23: THE GREEN
Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Three days since the mimic Talon escaped her capture
“So let me see if I’ve got this straight,” Kihrin said, “you’re saying that in Jorat, being a hero is seen as an act of … conquest?”
“Not necessarily,” Janel said. “If centaurs appeared in Tolamer and I fought them off, then I’m doing my duty as count. Both heroic and acceptable. It’s the job of a stallion to protect the herd from threats. If I can’t, what good am I?”
“And if you can’t, but someone else comes along who can … what then? Do people expect you to step down and let this new person take over?” Kihrin couldn’t believe anyone would be so naïve. People who had power didn’t just give it up. That wasn’t how power worked.
Kihrin remembered Father Zajhera’s words. That man understood power. He’d understood Janel’s need to save her homeland would inevitably force her into conflict. She’d clash with people who would see her aid only as a threat to their own authority. And that would lead to … to what?
Overthrowing Duke Xun? Janel had said he wanted her dead. Rebelling against the entire empire? Quite possibly, yes. On a fundamental level, the Quuros Empire couldn’t allow a woman—a witch at that—to wield genuine authority. They’d squash her for that alone. Kihrin thought of prophecies describing how the Hellwarrior would shatter Quur and remake it. He also reminded himself that the Hellwarrior wasn’t one person but four.
Which meant when the armies marched across Quur, he wouldn’t have to be the commander leading them. That honor might be Janel’s.
“It’s how it’s supposed to work,” Janel said, head down. “But it seems our leaders have forgotten why they have power in the first place.”
Ninavis shrugged one shoulder and smiled. “Eh. We’ll just have to remind them. Your turn, right, Qown?”
Brother Qown nodded.
Qown’s Turn. Atrine, Jorat, Quur.
Few people in the whole empire are strong enough in the magical arts to open a gate by themselves. Brother Qown wasn’t one; his skills had always centered around healing. In fact, even most Gatekeepers beholden to House D’Aramarin couldn’t open a gate without assistance. That’s why they needed Gatestones.
House D’Aramarin closely guarded their monopoly. They’d therefore be horrified if they ever learned of someone strong enough to open a gate, single-handedly, who didn’t take orders from their guild at all. Worse, that he led a fringe religion many viewed as little better than a cult.
Watching Father Zajhera touch the divine always filled Qown with joy; Zajhera made spellcasting seem as easy as writing out a prayer with brush and ink. His movements shaped the universal tenyé with a skill Brother Qown envied.1
Father Zajhera blessed them with his presence. Qown knew everything would be better now.
“Father Zajh—” As they crossed through the portal, Brother Qown saw the old priest give his pupil a warm smile.
He raised his right hand and moved his fingers in a twisting motion.
“No, wait—” Brother Qown knew in that instant Zajhera had never planned to follow them. “Father!”
And the gate vanished.
Count Janel set down the large traveling valise holding her belongings. She’d raised her cloak’s hood over her hair and face. “He didn’t stay behind, did he? Senera—”
“Oh no,” Brother Qown reassured her. “I’m sure he just went back to Eamithon. He’s a busy man, after all. He only stayed to heal your injuries.”2
She put a hand to her back, to where the crossbow bolt had run her through. “Yes, of course. I’m sure Father Zajhera is quite able to see to his own protection. Which we should do as well. That’s the second hiding place we’ve been forced to flee.”
“To be fair, foal, they weren’t clever hiding spots, were they?” Mare Dorna squinted and looked around. “So let’s see if we can do better in the middle of the herd.”
Brother Qown chewed on his lower lip. The priest hadn’t yet had a chance to tell Janel about the Name of All Things. He hadn’t had a chance to tell her Senera might well track them—no matter where they went to ground.
She only had to ask the Cornerstone.3
Then Dorna’s last comment struck home, and Brother Qown realized she hadn’t, in fact, been speaking metaphorically. He’d been so wrapped up in Father Zajhera’s departure, he’d paid no attention to their circumstances.
Horses surrounded them.
Hundreds at least. Horses nickered, shifted weight, blew air through their noses. Grass and musk scented the air, mixing with the more odoriferous but still green scent of horse droppings. The horses roamed over an enormous parklike space, Atrine’s buildings encircling them like a giant wall. The shining pinnacles of the duke’s palace and the sword-point towers of Khored’s Temple formed an axis pointing to the sky.
This was the Green, which they had seen in their first futile attempt to meet the duke. Most of a large city might have fit inside that ocean of grass, the only place inside Atrine large enough to hold all the horses needed for the Great Tournament. Colorful azhocks and waving banners, galloping horses, and practicing knights overwhelmed the senses. Hiding in such a space seemed impossible, except so many people and so many horses milled in the area, identifying any one single person became an exercise in frustration.
Somewhere in the Green, the firebloods—Arasgon and Talaras—met with family and caught up with important news and gossip. Somewhere here, the horses they had brought with them from the Tiga Pass grazed. Their own horses too, brought all the way from Barsine by Arasgon. Brother Qown looked forward to seeing Cloud again. He had grown fond of that sweet little gray, even if the horse loathed moving faster than a walk.
Probably because of that reason.
“Sir Baramon,” Janel said, “help me with this trunk. Also, where does Captain Mithros keep his training camp?” She plucked at the red cloak resting on her shoulders. “It seems I have something to return.”
“Oh, smart thinking, foal. Some mercenary work would be just about what we need right now. Hired knights are always coming and going. Nobody pays them no mind.” Dorna put her hands to her hips and grinned. “’Sides, the captain’s an old friend.”
“The Markreev of Stavira’s your ‘old friend’ too,” Sir Baramon said. “Please note how Dorna’s old friends never seem to want to have anything to do with her.”
Dorna snorted. “The Markreev’s still sore about his wife, that’s all.”
Sir Baramon rolled his eyes as he picked up the case. “Really? That’s all, is it?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned back to the count. “We do need to find you something else to wear. The Red Spears will take offense at you wearing that, even if you mean to return it.”
Janel hesitated before nodding her agreement. She’d been wearing the red cloak since Mereina, although Brother Qown wasn’t sure why. She ducked her head and pulled it off, folding the fabric over her arm. Dorna handed her a plain brown sallí—Brother Qown didn’t ask where she’d found it—and Janel wore that instead.
“This way.” Sir Baramon jerked his head back toward Khored’s Temple. Their destination veered from the temple itself as they headed to a roped-off area in the temple’s shadow. Red-hued azhocks adorned with bright pennants and crisp streamers populated the rear grounds. A second roped-off area, tourney combat yard–sized, provided an area where knights practiced. Other training grounds surrounded it, their purpose obtuse but with one common quality: they all catered to contests fought on horseback. Women trained as well as men, and almost everyone wore some variation of red cloak, or at least a red arm band. Only one figure didn’t wear red: a knight on horseback practicing to be the Black Knight. He wore the appropriate hue.
If they wanted to enter the grounds, they would either need to duck under the rope or deal with the guards at the solitary entrance.
“I’m here to speak with Captain—” Before she finished the sentence, the guard snatched the cloak from her grasp.
“Thanks for returning the cloak. Only Spears inside the practice yard. No exceptions. Have a nice day.”4 He went back to talking to the other guards, clearly expecting the count and her retinue to move on.
The count stared at him, open mouthed.
Brother Qown realized Janel didn’t resemble a noble or even a stallion. Her stained and patched clothing, combined with an unbrushed laevos and no jewelry, left little doubt as to her gender. Who would look at her and think her anything other than a mare?
“Hey now! Do you have any idea who this—?” Dorna stopped as Janel put her hand on the old woman’s shoulders.
“I’m here to audition,” Janel said.
“Auditions ended two weeks ago,” the guard replied. “We’re good now, thanks.”
Ninavis chuckled and pulled her bow off her arm, stringing it. The guards didn’t notice.
“I just need to speak with Captain Mithros.”
He grinned at her. “Funny how all the pretty mares do.”
She inhaled.
Brother Qown winced and reached out to her before she did something foolish. “Count—”
The guard waved a hand. “Go on, get off with you. He’ll be out to say hello to his fans later. Right now, he’s busy.”
Ninavis snapped an arrow to her bow and fired.
The blasted arrow moved so fast Brother Qown didn’t see much more than a blur, but he thought the arrow passed right before the guard’s face, parted the raven feathers decorating the Black Knight’s helmet, and then embedded itself, still quivering, in the central archery target on the far side of the compound.
Brother Qown later discovered it had been a perfect bull’s-eye.
Then all hell broke loose.
Both Count Janel and Sir Baramon stopped, turned, and gave Ninavis an incredulous look.
Ninavis shrugged at them even as she lowered the bow and gave the guard a smug smile. “You’re good here, huh?”
Janel’s expression suggested she was struggling not to laugh.
“Are you out of your mind? Why, I’m going to—” But galloping interrupted whatever punishment the guard had in mind.
The Black Knight rode over.
This Black Knight didn’t dress the fool, the way Sir Baramon had during the Mereina tournament. His ornate armor was embossed with scenes of ravens and screaming demons; he wore a black feather cloak. Still more feathers formed a crest that mimicked a horse’s mane over his helmet—a feather version of a laevos. His black horse wasn’t a fireblood, but still proved an impressive specimen.
Then the man removed his helmet, and Brother Qown saw the black went all the way down to the skin. His eyes were light green, but his skin and hair looked blacker than the raven feathers.
Brother Qown had grown so used to seeing Joratese parti-color flesh he didn’t understand what he was seeing for a moment. Then he noticed the man’s features weren’t Quuros. Any Quuros, from either side of the Dragonspires.
He was vané. A Manol vané, to be specific, and that idea so startled Brother Qown, he could only stare in shock.
What was a Manol vané doing in Jorat?5
“Who shot that arrow?” The vané leaped off his horse and stalked in their direction.
“Captain, I’m sorry. I didn’t think anyone would be stupid enough to—”
But Captain Mithros paid him no attention. His gaze raked over the group, paused a second to linger on Janel’s face longer than anyone else’s, and stopped cold at their wine-stain marked archer.
Ninavis waved her fingers at him.
He grinned then, a wide stretch of white teeth breaking the ebony dark of his face.
“Can you do that while riding a horse?”
As it happened, Ninavis could.
The whole camp stopped their training to watch. The Red Spears captain, Mithros, set up a series of targets along a winding path so Ninavis would have to aim and fire even as she steered the horse he’d provided her.
Most importantly, Captain Mithros let the entire group inside the roped area to watch.
“Warning, ready, go!” Mithros waved a hand.
Ninavis urged her horse into a gallop.
Brother Qown hadn’t seen this demonstrated at the Mereina tournament, although he had to assume it could’ve been included among the games. And Ninavis wasn’t a native Joratese, but he couldn’t tell by the way she rode; her control of the horse seemed effortless. She began pulling arrows from her quiver and loosing them at the targets. She made the bull’s-eyes seem easy.
She rode past the end of the track, slowed, and turned the horse around to trot back to the group.
Applause filled the air. Metal changed between more than a few hands, proving yet again Joratese would take any excuse to wager, even on a complete unknown.6
Mithros laughed and then bowed as Ninavis dismounted. “I haven’t seen shooting like that since the last time I was home. Marry me, beautiful woman. Our children will save the world.”
Ninavis stared at him, blinking, looking more than a bit nonplussed as one of the Red Spears reclaimed his borrowed horse. She scowled and unstrung her bow. “You’re a bit young for my taste.7 Anyway, the count wants to talk to you.” She nodded in Janel’s direction. “If you’re so keen to have me fighting under your banner for the tournament, you’ll want to talk to her as well.”
The man didn’t seem much taken aback by her refusal, grinning all the wider. He didn’t so much as glance at the rest, not even at Janel. “But where did you learn to shoot like that?”
Ninavis narrowed her eyes. “My husband served in the army.”
His expression turned thoughtful. “Quuros archers must have improved their skills since the last time I visited their training camps.”
Janel walked over to Ninavis. “I cannot imagine Quuros training camps allowing a Manol vané to visit.”
Brother Qown blinked. He’d have sworn the count would have no idea what a Manol vané looked like. He chided himself. Father Zajhera had spent three years treating her. Of course she wasn’t ignorant.
For the first time, Janel caught Captain Mithros’s attention. “You’re assuming I ever ask permission—”
Count Janel crossed her arms over her chest and frowned at him.
“Mithros, you horny old ass, stop baiting the children and get yourself over here. You still owe me a hundred thrones from the last card game we played, and I mean to take it from your shiny black hair.” Dorna grinned and wrinkled her face. “Plus, we need to talk somewhere private.”
Mithros looked surprised. He tilted his head and stared at Dorna, then his eyes widened. “When did you become a woman?”
Dorna rolled her eyes. “Years ago, you clueless oaf. I told you I was visiting the Festival of the Turning—ack!”
Mithros ran over to Dorna, picked her up, and spun her around while giving her a hug. “I didn’t recognize you! What happened?”
“Put me down, you sod, before I kick you so hard you never ride a horse again. What happened? I just told you—”
“No, I don’t mean that. You’re old!”
“Oh, you big fool,” Dorna said, “it’s been thirty years. Humans grow old.”
Mithros took a step back, looking embarrassed. “So long as that? How the time passes.” He smiled at her, gentle and sad. That smile implied a closer relationship than friends. But in all the time he’d known Dorna, she’d consistently maintained her preference ran for mares and mares alone. Except …
Brother Qown leaned over to the count. “Uh … did I hear her correctly?”
Janel paused, distracted, and looked over at him. “What part?”
“Dorna used to be a man? How’s that possible?”
Janel blinked. “The Festival of the Turning Leaves. They hold it every year in Nivulmir, and Galava grants the supplicants’ prayers. It’s the reason Dorna wasn’t at Lonezh Canton.” She paused. “Do you do it differently in the west?”
Brother Qown blinked. “No! No, we don’t do it at all. Ever.”
Janel frowned. “Really? That’s odd.”
Sir Baramon cleared his throat and gave the Manol vané a half bow. “Sir Baramon, Captain. We met four years ago, at the tournament here in Atrine.”
“Ah yes! Good to see you again. Where’s your charming—” He paused while clasping Sir Baramon’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. Was it recent?”
Sir Baramon nodded. “But thank you.”
“Of course. It never stops hurting, to lose the ones we love.” They shared a look.
Captain Mithros squeezed the man’s arm once before letting go. “All right, everyone. Back to practice!” he bellowed, waving a hand at the archers. He then motioned for the entire group to follow him. “All right, you lot. You’ve convinced me. We do need to talk somewhere more private.” He began heading toward the temple, his long strides forcing everyone into a trot to keep up.
“You’re planning to talk to us inside a temple to one of the Eight?” Janel’s tone sounded scandalized.
To be fair, Brother Qown felt a bit scandalized himself.
Mithros snorted. “It’s not just a temple to one of the Eight; it’s a temple to Khored.” Mithros flashed Janel a smile. “Don’t worry. I have permission to lurk about as much as I like.”
Brother Qown felt a chill he couldn’t quite explain.
They all followed the man into the God of Destruction’s temple.