Life is fabulous. Lord of my House, the most powerful Tasuri of my generation, with my first son, the future of the First House on the way, I should be happy. I should be reveling in life, in my own success, right now.

Then why am I here, outside of the city walls, in the midday heat of the desert, with sand blowing every which way into my eyes?

Because my beloved Bonded, Anthea, at five months pregnant, wishes to see the nomads. Those dark-eyed, mean people living on the humped, woolen bodies of their pack animals as they travel through the harsh desert. I owe Anthea, she made my future less bleak, and I must indulge a pregnant female, right?

I shove the handkerchief higher on my face to cover my nose and mouth. Breathing in the irritating grit is nothing I enjoy. Tmari's high walls keep more than invaders out.

"Thane, look!" Anthea's muffled voice draws my attention to where she is eagerly pointing. The tent is larger than others with a dark blue roof painted with stars. A fortune teller. Gods, spare me.

Rolling my eyes, I accompany my bonded into the large domed tent. A fortune teller is an obvious money-making scheme. The true soothsayers and oracles are found inside the temples of the city, not out here in the desert. No gods bless the nomads with such gifts as the Sight. Any true oracle would be snatched up by one of the House Lords to serve in the city.

"Welcome, Lord and Lady of the First House," a young darkling girl greets them. Deep grey wings are folded tightly to her back, talons peeking out of the fingerless gloves on her hands. Slanted, crystal blue eyes are startling, staring with a wisdom far beyond the years shown on the youthful face. She is a skinwalker, a child who cannot change herself entirely into a wild creature, nor fully fold her other spirit into herself. A half-breed of impure blood who has been cursed, rather than blessed. Only those who are not favored by any one god is left so... disheveled.

"Hello," Anthea greets the girl doubtfully. I can tell that already the interest in seeing the fortune teller is waning. These half-breeds are not allowed into the First House or many of the homes of nobles inside the city. It is not a pleasant sight to see now.

Some believe that the malformed are still better than the Acera, those born without any shifting at all. I disagree, the pure forms of those females and males are... pleasant.

"My grandlady is ready to see you, Lord Thane."

I jerk a little, my hand pausing in removing the cloth from my face. For a moment I wonder how this child knows me, but then I assume that all of the nomads know about the Lord and Lady of the First House visiting their piddling little fair.

"I am not here for my fortune, girl," I sneer a bit.

She merely smiles. "No?" She looks at Anthea, "and you Lady? Perhaps you wish a fortune told for your son?"

Anthea's hand drops to her stomach protectively. "No," she murmurs, looking at the girl as if she stares at a venomous snake.

The eerie eyes turn back to me. "I think you should meet my grandlady, Lord Thane. After all, prophecies and curses will come true whether you chose to listen or not."

Hearing the word prophecy is as jarring as the girl herself. As if compelled, I follow the girl into dark interior, leaving my bonded and unborn son behind. Pushing through layer after layer of silken cloth, every step makes the air I am breathing in more stifling.

When I finally reach the gloomy space the light from the desert sun no longer reaches. Only a lone candle flickers piteously, the air woefully inadequate to keep it's fire alive.

"Have you come about your curse, First Lord?" the creaking, ancient voice drips with amusement.

I feel like I can't breath. Even the sand was preferable to this airless tomb. I peer into the dim tent, my eyes slowly adjusting until I can make out the hunched form of an elderly woman enveloped in the same silks of the tent, practically disappearing into the cloth.

"What curse?" I rumble. Internally I scoff at the old darkling gypsy. There is no curse on the First House.

"The curse..." she hisses faintly. Perhaps she has some snake shifter in her, "of your Fated, Thane of the First House of the Father god."

I am the next Lord of the First House, the heir to the father god, but I swallow heavily at the old woman's words. Dark, smiling eyes flash in front of my face. Parijan. She is gone.

I killed her. Gods, at least it was fast and without her even knowing what was happening. A sleeping potion, then a silver blade against her throat. She is at peace in the Underworld while I suffer without her, knowing she never loved me.

There is nothing more than I want than to run from this godsforsaken tent, but the unwieldy pressure on my chest makes me spit out, "tell me more."

"A pure soul taken. Her spirit can not rest," the old woman stares woodenly at me, white cataracts telling me that she is blind, yet her eyes search far away through the walls of cloth to the blowing sands of the desert and the mysteries beyond.

She can not rest? Is it possible?

My mind flits to the screams I've been hearing late at night. The noise wakens me, just enough to make out the haunting cries of a young girl. As soon as I'm fully awake the sound stops.

I thought it was a baby, maybe that little newborn to my servants. No, no I pray it's a child, a real, living child, not... her.

No newborn sounds like this, but I can never keep the cries in my head, the screams waking me then dying out just as quickly, a mirage of sound.

Was my nightmare girl actually her?

She's at peace. She's gone, not suffering eternally. Please, gods, betrayer or not, she can't be here.

"She was a liar, a manipulator," I defend my position in a firm voice. Anger still scorches me at the inferior little liar that fate tried to tie me to.

The old woman cackles until a coughing fit seizes her. I stare at her blankly numb to the disrespect, until she recovers her breath. "Do you truly believe that?" she chortles. "No one in the city, of any of the Houses, 'cept maybe yours, believes that shite."

"Explain," I demand. I press my hand to my chest, feeling my broken heart race.

"Through her pain a new life comes."

White eyes turn to me, staring right through me, watching my shattered heart pump blood through my veins. It makes me question the old gypsy's apparent blindness.

"A sixteen-year old girl seduces a man nearly twice her age? Makes secretive bids for power? Lies and cheats and steals and no one knows of it 'til the choice bonded of her Fated catches her?" she starts to laugh again. In between chuckles she manages to eek out, "you never wanted that child and so you killed her to rid yourself of your unwanted Fate."

The old woman stands on creaking knees and grabs her cane.

"Where are you going?" I ask her. I don't believe her words. I don't, right? My fated... Parijan didn't deserve the honor of being the Lady of the First House, the mother to my children, my bonded. She betrayed me. I had wanted her, I had loved her, but she broke my trust and broke some part of me, too.

"You don't need me, Thane of the First House. You need to prepare for Death."

"Death?" I say blankly. My mind is spinning. Memories that I have shoved away bear down on me. Could I have saved her? She tried to make alliances with other Houses, to topple the First from power, but I could have controlled her. I should have kept her... hidden away from the House and its occupants, who loathe her so much. I could have been happy.

Gypsy eyes bore into my own. There is no blindness here, except maybe my own, as the dark shadows of the tent seem to press in on me. "You cannot fool me, young demon. No lies can turn this old head as yours was. You robbed this city of a pure soul by murdering her. Now you must beg for peace. A price must be paid."

"What shall the father give to his child? Pure soul for pure soul."

I leave the tent after the old woman. Staggering back out into the bright sunlight, I stare at the brightly-colored pennants flapping in the desert breeze. The nomadic people are different, I remind himself. They live beyond the strictures of the city, traveling according to their own whims and traditions. The fair is smaller than usual this year, that is apparent. Maybe they are the ones that are cursed. The words of the old woman echo in my ears, a price must be paid.

I shove my hand deep into my pocket. My fingers curl around the faded, blue ribbon. Her ribbon, my Parijan. A pure soul.

What must I sacrifice for this 'price?' 'The father'... is my son in danger? Will my baby die because of Parijan?

Can I have her back?

---

Death is soothing. Despite the mischievousness of my gargoyles and the occasional wails of grieving family members, I have found peace in this place. It's true what they say, the dead make the best neighbors.

It's so quiet at the Temple of Nateos. I have learned, quickly, how to listen to the voices of grief. I rarely hear the dead, thank Nateos. When I do, they are not beseeching me to help them, not yet, at least. Sometimes I hear secrets that I don't think I should be hearing. Dark whispers, of murder and greed and avarice. One day I may be able to do sometime about them, but my father, Nateos, tells me, 'not yet,' whenever I complain to him.

I feel useful, which feels good. I'm just lonely. There are very few postites of death in the temple. Most of the Callings to city-folk come from Love or the Mother. There are several soldiers for Artes the War god, but not too many of us are claimed by Death.

And so the temple is still and empty, just a few postites and my gargoyles. And the dead. Mountains upon mountains of the dead. Just behind us stretch hills covered in family mausoleums. All of the Houses each have a large, white-domed building that holds the remains of the nobles of the Houses. The unHoused others are buried in smaller crypts scattered in carefully planned plots. We are responsible for the maintenance of the graves and the proper burials for the dead.

I take part in the burial customs, but only to counsel the grieving. It calls to me, the shock, the sorrow and pain, that the mourners feel. I understand what loss feels like. In some ways I am a cruel, bitter creature, beyond anything I ever believed possible, but I know suffering. There are moments when I feel like a glutton from the grief of this city and its inhabitants. It makes me wonder if I was better off dead and in the Underworld with my father.

"Lady," the elderly Lady of the Third House smiles at me. I wonder what she thinks when she sees me. I don't wear my veil as often anymore, and hardly ever within the confines of the temple complex. My hair is still a garish bright red, my skin paler than I remember it ever being because of the time in the temple and the dull winter sun. I'm tall, but I haven't become, well, a woman, yet. I look like a wraith in my dark grey robes of the temple. They're a little big on me, but I like it that way, it feels like Death is embracing me. I'm still too thin, with prominent cheekbones and dark eyes that have been described as soulless, at least by the High Priest of the Fourth House.

I shake off that memory. No sense in letting the Sea god's priest affect me. My god is Death, now.

I pat her hand comfortingly. The well of grief that is absorbed from her body to mine isn't that bad. I've worse, much worse. I will wash the grief from me in the father's pool, and if it's too much, then I'll sleep, sometimes for days.

Tears sparkle in the lady's eyes. She is burying her bonded today. It is not her first funeral, of course, but she still seems to appreciate my attempts to explain our ceremonies.

"Then we bless the crypt and seal it. Your beloved will be moved in one year, on the anniversary of his death."

"May I come back then?" she asks me in a whisper.

I nod, "we welcome you to return, Lady. It is very common to watch your loved one during their final internment." All things I am still learning, but Death and Patriarch Rimon guide me.

She smiles thankfully.

"It is time," one of the postites offers me a quiet nod. I rise to my feet and gesture to the door, letting the lady go ahead of me. My first duty, according to Patriarch, is to comfort the grieving before the funeral. The rites of passage into the underworld are still done by other priests. I am not ready for that, yet.

I accompany her down into the first resting place in the crypts below the temple. It is dark in the enclosed space. The only light comes from two slotted windows high in walls far above my head. The obsidian stone shines in the mid morning sunlight that pours through the windows. In the center of the space, her husband's body is wrapped and ready to be placed inside the first cairn. Deep in the earth his body will lie in its coffin for a year, while his soul is measured and judged by Nateos.

Next year he will be placed in the white-domed mausoleum outside.

Patriarch nods at us as we join him, not pausing in his prayers.

I wait patiently for the ceremony to end. When the shroud-wrapped body is placed in the obsidian coffin the stone sarcophagus is flooded with waters from the sacred pool. A mixture of acids is added. The balance must be perfect, just enough to strip the bones of flesh and hair while leaving behind perfect white skeletons to be interred in the mausoleums. After a year the mixture is neutralized enough to use as fertilizer in our apple orchard.

A moment of silence is given for the House. Only weeping can be heard, carried away on the wind to the ears of Nateos.

A butterfly

I look to my right, to see Momo trying to eat the pretty yellow-winged insect. Sometimes I wonder if my father takes any of this seriously.

"His soul is at rest," Patriarch Rimon announces.

I smile gently at the mourners. I can feel their love and sorrow for their lost love one. He will be missed, but now he is welcomed into Nateos' kingdom. Their grief is lessening as it flows through the air, mostly into me.

As we are walking back to the temple, the Lady asks me quietly, "what name do you go by, Priestess?"

I look at her. "I am Mara, Lady."

She nods before pressing a delicate necklace into my hand, "much thanks, Mara. I believe you have paved my husband's way to the underworld."

I accept her gift and escort her out to her guards.

The necklace is gold, with a shining red ruby hanging on the strand. It is the sort of necklace given to a young girl, the red of Urto, god of War, the patron god of the Third House.

I wonder if she had heard of me before today. The young Priestess who bears the coloring of the Fifth House, but belongs to Death. Death has no House, no patrons, no children. Yet here I am, seemingly from nowhere. I guess I must be something to gossip about.

I watch the necklace sink into the Sacred Pool to lie at the bottom, the ruby blending with the red stone, just a flicker of light to let the eye know that there is something different lying there. A thrum of fear lashes me. I don't want anyone to know that I am here, that Parijan of the Fifth House survived and was reborn.

Daughter

The god's voice strums in my mind like a finely tuned mandolin.

It's a reminder. Parijan is dead. Murdered. I am Mara, Death's daughter, now.