I feel like ten thousand fools. But, what else can I do? The postites at the House of Death refuse to answer even the simplest of questions from the First House. The Patriarch will not even meet with my father or me. My father was correct, the House of Death answers to no one.

So here I am, at the entrance to the neighborhood of Tmari controlled by the Fifth House, by Love.

Guilt is an albatross around my neck. I haven't been to this part of the city, despite it being right next to my own, since my perfidious grandfather told me Parijan betrayed me.

I can't look at the citrus tree that we met under. It's branches are blackened, dead and barren. I remember it being budding with flowers, the petals falling around my Fated as if Love herself was blessing our pairing.

I feel as dead as the tree. Ice crunches under my feet. Soon winter will break, but this time is the darkest part, when nothing seems alive and it is too cold to even snow.

I receive hostile stares from the Love patrons at the temple. Guards shift at their posts, breaking their emotional gazes to glare at me in hatred.

I understand. My House is more powerful and I abused that power to murder one of their own, precious children. I hate myself, too.

"Thane of the First House," the priest greets me, loudly, in case one of the watchers didn't know who I was. Now they all know and the air becomes even more frigid.

"I have come to speak to your oracle," I say. My voice is in monotone. I have no emotion but guilt left in me. Even my own son can't lift the burden. He looks too much like Anthea. He doesn't feel like mine.

"Our oracle?" the priests grey, bushy eyebrows shoot upwards.

"Yes," I ground out between clenched teeth. I can't love my son, but I can save his life.

"About?"

I must play my cards right. Offer myself, play on their love for children and innocents.

"My son doesn't stop crying. He doesn't sleep, doesn't eat. He will die if nothing is done."

The priests eyes grow frosty. Was this a miscalculation or can this male sense my ambiguity toward my own flesh and blood?

"I have come to ask your goddess for help," I add dully.

"For?"

"To break the curse on my House. I am willing to do whatever it takes."

He turns, silently, and walks into the temple. I follow, assuming that his lack of protest is permission to enter.

"Our oracle is in here," the priest says.

I jolt with immediate horror at the small figure sitting on a pure white stone, surrounded by flowering trees and plants, all white blooms.

This little Acera female's hair is the same as my Parijan. They could be sisters, in fact. When the female's eyes open on me it's little relief to see the milky-blue instead of deepest brown. They are just too similar for the demon I host and myself to handle without feeling ill.

"What do you ask of the goddess, Thane of the First?" the oracle says in a childlike voice.

I force my shudders down. At least this oracle is obeying the code of soothsayers, not like the desert nomads.

"I wish to save my son and my House."

"Those are two requests, Lord Thane." She says nothing else, just watches me with those eyes turned toward the gods.

"There is a curse," I say, slowly. Why did I not prepare more for this?! "My grandfather has been rejected by Death-"

"That is not our House," the oracle interrupts me.

"But my... my Fated is-was from this House."

"Parijan of the Fifth is no longer here."

I wince. They know. I had thought it was secret, but it makes sense that she told her House. Why wouldn't she? "I know. My House... I killed her."

Silence fills the temple. Slowly I begin to wonder at the temple. There is very little natural light in here, yet the flowers all bloom in perfect health. The only light I can see comes from the tiny female in front of me as if she is light, itself. There is no water, but there is a pool, it's bowl darkened as if it recently held liquid, but has been drained.

"Your will be the price to end the curse," she says suddenly.

"I will be the price?" I say.

"Your will be the price," she repeats.

Damn oracles. "I don't understand," I admit.

She is silent again.

I try a different tack, "Love, I humbly ask that you grant me a boon. Let me right this wrong."

"For your House?" the oracle stares right through me.

"For my house," I confirm. Silence reigns through the temple. Nothing can be heard, no errant thoughts, no voices, no whispers just below the threshold of clarity. Even the bustling of the city overhead and the faint trickle of water from the fountains outside are silenced as the oracle ponders the dilemma that I have presented.

The goddess does not want to save the First House, I realize with dawning resignation.

"Thane of the First House," the oracle begins her words, slowly, achingly, then falls silent, again.

I feel the stirrings of faint disbelief. This is what my life has come to, begging for answers from little girls with hair the same red shade of my lost Fated.

"I want to make reparations for the death of my fated bride, Parijan of the Fifth House." I blurt out the other reason for coming to this temple. Perhaps I need to make reparations, as the nomadic woman told me to, instead of asking for relief of the curse.

The oracle frowns. A shiver dances down my spine as near-white blue eyes meet my own for the first time. "Reparations?"

"Yes, for her death," I say, striving to keep from flinching at the eerie look in the girl's eyes. This oracle of Love looks to be only a step from death, herself.

"Her murder, you mean?" the oracle's frown deepens. Her hands tremble terribly as she lifts, with agonizing slowness, a jug of milky-white liquid next to her. With a sigh, she pours it onto the floor. I fight the urge to move my feet from the trail of liquid as it runs over the flagstones.

"Go to the tombs of the Unforgiven in the desert," the oracle intones. "For your fated is Love's no longer."

"My grandfather's tomb?" I question carefully. I swallow my own bile back down. I have not been in the desert since the carnival. I have no desire to return to see the pitiful burial place of my own kin.

"Yes," the oracle replies. Her body jerks suddenly, as if stabbed in the back by some unseen force.

"Your lifesblood will cleanse the curse and restore what was taken from the First House."

I feel hope creeping into my horror. "Will I see my Fated again?" I ask quietly. Is that what this means? Will my blood bring back my Parijan?

"Your lifesblood will cleanse the curse and restore what was taken from the First House."

I grit my teeth. "I must do this for my House," I affirm. The oracle says nothing. "Will I die?" I ask impatiently. She does not even blink. I open my mouth to ask again, when she looks back to the flowers and floor.

"Never may you return your House or family."

"My son?" I feel cold.

"This is the price. He will lose his father, but live."

I nod, defeated, confused, angry. "So be it."

For a moment my thoughts turn dark. I wish I had just rejected the little brat and left her to rot in her House. She was nothing, barely a noble, with a dead father and a mother with not a drop of noble blood. She would have faded into the background and I wouldn't be losing everything now.

Dark eyes dance in humor. Beautiful lips curl up in a smile. A soft giggle, completely entrancing, fills my heart. She was all that was good in life.

Guilt slams into me, again, the darkness fading. Parijan's life was stolen from her. At least it is my decision to end my own.

There is nothing left for me in this life. I have lost my Fated, my love. For my innocent baby I will sacrifice anything.

---

Over the last year I lost everything, even my life, then gained it all back in a way that I could have never even imagined. I keep thinking I understand, that I can make it through the shifting of my life, but it feels like every time I feel solid, the earth moves beneath my feet again.

I lost my mother. I can't tell her I'm still alive. Would she even want to know me, know the Daughter of Death?

Now I am losing Patriarch Rimon.

I know he's old, as Antin told me, gently, as I cried. I know he's lived a full life, as Banio said as he cooked for hours and hours because he finds it cathartic. I know that he will be remembered, as Farso babbled away while we sobbed together.

But do any of those platitudes really help? Right now, all I can do is curl into Salbin's arms and weep piteously as he hums softly. He doesn't say a word, no useless cliches, no lame attempts at comfort.

We, at the Death temple, make the worst comforters when it is one of our own knocking at the door of the Underworld. Ironic, isn't it?

"What will happen?" I ask, my hands pet Momo, the gargoyle curled in my lap even though he's a bit too large to fit comfortably.

"He will pass soon, Mara. Patriarch will be entombed in our temple for his safe passage to the Underworld. Then... the god will choose the next Patriarch."

"How?" I hiccup.

"It is one of the only times that we all hear the god speak." Salbin pets my head the same way that I am petting Momo. "It has been a long time since a new Patriarch was chosen," he says quietly. "I can scarcely remember the last one."

"Do you want to be Patriarch?" I ask him, sniffling.

"I can't be, child. The god has never blessed me. I am a postite because of my years of service, not because I am anything special."

I smile at my father's soundless chuckle echoing in my heart. I think Salbin had better be prepared to be 'blessed.'

My smile fades when I realize that in order for Salbin to be Patriarch, my sweet Rimon must die. My sobs grow louder.

We really are bad at grieving for our own, aren't we?

"Mara," Antin approaches me with a sorrowful smile, "Patriarch wants to see you."

I tiptoe into the bedroom that holds me dear friend. His breathing is raspy and shallow, the rattle of death can already be heard. His skin is papery and dry from dehydration. He hasn't been able to drink much more than a few small sips of wine the last couple of days. He's pale, but his eyes are still bright with coherence and that familiar intelligence.

"My Mara," he mumbles.

"Patriarch," I sniffle grossly, wiping my nose and eyes with one of the cloths that Harku keeps bringing to me.

"I wanted... to see the miracle... one last time... I've... no idea when... I will see you... again," his words are soft, sometimes difficult to decipher. When I do, fresh tears pour down my cheeks.

"I'm sure the Underworld has better miracles than me."

"Doubtful," he wheezes with a chuckle. He coughs, and a droplet of blood appears on his lips. I dab it away quickly, not wanting to look at the obvious sign that the Patriarch's body is failing him so rapidly.

"Ouch, little one... remember your tears," he teases me weakly.

I force a smile. He is always harping on me for crying at some of the funerals. He claims the temple can't afford to buy me new robes all the time. Salbin will probably be even worse, he's terribly frugal.

Mishu coos at me, curling around my neck. "You're too heavy," I say quietly to him, but he doesn't budge, the fatty.

"I must ask you... one thing... Mara... before I die," Patriarch says weakly.

I straighten up, "yes, Patriarch?"

"Who... exactly," he coughs, "are you talking to?"

I pause as I stroke Mishu's ears. "Pardon?"

"You speak... to nothing, little one. You move... sometimes, odd movements, words..." his voice trails off, his eyes flickering.

I look at Mishu. He shrugs his shoulders. I turn back to the Patriarch. "You can't see him?"

"Who?"

"The gargoyle on my shoulder?"

The Patriarch jerks with a sudden laugh. It sets off another coughing fit, his frail body jerking so much that I call for Antin.

"Easy, Patriarch," Antin grabs the elderly male's shoulders and eases him back on the bed.

"Tell him," Patriarch gasps out.

"Mara?" Antin's concerned eyes turn to me.

"I have gargoyles," I blurt out, "five of them. Can you not see them?"

Antin looks at me, bewildered. The Patriarch is still chuckling weakly, "and she thinks... there is a miracle... more stunning than her," he wheezes out.

Antin allows a small smile to cross his face. "You have gargoyles."

They think I've been talking to myself for nearly a year? Fabulous. As if I wasn't odd enough. Here comes Mara, the female who has hair the color of dried blood, who cries tears of acid and hears the voices of grief, and... oh, did you know she has gargoyles as her companions? But, of course, no one can see them but her? Shh, they're imaginary.

"I have five," I repeat in a sullen tone.

Patriarch coughs again, "I will... miss you, little one."

More tears. I am burning holes in my robes, again. "I will miss you, too."

He will have the most exalted place at my side, Daughter.

I open my mouth to repeat my father's words, when I see Patriarch Rimon's face is slack, a small smile gracing his lips.

He is gone.

I suck in a breath that feels like fire moving through my lungs. I have been stabbed before and it hurt less than this terrible feeling. Antin quickly gathers me in his arms and carries me from the rooms. I feel my body being tucked into my little room, the hushed voices of the postites, their concern, their own grief. I can't absorb it into myself, because my own grief is equal to their own. My gargoyles pile onto me, their bodies covering mine. I don't think about it, about the fact that no one else can see my friends. I will become hysterical if I do. Now it's even more important that I don't act any stranger than I already am.

Sleep, my Daughter

I think, right now, I will be an obedient daughter.