

Perhaps I got a bit sidetracked by gossip and rumors, dramatic retellings of intrigues and scandal. But then, deep in a dusty collection of legends, I found the opening I needed.

Asnon Varon. Born one hundred and sixty years ago, the fourth child of the reigning Reirn and Reirna, but first in line to become Reirn due to various happenstance. His eldest sister had no interest in becoming Reirna, and his two other siblings both died in childhood during the Great Plague that swept through the north a few years before he was born.

Alas, Asnon didn’t survive even long enough to be affirmed as Reirn-in-waiting, disappearing at the age of seventeen. He was never seen again, his body and stone never recovered.

Speculation died down after a few generations, but the disappearance of Asnon Varon remained a persistent mystery.

Who’s to say he didn’t run off with a nice young lady from an enemy house? Say, Teshron, they hardly had anything to do with either Sarosa or Varon, operating mainly in the southeast, about as far from Sarosa’s seat of power as possible without crossing an ocean.

Teshron would hardly advertise the fact that they’d lost one of their own to run off with the enemy. So Asnon and Miss Teshron could easily have set up a nice quiet home for themselves in the middle of nowhere. Their children would have gone unstoned to hide them from any house members who might try hunting them down, and for the next several generations Asnon’s heirs lived as commoners.

Until now. When one of their great grandchildren discovered one of the unused childstones meant for his grandparents, and accidentally ended up stoned.

What an entirely plausible story!

I couldn’t believe I was considering this.

But the fact remained, no matter how careful I may be, there was no way I could really hide my status as stoned for the rest of my life.

“Astesh,” I muttered, writing it down in my most elegant handwriting. Chances were good the surnames would have been lost to time long ago, so I flipped through another book of commoner family lines until I found one I liked the sound of.

“Astesh Myen.”

My heart sped up just thinking about this stupid insane plan, but this time the pulse of light that flowed through my blood felt encouraging rather than suppressive, as though even the renegade magic itself wanted me to act.

I would infiltrate the nobility, track down which Desten had been the actual murderer, and use that information as leverage to get the Sarosa to verify my identity as someone who shouldn’t be killed on sight or taken away for use in dark rituals.

My hand trembled as I tried to write my new name, but I persisted. If this was going to work, I had to be absolutely confident in this cover identity, in my story, in my lineage.

But if there’s one thing I was good at, by the lost god, it was making up stories. Acting them out in high-stakes reality situations couldn’t be that much harder.

I buried my face in the arm resting on the table.

This was going to get me killed, wasn’t it?