29: AN ILL-ADVISED DUEL

Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Three days since Kihrin littered the Capital City with unwanted talismans

“You didn’t,” Kihrin said.

“Oh, I did,” Janel admitted.

“But you didn’t fight him.” Kihrin raised an eyebrow. “I mean, I’m not kidding when I say I’ve seen Relos Var face down gods. Not just god-kings. The Three Sisters themselves: Luck, Death, and Magic. At the same time.”¹

“Oh, she fought him,” Dorna said. She looked up at Star. “I can’t reach her from here. Do you mind, dear?”

“No problem,” Star said. He leaned over and slapped the back of Janel’s head.

“Hey!” Janel glared at Star. “Watch it!”

“And you deserve a thousand more, colt,” Dorna said. “I raised you better.” She stabbed her finger at the bar top. “Don’t pick a fight with someone who scares gods. Words to live by.”

“I knew exactly what I was doing,” Janel protested. “Mostly.”

Qown opened his book. “I really hate this part.”

Qown’s Turn. The Malkoessian compound, the Green, Atrine, Jorat, Quur.

The guards pulled Brother Qown and Mare Dorna into the tent. Flame motifs stitched in red and glittering gold decorated its interior. The Stavira jaguar grinned at them from every surface, as if to mock their foolhardy trespassing.

Brother Qown had met Sir Oreth once, when he arrived at Tolamer Castle months ago with soldiers and malice. Sir Oreth had grown no less handsome in his absence. The Joratese called his coloring sun-kissed—a golden-white laevos and bronze-brown skin paired with darker brown socks on his hands. A white blaze surrounded one eye, which gleamed a lighter brown than its twin.

His temper hadn’t improved either. When they returned to the tent, Sir Oreth raised his sword to Mare Dorna.

“No, Sir Oreth,” Senera admonished. Her accent placed her origin in the Quuros Capital.² “Bodies lead to investigations. We don’t wish to draw attention. Lord Var would be very disappointed.”

“This bitch knows me,” Sir Oreth said. “If she tells my father, he’ll call due on his loans, and then your people won’t have a Gatestone in Tolamer to use.”

“She’s an old woman. She can’t hurt you.” Senera looked at Mare Dorna, then at the guards. “Someone remove her gag.”

Brother Qown had expected expletives to rain from Mare Dorna’s mouth as soon as the guard ungagged her. But perhaps because Dorna understood their situation, they didn’t.

“What happens now?” Mare Dorna asked, chin held high.

“Oh, the usual,” Senera said. “We talk, I ask questions, you try to give me some story—truth or lie, whichever you prefer—to convince me not to let the charming Sir Oreth here slit your throat.”³

Brother Qown swallowed. “It’s not done here, you know. Trespassing isn’t seen as a capital crime in this dominion. It would seem very odd to put us to death. No one is going to believe we’re assassins caught in the act. If Sir Oreth kills us, there will be repercussions.”

Senera turned and looked at him for the first time. Her warm gray eyes were not god-touched, not one of the Royal Houses’ divine colors.

She winked at him.

“The priest has a point,” she said to Sir Oreth.

“The old woman is an evil hag with a wicked tongue,” Sir Oreth said.

“Ay, that’s just what your mother used to say,” said Mare Dorna.

He drew his sword again and took a step in her direction.

A guard stepped in the way.

“Dorna!” Brother Qown said. “You’re not helping.”

“Sorry,” she muttered. “Couldn’t stop myself.”

Senera watched the group with an expression bordering on disbelief. She crossed over to a table and poured several cups of tea. “I stand corrected. The old woman can hurt your feelings.” She held up a cup. “Would anyone like tea?”

“Oh, I would,” Mare Dorna said. “If you’d just untie me…?” She wriggled her arms behind her to emphasize her restraints

Senera studied her and held out the cup. “Untie yourself. We both know those bonds might as well be made from pulled sugar floss to someone like you.”

“What are we doing?” Sir Oreth gestured toward the azhock’s front. “My family will be back any minute. We have no time for socializing with peasants. You’re sweet enough to look upon, Senera, but you’re not fooling anyone into thinking you’re a stallion.⁴ Leave this to people who know what they’re doing.” He motioned to the guards. “Take them both. We’ll move them to the south barn and figure out what to do with them later.”

“Still charming as ever,” Dorna muttered.

Senera’s expression tightened, and she closed her eyes for a second. She set down the tea. “Sir Oreth, what’s that noise?”

The knight turned back to her. “What?”

Brother Qown realized Senera wasn’t making idle chatter. A dull roar had risen in the distance, as if they’d found themselves too close to Demon Falls.

Cheering. The tournament crowds were cheering.

A runner in red and gold came into the tent, panting. “Noble lords,” he said between gasping breaths. “There’s a late contest added to the schedule. The Count of Tolamer is to fight Relos Var.”

“Oh, that bloody idiot,” Mare Dorna said.

Brother Qown knew Dorna wasn’t referring to Relos Var.

“Damn it to Hell,” Sir Oreth said. “She’s going to kill him.”⁵

Senera stared at Sir Oreth. “You are new here, aren’t you?”

“Janel’s strong as ten men,” Sir Oreth said. “Your master talks a good game, but in a duel, Janel’s going to rip him apart.”

Senera rolled her eyes. She looked inconvenienced, not worried.

“Come on, then.” Senera motioned to the guards. “Let’s get these two over to the stands. The least we can do is allow them to witness their beloved count’s death.”

---

“How could she be this stupid?” Mare Dorna uttered under her breath as they walked along, sometimes shoved from behind by an impatient guard. “She said she’d talk to the bloody duke, not challenge some sorcerer to a duel. What the icy hell was she thinking?”

“I don’t know,” Brother Qown said. “What did Senera mean about the ropes?”

“Never you mind, priest.”

“I’m thinking of the fireblood whose girth snapped,” he said. “And Kalazan’s ropes. For that matter, remember all those crossbows aimed at Count Janel back in Mereina? Where the strings just snapped?”

“Stop talking,” the guard behind them said. His accent sounded Joratese, but something else lingered around the edges.

Brother Qown sighed, but he followed the guard’s orders. They couldn’t stop him from thinking, though. Brother Qown wondered if Count Janel had any idea Mare Dorna also qualified for the Joratese definition of a witch. He remembered all the people who’d lost their purses around the old woman, although he’d never seen a knife in her hands. He thought of how well she darned fabrics, making stitches so small he’d never been able to pick them out with the naked eye. She probably knew just a single spell—binding and unbinding—but she wielded it with brilliant expertise.

“What was she thinking?” Dorna muttered again.

Senera walked like a queen. Nothing about her attitude suggested she thought anyone would call her to justice for the deaths in Mereina. Sir Oreth, on the other hand, fidgeted and kept looking around to see if anyone was watching.

He was probably looking for his father.

Senera led the group to a higher, private area in the stands, where everyone had their own servants and guards.

“You have a box?” Dorna sounded scandalized.

Senera laughed as she sat down. As soon as she did, a small dhole, perhaps eight months or so old, woke up from a velvet cushion and bounded over to the woman, hopeful for scraps and attention. Senera rubbed the dog’s ears and let it sit down next to her, so its head lay in her lap.

Brother Qown blinked as he recognized the dog. The warden’s puppy from Mereina, the one Senera had taken with her when she abandoned the town to choking gas.

“I’m going to check in with my father,” Sir Oreth said. “If I find him first, he won’t come looking for me. I assume you have this well in hand.” He left, motioning for his soldiers to follow.

“There goes a very handsome idiot,” Senera said, shaking her head. “I’m glad we don’t need him for anything important.”

Brother Qown started to respond when another roar sounded, and Count Janel rode into the ring. She waved her sword and shouted to the crowd.

Brother Qown realized she was shouting her accusations. That Relos Var, a sorcerer, had ordered demon and dragon attacks within the province, with a white witch from the south aiding him.

Next to him, Senera paused while petting the dhole.

“That may prove inconvenient.” Senera turned to Dorna. “Don’t your people have laws protecting against slander?”

“Yeah. You’re watching it.”

Relos Var came next, and although he didn’t have the same panache as Janel riding Arasgon, he still looked at home enough on a horse not to embarrass himself.

Relos Var’s speech was damning.

“This woman is no proper Joratese!” he cried out. “I know I’m a stranger here, but at least I don’t lie. She made her pacts with demons as a child, at Lonezh Canton. She did not outrun the demons. She led them! She led a demon army against you! And now she seeks to twist the truth when we would stop her and her machinations. Did she not visit Mereina just before its destruction? Did she not abandon her ancestral canton of Tolamer? She attacked her betrothed when he discovered her treachery. And now she points fingers at me because I know what she is and I’m brave enough to say so.”

The crowd went silent, and then they roared.

They didn’t take Relos Var’s side. He was a foreigner, and she was Janel Danorak. They would give her the benefit of the doubt.

Unless Janel lost. His words had an ugly quality to them, in no small part because he’d twisted her story into a damning slice of hell. Brother Qown felt sick. If Relos Var won, this fight would be all the evidence anyone needed to put Janel to death. The duel would be followed by a burning.

Senera smiled and resumed petting her dog.⁶

When Relos Var finished his ride, he surprised everyone by dismounting his horse, leaving it to the side. After a moment’s consideration, Count Janel did likewise, sending Arasgon back to the stables despite the fireblood’s strenuous objections.

The combatants closed with each other, each armed with a sword and shield. Janel used her family sword, which gave her reach. She wielded it, as always, as though it were a one-handed sword. Anyone else would have required both hands to control the weapon.⁷

Relos Var looked like a librarian someone had forced into a gladiator match.

But his appearance didn’t match his skill. Relos Var dodged her swings, while Janel was being pushed back by his attacks. Her strength proved no advantage at all.

If any conversation occurred between them, it wasn’t obvious.

The entire stadium began chanting.

“Danorak, Danorak, Danorak!”

Then something happened. Brother Qown didn’t see the mistake. Maybe Janel didn’t make one. Janel raised her sword, Var swung his across hers …

And Janel’s sword shattered as though made of glass.

Everyone jumped to their feet. Everyone, from the duke to the humblest child sitting at her parents’ feet on the rooftops across the Green.

A moment later, Janel fell to her knees, defeated.

She surrendered to Relos Var.

“Well, damn,” Mare Dorna said. “Your man won fair enough—”

Relos Var ran Janel through with his sword.

Time stopped. Brother Qown stared in shock. Even from that distance, Brother Qown saw Janel’s shocked expression. Relos Var yanked free his sword, and Janel fell. A pool of blood spread out under her, seeping into the ground.

She didn’t move again.

The crowd fell silent. Senera sighed and stood. “So that’s done. Let’s go fetch the body.”