15: WHERE THE HERD WANDERS

Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Two days since demons were freed to rampage through the Living World

When Janel stopped talking, Kihrin stood up and left the room.

He couldn’t help himself. Also, he knew losing his temper in front of Janel wouldn’t make a good first impression.

Or second impression, since they’d apparently met before.

Kihrin walked past the main group. What were they now? Military? Mercenaries? They seemed a little too well organized for bandits. They’d gone quiet, debating among themselves in low whispers. Star sat at the end of the bar, ignoring him or rather still in deep conversation with Dorna. At some point, Kihrin needed to find out what their connection was. Between Star and Dorna, they’d managed to kill a bottle of something that looked far stronger than cider.

Kihrin took a deep breath, slid into a seat at the long, high wood counter, and promised himself slitting throats wouldn’t help his current situation.

Besides, the person he wanted to kill wasn’t there.

The bartender looked up as he sat down. She pulled a towel from her belt and wiped down the counter. “What can I do you for?”

“Ninavis, right?”

She smiled. “Yeah, that’s right. But shh.” She flipped the hair back down. “I’m in disguise.”

Kihrin laughed. “Right. I’d never recognize you. What are they having?” He pointed to Star and Dorna.

She chuckled, reached under the bar, and pulled out an amber bottle. “Here you go.”

Kihrin reached for the bottle, sniffed at the open top, and blinked as his eyes started to water.

“Try not to breathe while you’re drinking it. You’ll cough less,” the bartender advised him.

He gulped it back and, despite her warning, started coughing. It tasted like an ash fire and burned all the way down, as though someone had taken sassabim brandy and skimmed off all the smoothness. “What the hell is this?”

“Aris,” she said, sounding rather proud.¹ “Local distillery makes it from barley, then ages it in wooden barrels for a few years until it’s mellow.”

“Until it’s mellow? Does he set the barrels on fire?”

“Gives it a nice flavor, don’t you think?”

He decided it would be better to be diplomatic. “I suppose I could get used to it. What do I owe you?”

She smiled. “Nothing. Tonight, a kind benefactor is picking up the tab.”

“When I was a kid, when someone said ‘a kind benefactor is picking up the tab,’ they meant they’d just robbed someone down to their undergarments.”

She grinned.

“Understood.” Kihrin set down the glass. “I’ll have another.”

Ninavis leaned forward on her elbows. “You’ve been talking with Janel awhile. Seemed like you were making friends there until the end. Or do you run with stallions?”

Kihrin thought over Janel’s earlier lessons in Joratese courtship rituals. Whether someone was a stallion or a mare had nothing to do with biology, unless the discussion involved sex—and then it did. “I’m pretty sure I run with mares.”

The woman chuckled. “Only pretty sure?”

“Very sure,” he corrected firmly. “This frankness takes getting used to.”

“Yeah, the Joratese are funny like that.” She grinned. “I like it. There’s no guessing with them, and it’s rare you meet anyone who has a problem hearing you say no. Their old god-king may have been an asshole, but Khorsal never got around to telling his people to be hung up about sex.”²

Ninavis filled his glass and then stared past him. “Hey, Janel.”

“Hello, Nina.” Janel sat down next to Kihrin at the bar and turned her attention to him. “Was it something I said?”

Kihrin looked at her sideways. “It’s complicated.”

Janel snorted and waved at Ninavis. “A cider, if you wouldn’t mind, Nina. And a cup of kulma tea.”

“Anything else, Your Holiness?”

Janel smiled. “Put a pot of coffee on the fire?”

Ninavis rolled her eyes. She came back a moment later with a cup of cold tea she’d poured from a large glass jar.³

Janel took the mug and held it in both hands. It began steaming. “Anyway, let’s talk about what I said to upset you. It wasn’t me flirting with that Manol vané, was it?”

He debated gulping the second glass of aris. “Yes,” Kihrin turned in his seat toward her. “But not because of the flirting. I’m upset because he wasn’t any Manol vané; that was Thaena’s son, Teraeth. Who happens to be my best friend.”

“Oh. Is that all?” Janel drank the entire cup of tea in one long swallow.

“When Teraeth bought me in Kishna-Farriga—” He paused. “Apparently, I have you to thank for that rescue, so—thank you. Anyway, afterward, Teraeth and I became friends. But I had people who needed me back in Quur, and I wanted to leave. He didn’t want me to. We fought over it. He convinced me to stay by bringing you into it.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. I won’t go into details. I asked him how he even knew what you looked like, and he—” Kihrin laughed. “He didn’t lie. He just let me believe a lie. He couldn’t just come out and say you two had met. He knew I would have definitely left to find you, if I’d known.”

He drummed his fingers against the countertop.

Ninavis brought over a cider and sat it before Janel. Ninavis started to say something, then shook her head and went back into the kitchen.

Janel traded her tea for the cider.

The room felt quiet for a place where so many people had been laughing and singing just a few hours before.

Kihrin looked at Janel sideways. “‘It doesn’t hurt as much as not knowing your name?’” he quoted her words and raised an eyebrow. “Really? That pickup line was the worst.”

She wrapped her dignity around her. “I was delirious and in pain. Shut up.”

He laughed outright, great guffaws, and after a few seconds, she joined him.

“It’s not my fault,” she muttered. “Have you seen him? He’s beautiful.”

“Oh, he’s handsome. No argument there. I just wouldn’t have the wherewithal to make an amorous play at someone while I lay dying in their arms in the Afterlife.”

She turned to face him and blinked at him several times, smiling. “Are you so sure?”

That gave him pause.

Kihrin stared at Janel. “Wait, what did I say in the Afterlife? What did I do?”

She chuckled. “Quite a lot, although nothing I’d hold a grudge over. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Oh no,” Kihrin said, “I’m the one who should apologize for storming off.”

“I’m glad. Do you want to join us again?”

“Yeah, I should.”

She stood up from her stool and started to walk back to their table, but then turned back. “Kihrin?”

“Yes?”

“When we were in the Afterlife together, I told you I was insulted—” She paused for a moment, still finding her words. “That I was insulted Xaltorath had assumed you and I would have a relationship—as long as you consented. That my interest had been taken as already granted.”

Kihrin felt like he’d eaten rocks. “Oh.”

“You should know I wouldn’t reject you just to spite Xaltorath. If I’m interested in a relationship, I’ll tell you.” She grimaced and held up a finger. “That didn’t come out right. What I mean to say is this: Xaltorath was right. I am interested.”

The rocks in his stomach changed into butterflies, a much more pleasant feeling. Still … “What about Teraeth?”

“Oh, I’d ask him about his attraction to you. It’s not my place to say.” The corner of her mouth turned up.

“Very funny,” he said.

“I thought so.” She smiled at him. “One more story. Then we’ll stop for dinner.”

Kihrin picked up his drink and headed back. It was Qown’s turn.

Qown’s Turn. The ruins of an estava, Barsine Banner, Jorat, Quur.

The rain poured down.

It stopped being rain by the second day, turning into slushy, dank snow. Mereina’s survivors huddled for warmth. Brother Qown felt grateful for being underground; the huge stone cavern provided insulation from the weather, but everyone still clumped together and shared their blankets.

They had no way to judge morning, but Janel opened her eyes at what Brother Qown suspected was the moment the sun crested the horizon to the west. She sat up and pulled away her blankets, stretching and examining her limbs as if amazed they were still attached.

Then she wandered over to the hearth in search of breakfast.

“They were clever,” she said later as Dorna, Sir Baramon, and Dango gathered together to play dice.

“Clever?” Brother Qown kept his voice neutral.

“Yes,” she agreed. “They knew the smoke would kill everyone in the town. The demons would then eat their souls and animate—kill still more people for their brethren to possess. Then the dragon comes through and buries the local countryside in storms and snow”—she waved a finger toward the ceiling to the storm still raging above them—“so when the army comes through, they are slowed by the weather.”⁴

“Oh, I see,” Brother Qown said. He bit his lip. “I hate clever. I would much rather we were dealing with stupid.”

She sighed. “Alas. That would have been preferable.” She brightened then. “But at least they didn’t succeed. The weather may be grim, but it will have all been in vain. There will be no Hellmarch.”

“You’re sure?”

She smiled. “I am.”

“We can’t stay here.” Ninavis limped over in their direction. “We don’t have enough supplies for all these people. Folks didn’t grab near enough before they left. Nobody is prepared for snow. It never snows here.”

Janel leaned back on one arm. She nursed a strong cup of tea from Dorna’s stores, but in general, everyone had agreed to half rations. No one thought it wise to assume when the unnatural storm would end.

“When the storm passes, you should return to Mereina,” Janel said.

“Mereina?” Ninavis looked appalled. “Where the demons are?”

“Where the demons were,” Janel corrected. “Not anymore. And you know the army is traveling there next. You can’t just abandon the place, Ninavis. It’s your home now. Where else would you go?”

“You keep saying ‘you,’” Ninavis said. “I’m noticing a distinct lack of ‘us.’”

Janel sighed. “I’m not your baron. When Kalazan returns…”

“If Kalazan returns,” Ninavis snapped. “We don’t know—”

Janel looked over toward where Ganar Venos (who no longer had to pretend to be Gan the Miller’s Daughter) helped with the cooking. “Keep your voice down, please.”

Ninavis’s expression softened. “Fine. But you’re just leaving?”

“Someone has to try to warn the others. I’m not just talking about the army either. Someone has to make sure people know what happened here. My people and I will go to Atrine and speak with Duke Xun.”

Dorna looked up from her dice. “Atrine? Oh, foal. We can’t! I know you told Arasgon to meet us there, but it’s a terrible risk…” She didn’t look behind as she slapped at Sir Baramon’s hand. “Don’t be changing those dice. I’ll cut you. See if I don’t.”

“I would never!” Sir Baramon protested, while moving his hand away from the dice. “Um, why would going to the dominion’s capital be a risk?”

Dango nodded. “I was gonna ask that.”

Brother Qown studied his hands as tension played over Janel’s and Dorna’s expressions.

“Is there something you haven’t told me?” Sir Baramon squinted. “Tamin said something about you outrunning Censure. That true?”

Janel sighed. “It’s true. It’s not…” She shook her head. “It’s not earned, you understand. My grandfather wasn’t even cold when Sir Oreth showed up on my doorstep with a small army.”

“Sir Oreth? The Markreev of Stavira’s second son?”

Dorna rolled her eyes.

“The same. Our parents arranged the match when we were children, but it … it didn’t work out.”

“Naturally, it didn’t work out,” Dorna agreed. “You’re a lovely young noble, and he’s a horse’s ass. Cross-species relations are frowned on in these parts.” She grinned, her expression impish. “Ain’t that what you said in that last letter just before we left?”

Janel couldn’t quite stop herself from smiling. “You know, I think it may have been.”

Sir Baramon’s eyes went quite wide. “Well, then. I see why he’s so upset with you.”

“No, I suspect he harbors a grudge—because just after our engagement, he behaved like a thorra, and I gave him a lesson in manners.” Janel frowned. “He wanted me to bow to him, and I refused. So he tried to force me.”

“Oh aye,” Dorna chortled. She leaned over to Sir Baramon and said, “I hear she broke both Oreth’s arms and dragged him by his feet into his father’s bedroom. Oh, I wish I could’ve been there.” She made a face. “But I ain’t welcome around the Stavira estate.”

“My point is that he thinks I should owe him thudajé,” Janel explained, waving a hand disdainfully. “When he returned after my grandfather died, he gave me a choice: marry him, agree to accept my place as a mare, and make him count, or … or the alternative was paying off the people he’d already bribed to declare Censure on me. Since I had no way to do that, I left.”

“What was your plan? Keep moving until he grew tired of the chase?” Sir Baramon frowned at the young woman.

“No!” Janel paused. “All right … yes. But Sir Oreth cannot sustain this forever. Oreth thought he could march in with his soldiers and keep me prisoner until the Censure finished. He thought it would take a week. The longer I drag this out, the more bribes Oreth must maintain, and the more his father’s patience erodes. Markreev Aroth may have vaults of metal to spend, but that does not mean he’d do so willingly.”

“Aroth’s always been shrewd with the finances.” Dorna rolled the dice. “I win again.”

“Damn it, Mare!” Sir Baramon scowled.

Dango shook his head. “Nobody’s that lucky.”

“I don’t like it,” Dorna said. “Going to Atrine is too risky. Best if you stay away from the capital altogether.” She paused. “You know your letters. Send a note. Hello, Duke Xun, I hope this letter finds you well. Sorry I couldn’t visit. By the way, evil plots are being hatched in Barsine. You should do something about that. Love, Janel.”

Janel shook her head. “Letters can be ignored, mislaid, fall into the wrong hands. And if we travel by foot—which we will have to do since we sent all our four-legged friends away—we will reach Atrine around the same time as the Great Tournament. Attending that tournament is mandatory for all nobles ranked warden or greater. I might avoid Oreth, only to have Duke Xun strip me of rank for failing to pay my respects. I have no choice.”

“That just means Oreth is counting on you attending,” Dorna insisted.

“It’s not so much a risk as you might think. Even if Sir Oreth should be in Atrine, it would still take time for him to locate all the people he needs to call Censure against me. It’s a much larger number than Tamin required—who, after all, had lost so much of his banner’s population. As long as I don’t linger, I can slip in to see the duke and be gone before Oreth has a chance to confront me.”

“She has a point,” Sir Baramon said.

Dorna pressed her lips together into a thin line. “Still don’t like it.”

Janel smiled. “Noted, dear Dorna.” She turned to Ninavis. “Does this satisfy you? I know it must seem like I’m deserting you, but I’m doing the opposite. I must find out who this Relos Var is, who Senera is, and most of all, what they are attempting to accomplish. It’s the best chance we have to stop them.”

Ninavis looked sullen and still not placated, but she nodded and ducked her head in agreement. “Fine. You lot go to Atrine. We’ll stay here and rebuild.” She paused. “We’ll have a hard time of it. There’s not many able bodies left.”

“Do what you have to do,” Janel said, “although I would recommend trying to convince the army to leave a segment here, as a precautionary measure. It may be the whole goal was to weaken this region of Jorat’s defenses.”

Ninavis stared at her. “This region of Jorat? We’re in the middle of Jorat. Right smack in the middle. If someone invaded, they’d have to cross a half dozen cantons and thirty or so banners to get to this point. It’s not exactly a choke point for military invasion.”

“It is if you have an undefended Gatestone, with no Gatekeeper,” Janel said. “Then it becomes an excellent way to flank and sneak Yorans into our dominion.”⁵

“I suppose, but still, I would think there are better places to gain a foothold. I don’t know…” Ninavis waved her hand.

“Tolamer,” Sir Baramon offered. “Count Janel’s canton would be perfect.”

“Right. Tolamer,” Ninavis agreed. Then she paused and looked back at Janel.

“Yes,” Janel said, “even more reason I want the issue with Sir Oreth cleared up, but I doubt he’s in league with invading Yorans.”

“Can Yorans invade?” Brother Qown asked. “I mean, they’re part of the empire. Seems a little odd for one section of the empire to try to take over another, doesn’t it?”

The other three people looked at each other as if sharing a silent communication—and reminding each other Brother Qown wasn’t from the eastern side of the Dragonspire Mountains.

“Yor was the last dominion added to the empire,” Dorna explained.

“I know that,” Brother Qown said.

“Well…,” Dorna said, shrugging. “They’s raw about it. I mean, us Joratese have been Quuros for five hundred years or so. We’re comfortable with the idea. Proud of it. Plus, here in Jorat, we threw over to Quur so as to get Emperor Kandor’s help tossing out our old god-king. We wanted Quur here. But there’s Yorans whose grandparents remember being ruled by their god-king, Cherthog, and his nasty god-queen, Suless. Nobody had Urthaenriel, so killing god-kings was slow and messy. A real bloodbath. Door-to-door slaughter, putting anybody with an ounce of magical power to the torch. Proper Yorans still ain’t allowed any power. Ain’t allowed to practice their beliefs or speak their old tongue. They aren’t so keen as us to think themselves loyal to the empire, is what I’m saying.”

“Still a better deal than Marakor got,” Ninavis complained. “At least Yorans are allowed to own weapons.”

“That’s because Yorans don’t keep revolting,” Sir Baramon retorted. He shrugged. “Or maybe they’re just being a lot more patient about the idea. Would you live in a place as miserable as Yor if you didn’t have to?”

Ninavis rolled her eyes. “No.”

Sir Baramon raised his hands. “Well, there you go. Motive aplenty to try to expand their territory into lands sunnier and more fertile than their native snow-packed, frozen, personal Hells.”

“Relos Var,” Janel murmured.

The others looked at her.

“What about him?” Dorna said.

She shook her head. “Never mind. I will find out who he is, how he’s involved in all this, and how he ties in with that witch, Senera.”

“And then?” Ninavis asked.

Janel tilted her head. “And then I shall kill them. What else?”⁶