11: EIGHT GATES
Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Two days since the Devoran Prophecies stopped being so hypothetical
“That smoke wiped out a whole town?” Kihrin didn’t try to hide the horror in his voice. “How many people died?”
Janel scowled. “I didn’t count.”
“Just over three thousand,” Brother Qown said.1 “We were lucky. Mereina’s normal population was closer to fifteen thousand, but a large percentage of the population had already left to avoid the baron’s overzealous witch hunt.”
“Still that’s—” Kihrin found himself at a loss to express how hollow he felt at the news.
She gave him a shrewd glance. “You should know what you’re up against. That bottle of blue smoke wasn’t unique.”
“Anyone who would use a weapon like this is a monster.”
“You’ll hear no argument from me,” Janel said, her voice soft.
Kihrin leaned forward in his seat and scrubbed at his eyes with his palms. “It’s not right. I still don’t know how many died in the Capital. I don’t know if you’ve heard—”
“I heard,” she said. “What happened in the Capital wasn’t your fault.”
“If I hadn’t come back—” He stared into the fireplace and left the sentence hanging.
“If you hadn’t come back, Gadrith would still be ‘alive’—or whatever you want to call his particular exemption from decomposition.”
Kihrin frowned. “That almost sounds like you knew him.”
“Maybe I did, but we’d be jumping ahead of the story, wouldn’t we? Let’s let Brother Qown continue.” She smiled. “He loves this part.”
“I don’t,” Brother Qown protested. “It’s very sad.”
But he was quick to start reading.
Qown’s Turn. Mereina, Barsine Banner, Jorat, Quur.
Brother Qown fought the temptation to fall to the ground and pray to Selanol when he saw sunlight. It meant the smoke hadn’t reached the town. There would be survivors.
At least, there would be a few survivors.
A small crowd waited at the town’s edges. Not more than a few dozen people who, for various reasons, hadn’t been near the fairgrounds when disaster struck. Not all those had survived either. At least a few townsfolk had braved the cloud seeking friends and family. Their bodies just inside the witch-smoke border told their fate.
Besides the few human survivors, animals fared better, some innate instinct encouraging an earlier flight. Dholes wandered the main street in packs, upset and ill-tempered. All six elephants used at the fairgrounds had escaped, wandering up to familiar townsfolk for reassurances or making calls to one another. Some horses made it out too, although many more died in fenced corrals.
Brother Qown watched Janel work, feeling numb, not ready to deal with what had just happened. If he didn’t know her, Qown wouldn’t have guessed her true age. The count seemed immune to the deaths they had just witnessed, immune to the horror, immune to the shock. Whereas Brother Qown fought not to break down, the count ordered survivors to separate into groups. She instructed them to search the town for others: those who hadn’t attended, or those who had fled when the demon revealed himself. These might have taken refuge in their homes, praying the horror would pass them by. Janel ordered people to gather supplies, confiscate wagons, prepare the evacuation.
She’s been trained for this, he thought. Trained her whole life to be the voice anyone would follow in an emergency. She assumed she was in charge, and thus, it was true.2
Brother Qown watched as people vanished into patio areas, until what he saw registered: ramps. In every private area, ramps led underground or back into hillsides, as if Mereina had forgotten to build houses over their basements. The circular brick stacks he’d taken for firepits were chimneys.
Brother Qown snapped from his reverie when he heard shouting; Dango yelling for the survivors to be quiet. Count Janel had covered herself with a long red cloak she must have picked up from the tournament grounds. It was obvious she wore armor, but her temporary disguise as the Black Knight was hidden. She took Ninavis’s place on Arasgon, using the height this gave her to speak to the crowd.
“Mereina was attacked today,” Janel declared. “Foul black magic has been used against her people. The blue smoke you see behind us is that witchcraft manifested; it will kill anyone who lingers near it without protection. We don’t know how long the smoke will last, but it’s not possible to burn the dead while it remains. For this reason, it isn’t safe to stay here past sundown.”
“What about the Gatestone?” someone in the back shouted.
“What of it?” Sir Baramon replied. “It’s back at the castle! Might as well be at the bottom of Lake Jorat.”
Ninavis scowled. “What happens when the Gatekeeper opens the portal tomorrow morning?”
Janel’s expression flattened as she hesitated.
“Depends on whether that Gatekeeper is fool enough to step through, doncha think?” Dorna wiped her chili-stained fingers on her skirts. “He’s supposed to step through. That way, he can open the gates all them tournament folk and travelers need to go home. If he’s watching his step, though, he’ll stay right where he is. He’ll see the smoke and go tell his people in House D’Aramarin something’s gone screwy. But if he ain’t paying attention?” Dorna shrugged. “Figure he’ll either die from the witch-smoke, or he’ll meet the local hell spawn when they start ambling about—and then he’ll die from that.”
“But even that’s good, though, right? When the Gatekeepers realize one of theirs didn’t come back, they’ll send the army,” Dango said. “They’ll send the army through the gate.”
“No,” Kalazan said, “that’s the last thing they’d do.”
Janel tilted her head to Kalazan in acknowledgment. “He’s right. If the Gatekeeper steps through tomorrow to open return portals for the tournament visitors, he’ll either be overcome by smoke or by the demon-possessed dead. Either way, no new portal will be opened afterward. And if he’s smart enough not to step through? No new portal will be opened either. A protocol is followed in such circumstances. There will be no deviation.”
“A protocol?” Someone new asked the question—Gozen, who had been forced to give up his place to Janel in the lists.
“The gate system is Quur’s greatest strength,” Janel explained. “It is also our greatest weakness.3 If an enemy force gains control of a single Gatestone location, they could move an army to any point in the empire in seconds. Every titled noble in every dominion is trained in invasion protocols, mortal or demonic. This Gatestone will be presumed lost and in enemy hands. At that point, the Quuros army will open a gate—but not here. Never to this location. They’ll try to open a gate to the Gatestone nearest us. If that gate can be opened safely? Only then will an army march back here to discover what has happened to this Gatestone. That will take a week, minimum.”
“A week?” Ninavis gaped. “Every dead body here will be risen as hell spawn in a week!”
“I’m aware.”
“But what can we—”
“There are eight locations the army may use, based on proximity to Mereina,” Janel explained. “The gate they open will be picked at random from those locales, to ensure any enemy forces cannot predict where the army will arrive and lie in ambush. If we plan to meet the army and make sure they understand what’s happened here, we’ll need to split up. Nine groups. Eight of those will travel to the possible gate sites and meet the approaching army before they arrive in Mereina.”
“What happens to the ninth group?” someone asked.
Janel looked at Ninavis. “Not all of us can travel quickly. There are children here, the injured, the ill, and the elderly. Those will need to shelter at a secure location. By tonight, this town won’t be safe for any living being. Since this isn’t my banner, I direct the question back to you: Where can we take refuge?”
The crowd murmured and looked at each other. “The old mill—”
“Oh sure, that will fit two of us, and rotted through besides.”
“What about Coldwater? Ain’t no one there now.”
“Ain’t no Coldwater there now either.”
“What? What happened—?”
“Dedreugh happened.”
Ninavis sighed. “I have a place.”
Janel hadn’t looked at anyone else. She must have suspected Ninavis knew a location but gave the woman a chance to offer it herself.
Once Ninavis had spoken, it seemed to free up the others. Jem Nakijan nodded, as did Tanner, Vidan, and Gan Not-Actually-the-Miller’s-Daughter-After-All.
“Aye,” Dango agreed. “It’s big enough to fit us all too.”
“Good.” Janel pointed to the crowd. “Now I want our eight strongest riders and every available horse. Volunteers, step up.”
While Janel and the others fretted over team distributions, Brother Qown focused his attention on Baron Tamin. He’d had little success in pulling the smoke from Tamin’s lungs, but removing the baron from the smoke’s borders had helped. The blind panic behind his eyes haunted Brother Qown most—the look of a man awake and conscious, feeling every desperate failed pull from his lungs.
“That glyph thing ain’t working?” Dorna knelt next to Tamin and checked his eyes, his nose, his mouth. Tamin still choked, although never quite to death.
“It makes the air around his head clean, but I don’t think it’s doing anything about what’s already in his lungs. New air can’t get inside.” Brother Qown shook his head. “This glyph … I’ve never seen anything like it, Dorna.”
The old woman frowned. “What are you on about? You’re the one who was using it. I just copied what I saw you doing.”
“But it shouldn’t have worked! The only reason—” He caught himself. “I’ll explain later. I have to figure out how I’m going to clean his lungs.”
Dorna stared at him as if he were missing something very obvious.
Brother Qown glanced up. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
She leaned in. “Ain’t you supposed to be proper educated? Got your shiny Blue House magic license and all that?”
“I never told you—” Brother Qown lowered his voice to a whisper. “I never told you I owned a Physickers Guild license.” He didn’t talk about such things while in Jorat. The local beliefs didn’t mesh well with the knowledge he held formal training and licensed permission to practice magic. The Joratese only put up with the Gatekeepers because the Quuros military and their economic stability demanded it. Everyone ignored a little heathen magic if it meant they could cross the realm to see their favorite knights perform on a regular basis.
“Ah, well. Heard the old count talking about you people before he passed on. You have book training. That’s my point.”
“I don’t need your mockery right now, Dorna—”
She visibly rolled her eyes and indicated Tamin. “So answer me this, priest: Does like not call to like? You and your fancy education learned that much, didn’t you?”
“What are you—?” Brother Qown stopped.
He stared at her, dumbfounded, not understanding her meaning for a smattering of long, pregnant seconds. He couldn’t do anything about the witch-smoke in the baron’s lungs. However, yes, if he tied the cursed fumes to something close enough to their basic nature—say, normal non-magical smoke—he could encourage a sympathetic link. Then what happened to one, happened to the other. Brother Qown scuttled to his pack and began running his hands through his pockets. “A candle,” he muttered. “I need a candle.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Dorna held out a small beeswax candle, then snatched it back as he reached for it. “Not here,” she said. “Are you daft, colt? This ain’t something we should share with the whole town and any who might feel like watching. Best bring him behind the farrier’s banners.”
Brother Qown felt blood flow to his face, but he couldn’t deny her logic. If the locals saw him using magic on Baron Tamin, they wouldn’t stop to clarify he was a priest.
They would just reach for the clubs and the knives.
On the heels of that, he realized Dorna somehow understood the rules of sympathetic magic, but this wasn’t the time to challenge her on that.
“You take the head.” Dorna picked up the baron’s feet.
Brother Qown picked up Tamin by the shoulders. Together, they made an awkward shambling trio as they ducked behind several large banners concealing a patio complete with large sturdy forge and work area.
Of course, he thought. The horses wouldn’t want to go downstairs into the building if they didn’t have to, even with a ramp.
Everyone else seemed too distracted by Janel’s instructions to pay them much attention. Brother Qown hoped they’d managed to bring Tamin over to the forge without anyone noticing.
He grabbed a cloth and opened the door to the brick forge itself. They didn’t shoe horses often in this part of Quur. He assumed they just used the forge for spot repairs on tournament armor and the like. The banked fire was enough to light the small wooden taper, which Brother Qown used in turn to light Dorna’s candle.
The candle was poorly made and smoky. Normal smoke, thick and gray. Perfect.
He sat down cross-legged on the straw-strewn brick patio floor, with the candle in one hand. He made sure he could see the smoke spiraling out from its small orange flame and Tamin’s hacking, coughing body. Brother Qown breathed deeply and tried to enter Illumination.
It wasn’t easy. He’d seen too much horror. What he’d witnessed flashed through his mind like haunting ghosts. He finally calmed himself enough to see, although he didn’t use normal sight at all.
A dark, twisting blue mass spiraled inside Tamin, warring against the golden aura flashing over his body. Each light wave fought back the twisting blue mass; when the golden light retreated, the darkness returned.
The blue energy was slick with malice. Brother Qown forced his conscious will against it and found it responded like a living being. It twisted away from him, slid away from his grasp.
Smoke, Brother Qown thought. You’re nothing but smoke.
Sweat ran paths through the dust and ash on his forehead, but he refused to relent, refused to stop. His win happened so suddenly he reeled as if the ground shifted under his feet.
Tamin’s coughing changed from the timbre of a man choking on a bone to a man choking up phlegm after a long illness. Then he rolled to one side and vomited. Smoke escaped from his nose, from his mouth.
Normal smoke.
The baron fell back, gasping. He closed his eyes and drew in deep, shuddering breaths. His face took on a more regular color too.
Dorna slapped Brother Qown on the shoulder. “Nicely done, foal.”
Brother Qown rocked back on his heels and looked up toward Dorna. “How long have you known about me?”
The old woman shrugged and looked at her fingernails. “You think I wouldn’t notice when a guard who’s had his skull bashed in don’t die? I’m old; I ain’t blind.” She lifted a metal hoof-pick from a workbench, examined the tip, and then casually put it in a pocket. “Nobody’s explained what being Blood of Joras means to you, have they?”
“I need—” Tamin’s rough voice only faintly resembled speech.
“What you need is a good swift kick to your ass,” Dorna said. She reached down and grabbed the noble by his collar, dragging him behind her. Normally, this would have been a pointless exercise, but Tamin’s strength was gone. He shuffled after her, almost on his knees but managing at last to stand. He shouted out something incoherent at the end as he tumbled out onto the street.
Brother Qown followed, not sure if he wanted to see what would happen next.
“My count!” Dorna shouted.
Janel looked over. As soon as she saw Tamin, she broke away from the townsfolk and joined Dorna and Brother Qown.
“You cured him.”
Brother Qown couldn’t tell if the news made her happy. Perhaps she didn’t know herself.
“He ain’t gonna die from the smoke, anyway. Plenty still wrong with him.”
“Janel—” Tamin gasped.
The count’s jaw tightened. She stared at Tamin with flared nostrils. Slowly, she tucked her fingers into fists at her sides. “Who was the woman, Tamin? The warden’s nurse. The foreigner.”
“I didn’t—” His voice sounded granite rough. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know … what she would … what she’d do.”
“I didn’t ask you if you knew what she’d do. I asked you who she is.”
A crowd began to gather. Ninavis and Kalazan held back the others, explaining the need for patience. Janel ignored them all.
“She was…” Tamin licked his lips. “She was a slave. A Doltari slave. Senera. Her name was Senera.”
Janel’s frown tightened. “She commanded those soldiers. Slaves don’t command soldiers.”4
“Relos said … said she was a slave. He brought her—” Tamin winced. “Water?”
Janel bent down next to Tamin while Brother Qown reached for his waterskin. “Who is Relos Var? Tell me about him.”
Brother Qown handed Tamin the waterskin. The baron drank in desperate gulps. Evidently, he’d needed the water, because he sounded much better after. “What have I done?”
“Too much and not enough. But right now, I need your focus, Tamin. Who is Relos Var?”
Tamin struggled to sit, while Brother Qown supported him. “A teacher. My father hired him to—” He hesitated.
“To what?”
Tamin’s eyes shone glassy bright. He took a deep breath. “To cure me of being a witch.”
Someone in the crowd gasped. Another person cursed. Dorna turned around, hands on hips, and faced the crowd. “Be quiet, you lot. You let the man speak or you’ll be answering to me, understand?”
Janel cocked her head, narrowed her eyes. “Witchcraft isn’t something one cures like red fever or pox.”
“I didn’t want to be a witch,” Tamin said, “but I couldn’t … I couldn’t help it. It’s what I am.” He tilted his head up to stare at Janel’s face. “You know what it’s like.”
Janel scowled, glanced skyward as if addressing her gods, then refocused her attention on her childhood friend. “I’m quite sure I don’t. Tell me, then. Tell me how you can be a witch against your will.”
“By being cursed. I’ve always been cursed,” Tamin said, “since I was a child. I would cure animals, cure cuts and bruises. I didn’t realize I was doing anything wrong. Not at first. Then I—” He scowled. “A hunting accident injured my father. I loved my father, so I … I saved him.”
“You poor man,” Brother Qown murmured. “If you’d been born anywhere else, such a gift would have won you a scholarship to the Academy and a sponsorship by the Guild of Physickers. You’re not a witch. You’re a sorcerer.”
Tamin gave the priest a confused, sick look. “I can do magic. That’s witchcraft.”
“I take it,” Janel said, sounding very less than pleased with the entire conversation, “your father didn’t tolerate your gift?”
“He—” Tamin’s jaw tightened. He looked away. “No, he didn’t.”
“Strange, then, for you to be so friendly with the man your father hired as punishment.”
“No, it wasn’t like that. Relos Var is a great man. He showed me I didn’t have to be ashamed. I didn’t have to hide what I am.” His voice dropped, and his eyes flickered toward the fairgrounds. “And when my father—” He didn’t finish.
“What happened to your father?”
Tamin closed his eyes.
“Oh, I think I know, right enough,” Dorna volunteered. “His father hated witchcraft. And Tamin here was learning to use his ‘witch’ abilities right under his father’s nose. Just a matter of time ’fore the old man caught him at it, right?”
Janel’s expression had seemed grim before, but as Dorna spoke, her whole face froze into something harder than stone. “What did you do, Tamin?”
“It wasn’t my fault.”
“You’re the Baron of Barsine. Everything that happens in your banner is, by definition, your fault.”5
He flinched at the anger in her voice. “Relos Var said witches cursed me. You should know what it’s like. You’ve been cursed too.”
Janel’s nostrils flared. “Who told you that?”
“Relos Var. He’s right, isn’t he? You’re cursed.”
“Not by witches.”
“It’s the same thing.”
Brother Qown tightened his grip on the man’s shoulders. “No, it isn’t,” he protested, but he didn’t think Tamin was paying any attention.
“Did you kill your father, Tamin?”
The man cast his gaze around him, but the crowd had surrounded them. Everyone from town listened, watching, waiting on his answer.
“I didn’t kill him,” Tamin said, “but I … I removed my healing. Took it all back. He’d have died the first time, so the second time … he did.”
Brother Qown blinked. “That’s not how it works.” He turned to the count and whispered, “That’s not how healing works. You can’t do that.”
Janel nodded to him to indicate she’d heard and put up a hand for Brother Qown to be quiet. Then she continued talking to Tamin. “Was it your idea, or Relos Var’s, to execute the castle steward for your father’s death?”
“It was…” Tamin’s voice trailed off as something haunted and dark entered his eyes. He looked like a man waking up from a nightmare.
A little girl’s voice broke the silence as she set a small basket on the ground next to Tamin. “Mare Xala made you steamed buns for dinner.” The tiny girl was maybe six years old, with dark red skin and white fingertips. She sniffled and wiped her nose with her hand before turning back to an older woman. “Did I say that right?”
The old woman nodded. “You did, foal.” She tossed a green wool bundle at Tamin’s feet. “You’ll need a cloak too, so’s to keep you warm.”
Dorna straightened and put her arm on Janel’s.
The count’s eyes widened.
Brother Qown felt the crowd’s mood shift, but he didn’t understand its cause or meaning. Tamin looked puzzled before his expression changed to panic.
“No.” Tamin shook his head. “No, I don’t need your charity—”
“You will take what we give you,” Kalazan said with the softest voice. He pulled a dagger and sheath from his belt and set them down by Tamin’s feet. “Here’s a blade to keep you safe.”
“I have a pair of saddlebags for you,” Dango offered. “It’s a long road.”
Brother Qown tugged on Dorna’s sleeve. “I don’t understand. He just admitted he killed his own father and framed Kalazan’s father for it. Why are they giving him presents?”
Dorna crossed her arms as she watched the townspeople hunt for trinkets: a sack, rope, dried apples.
“They ain’t presents, exactly—” She scowled, having trouble finding the words in Guarem. She gestured to the crowd. “More like, uh, ‘mustering out’ pay.”6
“What? I don’t understand.”
The crowd bustled. The gifts were impromptu, pulled from supplies they’d grabbed while running from the smoke. Brother Qown didn’t think they could afford to do without them. Yet they did, but without any warmth. They gave the baron their gifts with all the malice of offered poison, each present a dagger’s stroke.
Tamin began crying.
Tears marked streaks down his face as he stood. “Please, Janel. Please don’t let them do this—”
“Don’t let them do this?” Janel’s expression was incredulous. “This is their right.”
Old anger flared hot in his eyes. “You hypocrite! The only reason you’re here right now is to avoid your own Censure! How dare you chide me for not wanting to give up my birthright when you’re running from the same fate!”
Janel’s breath caught. For a moment, Brother Qown thought she might hit Tamin, but she clenched her fists instead. “I’m not running from justice. I’m running from a bastard who thought he could buy Tolamer Canton and bribe its people—my people—to Censure me if I refused to keep his bed. Sir Oreth didn’t even wait for my grandfather’s body to cool before he showed up with his troops, his ultimatums, and his eviction notice,” Janel corrected. “I didn’t let witches, Yoran spies, and demons have free rein to send the souls of my people straight to Hell.”
“I didn’t know I was doing that!” Tamin screamed.
“That only proves you’re too young and too naïve to keep others from manipulating you into doing it for them.”
His laughter was a choked-off sob. “Too young? Janel, I’m a year older than you.”
“And yet so much younger in all the ways that matter.”
Tamin scrambled to his feet, ignoring the blankets and the backpack and the cloth-wrapped food. “So you’ll do nothing, then? You’re a count!”
“I’m not your count!” Janel shouted.
All talking stopped. Everyone who had been preparing for departure paused as she raised her voice.
“Be thankful,” she continued in a softer tone, “because I’d order your execution for what you’ve done here. I’d hold the sword myself. Do you understand me, Tamin? I watched you order a man’s death, whom you just admitted you knew was innocent. You killed your own steward for a crime you committed. You laughed while a demon you’d empowered slaughtered a knight and her squire, turning the field of honor into a mockery. You burned innocent people at the stake for the crime of witchcraft. You would have killed more, and all for this Relos Var’s approval and a prophecy he probably invented. Don’t ask me to interfere, Tamin. You would not like how I’d rule in your case.”
Brother Qown realized he hadn’t heard the count refer to Tamin as Baron since her fight with Dedreugh.
Silence lingered, a few tense, quiet moments. Then Gan the Miller’s Daughter—or rather Ganar Venos, Warden Dokmar’s daughter—came forward leading an old horse. She smiled at Tamin, although it looked like an effort. “I’ve saddled you a horse. They tell me her name is Orchid. She doesn’t see very well at night, so you’ll want to get some distance from the town before sundown.”
“Gan—” Tamin’s expression was stricken.
“Don’t,” Gan said. “Don’t you dare. You need to leave, Tam, now.” Gan regarded the man she’d once planned to wed. “I wouldn’t stop Kalazan from taking your head. I’d cheer him on while he struck the blow.”
Tamin swallowed. Then he picked up the offerings, shoved them into the backpack, and mounted the horse.
He rode south. The survivors watched him go in silence. And then, once he’d turned past the last pergola’s flag-covered patio, every eye turned back to Count Janel.
She paused, wary, and then shook her head in denial. “Oh no. Not I. I’m already the Count of Tolamer. I cannot also be the Baron of Barsine.”
“Well, who, then?” Dango said. “Not me. I ain’t doing it.”
Brother Qown frowned. “You can’t just—” He turned to Dorna. “Are they going to just … pick … the next Baron? Like that’s something you can just choose? Doesn’t whoever Tamin owed fealty to…” He bit his lip. “Won’t the count he owes fealty to object to commoners just deciding Baron Tamin isn’t in charge anymore?”
Dorna stared at him.
“That’s not how it works, colt. I don’t know how you lot do things in Kaziwatsis—”
“I’m from Eamithon.”
“Whatever. In Jorat, a stallion who can’t protect their herd sure as hell don’t get to lead it. What you protect is what you rule here.”
“Stallions don’t actually lead horse herds, though. Mares do.” That detail had been bothering him to distraction ever since he’d first arrived.
She rolled her eyes. “Stop talking real horses when we’re talking politics. In Jorat, the human herds are led by stallions. Always stallions. Anyway, if an old stallion gets kicked out because he can’t do his job, who decides who replaces him? Some other herd’s leader who won’t ever be around? No, foal. It’s the herd itself what chooses its leader.” She cocked her head. “’S why I didn’t put a gift in the pile. He ain’t my leader. I didn’t give him any thudajé.”
The heresy of the notion made Brother Qown feel dizzy.7 And Dorna had presented it so matter-of-factly. Of course, the people would decide on their ruler. Of course, the herd would choose. How could it be any other way? And if a leader did a poor job, the herd simply … asked them to leave … didn’t even ask. Tamin had just understood he should go.
Gan put her hand on Kalazan’s arm. “It should be you.”
“Me? But I—” He stopped himself and turned to Ninavis. “No, it should be you. You recognized the danger before anyone else. You led the fight against him.”
Ninavis shook her head. “Oh no, kid. I don’t know the first thing about ruling a banner, and I don’t want to know. I’m a thief, not a lord. It’s all yours. I wish you Taja’s own luck.”
He swallowed, looked around at the crowd. “If everyone agrees, then of course I’ll take the responsibility.”
The crowd murmured in assent, this coming loudest from Ninavis and her crew.
“Good,” Janel said, “you’re a fine choice. But for now—” She tilted her head, making the gesture seem almost apologetic. “You’ll need your eight best riders and all the horses we have left so you’ll all be able to change mounts when they tire.”
“All the horses?” Dorna asked. “Not my Pocket Biter too? What about Cloud?”
Janel’s expression turned rueful. “There are none to spare, Dorna. So yes, they’ll need our horses as well. The eight will ride for the gates to pass the word—or catch the army and warn them. The rest of us will travel to Ninavis’s stronghold.”
“The rest of us? You’re coming with me?” Ninavis sounded surprised.
“Of course. I almost allowed you to come to harm before. It won’t happen again.”
Ninavis frowned. “So Arasgon is coming with us too? But your horse—” She stopped to clear her throat. “I mean to say, the firebloods are the fastest runners here.”
“He also makes his own decisions.”
Arasgon tossed his head and said something. So did the other fireblood, Talaras. Brother Qown didn’t understand their language, but their manner suggested they didn’t agree about their next course of action.
“I’d ride,” Sir Baramon said, “but I’m out of practice.”
“And a lot out of shape,” Dorna said.
The knight ignored her. “But Talaras can run without me. He’s done it before.”
Janel considered the matter. She turned to the fireblood. “Is that your wish?”
Talaras tossed his head and stamped a foot, and it seemed obvious that it was.
She nodded. “Fine. If Arasgon is to come with—”
Talaras snapped at Arasgon, who replied with obvious anger. Talaras stood his ground but looked ready to start a fight.
“We’ll be fine without you,” Janel told Arasgon. “We’re taking the elephants with us. Besides, someone will need to lead Pocket Biter and Cloud to Atrine when you’re finished. We’ll meet you there, when we know the townsfolk are safe.”
Arasgon didn’t look like he believed her, but he pranced a few steps, blew air out his nose, and turned to join his brother.
Janel picked up a bag from the ground. “Come, then. The same advice Gan gave Tamin applies to us as well. Let us put as much distance as possible between us and this town by nightfall.” She turned to Ninavis. “If you would be so kind as to show us the way.”
“Should have made that bastard Tamin heal my leg before he left,” Ninavis mused. Then she turned to the elephant keeper. “Sana, think one of your girls will let me ride up top?”
A middle-aged woman looked up. “A wee slip like you? Tishar won’t even notice.” She smiled, a forced expression that didn’t hide her tears.
“Let’s get this herd moving,” Count Janel said. “We’ve a lot of ground to cover before it grows dark.”
The red-orange sun set as they headed toward the tree line, where they planned to stop for the night and make camp. Twilight turned the blue-green skies a burnt vermilion.
Adrenaline carried the townsfolk through the first few hours, but the horrors they had witnessed and the people they had lost began to sink in. The refugees had fallen into silence. A few were in tears. They stared at the camphor and cedar as if the forest were a lake after an eternity crossing a desert.
If they made it to the trees, they would be safe.
Ninavis and her crew were in their element. They directed the elephants, made sure able adults carried children on their shoulders, and patrolled the small convoy’s edges to prevent unexpected surprises from sneaking up on them. They did it all with smiles and jokes, singing songs about their wonderful adventure, kidding the elderly about misspent youths. They made it almost possible to forget the horrors they left behind.
Almost.
During this, Brother Qown noticed Count Janel had wandered off to the far side of the group. She walked by herself, maintaining a steady distance from the others. Dorna, who was helping the children, hadn’t noticed.
But then Dorna’s responsibilities didn’t include seeing to the count’s emotional and physical healing. Qown’s did.
Brother Qown had almost reached the count when she wiped her face.
She was crying. Her tears were silent, wet paths rolling down her red cheeks.
“Count…,” Brother Qown began.
Janel looked away. “Don’t. The others can’t see me like this.”
“No one would blame you for being upset by what happened, Count. It was…” Brother Qown fought for words and failed. “It was horrifying.”
She sniffed again, tossed her head back, swallowing a short laugh. “I’m a stallion. They need to think me strong. When this is over and they’re safe—then they may realize how they’ve misplaced their trust a second time.”
“Count Janel, you’re making no sense,” Brother Qown said. “If not for you—”
“If not for me,” she said, “all those people in Mereina would still be alive.”
“Not true.”8
“Ninavis was right; I should have struck down Tamin when I had the chance. Am I not Janel Danorak? I was the one who insisted on my way. My way led straight to a town full of dead.”
“Tamin’s murder would have stopped nothing! Tamin didn’t unleash the witch-smoke, and you had no reason to think Senera a threat.”
“No,” Janel agreed. “But she did it in response to what happened with Dedreugh. Because I revealed his true nature as Kasmodeus. She did this to cover up the real crimes, and she’s proven how far she’ll go to erase their tracks.” Janel grimaced. “A long way, as it happens.”
Brother Qown bit his lip. He believed the count had misjudged the Doltari witch’s motives. For some reason, Senera had been … satisfied … when Janel triumphed over Kasmodeus, as if the Doltari woman had just finished a task. Nothing in Senera’s attitude suggested she considered what followed a setback.
“You can’t blame yourself,” Brother Qown said. “Besides, you weren’t wrong. You said it yourself. If you had killed Tamin at that point, his men would have shot you. Do you think Dedreugh would have canceled the tournament? Do you think the warden’s ‘voice’ Senera would have done so? No. All of Ninavis’s people would have ended up burned at the stake.”
“Do you think the citizens of Mereina would consider that trade fair?” Janel countered. “All those people dead, in exchange for fewer than a dozen lives?”
“That spell wasn’t your doing. You cannot take responsibility.”
“Taking responsibility is my job. I caused this by revealing Dedreugh’s true nature as a demon.”
“Then you must try to make it right as best you can. I think Relos Var and Senera would be quite amused to see you shouldering the guilt for their crimes.”9
Janel stopped walking.
“Aren’t I right, though?” he pressed.
“I just … I hadn’t…” She shook herself, and her eyes regained their focus. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Anyway, we have other matters to discuss.”
She began walking again. “We do?”
“The manner of our survival.” Brother Qown looked back toward the refugees in case anyone was close enough to eavesdrop.
“That’s not so mysterious. You saved us from the smoke.”
Brother Qown blinked, left open-mouthed for a moment. “I—uh…” He found himself near to blushing. “Yes. Well. I’m going to assume you know nothing about magic.”
She gave him a sideways look that might have set the forest on fire.
“That’s what I thought.” Brother Qown cleared his throat. “Without boring you, let me say this: the symbol I drew saved our lives, but I don’t understand why it worked.”
The count blinked. “I don’t either, but I admit I assumed you would be more knowledgeable.”
“All objects have … energy … in them, which people call tenyé. It’s the vital essence of you, me, that tree over there. There isn’t any difference between a god’s tenyé and a sorcerer’s tenyé except in quantity—”
“Brother Qown, talk like that is why your order is heretical in half the empire.”
He coughed. “The problem with heresies is they are named so because they touch on uncomfortable truths. My point is this: art has no tenyé.”
Janel blinked. “I don’t understand.”
“A superlative drawing only has as much tenyé as the materials used to make it.10 Paper, paint, ink. There is no difference in tenyé between a doodle and a masterpiece. Symbols in a book convey information, but they don’t contain extra tenyé. And magic is only possible with tenyé to fuel it.” Brother Qown gestured behind him, toward Mereina. “What I did back there. What Dorna did. That shouldn’t have worked. I only did it in the first place because I hoped to link the symbol I’d copied from that woman—Senera—to her spell. If it worked, I hoped to insert myself into the same category as those soldiers under its protection. It was a desperate, impossible long shot.”
“And yet you hit the target. It worked.”
“No, no, it didn’t. That might explain why it worked on me, but what about Dorna, who used the glyph while I was absent, with no idea what spell I had tried to cast? It shouldn’t have worked for her. And if I grab Ninavis or Dango or Tanner and have them draw the glyph, it still works. This symbol is inherently magical—which is impossible.”
The count thought over the matter as they walked. “But what of demon summoning? That requires specific symbols. Aren’t those symbols inherently magical?”
Brother Qown blinked. “That’s … very astute.”
“But am I not right?”
“No. No, you’re wrong, but it’s an easy mistake to make,” Brother Qown said. “The symbols used to summon demons have no intrinsic magical nature either, but we—humans and demons both—have agreed to give them significance. They symbolize the treaty between our races.”
Janel stopped again. “Treaty? We have a treaty? Xaltorath never—”
She continued walking, looking ahead.
“We have a treaty,” Brother Qown confirmed gently. “More specifically, we have gaeshe. What we call the binding of the demons is in fact the gaeshing of the demons—all of them. The demons were given gaesh commands they must follow. For example, they are forbidden from manifesting in the physical world unless summoned. And they have to follow their summoner’s orders.”
Count Janel shuddered.
“Why would the demons agree to that?”
Brother Qown frowned. “I don’t think they did. I think it was imposed upon them.”
“They must have agreed. Anyone who is powerful enough to force the demons into such a pact would be powerful enough to destroy them. Which means they must have agreed to it. But why? What did they get out of it?”
“I always assumed they lost the original war between the Four Races and the demons. So the gods forced this on them.”
Janel laughed. “No. No, demons don’t work that way. They must have gotten something. They would never, ever have agreed to such a deal otherwise.”
“You may be right, but that’s not my point. You see how the demonic symbol has no intrinsic magical properties, yes? It’s powerful because we’ve agreed these symbols represent a specific result.”11
“Couldn’t that be true here? A symbol agreed to have a desired, specific effect?”
Brother Qown wrinkled his nose. That was a very good question. A very good, very troubling question. He searched around the edges until he found a flaw. “Agreed upon by whom, my count? The gods? It would take divine power to create such an effect, but no priest of the Eight uses this power. Father Zajhera knows more about magic than any other person I have ever known. He’d have mentioned if this existed.”
Count Janel frowned. “What are you saying, then?”
“This Doltari woman, Senera, probably does traffic in demons, given what we saw, and thus qualifies as a ‘witch.’ Besides that, though? She has access to a magic I’ve never seen before and don’t understand. The only good side I’ve discovered is the air glyph doesn’t run out. The firebloods would have suffocated otherwise.”
She sighed. “I wonder which of them was the leader.”
“Which of whom…?”
“Senera or Relos Var.”
“We shouldn’t assume they’re connected.”
“Tamin said Relos Var brought her. I only met the man once, but he didn’t strike me as the sort to be someone else’s tool. I’d think him a mare because he’s a teacher, but…” She smiled ruefully. “I don’t think Relos Var views such matters the way a Joratese would. The real question: Did he leave because of an emergency or so he wouldn’t be present for what followed?”
“That logic suggests they could’ve planned the smoke from the beginning, rather than using it as contingency.”
“What if they did?” Count Janel asked. “We don’t have enough information. And none of this explains the Yorans disguised as Joratese. Neither Senera nor Relos Var are Yoran, although I thought Senera was at first.” She picked three blades of tall field grass as they walked, braiding the strands. “Doltari, you say?”
“They’re more common in the west,” Brother Qown admitted. “They have a reputation for being a somewhat primitive folk.”
“Or at least not very good at eluding slavers.”12
He coughed. “Yes. That as well.”
She squared her shoulders. “Fine. So all these are questions to which I must discover answers.”
“You must?” Brother Qown raised an eyebrow. “Haven’t you done your part? Shouldn’t the rest be the army’s job?”
“Perhaps.” She snorted. “Probably. But I won’t spill all this onto someone else’s lap and let it be their problem. Whoever these people are, they used Tamin. They killed … I don’t even know how many people. I won’t ignore that.” She added, “Did you notice the prophecy too?”
Brother Qown paused, hoping she hadn’t grown better at reading him. “Prophecy?”
“Don’t pretend you didn’t spot it. Relos Var told Tamin the demon-claimed child would be his undoing. Which it was.” Janel stopped walking. She stood there, looking puzzled.
“Did you just think of something?”
“No, there’s something wrong—”
An elephant’s trumpet shook the ground, followed by a chorus of her herd mates. Her call sounded panicked. Then the whole herd started running, paying no heed to their human partners. Screams echoed across the grass plains.
Brother Qown recognized one of those cries: Ninavis.
“What’s going on?” Qown scanned the plain to see what might have upset the elephants.
The sky darkened.
An enormous shadow blanketed the forest, sailed out over the fields, slid back toward Mereina. The refugees ran.
Brother Qown looked up.
A gigantic form undulated across the sky, wings spread out like an enormous bird. The setting sun lit fire across the monster’s edge but couldn’t hide its shimmering white color. That opal shine reflected blue-and-purple depths as though it were formed from ice. Its head resembled a serpent, but no snake ever grew so large or soared on massive wings.
The dragon banked.
People screamed and dropped to the ground as the beast extended its wings, dropping down to swoop over the grassland.
The elephants, Brother Qown realized. The dragon was hunting elephants.
“Ninavis!” Janel screamed. She sprinted back toward the main group.
“Count! Wait!” he called out after her, but Brother Qown had as much chance of catching her as a dhole does of chasing down a falcon.
The dragon dove and snatched up an elephant in each front claw before pulling up, mighty wings driving it back into the heavens.
Everyone ran. Most ran away from the scene, but not all; Janel, Brother Qown, and Ninavis’s band ran forward. The remaining elephants rampaged, stampeding back and forth as they vainly attempted to regain their stolen sisters.
A half dozen arrows loosed from somewhere in the tall grass impacted the dragon as the beast continued her flight. Unfortunately, even as the arrows hit, they did no damage at all. Indeed, the dragon gave no hint she even noticed herself under attack. When Brother Qown reached Janel, she was standing over Ninavis, who was sitting up in the grass. The bandit leader had strung her bow and fired at the retreating dragon. Seeing the results, Ninavis had resorted to ineffective shouted curses.
“Bastard!” Ninavis screamed. “Bastard, you come back here!”
“I don’t think it can hear you.” Janel crossed her arms over her chest. “And I don’t think we want it to. At least you didn’t catch its attention by firing arrows at it. How foolish would that have been?”
Ninavis responded with a string of blistering expletives.
“Brother Qown,” Count Janel said, “might you see to Ninavis’s wounds? She seems to have injured herself. Again.”
“Only my pride,” Ninavis groused.
“Oh? I could’ve sworn you must have fallen on your head.”
Ninavis scowled and unstrung her bow. “What was that monster?”
“A dragon,” Brother Qown volunteered. “I’ve never seen one in person before.” Brother Qown would have liked to go on about how beautiful he’d found the beast, but he didn’t think the sentiment would have been appreciated.
“Come on, then.” Count Janel held out her hand to Ninavis. “Lean on me. We need to get these elephants calmed down and move fast.” She pointed up at the sky.
In the wake of the dragon’s passing, the sky began turning black, not from nightfall, but storm clouds.
“What…?”
“A bad storm is coming,” the count said, “so wherever your hiding place is, I hope it’s close.”