There have historically been attempts to sell or trade childstones, but this has proven to be unwise at best and deadly at worst.

The resonance of an individual's power with that of a foreign stone meant for another usually results in stunted power and lifelong mental strain, even in a best case where the stone's donor and recipient are highly compatible. If the compatibility is less than almost perfect, the stone will shatter and leave the recipient powerless or dead.

The danger increases exponentially along with the recipient's age. While the common age of implantation is between two and five months, if something goes wrong with the childstone's formation they can still accept a compatible replacement stone within the first year with only a 4% chance of dangerous side effects.

After age 2, the survival rate drops very very quickly. At four years of age, a late transfer can still be undertaken with around one in three surviving the attempt. Any older than five, and you're better off trying for a new heir.

-Between the Lines: Inheritance and power on the fringes of advancement

I sat out the rest of the Varon parties, instead focusing my full effort on reading as much about Sarosa courts as possible. They used a different ranking system from Varon’s, none of the tay/ebi/shesh business, instead opting for a simple system based on numerical ranking. Sarosa could be ranked 1st through 5th, with 5th being the highest. I couldn’t guess what the difference would be between a 3rd and a 4th, but the Sarosa knew, and would defend their position fiercely.

Varon salutations were highly formalized for non-family, but hardly used at all internally. Sarosa were nearly the opposite, demanding increased formality from those within their family but much more forgiving toward outsiders. Which was good for me, being a Varon insider and Sarosa outsider. I'd have been in serious trouble if the circumstances were reversed.

You’d think that a few months of obsessive research would help, but at a certain point it became difficult to absorb the information and apply it correctly. Even things I’d been learning before the Varon came for me had begun to run together. Was it Leetan or Wightok that specialized in textiles? Did Raysh have the best farmland, or the most productive mines? Oros and Novarot … close allies, or fierce rivals?

Trying to sort out the sometimes-inaccurate information from before against the corrections and new information I’d been reading since coming to live with Desten 1, while also searching for information on Sarosa, began to strain my desire to even look at a book. Let alone perform serious research.

I needed a break, needed a pause, some way to actually relax between social obligations, and the strain of trying to prepare didn’t help. The constant knowledge that I could be found out at any slip-up and executed or disappeared or whatever they did with renegade stoned added an uncomfortable tension to my every waking moment, along with a mounting sense of futility, a growing certainty that even if I could figure out the answer to this mystery it wouldn’t be enough to save me.

Desten’s increasingly poor temper didn’t help matters. He disliked the social events as much as I did, but while I could skive off and stay in bed, he had no such freedom.

He pushed me harder than ever in our back garden training sessions every night, and to everyone’s surprise this seemed to actually help. By the end of Varon Week, I could levitate myself on command. It wasn’t stable enough for sustained flight, and my power would slip away if I lost concentration, but I could hover or glide at will. A minor victory perhaps, but one that I felt warranted celebration.

Desten disagreed. He immediately started pushing me toward more specialized utilization of my power: forming a hardened aura shell, drawing solid light into reality, and inverting my pull to force power out from my person. None of these progressed to anyone’s satisfaction.

Aside from trying to bully my power into cooperation, he spent an unreasonable amount of time shouting at the staff. They seemed largely used to it, though one kitchen girl did burst into silent tears, but I found myself quietly relieved each afternoon when he finally departed for the evening’s events.

I would miss his library, but I looked forward to being able to leave him behind.

The irony of trading one Desten’s care for that of another did cross my mind more than once. But, from what I’d seen, Desten 3 ranked considerably lower on my scale of likely-to-be-a-killer than Desten 1. And even with his erratic temper, Desten 1 didn’t rank that highly on the list either. By my assessment, he was too blunt and straightforward to do something underhanded like lure Fylen out into a deserted patch of forest far from the cities.

Though, what did I really know about nobles? For all I could tell, they very well may be perfectly civil by day and murderous madmen by night. None of which speculation helped my deteriorating grasp on sanity.

Were it not for my power’s constant warm presence and its frequent pulses of enforced calm, I would probably be running away screaming long ago. But I did have my power, and it did help push back the anxiety and calm my fears and allow me to rest easy at night living in the same house as a potential murderer. Or, no, legally-permitted killer.

And so here I was, bags stowed by servants, riding the overpriced flying platform with Desten 3, away from Varon City and toward Sarosa Ridge.

The clear platform provided a good view of the forest below. I easily picked out Woodedge as we moved past the woods and toward the mountains, though my mother’s cottage would be hidden by the nearby foliage. I tried to see the site of the fight, but evening shadows blurred the forest together into a deep green.

It felt surreal, to be flying over such a distant town so soon after leaving, less than two hours had passed and we were already nearly home.

No, I reminded myself. Not home. Not any longer. We wouldn’t be visiting the downcity, my shop wouldn’t be on the itinerary. Though, maybe I should stop by and make sure I haven’t missed too many commissions …

I had to force my mind away from the thought, habit screaming that I’d been away from work for too long, and really shouldn’t keep people waiting. I’d disappeared without warning, and though I’d fulfilled all active outstanding orders at the time, there may be new ones since then.

Astesh. I’m Astesh Varon. A downcity scribe? Who? Certainly not me.

I missed my shop.

I could admire the grand sweeping architecture of the upcities, the avenues wide enough for a half-dozen carriages, the vast grounds and courtyards and gardens of each house, but it didn’t feel the same. Even Desten 1’s house, which had come to feel like a home base, for all its comfort and familiarity couldn’t rival my cramped little building with its creaky steps and cozy wooden interior. All the marble and lights and glass and stone of the upcity was magnificent. But it wasn’t me. Not yet.

I wasn’t sure whether to look forward to a time when I truly changed, becoming Astesh instead of merely acting as Astesh, or to dread it. When the downcity began to appear cramped and quaint, the stone and light familiar and comforting, it would be a boon to my ongoing survival amid my deception. But also a loss; perhaps even a kind of death.

Maybe who I used to be was dead already. Did my mother mourn me? Or had she gone on with her life, assuming I’d simply become too busy and would stop by sooner or later? Often months went by between my visits, so she may not have considered it important yet. But as midsummer had come and gone, she might worry. I’d had no chance to say farewell properly, no time to explain the complicated deception which I’d undertaken. She would be fine. She had to be. She was too stubborn and brash to be too upset by something as trivial as this.

I hoped she’d be alright without me. She always says she doesn’t need me to try to look after her, but I prefer to be sure she’s well than leave it to chance. One more task I couldn’t accomplish.

Pink light pulsed through me, alleviating the growing gloom. We were closing in on Midpeak, the city I’d called home for nearly all of my adult life, and I had to admit it was beautiful. The white haze that separated the upcity from downcity gleamed with the light of the many lines of power drawn across every building. It painted a stark contrast; the natural yellows and firelight orange of the downcity on one side; the Sarosa colours of brilliant cobalt and gleaming silver and pale gold predominant, accented with the full rainbow of other lights above.

I’d grown so used to Varon reds dominating the lighting scheme of the cities, I felt a bit awkward and out of place stepping into the blue glow of the Sarosa city.

It was hard to remember this was still Midpeak, the same city in which I’d lived and worked for so many years. It felt like any other unfamiliar city. It was even harder to imagine that my shop lay less than an hour’s walk away.

“Astesh, come on!” Desten 3 called, and I stopped staring around and levitated after him. I almost surprised myself with how natural it felt to step into the air and float forward at a quick pace. I did need to learn the solid aura thing though, the wind chill made the trip less than comfortable.

“Where will we be staying?” I asked. Desten had arranged for us to share space at a local house for Sarosa week, but I wasn’t sure where exactly it was located.

“Lirndyn Cottage, not far from the Towers.”

The Towers were one of Midpeak’s claims to fame, three towers braided together into a complex pattern, each twist highlighted with Sarosa blue light showing off its contours. And, typical of the nobility, this marvel of architecture would be the location for tonight’s opening festivities.

People of all houses flew by overhead, many disembarking from platforms like ours, some coming in alone or in smaller groups, all converging toward the Towers.

Desten led the way down a side street, away from the press of new arrivals. “There’s no point in getting caught up in the early rush,” he said quietly. “We can unpack and settle in before heading over.”

I heartily concurred with this assessment, and followed him to our new temporary base of operations.

Lirndyn Cottage was bigger than Desten 1’s house, and Desten 1’s house was not small.

“Cottage?” I asked incredulously.

“We’ll be sharing it with Myrett and Avys, so don’t get too excited, we won’t have it to ourselves.”

A quarter of this mansion was still easily three times the size of my entire building back downcity. We were greeted at the door by the cottage staff, who already had collected our luggage from the sky platform and led us to a pair of well-appointed bedroom suites. Desten offered me my pick, and I shrugged and took the one on the right.

“We’ll leave in a half hour,” he said, then disappeared into his room.

I spent several minutes walking around my new suite, trying to accustom myself to the sheer grandeur. For all his wealth, Desten 1 had lived a somewhat simple life for a noble. There hadn’t been nearly as much culture shock as I’d expected.

This was more what I’d thought of when I envisioned the lives of the nobility.

I couldn’t even identify half the furniture. Everything was polished wood inlaid with blue and silver and gold; the carpets were beautiful vibrant sapphire, the curtains silver with gold patterns, the sitting room more richly appointed than any room I’d ever set foot in.

I was rather timid about walking around at first; everything looked so pristine, I didn’t want to ruin any of it. But then I remembered that Desten was paying probably a substantial sum for this place, even with his friends chipping in for their part, and decided it would be ungrateful and wasteful to tiptoe around like an intruder.

I walked around every room in the suite, examining all the furniture and trying to convince myself to feel like I belonged.

It didn’t work very well. I changed out of my standard outfit into one of the more ornate Varon-tay formal tunic with its triangular cut, and immediately felt even more out of place. The green and red looked wrong amid the blue elegance around me, making me feel like an outsider in yet another way.

It was a relief when Desten knocked to remind me that we would be late if we continued to dawdle, and I could join him in flying toward the Towers.

He had to slow his pace to allow me to keep up, and I nearly lost control of my power twice, but we made it.

If Sarosa were officially in mourning, I saw no indication of it.

For that matter, I wasn’t entirely sure if the public even knew what had happened to Fylen. Reirn Ushan Varon knew, but what house heads shared between themselves and what was common knowledge may not be the same thing.

While the exterior of the Towers appeared to be three separate entities twisted together, the interior was wide open. High ceilings, crystal stairs tiled in lapis lazuli leading up in a sweeping curve around the outer edge of the structure from floor to floor, a gradient of blue tiles across the floor, the Towers showed the same extravagant expense and unquestionable beauty as the two Varon party locations I’d attended, but with its own character. Sarosa decorations employed a lot more curves and zigs, while Varon remained straightforward with mostly square or triangular patterns.

“I thought Desten was going to be here,” pouted a female voice, startling me from my observations.

Desten turned to her as well, frowned, then continued walking toward a group of scholarly-looking individuals from several different houses.

I hung back.

“He might be going reverse this year,” said another young woman soothingly.

“But he promised to be here!” whined the first girl.

“Desten makes a lot of promises to a lot of people, and you wouldn’t be the first he’s disappointed,” said the second woman with a faint edge to her voice.

I edged closer, trying to be subtle about it, but the two girls noticed me and shut up at once, turning to watch me.

“I couldn’t help but hear you’re looking for Desten,” I said. “Which Desten would that be? I’m traveling with one.”

The first girl perked up. “Desten Varon?”

“Eh, one of them. There are eight.”

“Eight? I only know of two …”

“Can you describe the one you’re looking for? I’ll let you know if I see him.”

The first girl sighed dreamily. “Tall, dark hair, beautiful brown eyes, and the most perfect nose …”

The second woman exhaled with an expression of longsuffering patience, then pretended to smile. “He’s fairly well-known. If he shows up, we’ll hear about it.”

“But he hasn’t written since the end of leafdown!” wailed the first girl. “I’m so afraid something happened to him.”

Another woman walking past paused to add, “My best suggestion is to get over him. He’s obviously over you.” She narrowed her eyes at the emotionally-fickle girl. “Trust me. Desten Varon? Not worth the tears.” She gave a disdainful huff and stalked off, looking slightly more irritated at the world.

“I’ll keep an eye out,” I told the duo at the table, then hurried after the third girl.

She was easy to find, tall and wearing a trailing silver dress that sparkled in the light, ringed with red bands and ornamented with Wightok’s purple raindrops.

“Excuse me, do you know Desten personally?”

She laughed dismissively. “You must be new. Everyone on the circuit knows Desten. He’s the biggest moron this side of the ocean.”

“I am new, yes. Could you fill me in?”

“He thinks he’s special, and so does everyone else. Until he moves on and leaves them behind like no one is worth his time. If you’re hoping to be the exception, be prepared for disappointment.”

“I take it he travels a lot?”

“He’s a staple on the circuit. Even runs in the off season. I don’t know how he keeps finding new idiots to take in, but every time I’ve seen him he’s got another bunch of ‘em.” She sniffed and shook her head. “Charisma is wasted on fools.”

“But what does he do?”

“Aside from talk big and promise what he can’t deliver? Not very much.” A faint smile crossed her face. “He does have some good qualities, don’t mistake me. But on the whole, he’s just someone with too much power who never grew up.”

She snagged a glass of wine, raised it toward me in a mocking gesture, then took a sip as she turned and continued walking. This time I didn't chase after her.

So Desten 6 was a charismatic good-for-nothing, who hadn't been seen for half a year? Very interesting.