Conash dropped a mushroom into his basket and looked around for more. The Deep Forest's fecund humus yielded a wealth of plump pale mushrooms, and, since he had a knack for finding them, it was always his job to do so. Massive ironwood trees towered over him, and winding animal paths laced the carpet of leaves between their rough reddish trunks. The Deep Forest's silence enfolded him. Only an occasional creak of wood or faint trill of distant birdsong broke it. Sunlight filtered through the dense canopy of thin leaves to fleck the ground with spots of gold, and drifting spores swirled in the warm shafts. Clumps of bright green ferns broke the golden-brown monotony, and gloom swallowed up the distance in a brooding hush.
Becoming aware that the light was fading and it was time to go home, the boy set off, swinging the basket. He followed the trail that had led him here, or at least, he thought he did. When he came across a fallen tree he had not seen before, however, a chill went through him. He was sure he had followed this path, but the animal trails all looked similar, and now he did not know whether he was even heading in the right direction. If not, he was in trouble. Becoming lost in the Deep Forest was dangerous, possibly fatal. It was not a good place to be after dark, when predators roamed it. At just six years of age, he was too small to defend himself. The plump mushrooms had tempted him too deep.
Conash sat on the log and gazed around, wondering what he should do. His father had told him time and again to stay close to the edge of the wood, and he had disobeyed. The gloom grew deeper and more frightening by the minute, and Conash chewed his lip. The canopy prevented any glimpse of the sky, even if he knew how to navigate by the stars. With the dawn, he would have an idea of which direction to take, but now the sun was almost gone and the air chilly. If he was to survive, he must find a safe place to spend the night. Father had taught him much about forest lore, perhaps enough to see him through. His eyes stung, and he blinked, refusing to cry. He was not a baby.
Setting down the basket, he examined the log, which had a hollow under it that he could fit into if he cleared out the leaves. Conash dug them out while the light faded, glancing around anxiously as night sounds replaced the daytime birdcalls. An owl hooted and crickets chirred. A distant howl drifted through the trees, making him shiver. When he had made a hollow large enough, he crawled into it and drew his coat around himself. If wolves found him, he was done for. His acute hearing picked up the padding of soft paws on the forest litter, and he peered into the darkness, filled with trepidation.
The darkness was too profound for him to see anything, yet it seemed that something moved close by, black against the darkness. His shivering increased as the air grew colder, and the rotten log did nothing to keep him warm. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to ignore the frightening things that moved in the night. It did no good to dwell upon what might be out there or how little chance he had of survival. All he could do was try to stay warm, and pray. His mother had great faith in Tinsharon, and prayed to him daily. She even had a little shrine where she placed fresh flowers and bowls of spring water to honour him. Hot tears stung his eyes, and he shuddered as the distant howling grew nearer. Still, he sensed something close by, a presence that waited, alert and silent.
When Conash opened his eyes, soft dawn light slanted through the trees to dapple the leaves with gold. That he had fallen asleep amazed him, and that he was unharmed astounded him still more. Crawling out of the cramped hollow, he stretched and knuckled his eyes, yawning. His stomach rumbled and his mouth was dry. He wished he was at home, with the scent of bacon and frying eggs wafting through the house and his noisy siblings demanding breakfast.
Conash's nape hairs bristled, and he glanced around. A wood cat sat a short distance away, watching him with golden eyes, its tail twitching. The boy froze, meeting the cat's eyes, and it rose to walk a little closer, its gaze intent. Wood cats were not considered dangerous, being only the size of a big dog, perhaps reaching knee height to a man. They lived mostly on rabbits and rats, occasionally snakes, and rarely, lambs. To a six-year-old boy, however, especially a pint-sized one, the cat was a daunting size. Its ink-black coat blended into the shadows, and it moved with lithe grace, muscles rippling under its glossy coat.
It sat down again, and watched him. He sensed only a slight curiosity and expectancy from it. Slanted golden eyes dominated its elongated face, and broad, pointed ears swivelled atop it. Entranced, Conash crawled towards it, wondering how close he could get. On two prior occasions, he had glimpsed a wood cat in the forest, and he wondered if it was the same one. He had an odd feeling that this was the presence he had sensed nearby during the night. The cat bobbed its head, measuring the shortening distance between them, then turned and bounded away. Conash sat back and gazed after it, disappointed.
With a sigh, he rose and picked up the basket of mushrooms before setting off towards the sunrise. His mother had asked him to bring her a full basket, and handed him the wicker container with a gentle smile. As yet, he was not allowed to tend the goats, but his parents found other chores for him. Just two tendays ago, he had suffered another fever, and spent seven days in his bed, soaking the sheets with sweat. His memory of that time was hazy and confusing, filled with the scent of incense and his mother's soft hands holding cold cloths to his brow.
A moving shadow caught his eye, and he looked around. The wood cat stood on a fallen tree and gazed at him with deep fascination. Conash walked towards it, determined to either chase it away or befriend it. Once more it vanished into the gloom, and he returned to his chosen path, glancing back often. He had walked some distance when he sensed its presence behind him again and swung around.
The cat's head bobbed and its ears flicked back, then pricked again. The boy trotted towards it, and the cat bounded away, then paused to look back. It seemed to want him to follow it, and he did, the basket of mushrooms forgotten. The cat led him deeper into the woods, where even the faint birdsong did not reach him and the gloom grew more profound. Each time he lost sight of it and stopped, it reappeared ahead of him, luring him after it. Despite his hunger and thirst, and his frightening ordeal during the night, he followed. Occasionally it pounced on the leaves with a rustle, as if it wanted to play but could not allow him close enough.
Conash did not stop to consider that the beast was almost as big as him, or that he was far from the well-known trails at the forest's edge. The cat darted amongst the trees, ran up them with a tick-tack of claws and leapt down again with lithe grace. When his legs ached, Conash sat on a log. The cat appeared from between two trees and gazed at him, its tail twitching. Conash was too tired to follow it any further, however, and walked back the way he had come, or at least, the way he thought he had come. He could find no trail in the leaves, but it seemed like the right direction.
About a time-glass later, Conash sat down on another log, exhausted. He was still weak from the fever, and a night in the cold and chasing the cat had drained him. Digging in his pocket, he pulled out the piece of dried meat his mother had put there before he had left the farm and chewed it. Its saltiness made him thirstier, but there was no water in the Deep Forest. He thought about the feverish time again, recalling a stranger at his bedside at some point, speaking strange, singsong words. His mother had wept and his father had held her close when someone's fingers had made a wet mark on Conash's brow.
The gloom increased as dusk approached, and the boy stood up again, forcing his tired legs to serve him. He had spent the entire day following the cat, and now there was no sign of it. The evening chill made him shiver, and he folded his arms. He had no tinderbox, and the nights were cold at the beginning of autumn. The thought that he might not find his way home weighed heavily upon him, and when he sank down again, his legs shaking with fatigue, hot tears filled his eyes. Bowing his head, he scrubbed the wetness away with a dirty hand and sniffled, then looked up.
“Papa!” he bellowed in a cracked treble. “Mama!”
Silence answered him, and despair engulfed him.
“Papa! Mama!”
The gloomy hush closed in behind his thin cry, and his tears redoubled. He did not want to die alone, lost in the forest. Conash sobbed, rocked and hugged himself, shouting again and again. Surely his father would find his trail and follow it, but how long would it take him to find his lost son? Frustration turned his dread to anger, and he stood up and kicked the leaves.
“Papa! Mama!”
A moving shadow caught his eye, and he swung around, his heart thudding. His fear ebbed when the wood cat emerged from behind a tree trunk, circling him. It glanced at him each time it came into view, and he wondered why it had returned. Had it heard his cries? Was it hoping for a meal when he died? Wood cats were not known as scavengers, but they probably would not turn up their nose at a free meal.
The cat circled him twice, then paused to one side of him and sat down. Conash approached it, wondering if it would help him. Then again, why would it? It was a wild animal, he reminded himself. Why had it returned? He recalled a bedtime story about a wolf that had saved a lost little girl in the woods by leading her back to her parents' house, and hoped it was true. Was there not magic in these woods? A rustle behind him made his heart pound, and he walked faster. The cat rose and bounded away. Conash stopped with a shout of frustration, fresh tears running down his grimy cheeks.
“Papa!” he shrieked.
The gloom increased, and with it, his fear. He rubbed his eyes and sniffed, looking around. When he turned back, the cat stood there once more, its ears twitching. Heartened, the boy ran towards it, and it trotted away.
After what seemed like an eternity of stumbling through the dark woods, his legs aching and his stomach rumbling, Conash sat down, unable to go any further. The cat paused ahead, glancing back. For all he knew, it was leading him deeper into the forest. He wept again, his misery complete. The cat came closer. Conash looked up and swallowed a sob, scrubbing the tears from his cheeks. This cat was acting quite strangely. It circled him, its tail twitching, then sat down only a man-length away and yawned. Conash wanted to touch it more than anything, and crawled towards it.
The cat bobbed its head again as it measured the distance between them. The boy paused a pace away, afraid to go any closer. The beast could seriously injure, if not kill him. It rose and stepped closer, then flopped down and stretched out on the leaves. A deep, rumbling purr came from it, and Conash stared at it in amazement. A shaft of moonlight dappled its black coat, and he stretched out a hand, drawn by the seduction of its soft fur. His fingers brushed it, sensed its warmth and purring vibrations, then sank in to touch the sleek muscles beneath.
Conash gasped as a wave of warm emotions engulfed him, a mixture of love, curiosity and trepidation. The cat stopped purring and gazed at him, and he placed his other hand on its flank beside the first. The cat was a two-year-old male, he sensed, and he had a name. Ri... Ri-a... Ri-an... He struggled to decipher the word that formed in his mind, muddled by the strange emotions. Gradually it cleared, like silt sinking to the bottom of a pool, and a word solidified and took shape.
“Rivan,” he whispered.
The cat turned his head and licked the boy's hand with a warm, rasping tongue. Conash edged closer, stroking Rivan's silken coat, and the cat purred again. He rolled onto his back, apparently inviting Conash to rub his belly, and he did. Rivan stretched, his muscles thrumming, and Conash ran his hand over the cat's taut stomach, fascinated by its lean softness. Rivan's warmth soaked into his cold hands, and he squirmed closer still, emboldened by the feline's friendliness.
Conash sat and stroked the cat for a long time, filled with wonder that this wild creature allowed him to touch it. The cat's purr did not falter, but when the tired child lay down beside him, Rivan stood up and walked away. Conash followed, desperate for company, even though his aching legs wobbled and tiredness made his eyes droop. Rivan wandered along, glancing back often, and Conash trudged after him with dragging feet.
“Conash!” The faint shout drifted through the forest.
“Papa!” he screamed.
“Conash!”
His father's voice rang with anguish, and Conash sank onto the soft leaves, relief draining the last of his strength. Rivan had vanished, but rustling leaves and the snap of breaking branches marked his father's approach.
“Papa!”
His father came into view between the tree trunks, bars of moonlight sliding over him as he ran towards the boy. Falling to his knees, he swept Conash up and hugged him, kissing his son's hair in a frenzy of relief.
“Thank God! Thank God!” he muttered.
Conash clung to his father's neck, the heat that radiated from Jarren's sweat-dampened chest warming him. Jarren stood up, cradling the boy in a tender embrace, and strode through the trees.
“Misha!” he bellowed. “I have him!”
A few minutes later, Conash's mother ran up to them, gasping, and held out her arms. The boy turned and reached for her, and she pulled him into her soft embrace, crushing him to her bosom until he squeaked and wriggled. She wept over him, kissing his hair, cheeks and lips.
“My baby,” she crooned. “Thank Tinsharon! Where was he?”
Jarren jerked a thumb behind him. “In the forest.”
“Gods, I shouldn't have sent him to find mushrooms. This is my fault. My poor sweet baby boy.” She hugged and kissed Conash again, wiping the tears from his cheeks. “I'm so sorry, baby. Are you all right?”
Conash nodded, clasping her neck. “I'm all right, Mama.”
“Come, let's go home,” Jarren said.
Conash gazed over his mother's shoulder while she carried him home, hoping for a glimpse of the wood cat that had helped him. Jarren bellowed for Rykar, who was also out searching the woods, apparently.
At the house, Jarren lighted lamps and Misha sat Conash on the table to inspect him, washing his scraped knees and dirty face.
“Where did you go?” she asked.
“I got lost, Mama.”
“I'm just glad you're safe, my sweet.”
Rykar stomped in and flopped down on a chair, scowling. “Trust him to get lost.”
“Shush, Rykar,” Misha admonished. “He's just a baby.”
“He's six!”
“Don't be horrible to your brother.”
Rykar snorted. “He's always getting into trouble, falling down, hurting himself. He's a wimp!”
“Rykar!” Jarren turned from the stove, where he had set a pot of water on to boil. “Your brother's not as strong as you.”
“He's not even as strong as Orcal, and he's only two.”
“That's enough.”
Misha sat down and clasped her belly, which was swollen with another child, due in a moon-phase. Conash slid off the table and went to climb onto her lap to hug her.
“I'm sorry I got lost, Mama.”
She held him close, kissing his cheek. “It's all right, baby. You gave us a fright, that's all.”
Conash rubbed her belly. “Is the baby all right too?”
She smiled. “The baby's fine.”
The boy looked up, filled with a preternatural sense of approach. The scent of humus came to him, stronger than usual, mingled with a hunger that was not his own. A wild longing rushed through him, and he turned to face the door, which Rykar had left open. Jarren frowned at his son, swapping a worried glance with Misha.
Conash looked up at his mother and smiled. “I made a new friend, Mama.”
“Who?”
The sense of approach grew stronger, and now the scent of goats came to him, mixed with a faint pang of trepidation. He turned to the door again and pointed.
“Him.”
Jarren glanced at the door, and his mouth fell open. A wood cat stood there, gazing at Conash with wild, beautiful eyes. The intensity of the animal's gaze, along with its bold entry into the house, told him all he needed to know. He sagged against the stove, then stepped away from it with an oath and rubbed his burnt hand. Misha stared at the cat with wide eyes, then glanced at her husband.
“Can it be?” she whispered.
“It must be.”
“He's only six.”
Jarren's heart filled with pride. “He's cat kin.”
Conash slid off Misha's lap and approached the wood cat, which sat down and purred. Jarren's eyes burnt as the boy hugged the feline, which was only a little shorter than he. Rykar made a strangled sound, and Alenstra, who had been left behind to watch the younger children, gaped. Jarren walked closer and squatted to study the cat, which watched him with wide, uncertain eyes.
“Conash,” he murmured. “This is your familiar.”
The boy turned and smiled, and Jarren marvelled afresh at the singular sweetness of his son's gentle expression. “His name's Rivan.”
“He's beautiful,” Misha breathed. “Cat kin. Jarren, our son's cat kin. Isn't it wonderful?”
“Yes. But you're cat kin too.”
Misha glanced at Triska. “A wood cat is a powerful familiar.”
Jarren nodded. “Odd that a beast would bond with a boy who's supposed to die in childhood.”
“Remal and Pendrith are wrong.” Misha turned to her son. “Did Rivan help you to come home, Conash?”
“Yes, Mama. I was afraid.”
Jarren rose and went over to lay a hand on his wife's shoulder. “This is good. He'll keep Ash safe.”
“He's also dangerous.”
“He won't hurt Ash.”
“Not on purpose, but he's not strong.”
Conash released the cat and approached his mother, leaning against her knee to look up at her. “I lost the mushrooms.”
She smiled and pulled him onto her lap to hug him. “That's all right, baby. Mama loves you.”
Conash sighed and snuggled up to her. “I love you, Mama.”
Jarren scooped up his son and settled him on his hip. “Come, Ash, you can't sit on Mama's lap now; you'll squash the baby. It's time for your bath.”
Conash cast an alarmed glance at Misha. “Sorry, Baby.”
Misha giggled, and Jarren smiled at his son's sweet, gentle nature. Of all his children, little Conash was, without a doubt, the most loving, and had a fey quality about him. The boy smiled at him, and Jarren met his soft grey eyes, so like his wife's, only a paler, clearer shade, the irises ringed with darkness. Thick black lashes framed them, and Jarren was struck afresh by his son's extraordinary beauty. A shadow followed him, and his nape prickled as he sensed the presence of the new familiar that had joined their household. A swift, deadly feline. It seemed strange that such a gentle child would bond with a predator. Jarren had always thought that Conash was bird kin.
Jarren recalled the dread that had filled his heart when Conash had not returned from picking mushrooms. Misha had stayed behind to bathe the rest of the children while he had gone in search of his second son, then she had joined the search when he had returned empty handed. Even his raven, Shema, had been unable to find the child in the Deep Forest. The family had spent the previous night sleepless and sick with worry, and resumed the search at dawn. At least now they would not need to worry about Conash becoming lost again. Rivan would always bring him home.
Jarren placed his son beside the steaming tub and stripped off his clothes, then lowered him into the warm, soapy water. Rivan came closer, looking a little alarmed, to sniff the water and taste it before retreating to a corner to sit and watch. Jarren pondered his son's fragility. Conash's delicate constitution had led to many bouts of fever. Twice now, they had almost lost him to illness, and the priest had come to give him the Death Rites. He had clung to life, however, and recovered.
Jarren dressed Conash in his nightshirt and carried him back into the kitchen, where Misha prepared supper. A bowl of raw meat waited on the table, and Jarren put his son down and handed it to him.
Conash wrinkled his nose. “I don't want this, it's icky.”
Jarren chuckled. “It's for Rivan.”
“Oh.”
The boy took the bowl over to the cat and put it down, watching Rivan eat for a moment before turning to beam at his father. “He likes it, Papa.”
Jarren settled into his well-worn chair and lighted his pipe while Misha set out the dinner plates. Rykar watched Rivan with envious eyes, and Jarren hoped he would not have any trouble with his eldest son. Although Rykar was not a bully, he tended to be overly boisterous with Conash, and scorned his weakness. Now he would have to deal with Rivan as well, and perhaps that was a good thing. Jarren only hoped that Rykar would not be hurt, since familiars, especially predatory ones and particularly cats, tended to be protective.
***
Jarren woke with a grunt as Misha prodded him in the ribs, rolling over to look at her. Sweat beaded her brow, and her breath came in quick gasps.
“It's time,” she whispered.
Jarren sat up and frowned at her distended belly, recalling the birth of the boy who had almost killed her. Since then, she had had two normal births, and this one was right on time. His sixth child, and it was a Tree moon. Rising, he donned his dressing gown and went into the kitchen to stoke the stove and feed it wood, setting a pot of water on it to boil. Returning to the bedroom, he found Misha sitting up, her knees raised and her teeth bared as she bore down. The contraction ended, and she flopped back with a groan.
“Do you want the midwife?” he asked.
She shook her head. “It's all right this time.”
“Maybe I should fetch her, just in case. Or I could send Rykar.”
“No. I'm all right.” Misha gritted her teeth again.
Jarren sat on the end of the bed, frowning. Bubbling from the kitchen warned him, and he went to fetch the hot water and boiled cloths. When he returned, Misha strained again, sweat soaking her hair. Jarren waited, praying for his wife's ordeal to be over soon and the child to be delivered safely. After a time-glass, he went to peep into the girls' bedroom, finding them asleep.
Opening the boys' bedroom door a crack, his eyes came to rest on Conash. The wood cat was stretched out on the bed beside him, and looked up, his ears pricked. Conash slept like a log, Jarren reflected with a smile, and was unlikely to wake, even when Misha could no longer keep silent during the delivery. He closed the door again and returned to his bedroom. Misha had raised herself on trembling arms, and strained to push the child into the world. Jarren sat on the chair beside the bed and waited.
Dawn's pale light brightened the sky outside the window when Misha cried out, rousing her husband from his fitful doze. She sat up to look at the plump baby that lay on the wet sheets, pushed out only a moment ago. Sweat-soaked hair straggled across her brow. She picked up the new child and held it to her breast, smiling up at her husband.
“It's another girl.”
Jarren rose and went to her side. “Praise Tinsharon for her safe delivery.”
Misha took the warm damp cloth he gave her and cleaned the baby. A new daughter, he marvelled, born safe and without blood. The infant girl wailed lustily, waving chubby arms. All his children, he reflected, had come into the world without his aid, save for the son who had been given to him dead. The only child he had cleaned after his birth. Conash.
Misha smiled up at him, flushed with happiness. “I want to name her Ryana.”
He nodded. “Sky Bird. A pretty name for a pretty girl.”
“She's strong.”
He perched on the edge of the bed. “She's beautiful.” He leant over to kiss Misha's brow. “Thank Tinsharon for this great gift. Three sons and three daughters. We're blessed indeed.”
“Send Rykar for the priestess. I want her blessed today.”
Jarren nodded, recalling again the fateful night when his second son had been born in the icy grip of a blizzard. So different from the joyful arrival of his other children, all born in the first warm rays of dawn. Misha held the child to her breast, and Jarren rose and went to the boys' room to rouse Rykar and send him for the priestess, then paused to gaze down at Conash. The boy slept so soundly he often feared that he had died in his sleep, and now he bent to listen to his son's soft breaths. How ironic, he mused, that he was more concerned for his six-year-old son than for the new-born in the next room.
By the time the tall, thin priestess arrived, clad in her white robe and leather sandals, the children had eaten breakfast and gone out to play, and Jarren was a little frayed around the edges from dealing with them. Shinda had thrown porridge at Conash, who had retaliated by spitting fruit juice at her. Orcal had cried and Alenstra had poked Conash, who had thrown his bowl of porridge on the floor. Jarren had shooed them out, warning them to stay close to the house. As yet, only Rykar knew about the new arrival.
The priestess glanced around at the wreckage of the kitchen, her brows rising, then followed Jarren into the bedroom. Misha glanced up with a smile, holding little Ryana in her arms. Priestess Mirtel sat beside the bed and gazed at the baby with soft blue eyes.
“Blessed be Tinsharon, giver of all life.” She drew out a flask of holy water and sprinkled a few drops on the baby's brow. “Bless this child, great Tinsharon. Guide her steps through life and protect her from evil. Let your light always shine upon her, and fill her with your glorious strength. Let her not stray from the path of righteousness, sobriety and honesty. Bring her joy all of her days, a kind husband to protect her, and gentle children to love her. Let her be known to you by this name...”
“Ryana,” Misha whispered.
“Lovely.” Priestess Mirtel smiled and rose. “She's a fine, healthy child. Congratulations to you both.”
Jarren stepped aside as the priestess went to the door, then followed her.
“Priestess...”
Mirtel turned to him. “Goodman Jarren?”
“My son... He's never been blessed.”
“I recall blessing both your sons.”
“I have three.”
“Ah. You speak of the dead child.”
Jarren frowned. “He's not dead.”
“Midwife Remal told me that he was born dead.”
“He's alive now.”
“But for how long? Haven't I given him the Death Rites twice already?”
Jarren nodded. “But now he's found his familiar. He's stronger. I want him blessed.”
“I can't bless the dead, Jarren. All the blessings he needs, he's received with the Death Rites. Tinsharon will not guide him when he has no life ahead of him.”
“You don't know that. Please.”
She shook her head with a smile. “If he reaches the age of puberty, I'll give him the Life Rites, but not before. That child's a ghost, Goodman Jarren. His hold on life is so weak that it may slip at any moment. Enjoy him while you can.”
Jarren followed her outside, where she paused to watch the children play. Conash dug a hole with Rivan's help, and looked up when his father stopped beside him. He smiled, and Priestess Mirtel drew in a sharp breath. Jarren squatted to stroke his son's hair.
“Are you dead, Conash?”
The boy giggled. “No, Papa.”
He looked up at Mirtel. “You see?”
“That child is fey, Jarren.”
He nodded and turned to his son. “Watch this. Conash, call some birdies, hmmm?”
The boy rose and went over to a puffwood tree, where several songbirds nested. Raising his arms, he closed his eyes and smiled. Rivan sat in the hole and watched him. It took several minutes, then a bird flew down to land on Conash's arm, soon followed by two more. The boy turned to gaze at his father with sparkling eyes, and the birds flew away.
Jarren looked at Mirtel. “He's special. Don't you see?”
“He's fey. He won't be long in this world.”
The priestess turned away, shaking her head, and Jarren glared at her back.
“He's God Touched!” he shouted. “He should be blessed! The beasts love him!”
Conash ran to him and tugged his trouser leg. “Papa! What's wrong?”
Jarren swept up his son and hugged him. “Nothing. Come, there's someone I want you to meet. You have a new sister.”
Carrying Conash inside, Jarren took him to the bedroom, where Misha rested, Ryana asleep in her arms. Jarren put Conash on the bed beside her, and the boy peered at the baby girl.
“It's the baby!”
Misha giggled and nodded. “Yes, my sweet boy. Her name's Ryana.”
Conash crawled closer to brush the damp strands of hair from his mother's brow, then hugged her neck and kissed her cheek. Jarren scooped up his son and put him on the floor.
“Go and play now, Mama needs to sleep.”
Misha gazed at the doorway after Conash had vanished through it. “She still won't bless him?”
“No.”
“She's wrong. They're all wrong.”
“They don't know him like we do.”
She looked up at him with sorrowful eyes. “We can't give him a proper name without the blessing.”
“One day, she'll have to bless him, then we'll rename him. What do you want to call him?”
“Tyequin.”
Jarren sank down on the chair. “God Touched.”
“It's what he is.”