33: A FRIENDLY REUNION
Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Three days since Kihrin discovered who controlled the Gryphon Men
“Did Relos Var gaesh you, then?” Kihrin asked.
Qown shuddered. “What do you think?” Then he grimaced. “My apologies. I’m being rude. After three years of not being allowed to talk about it…”
Janel shoved her chair back and walked out of the room, toward the stable.
Qown stood. “Oh. She—”
“Did she know who Father Zajhera really was?” Kihrin stood as well.
Qown looked helpless. “No.”
Kihrin remembered how she’d spoken of Father Zajhera, how the Vishai priest had helped her recover from Xaltorath’s possession. Dorna’s words: When Janel came back to Tolamer, the father came with her …
A noise rang out. It sounded like something had just slammed into the front door. Everyone in the tavern paused.
Dorna stood. “I’d best go—”
“No.” Kihrin raised his hands to the group. “Let me.”
Not that he waited on their permission. He followed Janel.
He arrived in time to see her slam herself against the ice-trapped door. The sound of breaking ice filled the massive stone room. Chunks of the fire-hardened door split off and fell to the ground, but despite that, the giant frozen wall stood firm.
“No more games!” she screamed. “Where’s your uncle, Aeyan’arric? Tell that arrogant horse’s ass to come out and face me!”
Behind Janel, Arasgon whinnied and pawed the ground near her, angrily tossing his black mane. Whatever the fireblood said to Janel, the words fell on deaf ears.
She set both hands against the door.
It exploded into flame.
Kihrin thought Janel intended to melt her way out, but he was less certain what she thought she could do against the dragon outside.1
In any event, he couldn’t reach her with a screaming, parental fireblood standing in the way.
“Hey, Arasgon. Let me try.”
Arasgon spun to face him. Kihrin remembered … something. A flash of fire and hooves, the feeling Arasgon had blocked his path before, somewhere else. Kihrin thought the fireblood might strike out at him, but instead, Arasgon retreated toward Scandal and Talaras.
Janel’s fingers clenched around charring wood as she continued to burn her way through. “I won’t be Relos Var’s game piece! Do you hear me?”
Kihrin put his hand on Janel’s shoulder.
The fire died.
She spun around, swung at him, but she was suddenly no stronger than any woman her size and weight. Urthaenriel wouldn’t allow her magically increased strength to affect him.
Kihrin caught her wrist. “Janel,” he said, “stop. Please stop.”
Fury and tears filled Janel’s eyes. Her breath was ragged as she leaned back against the charred door, forcing a quiet sob from her throat.
“Father Zajhera used to tell me stories,” she whispered. “He’d sing me to sleep at night.”
Kihrin’s throat tightened, but he tried for lighthearted, anyway. “Wait. He can sing?”
Janel stared at him in despair. “No,” she said. “He really can’t.”2
She burst into tears.
He put his arms around her, drew her to him, and let her cry into his misha. He knew this wasn’t easy for her—crying was embarrassing, messy, a sign of stallion weakness. Kihrin was beginning to understand Jorat put the same expectations on its men that the Capital did; they just allowed some of those men to be female.
He held her as if none of that mattered, because it didn’t.
Janel made fists against his chest and sobbed with all the anger of someone betrayed by a loved one. Which is what Relos Var had almost certainly been.
After a while, the crying slowed, and Janel pulled away enough to wipe her nose and look embarrassed. She seemed seconds from excusing herself and retreating to a more private location.
Kihrin didn’t let go.
Instead, he touched her cheek. “I know what it’s like. Okay, sure, the person I trusted didn’t turn out to be Relos Var, but even so … I know how this must hurt.”
“He was grooming me.” Janel’s face twisted. “That ass…”
“He healed you after Xaltorath possessed you. I can’t hate Relos Var for that. Is Xaltorath the one who gaeshed you?”
“I don’t know—” Janel looked away. “If she was, she never exploited it.3 Anyway, Relos Var only healed me because he can’t use a broken tool.”
“His motives can go jump off a cliff. I don’t care why he did it, only that you’re here.”
They stared at each other. Then Janel walked her fingers up his misha until they reached his jaw, resting there with the lightest of touches. Kihrin wondered who’d started playing drums in the room and then realized that was his heart.
“I’d like to kiss you,” Janel whispered.
“Oh, good. I’d like that too.” He lowered his head to meet hers.
Their kiss started soft and slow and gentle, the touch of their lips against each other almost shy. That didn’t last long. He couldn’t even be sure which of them escalated, but suddenly their kiss graduated into something needful and fierce, a dance of lips and tongues that left them both gasping. She dug her fingers into his back and yanked him closer, until he felt every curve of Janel’s body pressed against him. He smelled the woodsmoke lingering in her laevos hair, heard their hearts beating in time. What had Khored called it? An immediate connection? That. A thousand times that.4
He pushed his hands up under her tunic and felt metal instead of skin. Kihrin blinked and looked down. “Are you wearing mail?”
Janel paused, embarrassed. “I want to be ready the moment Morios shows up.”
“Ah. Right. Makes sense.” Kihrin started kissing the side of her neck when several loud horse snorts interrupted them.
Janel looked over at the firebloods and rolled her eyes.
“Did they just tell us to find a room?”
“Worse. They’re critiquing.” Janel smoothed his misha over his chest. “We could always use a few straw bales in the back.” Her eyes were bloodshot from tears, but her smile told Kihrin she was serious.
Kihrin felt sure she was. As much as that idea excited him—and oh, did it excite him—he knew what this was. Another way of drowning the pain, using slick flesh and motion instead of aris and beer.
Kihrin kissed her forehead. “That sounds itchy and quick.” He whispered, “I don’t want our first time to be either of those things.”
Janel shuddered against him. The good kind of shudder. She gazed up at him with lidded eyes as her hands traced a path lower down his back. Then she pulled him flush against her again and ground her hips. Kihrin groaned and decided he could live with being used as pain relief.
But Janel pushed him away, panting. She exhaled slowly as she leaned back against the door. She didn’t seem to care that it was covered with melting ice. “Right. If you don’t want that, then we should stop.”
“Don’t…” Kihrin ran his fingers over the links in her chain armor. “Don’t think I’m not willing.”
Janel laughed. “I can feel how willing you are.” She closed her eyes and leaned back against the door. “But … no, you’re right. This is bad timing. And there’s something I need to tell you first.”
“As long as you’re not going to tell me that you’re running outside to become a frozen Hellwarrior as soon as I turn my back, I can take it. Neither Aeyan’arric or her uncle are—” Kihrin paused as he realized what he’d just said. What Janel had said, earlier. “Hold on. Uncle?”
Janel cleared her throat. “Yes, uncle. Relos Var is Aeyan’arric’s uncle.”
Kihrin blinked and took a step backward. “Aeyan … arric.”
Janel straightened and adjusted her tunic.
Kihrin hadn’t made the connection. Relos Var’s real name was Rev’arric, just as his own past life’s name had also ended with -arric. Evidently, that was the family name.
“Does Relos Var have any … other … siblings?”
Janel shook her head. “No.”
“So that dragon out there is Relos Var’s niece and my—” He pressed his lips together.
“Your daughter.” She quickly amended the statement. “Your past life’s daughter. Not your daughter, obviously.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.” Kihrin felt a temporary rush of anger. Had Aeyan’arric participated in his past life’s murder willingly, the same way Sharanakal and the other dragons had? Had she thought to become a goddess, been tempted by all that glittering power, only to be turned into a terrible monster instead?
Had Relos Var whispered in her ears too?
Kihrin took her hand. “Let’s go back. We stay here any longer and they’re going to think we really did go behind the straw bales. And much as I’d enjoy that, I need to hear the rest of this story.”
Janel gave him a worried look. “Yes, I really think you do.”
“You all right, foal?” Dorna asked when they returned.
Janel sat down in her seat. “Yes, thank you. I’m sorry about that. It was just a shock.”
Qown nodded, looking sympathetic. “We’ll get through this.”
Janel started talking.
Janel’s Turn. The Ice Demesne, Yor, Quur.
I woke the next morning in a bed, healed.
It wasn’t my bed. I wasn’t wearing my clothes. Multiple things felt wrong. Very wrong.
The most obvious: I had never felt so weak in all my life. All the strength had been drained from me. It was all I could do to push the furs off my body.
“Count?” Brother Qown had fallen asleep on a small couch near me, and he yawned as he sat up.
“What—?” I winced as I stood.
It’s hard to describe what felt different, except I’ve been preternaturally strong since childhood. After the Hellmarch, I had to learn how to safely hold everyday objects. You have no idea how easy it is to crush a cup while holding it or to rip one’s boots while trying to put them on. To find myself no stronger than any person my age and fitness felt like illness.
“How are you doing?” Brother Qown rubbed his eyes.
White fur blankets had covered us. Thick slabs of smooth, polished black stone made up the windowless walls. Several lanterns hung from hooks, and a fire burned in a hearth across the chamber. The room felt more like a tomb or mausoleum than a place for living beings to dwell. A large door pierced one wall, with two smaller doors in the adjacent one. Thick, sturdy furniture adorned with curious geometric patterns and lattices decorated the room.
Nothing about the décor felt Joratese.
I inhaled and winced. “I feel…” I rubbed my chest where I’d been stabbed. Not even a bruise remained to commemorate the event. “I don’t feel well, to be honest. Does Relos Var have us prisoner?”
Brother Qown hesitated, but then nodded.
The priest didn’t look well either. The dark circles under his eyes suggested he hadn’t slept much. Plus, he had added a flinch, the sort to convince a village to take a child from their parents back in Jorat.
“Brother Qown, we’re going to get through this. Now when they come back, they’re going to try to gaesh—”
Brother Qown interrupted me. “No, they’re not.”
I hesitated. “What?”
“They already did.”
My heart nearly stopped. I stared at him and felt like an idiot. Of course they’d done it while I slept. Much easier when I couldn’t protest. Khored had said he’d protect me, but I still didn’t know how …
“I mean—they tried.” Qown seemed to choose his next words carefully. “But they failed. You can’t be gaeshed.”
I blinked. “I can’t be gaeshed? But that’s impossible. Anyone can be gaeshed. Anything with a soul can be gaeshed. Demons can be gaeshed—”
“I saw them try. I saw them try four times. Every time, it failed.”
I sat back down again. Khored had done it. Somehow, he’d done it.
“Did they capture the others?” I asked.
He hesitated. “Dorna … Sir Oreth stabbed Dorna—”
I inhaled, made fists with my hands, before I remembered Sir Oreth wasn’t there. And I felt too weak to do anything if he had been.
He added, “Relos Var seemed confident she’d be Returned. I don’t know what happened to the others, though.”
Could I trust anything Relos Var said? But why would he lie? If Dorna had died, why not just admit it and blame me? On the other hand, if anyone could steal their way back from the Afterlife, my metal would be on Dorna. She knew more tricks than Taja herself.5
If no one else had died, then it had all gone well.
Except for the part where my reputation lay in shambles. Except for the part where Duke Xun had almost certainly stripped away my title. Except for the part where I had meant to take this mission alone.
Get in, find the spear, get out. I’d thought this would be the easy part, eclipsed by using Khoreval to kill Relos Var’s ice dragon pet. Except, now it was anything but easy.
I walked over to him. “Oh, Qown, I’m so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to get you wrapped up in this. Var was just supposed to take me.”
“Just supposed to—” He blinked at me, then held up a hand. “Please don’t say another word. I can’t be trusted anymore. I said you proved immune to gaesh. I didn’t.”
My mouth dropped open. Horror stole over me even as the truth squeezed my heart.
I had never meant to put my friends at risk. Certainly not like this.
“Who has it? Who has your gaesh? I’ll make—” My body reminded me once more that I felt weak as a new foal. Gangly, not possessing even a tenth my normal strength.
I put my hands to my knees and breathed deeply. I hadn’t planned on it going like this at all. I had just assumed everything would go my way.
I always won, didn’t I?
Mithros would laugh at me, and not in a friendly fashion. Teraeth wouldn’t laugh, but his “I told you so” anger would be worse. They had both said the risk was too great and I had ignored them. Overconfident, arrogant, certain of my success.
And so very, very wrong.
“What did they do to me?” I asked.
“There’s a tattoo on your back,” he answered. “Similar in style to the sigil we saw in Mereina. I don’t know what it does, but Relos Var said it would ‘declaw’ you.”
I nodded, fighting down nausea and despair in equal measure. Taking my strength would indeed declaw me, but they were mistaken if they thought their sigil would turn me from a stallion to a mare.
I placed my hand against the surface of a wall and felt the dark stone’s smooth texture. How many walls separated me from freedom? Had they put us in a room without windows to keep us from escaping—or because in a dominion bound by perpetual winter, only a fool would ever build windows at all?
“So we’re in Yor,” I said.
“We’re in Yor,” Brother Qown agreed.
Senera entered, holding a tray. Unlike Brother Qown and me, she looked lovely and in her element, wearing a fur jerkin and a long, flowing gray tunic. “I’d ask how you’re both feeling this morning, but I already know the answer. I hope you’re comfortable. I asked them to put you in a warm room. Yorans sometimes forget not everyone tolerates cold as well as they do.”
Senera set down the tray. “I brought you lunch. We’re going to have a feast soon, but you should eat beforehand. The Yoran diet is almost exclusively meat. You’ll need time to adjust.”
I found myself wondering if she’d gone back to Jorat just to fetch us the meal. I saw several bowls of coconut-and-jasmine-scented rice, fragrant vegetable stew, fried duck eggs, a jar of chili sauce, and all the normal side vegetables and fermented snacks. She’d even brought tea.
I frowned. She was treating us like saelen. Not like prisoners, not like enemies—like new family members. As if it could be taken for granted we’d come around. The strays always did.
Then I realized this wasn’t generosity, trust, or a desire to bring us into the fold; this was a safety measure. Meat required knives. This meal did not.
“I don’t eat meat,” Brother Qown said.
“Bad luck, I’m afraid. You’re about to start.” Senera went over to a smaller door, which proved to be a closet. She pulled out a shirt, pants, and a long, dark red dress. “I brought clothing over while you slept so you have something to wear to meet the Hon.”
“Hon?”
“What you will call the duke.” She smiled. “The Yorans reject Quur’s titles.”
I narrowed my eyes. “The duke is Quuros.”
“I wouldn’t mention that in front of him.”
“Why not just kill me? Why bring me back here?”
She stopped smiling. “Relos Var thinks you’re more useful to him alive. At least for now. You should try to behave accordingly.”
She tossed the clothes on the bed and gestured to a dresser. “You’ll find jewelry and hair combs in there: enough to satisfy stallion pride. Eat lunch and make yourselves ready. I’ll be back in an hour to take you to the duke.”
“And if we say no?” I crossed my arms over my chest.
She scoffed. “Don’t be stupid. Just because we don’t want to hurt you doesn’t mean we won’t. And you’re nothing special now. Just a normal girl. And him?” Her gray eyes flickered over to Brother Qown. “Hurting him is easy.”
“Don’t you dare—” I moved toward her, making her flinch.
Just for a moment, though. Then she grabbed my wrist and twisted, and I cried out because it hurt. I found myself too weak to push back. She forced me against the table’s edge.
“Any. Time. We. Want,” she whispered.
Senera walked out the door.
When I turned to Brother Qown, he began helping himself to breakfast.
“Eat,” he told me. “We’ll need our strength.”
The clothes Senera had brought were heavy, thick, and woolen. They included wool pants and a shirt trimmed with animal fur for Qown, and a long, red woolen dress for me. I stared at the dress with distaste.
“I wouldn’t want to fight in that,” I said.
“I suspect Yorans believe women shouldn’t fight,” Qown said.
“I’m not—” I paused and sighed. “I’m not going to be able to convince them to treat me as one of the men, am I?”
“I don’t … I don’t think so. No.”
I growled something unintelligible as I stripped off the nightgown. Paint flaked off my skin underneath.
“I need a bath,” I said. “But I very much doubt I’ll get one in Yor—wait.” I didn’t see a chamber pot anywhere. Either Senera had forgotten—which didn’t seem like her—or she was being cruel—which didn’t match her behavior.
I examined the walls. Black stone perfectly fitted without mortar. If I had a knife, I wouldn’t have been able to fit the blade between the blocks. The level of workmanship rivaled anything I’d ever seen in Jorat—except Atrine.
Which suggested …
I walked to a smaller door and discovered a bathroom, one with hot running water. I remembered some royal guild or another who handled such matters. The duke (or Hon) wasn’t afraid to hire magical services.
That’s the one thing I miss about Atrine every time I leave; running water on demand is glorious.
“You need to escape,” Brother Qown said, his voice echoing from the main room. “You can’t stay here. I’ve heard stories about how the women are treated.”
I paused while wiping the ink stains off my face. “I’ve heard those stories too. Anyone who tries anything with me is in for a rude surprise.”
“I don’t just mean that,” Brother Qown said. “Well, I do mean that, but also … I mean … I’ve never heard of an unmarried woman in Yor. Never. If you’re not married, they marry you. Women don’t have a choice.”
“Again, I’d like to see them try.”
But I knew I’d have to deal with this. As much as I wanted to believe my sex shouldn’t be an issue, Yorans didn’t see gender as role expression. To them, it was nothing more than a person’s physical form. The vessel’s shape, never the contents within. So I was a woman to them, and they thought women were … only.
Only wives. Only mothers. Only chattel.
I ground my teeth.
I heard the main door open. “Are you two ready?”
Senera’s voice.
“One moment.” I sighed and tossed the chemise and red dress over my body. The dress fit tightly around the bodice and flowed below the waist. I thought I’d trip on the damn thing, coming and going, if I ever had to use stairs. Despite the wool, the fabric provided no protection if I ever had to go into the cold, which was probably deliberate.
Winter is a fantastic cage if all you’re wearing is a summer dress.
“I brought shoes. I hope they’ll fit. Qown, why don’t you try those on?”
I entered the room. Senera had switched to a silver dress that made her look like a marble statue enchanted into life. It had the same flaring shape as mine, although the dress had been cut looser at the top. She wore tiny silver pins in her hair and rings on her fingers, but nothing I could take away from her and use as a weapon.
For some reason, she wore a small slate inkstone. The undecorated gray stone rested in a silver cradle hanging around her neck. I thought it must have been a guild symbol or perhaps a scribe symbol.
“You look lovely,” she said to me.
“I don’t feel it.” I walked over to the dresser and opened it. Arrayed in neat rows, I found gold rings and necklaces and a long sweeping metal belt meant to be worn low around the hips. I took it, thinking I could use it as an improvised flail. The jewelry looked to be very fine quality: gold with gems like fire. Rubies, jacinths, topazes, and carnelians. I didn’t recognize the style except to note it wasn’t Joratese.
Halfway through, I realized the signals this would send in Jorat—a powerful, proud, successful stallion—might not have the same meaning in Yor.
I paused.
“Whose jewelry am I wearing?”
“Relos Var’s,” she replied.
I began removing the jewelry.
“No, no,” she said, holding up her hands. “Look, I understand how you must be feeling.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
“This is for your protection.”
“In what possible way is that true?”
The witch sighed. “Look, Yor is … provincial in its views about women. Even compared to the Capital, which is saying something. Women of a certain age are expected to be married. It’s a matter of religion, believe it or not. We’ve had to work around these quaint local customs. You’re going to need to adapt too.”
“Are you suggesting I need to be married? Who did you have in mind as this partner?” I gestured toward Brother Qown. “Him?”
She grimaced. “No. Definitely not. Here it’s acceptable to murder a man for his wife. Well, not acceptable … the Hon has outlawed the practice. But it happens. Our dear Brother Qown wouldn’t last long if we told everyone you two are husband and wife. It needs to be someone no one dares try to kill.”
“If you say Sir Oreth—”
“Hmm, not a bad idea,” Senera agreed, “but I’m not supposed to let him die either.”
I crossed my arms, remembering the conversation where Khored promised me Relos Var wouldn’t kidnap a woman and take her by force. “So you mean Relos Var, then.”
Senera shrugged. “I’ve been ‘married’ to Relos Var for five years. All for show. You won’t even suffer the indignity of a ceremony.”
“How considerate.” I rolled my eyes.
“I wanted to warn you,” Senera continued, “so when Relos Var introduces you to the Hon as his wife, you don’t do something rash. Polygyny is legal here, so no one will question Relos Var taking another bride.”
“What are you going to do with Brother Qown?” I asked.
“Relos Var’s new assistant,” Senera said. “No one needs to know what he really is: our hostage for your good behavior.”
“You don’t need to do that,” I protested. “I’ll behave. Let him go.”
She tapped me on the cheek. “Finish dressing. It’s time you meet the rest of the rebellion.”
But Brother Qown had his own plans. We both turned as we heard the Vishai priest retching all over the floor, just before he collapsed.