Thankfully, Iome’s father had suffered none of the worst effects of endowment shock. Now that twelve hours had passed, she hoped he might regain some wit. It was possible—if he had not wished to grant the endowment with all his heart, if the forcible had not been perfectly fashioned, if the facilitator had not chanted his spells with precision—it was possible that he might even remember her name.

So Iome sang to her father softly as she finished cleaning and dressing him. Though he showed no signs of recognizing her, he smiled at her songs.

Even if he never remembers who I am, Iome told herself, it will be worth it to sing. In time, he might learn to love my singing.

When she finished changing him, Iome dressed him with a cloth diaper beneath his tunic.

The bailey of the Dedicates’ Keep was filled with ruined men and women, people who had given endowments the night before. The influx had overwhelmed the caretakers. As quickly as Iome and Chemoise finished caring for their own fathers, they began caring for other men—guards who’d faithfully served House Sylvarresta since childhood.

The cooks got breakfast ready, and Iome carried plates of blackberry-filled pastries among the Dedicates. She knelt to waken one young woman who slept in the sunlight beneath a green blanket, a guard named Cleas, who’d escorted her on many a trip into the hills.

Rarely did women serve as guards. Even less rarely did they serve as soldiers of the line. Yet Cleas had done both in her life. She had endowments of brawn from eight men, had been one of the strongest swordmasters in Sylvarresta’s service. Raj Ahten had delighted in taking the strength from her. Now Cleas did not breathe. Sometime during the night, she’d become too weak to draw breath.

Iome hurt at the sight, did not know whether to feel angry or grateful. With Cleas’ death, fifteen people who had given her endowments would have suddenly become whole, easing the overcrowding in the Dedicates’ Keep. Yet Iome had lost someone she’d loved. Iome’s throat felt tight. She knelt over Cleas, weeping, looked back. Her Days stood watching. Iome expected the woman to be cold and dispassionate as ever, her little V of a face tight-lipped and empty. Instead, she could see lines of sorrow in her expression.

“She was a good woman, a good warrior,” Iome said.

“Yes, it is a terrible waste,” the Days agreed.

“Will you help me get her to the tombs?” Iome asked. “I know a vault we can use, a place to honor the guards. We will place her with my mother.”

The Days nodded weakly. On such a dark day, this small gesture struck Iome powerfully. She felt grateful.