32: BY THE SEASIDE
Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Three days since Kihrin wondered if he could take Gadrith by himself (answer: no)
Kihrin just stared at Dorna.
“What?” she said. “Oh, like you’ve never been dead before?” She raised her eyebrows while reaching for her drink.
Kihrin paused. “That … is a fair point.” And his own death had only happened a few days previously, no matter how long ago it seemed. “I forget sometimes how easy it is to pull off if you know the right people.”
“Everything is easier to pull off if you know the right people,” Dorna said gently.
“I’m just curious,” Kihrin said, “what do you have over the Markreev of Stavira?”
“I have wondered that myself,” Janel said.
“Nothing as sinister as what that brat Oreth seems to think,” Dorna said. “I played the tournament circuit in my youth. Aroth was a fan … and one thing led to another.”1 She put an arm around Star and ruffled his hair.
“Momma,” Star said. “Stop that.”
Dorna did, grinning. “No regrets. Got Palomarn out of the deal, didn’t I? The whole thing fell apart after a few years, though. Later on, I decided I’d be happier female, and Aroth decided he’d be happier male. Fine by me, except I still run with mares and he ain’t one anymore.” She shrugged. “It was never gonna work out.”
Kihrin raised an eyebrow at Star. “Palomarn? Your real name is Palomarn?”
The large man shrugged. “I like Star.”
Janel gave Dorna a long, slow blink. “You had a child with Aroth Malkoessian?”
“Hey,” Star said. “Not a child.”
“So your son…” Kihrin had a hard time imagining Star as having been born at all. He seemed more like something spawned into existence. Star as a child? Star as a baby? No. “How did I just happen to stumble across your son for sale in the Octagon slave pits?”
Dorna gave Star a disapproving look. “What’s this? A slave?”
“Not my fault,” Star said. “People who mistreat horses don’t deserve to keep ’em.”
Dorna slapped Star’s shoulder. “No, I mean you letting them catch you. Raised you better than that.”
Star grinned as he turned to Kihrin. “I didn’t plan on you buying me. Luck, I suppose.”
“Right. Luck.” Kihrin couldn’t even discount the possibility. The Goddess of Luck sometimes did him favors. She rarely asked permission first.2
Janel said, “Would you mind taking a second turn, Qown? I’ve never heard what happened right after we were kidnapped.”
Qown gave her a long look.
“What?”
The priest sighed. “You’ll see.” He opened his book.
Qown’s Turn. Senera’s cottage, location unknown.
The guard carried Brother Qown through the gate and set him down on a wooden bench. “Colonel, this one’s injured.”
Brother Qown ground his teeth together as he tore at his wet robes, stained red. The wound still bled freely.
It also hurt. He’d been warned it often proved difficult to heal oneself, because pain sapped concentration, but he’d never experienced the phenomenon. If he was being honest, he’d always assumed he’d be the exception, able to ignore the agony through force of will.
“Put the count’s body on this table. On her back, please. Molash, go bring my bag. It’s the red leather one hanging next to the door.” Senera set down the eight-month-old dhole and untied her collar. The puppy made an immediate beeline for a velvet pillow by the fireplace, her bed, turning around three times before lying down, tail thumping her approval.3
Sir Oreth looked around for a moment, blinking, then crossed over to Senera. “Take me back. I must speak with my father.”
She ignored him and bent down next to Brother Qown. “How bad does it look?”
Qown winced. “Could’ve been worse. Skin and muscle tissue. The rib cage did its job and saved my internal organs. Mostly blood loss. If I could just … concentrate … I could…”
“Has anyone said you talk too much?” Senera smiled at him. “It’s no wonder you can’t reach Illumination.”
He blinked at her. “What did you say?”
Brother Qown felt his heart grow heavy. Please don’t let her be a follower of the Way of Vishai. Please don’t let her be someone who claims to share my faith.4 She didn’t answer his question but continued uncovering the wound on his chest.
“Are you listening to me, woman? I said I need to go back, right now.” Oreth’s anger bordered on panic. His hands started to shake.
Senera put her hand on Brother Qown’s chest. “Pragaos, watch Sir Oreth. If he makes any threatening moves, kill him.”
“Yes, Colonel.” Pragaos pulled his sword and moved to stand next to Sir Oreth.
“What?” Sir Oreth grimaced at the man. “Stand down this instant. You take orders from me.”
The soldier’s mouth quirked. “You may find you’re mistaken about that.”
“Why don’t you pour yourself a drink, Oreth,” Senera said. “You’re shaking like a—” She paused at the edge of a metaphor and narrowed her eyes at Sir Oreth. “You’ve never killed anyone before.”
Sir Oreth crossed his arms over his chest, looking more than a little wide-eyed. “What? Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I have. I just didn’t think—” He went over to the bench and sat down. “I didn’t think—”
A soldier poured a glass of brandy at the bar. He crossed back to Sir Oreth and handed it to him.
“I have to talk to my father,” Sir Oreth whispered as he took the brandy and drank it, too quickly. “I need my father.”
“Why are you helping me?” Brother Qown tore his gaze away from Sir Oreth to look at Senera.
“Seems a shame to waste a perfectly good healer,” Senera said. “You never know when you’ll need one. Now stop talking; I need to concentrate.”
Brother Qown understood that last part all too well. He leaned back and tried not to think about the pain, although the wound hurt less with every passing second. The physical pain, anyway.
Dorna. Damn it all, Dorna. It had happened so fast …
To keep himself from repeating that scene in his mind, he concentrated on gathering information. Brother Qown looked around the room. It was still night, but by the time the sun set in Jorat, it had already been night for several hours on the west coast of Quur. Mage-lights set into glass lanterns lit the room. Herbs hung from the rafters in neat bundles. Occult formulas had been burned into the wooden joists. A fire blazed in a hearth large enough for cooking or cremations. Racks of bottles framed an apothecary cabinet of medicinal powders and supplies. Windows were set into two walls, two doors led from a third—and an impressive accumulation of books, piled floor to ceiling, took up the entirety of the last. The whole room existed as a messy and cluttered altar to the arcane.
The windows provided no clues; the view outside was black.
He could make guesses, though. The cottage sat above ground, so it couldn’t be a cellar home. It clearly wasn’t an azhock either, eliminating Jorat’s two main styles of housing. The temperature felt moderate, removing Yor as an option. With cob construction, straight plumb lines, and a stone floor, it didn’t match Marakori stilt-house styles.
The room, despite its large size, felt cozy. Books and shelves filled with odd knickknacks filled all the gaps in the walls not taken up by windows or doors. Also, drawings were pinned to the beams: anatomical renderings, landscapes, architectural drawings. All of it seemed drawn by the same hand.
In the distance, Brother Qown heard crashing waves. Since Senera could open gates, they could be nearly anywhere, but he suspected Kazivar—possibly even Eamithon.
Assuming she’d bothered to stay on the same continent.5
A cool energy spread over his skin. He looked down to see Senera closing the wound and sealing it.
“Thank you,” he said, because it would have been rude to do otherwise. “I’ll heal the rest.” He hoped by volunteering she’d forget to tie him up. He’d have an easier time acting on an opportunity to escape if he wasn’t bound.
“Good.” She stood up and crossed back over to her men. “How many did we lose?”
“Four,” one answered. “Two killed during the fighting, and the other two were about to be captured.”
A look of consternation came over Senera’s face. “Thank you.”
The soldier nodded and stepped back, his expression unreadable.
Sir Oreth slammed his drink against the table and stood up. “Order your men to leave the room, right now. You and I are going to talk in private.”
The lead soldier raised an eyebrow. The other men straightened and stood at attention. Several hands drifted toward sword hilts.
“If it pleases you,” Senera said.
“Colonel—” The soldier didn’t agree.
Brother Qown struggled to sit. He found himself agreeing with the soldiers, even though every person in the room made him regret his vows of nonviolence.
She waved a hand. “It’s fine. I assume the priest can stay? He shouldn’t be moved right now.”
Sir Oreth glanced at Brother Qown. “I don’t care about him.”
You should, Brother Qown thought to himself. Because if you come a step too close to me, I’ll gladly—
No. He stopped himself. No. This isn’t what I believe.
He concentrated on healing any damage Senera might have missed.
The soldiers hesitated.
“Go,” Senera said.
The lead man bowed before he walked from the room. The other men followed, giving Sir Oreth dirty looks on the way.
The moment they left, Sir Oreth slapped Senera across the face.
She rocked back from the blow almost without reaction. Just a hand to her cheek as her eyes went to the floor.6
But Brother Qown knew her meek response was a ruse. Are you this stupid, Oreth? Female wizards, holding the rank of colonel in someone or other’s army, do not obey just because you hit them.
“You forget your place, woman. I don’t know what lies you’ve told those men, but Relos Var sent you to help me, not pine over some damn mare who wants to paint herself a stallion. And I know Janel isn’t dead, so you can stop pretending; Xaltorath’s curse just makes her look dead when she sleeps, so heal her. I need her alive so she can give her title to me.”
The white-skinned woman blinked once when Sir Oreth mentioned Xaltorath’s name, then her gray eyes shifted upward. “Interesting,” she murmured. “There can’t be many Joratese who’ve ever heard of Xaltorath. Where did you?”
“I don’t have time to answer your nonsense.” He drew his sword. “Heal her and open that gate back up for me.”
“Senera—” Brother Qown warned.
The puppy by the fireplace crouched, looking toward Sir Oreth and growling.
“Enough.” Senera gestured toward Sir Oreth with two hooked fingers. His sword twisted and warped in his hand, the hilt reforming around his fingers like manacles. The blade itself drew back, hovering point first like a snake rearing back to strike.
Sir Oreth tried to drop the sword and found he couldn’t. “Stop it! What are you—” The blade edge came to a stop just a hair from his throat. Sir Oreth stopped moving.
“What am I doing?” Senera chuckled. “I should think that’s obvious; I’m dealing with you. And you’re not playing the backwater circuits anymore, my pretty idiot. These contests involve enemies of such scope and prowess you haven’t even begun to comprehend the odds. That’s why Relos Var ordered us not to kill anyone. Brought with us, the old woman could’ve been kept from spilling secrets. But dead? Oh, being dead plays to our enemies’ strengths.”
“You’re not making sense…” Sir Oreth didn’t look at her. He didn’t take his eyes off the sword.
Senera narrowed her eyes. “Who do you think you are?” She walked over to the fireplace and bent over to pet the dhole puppy, whose tail thumped against the hearth in response.
“What do you mean? I’m Sir Oreth Malkoessian—”
She rolled her eyes. “Meaningless. Ephemeral. Titles and quirks of birth order can be stripped from you in an instant. Who are you?” Without waiting for him to answer, she turned to Brother Qown. “Let’s try this again. Who are you?”
“I—” Qown made a face. “I’m a priest of—”
Senera cut him off with an angry gesture. “I expected better. That’s a job. If I slay you now, priest, do you cease to exist?” She turned back to Sir Oreth. “Do you think you’re nothing more than your physical form? Pretty and quick? Young and stupid?”
“Hey!” Sir Oreth flinched as the sword reminded him not to move.
“Our souls,” Brother Qown said. “We are our souls.”
“Right,” Sir Oreth agreed. “When I die, my soul will go to the Land of Peace.”
“Don’t assume Thaena likes you that much. I’ll allow you’ll at least travel to the Afterlife.” She walked over to Janel’s body. “This body you wear isn’t who you are. It’s not your identity. In fact, it’s your prison. Your body keeps you pinned to this side of the twin worlds, locked away, controllable. While we had that old woman in her physical body, healthy and alive, her soul was under our control. But now that you’ve killed her?” She tsked. “Dorna’s telling Thaena everything she knows even as we speak. And Thaena will tell her people. The Goddess of Death will then tell your father, the Markreev, the first time he makes a funerary offering at one of Thaena’s shrines. Tell me, what sort of man is the Markreev of Stavira? Will he lie to protect you? Or will he tell the duke the truth: that his son is a traitor gone so very saelen? What a disappointment you must be…”
Sir Oreth seemed so horrified by the question, he stopped paying attention to the hovering sword.7
“Wait,” Brother Qown said. “You’re talking about this like Thaena is the enemy. Thaena herself.”
Senera shrugged. “Thaena is the enemy. They all are. Khored, Taja, Galava—all of them. You’ve been sold lies all your life. The Eight Immortals aren’t our guardians. They’re our jailers, our rulers. They sit at the pinnacle of a system that benefits from humanity’s enslavement. Why would they ever set us free?” She picked up scissors and began to cut away the leather straps holding Janel’s ornamental black armor to her body.
“That’s not—” But before Brother Qown could even begin to protest, light blazed brightly before a bookcase, solidifying into a familiar fractal swirl—which circled while the center turned mirrorlike.
Relos Var stepped through.
The wizard closed the gate behind him and raised an eyebrow at the silver sword-snake wrapped around Sir Oreth. “At least someone’s been having a good time.”
He ignored Brother Qown and Janel’s body on the table and walked over to the side table to pour himself a drink. “I’d ask how things went, but I just spent the last ten minutes talking to a thoroughly hysterical Duke Xun about the Markreev of Stavira’s youngest son. Apparently, our young knight just murdered the Markreev’s ex-wife. Or is it ex-husband? I’m not sure it makes a difference.”
Sir Oreth started to choke, but neither Relos Var nor Senera paid any attention.
Brother Qown had never seen Relos Var close-up before. He couldn’t shake an unmistakable sense of familiarity. He frowned, trying to imagine what had triggered the feeling.
Relos Var threw Senera an apologetic look. “Unfortunately, I had to reassure the duke that you and I are unconnected. My sincerest apologies.”
She waved a hand as she continued to work. “It’s fine. The tournaments have grown boring, anyway.”
“My father—” Sir Oreth’s voice broke.
Relos Var gave Sir Oreth an annoyed look. “What are we going to do about this one? He’s useless to us in terms of Tolamer. The Markreev of Stavira will now call due his loans. Since young Oreth here can’t repay them, the canton will default back to his father. I doubt we’ll convince Aroth to work with us instead.”
“Relos, we had a deal. I was helping you!” Sir Oreth interrupted. “I can explain everything. I didn’t—I didn’t mean to kill Dorna. I just—I lost my temper.”
“Not your temper,” Brother Qown spat, “your courage. You didn’t murder her until you knew your father was about to arrive.”
“Oh, well, that was one bad decision after another then, wasn’t it? Added bonus: Dorna’s not dead,” Relos Var said as he returned with his drink and sat down in a chair. “You didn’t even accomplish that much. Honestly, Oreth, what good are you?”
“But I saw her—” Brother Qown blinked.
Sir Oreth seemed just as surprised. “You just said I murdered her.”
Relos Var shrugged. “Oh, she died. Absolutely. Stayed dead? Not a chance.” He gave Senera a significant look. “She’s an angel. I’m sure Thaena’s sending Dorna’s soul back to her body as we speak.”
Senera raised an eyebrow. “An angel? Are you serious? One of Thaena’s? I suspected that old woman had depths, but she never struck me as one of Thaena’s chosen helpers.”
“Oh no. She’s one of Tya’s servitors.”
Senera turned back to Janel. “That makes much more sense.”
Brother Qown leaned forward. “Wait. Dorna serves the Goddess of Magic?”
Relos Var gave him a split-second glance before returning his focus to Senera. “What are we going do with our handsome Joratese knight here? Gaesh him?”
Sir Oreth’s eyes widened.
“I suppose,” Senera said. “But for what purpose? He’d get himself killed in a gaesh loop the first time we send him to collect firewood.” She pulled her small inkstone from her misha and began mixing up a small batch of ink.
Brother Qown wouldn’t have found the grinding sound of the ink stick moving against the stone quite so sinister if he hadn’t known she was using a Cornerstone. Using such an artifact as if it were a scribe’s tool seemed sacrilegious.
“You can’t gaesh me!” Sir Oreth protested.
“Be quiet,” Senera said, “or I’ll make you be quiet, and you won’t enjoy how.” She resumed her conversation with Relos Var. “He’d make a nice peace offering to Gadrith?”8
Relos Var wrinkled his nose. “I’d rather not. Gadrith prefers sorcerers, anyway.” He tilted his head and looked over at Sir Oreth. “How’s your singing voice?”
“What?” Sir Oreth looked bemused. “I … uh … I’m sorry. I can’t carry a tune. I could try to learn…?”
Senera shuddered. “Oh, and I thought my suggestion was cruel. Relos, you’re the worst.”
Relos Var shrugged. “I don’t know where Sharanakal is sleeping these days, anyway.”
“Shall we make him Duke Kaen’s problem, then?” Senera’s wide eyes personified innocence.9
Relos Var started laughing. “Yes, fine. Kaen’s problem. The look on Kaen’s face alone should be worth it. The last thing he wants is another puppy added to his collection.” He finished his drink and stood. “I’m going to take a walk along the beach. I’ll be back in a bit.”
Senera smiled. “Going to say hello to your vané friend?”
Relos Var’s eyes widened. “I have no idea what you might mean.”
“Uh-huh.” Senera wrinkled her nose. “Hug her for me.”
He chuckled. “She’s not a hugger. But I’ll give Her Majesty your regards.”
“Mind if I gaesh Danorak while you’re gone?” Senera asked. She might as well have been asking if he minded her making more tea.
“Go right ahead.”
As soon as Relos Var left, Senera returned to her ink preparation.
Sir Oreth licked his lips, then said, “Colonel?”
Senera looked up, annoyed.
He moved carefully to keep from impaling himself on the still-animate sword. “I, uh … I wanted to apologize.”
Senera set down the inkstone and turned to look at him, both eyebrows raised.
“I’m sorry,” Sir Oreth said. “It was wrong of me to mistreat you. I was in the wrong, and I want to emphasize how sorry I am. Could I please…” He glanced at the sword. “I can be very helpful. I promise.”
Senera’s mouth quirked. “I should use animated swords on men more often.”
“If you’re not idorrá, you’re thudajé,” Brother Qown said.
Senera must have heard him, because she chuckled.
She leaned forward and studied Sir Oreth. “I wonder if you’re sincere. Well, I suppose we’ll find out. Just realize that if you’re not being sincere, I can fashion up such fates for you as would make demons hide their eyes.”
“I believe you.”
“Good.” Senera waved her hand and the sword in Sir Oreth’s hand straightened. The hilt returned to its former shape.
He dropped the weapon to the ground.
“So is there anything I can do to help?” Sir Oreth asked, the embodiment of solicitous care and attention.
“I’m sure Brother Qown would appreciate some tea,” Senera said. “I would too, but I’m going to be a bit too preoccupied.” She gestured toward Janel’s body.
“Gaeshing Count Janel is a horrid idea,” Brother Qown said. “Is there any chance I can talk you out of it?”
She smiled. “No.”
“I thought as much.” He felt sick.
Brother Qown had never seen anyone gaeshed, but he’d heard about it from Father Zajhera. He knew enough to understand the ritual’s blasphemy. For someone like Janel—
It would kill her. He rather doubted she’d play along with gaesh commands, even at the cost of her own life.
As Sir Oreth went to the fire to put a kettle on, the puppy growled at him and seemed disinclined to let him approach.
“Rebel, down,” Senera said. “Go to your pillow.”
The dhole gave Sir Oreth a reproachful look and circled back over to the velvet pillow.
“The dog’s name is Rebel?” Sir Oreth asked.
“Hmm. Shush. This is quiet time,” Senera said, staring at Janel’s body. She frowned.
Brother Qown shifted his position, wincing at the wounds he hadn’t yet fixed. He had a good idea what Senera attempted: healing Janel’s body before the gaeshing ritual. He also had a good idea why it wasn’t working. The same reason it hadn’t worked when he had tried it several weeks before.
If he did nothing—
Janel seemed stable, but Brother Qown didn’t know if that was due to some spell cast by Relos Var or Janel’s own magic. In either case, at some point, the spell would end and Janel would finish dying.
If Senera healed her, she’d suffer a worse fate. Being kidnapped and taken to Yor was bad enough; the dominion didn’t have a sterling reputation for its treatment of women. But if Relos Var and Senera planned to take Janel there under gaesh …
Qown thought about Senera’s statement, that death would be an escape. Thaena would bring Janel back, wouldn’t she? Maybe, maybe. But there was always the risk that it wouldn’t be Thaena who received Janel’s soul, but Xaltorath. Indeed, Qown was willing to bet Xaltorath had rigged things to obtain exactly that result. Which fate would be worse?
It wasn’t exactly a hard choice.
“You’re going to need help,” Brother Qown suggested.
Senera looked up.
“Her magical defenses are indiscriminate. It makes her hard to heal,” he elaborated. “You’ll need someone helping you.”
“If you try anything—”
“I know, I know. If I try anything, you’ll make me wish I was never born.”
“With a few variations, but yes, basically.” Senera motioned him over. “Pull up a stool, and let’s get to work.”
The work itself took about thirty minutes, and by the end, they had two cups of tea and a healthy, whole Joratese count.
Brother Qown wished he felt better about it. Saving Janel’s life had felt like a betrayal.
“Go sit back down. I won’t need you for the next part,” Senera said. “Also, this is the part where you’re likely to try something stupid from sheer moral fortitude, so it might be best to remove the temptation. Sir Oreth, if you’d like to prove yourself useful, keep an eye on the priest here. You shouldn’t need to resort to violence, but I’d keep the sword close, just in case. Oh, and it should go without saying, but don’t kill him. Yes?”
The Joratese man nodded and bent over to retrieve his fallen blade. He held the sword gingerly, as if it had just come fresh from the oven.
Brother Qown sat down again on his original bench, moving his fingers over himself to check for lingering hematomas. However, professional curiosity overcame him, and he started watching Senera paint markings on Janel’s hands, her face, and her chest.
“You’re not—” He frowned. “Who does that summon?”
Senera chuckled. “No one.”
“But I don’t understand.”
“I’m not surprised.”
Sir Oreth looked back between the two other people. “Wait, why are we summoning a demon?”
Brother Qown blinked at him. “Because you have to. You have to summon a demon if you want to gaesh someone.”
“Oh.” Sir Oreth hesitated. “So … I mean, I’ve always wondered. What is a gaesh? I know it’s a thing you do to slaves…?”
“Adorable,” Senera said. “But as it happens, Brother Qown is wrong. You don’t have to summon a demon to gaesh someone. It’s just easier to have a demon do it.”
“And a gaesh?” Sir Oreth insisted.
Senera rolled her eyes. “It’s what you’ve heard. It keeps someone under your control. Not always successfully.”
“You rip away a piece of someone’s soul,” Brother Qown said. “You rip out a piece of their soul and use it to put them in unbearable pain if they disobey you. So unbearable it often kills.” He gave Sir Oreth a significant look. “If you recall, it’s what they debated doing to you.”
Sir Oreth looked uneasy, but he shrugged it off. “So we’re summoning a demon, then?”
Brother Qown would have expected him to fear such a pronouncement or at the very least be disgusted.
Yet Sir Oreth sounded excited.10
Senera shook her head. “I said we weren’t summoning a demon. We’re using a Cornerstone.”
Brother Qown straightened. “Which one?”
“The Stone of Shackles.”
“You have the Stone of Shackles?”
“No, but it’s irrelevant.” Senera continued talking as she sketched on Janel’s body. Brother Qown couldn’t tell what purpose the markings served, but perhaps calling on the Cornerstone’s powers required them.
Finally, she stepped back, tilted her head, and examined her work. Senera had drawn a spiraling design that covered the unconscious woman’s vital energy points.
“Now I need you both to be very quiet,” Senera said as she picked up a lion medallion from a shelf, “and I’m not joking when I say that if you defy me in this, you will spend your remaining days screaming.” She looked up at them. “Understood?”
The two men nodded.
Senera tucked her brush back into her hair and gestured toward Janel’s body. The body levitated and then tilted so Janel seemed to stand, her body vertical.
Holding the medallion in one hand, Senera touched the other to Janel’s hands, her neck, her forehead, and held her fingers in a claw shape over the woman’s heart.
Brother Qown couldn’t help but think that last gesture must be symbolic or even performative. There’s no special dwelling place for spiritual energy in the heart muscle.
He kept the thought to himself.
As Senera pulled her fingers back, thin energy strands flowed from Janel’s body to the woman’s hand. The motion reminded Qown of spinning thread: tiny strands of floss pulling from ball to spindle. As soul stuff pooled in Senera’s hand, she shaped and stretched the thread before feeding it into the medallion.
When Senera finished, anyone who held Janel’s medallion could give her any command they desired. Janel would disobey those commands at the cost of her own life.
Janel didn’t move or make a sound. She still walked the Afterlife. She’d have no idea what had happened until she woke, and then it would be the start of horrors lasting all her days.
He searched the room for anything he might use to distract Senera, anything he might use against Sir Oreth. He found nothing. He’d just get himself killed. A dead physicker heals no patients.
Finally, Senera stopped pulling filaments and closed her fist around the medallion, which glowed for a moment before fading into junk-worthy jewelry.
“All right,” Senera said, “the hard part’s done—”
The necklace disintegrated to dust.
The glowing soul matter flowed back into Janel’s body.
Senera stared.
“Is it supposed to do that?” Sir Oreth asked.
Even Brother Qown couldn’t help but lean forward.
“No … no, it’s not.” Senera looked appalled. “Stay back.” She collected a different necklace, this time a hunting cat’s tooth.
Senera performed the ritual again, going through the same motions with the diligence of a student who’d memorized rote lines a thousand times. She executed the steps more slowly this time to make sure she hadn’t skipped a step.
The hunting cat’s tooth also turned to ash when she’d finished.
“How the hell—” Senera muttered.
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” Brother Qown said, which overlooked the fact he’d never seen a gaesh performed in person before either.
“Pragaos, Molash, get in here!” Senera shouted.
The guards came through the door, swords drawn and ready for violence, but they relaxed their stances when they saw there was no need. A soldier glanced at the topless count, but otherwise, the men focused their attention on Senera. “Yes, Colonel?”
“Go find Var,” Senera said. “He needs to see this.”
When Relos Var returned, he cleared the room of everyone but himself, Senera, Janel, and Brother Qown. Sir Oreth seemed positively giddy to be out of Senera’s sight. After the others left, Relos Var and Senera conducted the ritual together for a third time. And for a third time, it failed.
Then Relos Var did it by himself, with Senera watching. He broke down the ritual, explained each step, and went over it in such explicit detail Qown believed he could’ve gaeshed someone by the end. Brother Qown realized this wasn’t a spell, any more than the sigil he’d copied from Senera qualified as a spell. If one followed the ritual, step by perfect step, a dependable, predictable response resulted. Spellcasting ability made no difference. Anyone could do this if they followed the directions.
But still it failed.
Relos Var then cast other magics, pulling in power and reweaving connections. At one point, he opened a gate to another location, after they’d exhausted their supply of gaesh trinkets. As Relos Var worked, something about him again pulled at Brother Qown’s attention. That sense of familiarity. That sense of recognition. Var wasn’t a stranger. Qown knew him.
Since Brother Qown had been quiet and hadn’t moved from his position, he’d been easy to ignore. No one stopped him from letting his focus drift into Illumination.
So he saw why Relos Var seemed so familiar.
He cast magic the same way as Father Zajhera.
Now Brother Qown had received a more in-depth education on the magical arts than most Academy graduates. Father Zajhera had been a thorough instructor, one who believed in teaching fundamentals and theory. So Brother Qown knew magical instruction could only inspire and advise. Magic was personal. No two people approached spellcasting the same way. Even twins would have different approaches to how they cast spells.
But Relos Var cast spells the same way as Father Zajhera.
Exactly the same.
Qown saw no difference at all.11
And his eyes widened in horror as he stood up from the bench.
“Zajhera,” he whispered.
Relos Var looked up.
Their eyes met across the room.
Relos Var frowned. For that split second, Var looked bereft.
Heartbroken.
Relos Var broke eye contact and tossed down the crystal he’d been using as a focusing device. He chuckled. “I’m not surprised you failed, student. Someone’s beaten us to it.”
Senera blinked at him. “What?”
“You can’t gaesh her because she’s already gaeshed. Someone has preempted us. Her soul already belongs to another.”
“Who?”
Relos Var seemed to give the matter some thought. “I don’t know.” He laughed. “Oh, now, that’s a sentence I haven’t said in centuries. Unfortunately…” He gestured toward Janel. “We don’t have time to answer it to our satisfaction. If gaeshing isn’t possible, we’ll need to find a different way.”
“What are you thinking?” Senera asked.
“Declaw our little lion,” Relos Var answered. “Let’s at least limit her ability to toss soldiers about like mice. I don’t relish taking her back to Duke Kaen only to see her rip his head off.” He paused. “Don’t tell Duke Kaen about her gaesh. He has enough problems with paranoia.”
They didn’t seem to be paying attention to him. Brother Qown thought Relos Var must not have heard what he’d said. Qown felt the metaphorical hand around his throat loosen. He exhaled.
“Let’s turn her over,” Senera suggested. “This will be better on her back.” She added a bit more water to thin her black ink, while Relos Var gently flipped Janel over on the table.
Brother Qown looked toward the door. How far could he run before the guards caught him? He didn’t know any good spells for invisibility either—he only knew how to hide words. Maybe if something distracted the guards …
Yet when he looked back, Senera was drawing on Janel’s back. He couldn’t help but pause.
She was drawing a sigil.
Not the same one he’d seen her use to clean the air, but it shared a similar style. As Senera swirled the brush over Janel’s skin, the ink sank in and dried, permanent and dark as Janel’s fingers.
Senera stood back and admired her work.
“That should do it,” she said. “Declawed as ordered.” She paused, and her expression took on a sad, bitter note. “Why are we doing this?”
Var raised an eyebrow.
“Why are we bringing her with us? What do you mean to accomplish?”
Relos Var looked surprised. “Are you questioning me?”
“You’ve stripped a woman—” She stopped. “No, not a woman. You’ve stripped a girl’s power, and now you’re throwing her to the wolves. That’s not like you.”
He chuckled. “But we haven’t stripped her power. Only her crutch. She never needed to develop her gifts any further before. Call this motivation. As for what I have planned…” Var glanced back at Qown before returning his attention to Senera. “What do I always have planned, dear child? I’m making sure the prophecies are fulfilled. The demon-claimed child, remember?”
“The demon-claimed child gathers the broken, witches and outlaws, rebels outspoken, to plot conquest and uprising while winter’s malice hides her chains in the snow king’s palace. The Devoran Prophecies, book 3, quatrain 17.” Senera’s mouth twisted. “Fine. I’ll allow the snow king’s palace is in Yor, but I don’t see how she’s going to plot a rebellion while a prisoner there. Anyway, isn’t Duke Kaen the demon-claimed child?”
“He might be.” Relos Var grinned. “But between you and me, I’ve always felt that interpretation was a bit forced.” He looked down at Janel’s body and stopped smiling. “My metal’s on her. But you know what I say. If you want to win a horse race—”
“—bet on every horse,” Senera finished. “Shall we go, then?”
“Not quite.” Relos looked remorseful. “I’m afraid we have one more gaesh to perform first.”
He turned around and stared straight at Brother Qown.
And Brother Qown knew he hadn’t fooled Relos Var after all.