24: THE BLACK KNIGHT

Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Three days since property values in the harbor district of the Capital City dropped precipitously

“Mithros,” Kihrin said. “Huh.” Then he grinned at Ninavis. “Did you take him up on his proposal?”

“No!” Ninavis said. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not a brood mare who’s going to spit out children for some ageless vané who likes to slum with mortals. Me? Married? I’m not doing that again.” She leaned an elbow on the counter and grinned. “I mean, sure, I did have sex with him. I’m not stupid.”

Kihrin stifled a laugh. “Oh no, I never thought you were.”

Ninavis pursed her lips, her gaze far off for moment. “Oh yes. I recommend that, by the way. Find yourself a vané. Apparently, when you’re a couple of thousand years old, you learn some stuff.”

“If only he were female,” Dorna said.

Janel started laughing. She laughed so hard she put her head down on the table.

“It’s not that funny,” Ninavis protested.

Janel raised her head, still grinning. “Oh, Nina, you have no idea.”

Janel’s Turn. The Green, Barsine Banner, Jorat, Quur.

I found it difficult to keep my expression placid. I hadn’t taken Dorna’s boast about knowing Captain Mithros seriously. Captain Mithros must have known my mother, Frena, who had started in tournaments under Dorna’s tutelage. My parents had met during the tournaments.

Captain Mithros posed a different problem. His resemblance to Death’s green-eyed son Teraeth seemed too close to be coincidence. They clearly weren’t the same person, but the similarity … Unlike Teraeth, Mithros favored broad grins and flirty winks. Yet when he waved a hand or rested his wrist against sword pommel the resemblance to Teraeth’s lethal elegance shone. I felt a further familiarity too, as though Mithros reminded me of someone else besides.

Since I only knew one other Manol vané, I found the feeling disconcerting.

“Hells and ice. Keep your hood up.” Dorna tugged the replacement cloak’s hood farther over my eyes.

I blinked at her but ducked down my head.

No sooner had I done so than I saw red and gold. Looking from the corner of my eye, I saw an honor guard dressed in the Stavira March’s colors.

The Markreev of Stavira’s colors. My liege lord Aroth Malkoessian’s colors.

Everyone in Atrine stopped by Khored’s Temple at some point to pay their respects and pray for good favor in the tournament. The temple always echoed with the susurrus of worshippers.

I know dedicated gods of games and sport are worshipped in other dominions, but those were all once Marakori god-kings. Any Joratese would rather smear hot lead onto their feet than honor them. Some might say Taja—Goddess of Luck—would be more appropriate in such contests. But in Jorat we don’t believe tournaments are won by luck. Thus, it is the custom to look to Khored as the patron of challenge, conflict, and contests.

Also, Khored was Emperor Kandor’s patron god. Now he’s ours as well.

Khored’s Temple is awful. Awe-filled. Horse statues stand guard around the perimeter, while a red marble carving of swarming crows ascends or descends from the battlefield altar at its center. Incense smelling of blood and cinnamon filled the cathedral with fog. Light, red and violet, filtered through the stained-glass windows above.¹

And Aroth Malkoessian, Markreev of Stavira, prayed at the main altar.

Dorna tugged at my elbow. “No, don’t slow down. Don’t stare.”

I forced myself to keep walking and muttered a prayer under my breath to the Eight. I pushed down panic when I remembered Brother Qown wore a Vishai priest’s distinctive robes. I reminded myself Aroth had never met Qown. The Markreev likely had no idea what a Vishai priest even looked like.

Regardless of one’s destination inside the temple, everyone stopped at the altar first. No rule said I had to stop right next to Aroth. So I found a pillow farther back and went down on my knees as I offered the ritual prayers. Dorna picked a spot several seats away, and the others spread out farther so as not to draw any attention. Qown, I noticed, sat quite far away as if to distance himself from me in case his presence might betray my own. As I prayed, I saw Aroth stand from the front row, gather his soldiers to him, and turn to leave.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

A few seconds later, Dorna made a small, strangled sound as Aroth Malkoessian sat down on the cushion to my left.

All the air in the cathedral turned heavy and weighted, a thick morass allowing me to neither move nor breathe. My skin burned, and I didn’t have to look to know Aroth’s men surrounded us. Even here, they would be armed.

I didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at me. We gave each other no formal greeting.

“I wasn’t convinced you would appear for the tournament.”

“It’s my duty.”

“Given the circumstances surrounding your departure from Tolamer, your feeling toward duty has been in question.”

“It’s an odd situation,” I said, trying hard not to grind my teeth, “to be a canton’s ruler yet own no land within it, not even one’s ancestral castle.”

“You have my condolences on your grandfather’s passing,” he murmured next to me. “He was a good man.”

“And far too trusting,” I agreed.

“He knew his place.” His rebuke was unmistakable.

Clearly, I didn’t know my place. Then again, Aroth had always felt my “place” was married to his son Oreth.

I would rather eat dung.

My fists clenched. “Perhaps because you never tried to force him into an unwanted marriage.”

“Insolence is unbecoming.”

“So is foreclosing on the liens of someone under your idorrá.”

“Oreth would have returned those debts paid as a wedding gift.”

“Was that supposed to be a comfort or a threat?”

He sucked in his breath, exhaled it as a low growl. “I’ve protected you in ways you can’t understand.”

I bit back on the impulse to say something rash. I wanted to say a great deal to the man. I wanted to ask how he’d managed to sire a creature as vile as his son Oreth. His older son, Ilvar, was as different from Oreth as night from day. I wanted to know why Aroth had betrayed my grandfather’s trust.

I didn’t ask. I’d already pushed further than decorum allowed. He’d be well within his rights to tether me right then.

I tilted my head, looking at him as much as I could without turning my face from the altar. “Oreth believes his right to command me is the natural order. He thinks he’s the stallion and I should be the mare. That is not and never will be who I am.”

He gave a hard look to the side, past me to where Dorna sat, not moving and barely breathing. “You should have gone to the Festival of the Turning Leaves, then.”

Anger spilled into me, anger with Oreth, anger with his father, anger with my own grandfather for putting me in this situation. The Markreev’s suggestion burned. Not because I had any problem with those who spent their year in the nature goddess Galava’s service, in exchange for the gift that followed. If Dorna lived happier as a woman than as her birth sex, who was anyone to question it? If the Markreev had chosen to become male, that was his right too.

But I wished to remain female.

Whereas the Markreev seemed to think I could only be a stallion if my sex and gender matched. Suddenly, I understood where Oreth had acquired his vile opinions.

The pillow underneath my fingers started to feel warm.

No … no, no. Not here. Not now.

I inhaled and tried to calm myself. I prayed to Khored, chanting the Litany of Challenges under my breath.

I inhaled and closed my eyes, feeling a deep bitterness welling inside me. “How little you know your son, if you think changing my sex would change his need to control me.”

“Oreth is very fond of you.”

“And Oreth thinks his choice is the only choice that matters.”

I heard Aroth stand. “That does not excuse your failure to meet your obligations—excuse me?”

I opened my eyes and looked up.

Mithros stood there, offering Dorna a hand up to her feet. “Apologies for losing you back there. Let me show you the way.” As soon as Dorna steadied, he extended his hand to me.

Aroth Malkoessian narrowed his eyes. “I don’t think you know who you’re—”

Mithros met his eyes.

All the color fled the Markreev’s face. “I—” His speech trailed off. He blinked several times.

Mithros stepped toward the Markreev. The mercenary captain seemed larger than he had been outside. Now he took up an enormous amount of space. A few feet separated the two men, but Aroth stepped back, as if Mithros stood far too close.

No one watched except for my people and Aroth’s. Everyone else was lighting incense, saying prayers, or leaving flower wreaths around the necks of horse saints.

A soldier put a hand to his sword. The Markreev shook his head, and the man lowered his hand, sword undrawn.

Aroth paid me no attention. All his energy focused on Mithros. I had no idea what the Markreev was thinking or feeling, but his eyes were wide and fearful.

Mithros raised his hand. Aroth flinched but didn’t move, and Mithros lowered it to the back of Aroth’s neck, touching his forehead to Aroth’s own. Mithros somehow turned the traditional greeting into something aggressive. Adversarial. A salutation between equals became an act of dominance. Aroth made a sound, but I couldn’t tell what emotion lay behind it.

“Go,” Mithros said as he released Aroth. The Markreev of Stavira stumbled back a few steps and uttered a swift apology as he stumbled over another penitent at prayer. He turned around. Motioning for his soldiers to follow him, he and his entire retinue left.

Aroth never looked at me.

Mithros turned back to me, smiling. “Sorry about that.”

“Khored?” The word slipped out before I could stop myself, at once question, prayer, and statement. I had already met a god once that week. It didn’t seem so impossible an idea I might meet another. I’d grown up on a thousand divine stories. Not one featured Khored as a black-skinned Manol vané.

But not one said he didn’t look like such either.

The smile slipped a little from his face, but then returned and shone all the brighter for the lapse. “Please, call me Mithros. Come now. This way.”

---

The others waited when Mithros led us to a back room, where a stairway stretched down under the temple. Priests of Khored also used the well-traveled passage, but they paid no attention to us. A few nodded or waved to Mithros as he passed.

When we left the main cathedral vault, Sir Baramon turned to me. “Was that Aroth Malkoessian? What happened? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. He came to pray.”

“But what—”

I shook my head. “We’ll talk later.”

The group fell into silence. Ninavis gave me several odd looks. She knew something had happened but hadn’t been close enough to hear. Qown wore the air of a child ignoring his parents arguing.

And Mithros felt no need to provide any explanations at all.

He led us through a long underground complex used for housing and meditation chambers for the temple priests. Like the others, they paid us little mind.

By the time we reached the second staircase, I felt like a fool. How could I have let my overactive imagination get the better of me? I had witnessed an impressive demonstration of idorrá upstairs, but Mithros’s race was immortal. Cowing Aroth hadn’t required a god, just a man who was a thousand years old.

Plus, the priests didn’t treat Mithros with any reverence. They all but rolled their eyes at him, like he was an old uncle who embarrassed everyone by telling lewd jokes at dinner. He was family, taken for granted.

Not how one treated a member of the Eight.

The second staircase debouched into a space so large its edges vanished into darkness. The air felt cold and moist. In the distance, I heard running water. This would have been quite normal for an estava, but Atrine had been built by a Quuros emperor. He wouldn’t have made estavas or cellar homes. Indeed, as far as I knew, Atrine had no cellars. Not one. The stairs weren’t designed for horses; even a fireblood would have balked at descending them.

Old stone blocks, massive but fitted, lined the floor. Small glowing lanterns illuminated the area, glowing whiter than candlelight or oil lanterns. Couches and tables filled an area similar to a tavern, manned by Red Spears, to judge by the armbands. They waved at Mithros and looked at us with interest before returning to more important activities: eating, drinking, gambling.

“Most people think this is a little oppressive, even for a people who prefer to build their homes underground,” Mithros explained, “so the priests let us use the space. I find it helpful for talking in private. Now do you want to continue pretending I’m only interested in hiring your archer’s services”—he motioned to Ninavis—“or do you want to explain what this is about?” He paused and smiled at Ninavis. “I should add the marriage offer is sincere.”

Ninavis rolled her eyes.

“We need to talk in private,” I cleared my throat and looked around. “At least, as privately as this allows.”

“Everyone, show my guests a good time.” Mithros pointed to the men and women at the bar. “Don’t take too much metal from them at dice.”

“Dice?” Dorna perked up. “Oh, I just couldn’t. I’m terrible at dice.”

“Oh hell,” Mithros muttered. “She’s going to rob them for every throne, chance, and chalice they have.” He gestured toward another stairway leading even farther down into the darkness. “Shall we?”

My companions all wore bemused expressions, because I hadn’t told them about my conversation with Thaena. They all thought I wanted to speak to Mithros about Ninavis, to gain a new place for us to stay—so why wouldn’t I be willing to talk about it publicly?

I ignored the questions I saw in their faces and followed Mithros down the stairs.

The darkness didn’t last long; he called up mage-lights to brighten our path. The stairs disgorged us onto a porch, lined with carved stone railings to keep people from going over the side. Rushing water sounded louder now, the air filled with fine, cold mist. The space felt homely; someone had set up bamboo mats and chairs and strung lights. A Zaibur board sat on a carved wooden table, pieces aligned on each side.²

“How close are we to the falls?”

He gestured into the darkness. “Still another mile farther up. We wouldn’t be able to hear each other talk if we sat closer. Would you like something to drink?”

“No, I—” I looked around. I didn’t see any drinks to offer but stopped myself from asking. He may not have been a god, but I assumed he was a sorcerer.

I realized we had nothing in our legends to deal with vané magic. The Blood of Joras label didn’t apply, but they could hardly be called tainted by Marakori blood either.

“I’m here because a mutual friend recommended you to me.”

He sat down behind the Zaibur board and picked up the two starting stones, one wood and the other metal. “No one can hear us, so you might as well say what you mean. Thaena sent you to me because she wants something done, can’t figure out how to do it herself, and thus wants me to solve the problem. Do you know how to play?” He held a stone in each hand before putting his hands behind his back.

“My grandfather taught me,” I admitted. When he showed his hands, each clenched into a fist, I tapped the one on the left. “As for Thaena, I can’t speak to the motives of gods.”

He opened his hands. I’d picked the wooden token, which meant he went first. A lucky break for him. “I’ve known her a long time.” His tone implied he wasn’t a fan.

“Is Teraeth your son?” The question flew out of my mouth before I could stop it.

He blinked at me, mouth open. He abandoned whatever he’d been about to say. “You’ve met Teraeth?” He turned the board athwart so we’d be playing along the long edge.

I looked over the game pieces. Different sets used different pieces. This set included Khorsal, naturally, and anyone might assume a Joratese stallion would start there. So after a moment’s hesitation, I picked the witch-queen Suless. “He must be related to you. I mean no offense when I say you resemble him. A son? A brother?”

He smiled as he made his selection, giving the matter no thought at all. He picked the god-king Nemesan, always a strong opener with a good offense. “Technically, he’s my grandson.”

“Technically? I would think he’s either related to you or he’s not.”

He laughed with surprise. “I suppose so! Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not ashamed of Teraeth. Just the opposite. In his last life, I favored him a great deal.”

I felt a chill twine its fingers around my spine. “You knew who he was in his last life? How? I thought people lost all memories from prior lives when they’re reborn?” I picked a dragon piece, pausing as I did.

I counted a total of eight dragon pieces. How had I never noticed? I wondered if they had once been named and if one of those names was Aeyan’arric.

“I wasn’t reborn. He was.” He pointed at me. “Just as you, also once part of Teraeth’s life, were reborn.” Seeing the look on my face, he grinned cruelly in a way that ruined all his normal prettiness. “Come now. Haven’t you ever met someone with whom you shared a connection, even though it made no sense, even though you couldn’t understand why? Someone you immediately distrusted or knew would run into a fire for you? Or you for them? It’s not so hard to believe souls from one lifespan seek each other out in the next.” He shrugged. “Or that the Eight might track certain souls from one life to the next.”

I cleared my throat and looked away. I’d felt it with Teraeth, that immediate connection.

I’d also felt it with Relos Var, if not in so positive a manner.

“So what is it Thaena can’t figure out on her own?”

“I need to steal a spear named Khoreval.”

He stared at me like I’d just told him ice was hot. “Why?”

“Thaena thinks the spear is capable of killing Aeyan’arric.” I felt the words come in a rush, almost a confession. “Relos Var has been sending the dragon into Jorat, having her attack towns. And while I know I can’t go after Relos Var directly, I can attack his allies, tear down his supports. Without Aeyan’arric, it will be harder for him to—” I faltered. “Do whatever he’s doing.³ Thaena says that you can help me.”

“Thaena lied.”

I faltered, knocking a piece over. “What?”

The Manol vané man sighed. “You want me to help you infiltrate Duke Kaen’s palace, yes?”

I blinked. I hadn’t explained who had the spear. “Thaena said you would know how to do that.”

“Technically true. But if she claimed I would help you, she lied. I won’t.”

“What? But—”

“It would be strategic and literal suicide for you. Perhaps a woman who controls the powers of death itself doesn’t understand what that really means anymore.” He began placing his pieces down on the board.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Has Teraeth spoken to you about this?”

“He told you not to do it? I like this incarnation already. You might want to place your pieces on the board.”

“What? Damn—” I blushed as I realized I’d been too busy debating him to play the game. I hurried to try to keep up.

Mithros gave me a wry grin. “You’re young and gifted, and very much your mother’s daughter, but don’t make the same mistake Thaena’s making. The same mistake she keeps making: don’t underestimate Relos Var.”

“I’m not. I know he’s dangerous.”

“Oh. You know he’s dangerous. Good start.” He moved his piece first, immediately pinning my piece against the adamant. “To infiltrate Duke Kaen’s palace, you’ll need Relos Var’s approval. He’ll have to believe he’s recruiting you—that you’ve switched sides. But he’ll never accept your defection at face value. He’d be a fool to do so, and we’ve already established Relos Var is no fool. So what prevents him from just gaeshing you?”

I stopped dead.

Again, I felt a chill.

“He’ll chain your soul,” Mithros said. “Why not? There’s zero reason for him to assume your loyalty. But he can make it impossible for you to disobey him. For you to convince Relos Var he doesn’t need to gaesh you would require a truly vile demonstration of loyalty. One so awful you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself afterward. He’d accept nothing less. Maybe those who serve him don’t start out as monsters, but they all end up that way.”⁴

I fought down panic and the desire to lash back, to scream he was wrong, that I could somehow stop Relos Var from gaeshing me.

What if he wasn’t wrong?⁵ The true foolishness would be to go into the situation without considering Mithros might be right.⁶

“You may have a point,” I said. I captured a piece, but it felt like a small and insignificant win.

“Then I can’t help you, and you shouldn’t want me to.” He leaned back in his chair. “Now if you want to join the Red Spears, I’m happy to have you. Oh, and that Marakori woman too. She shoots well enough to be Diraxon.”

I cleared my throat and let the comment pass. “I said you may have a point. But I know Relos Var doesn’t believe in the same rules we Joratese do. He’s been using that against us. You think I should leave him alone, but I don’t think he’s going to leave me alone. He’s already recruited someone to his side for no other reason than their animosity to me. I’ve captured his interest.”

His lips thinned. “Regrettable.”

“Thaena thinks he won’t hurt me.”

“Thaena won’t be the one dead or gaeshed if she’s wrong. And while I agree he’d recruit you if he thought your loyalty sincere—”

“Then this could work—”

“Don’t underestimate his ability to discern the truth.⁷ Lying to him is seldom successful, and once he catches you out, he’d twist you until you’re unrecognizable.”

I swallowed and looked away. “I saw what he did to Tamin.”

“And Tamin didn’t lie to him.”

“Relos Var’s arrogant,” I said, turning back. “Arrogant enough to think he can corrupt me. He thinks he’s smarter than everyone else.”

“He is smarter than everyone else.”⁸

“Fine. Even if that’s true, sooner or later, our strengths always become our weaknesses. This can be used against him. I know how dangerous this is, but I refuse to back down just because it’s hard.”

He started to say something and then stopped.

“Please. I need your help.”

“Name some other boon.”⁹

I stood and began pacing, feeling the despair like a heavy weight around my middle. I had assumed this man would serve Thaena or some other member of the Eight, that he would be cooperative.

He was anything but cooperative.

Still, I had been granted another boon. I would be foolish not to use it.

I turned back to him. “Can you sneak me into the tournament? I would at least wish to warn the duke. Someone has to.”

He made a face. “That won’t work the way you think either.”

“Can you gain me admission or not?” I felt my temper starting to slip.

Mithros sighed. “Oh, I can sneak you in. I’m just a little worried about how you’re going to get yourself out.”

I lifted my chin. “That’s my problem.”