36: AN INSUFFICIENT APOLOGY

Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Three days since Tishar D’Mon made a lovely blue tsali stone

“So you have met my brother Darzin,” Kihrin said to Janel. “And hard as it may be to believe, Darzin was behaving himself.”

“If that’s his definition of ‘behaving himself,’ I have an arrow that’ll fix his problem,” Ninavis offered.

“Generous of you,” Kihrin said, “but I killed Darzin three days ago.”

Janel smiled. “I knew I liked you.”

“Did you ever find out who your real parents are—” Kihrin started to ask.

“I did,” Janel said quickly. “Eventually. And Dorna knew the entire time.” She gave the old woman a look.

“Oh, foal, it weren’t like that.”

Janel raised a hand to stop Dorna from saying more.

“But you do know now?” Qown asked Janel again. “Because I don’t want to read this next part unless you do.”

“Don’t worry. It won’t be a shock.” Janel’s gaze returned to Kihrin, and her head tilted to the side as she watched him. “You know who they are too, don’t you?”

Kihrin hesitated, then said, “I have a strong suspicion. I think I’ve met your mother.” He drilled his fingers against the bar top. “And your father doesn’t like me. Not after—” He made a vague gesture toward Urthaenriel.

Janel’s smile tightened. “I cannot even begin to tell you how little my father’s opinion matters to me.”

“He’s a good man,” Kihrin said.

“He supports the rule of the greedy, the oppressive, and the degenerate. How good can he be?”¹

Ninavis leaned forward. “Who are we talking about here?”

“That’s what I was about to ask,” Dorna said. “I don’t know who your father is, foal. Never mattered to me.”

Janel made a face. “We’ll get to that part.” She gestured to Qown. “Do you feel ready to take over?”

Qown nodded. “Yes, I believe so.”

Qown’s Turn. The Ice Demesne, Yor, Quur.

Brother Qown woke in a library. He knew before he opened his eyes, smelling leather and the rich vanilla scent of old paper mixed with the scent of his favorite cinnamon tea. He woke smiling before he remembered why the tea seemed so comforting.

He sat up from the low, backless couch upon which he’d been sleeping. His clothes had been changed. He felt clean. He had no stubble on his chin. His book satchel sat next to the couch and his sun symbol hung from his neck. Brother Qown felt in perfect health, but a metaphoric black chasm of despair lurked off to the side—so wide and yawning he could’ve almost seen it with his naked eyes, if he’d just turned his head.

But his despair’s physical embodiment was present too. Relos Var sat at a nearby table, writing with a Kirpis-style quill. A large blue Kazivar-glazed teapot sat on the table next to matching teacups. The same teapot Father Zajhera used.

Brother Qown knew he should do something, say something, but he just stared, feeling numb.

“Have some tea,” Relos Var offered. “It’s your favorite.”

Qown hesitated a second, but he felt no pain, no suggestion he’d die bent over in misery if he disobeyed. He didn’t know if that meant Relos Var didn’t have his gaesh or had simply chosen not to use his gaesh.

Tea sounded nice.

Var poured two cups, placing the second one before the opposite chair. “I realize apologies are quite insufficient to the turmoil you’ve experienced. I would never have sent you to help Janel if I’d intended this outcome. You’re one of my favorite students. Curious, intelligent, compassionate toward others. Fine qualities, worthy of better than this.”

Brother Qown picked up his tea, fighting back nausea. Apologies were insufficient. Relos Var had torn out a piece of his soul. Qown didn’t even know who held the piece now. “Apologies were quite insufficient” didn’t exactly cover how he felt about the situation.

“You lied to me,” Qown said after sifting through a hundred insults and childlike protests.

“No.”

Qown couldn’t help himself; his mouth dropped open. “No? Did you just say no?”

“Qown, I have lived a very long time,” Relos Var said. “Was it lying to show myself to you as an identity I’ve worn since before you were born? Zajhera isn’t a throwaway disguise some assassin mimic might wear and discard. Zajhera is a good man who wants to help people find their better selves. He’s no less real than Relos Var, although Relos Var’s views are more confrontational. And if neither one is who I really am, their existence is no less sincere.”

Brother Qown narrowed his eyes at the wizard. In his days with the Way of Vishai, he’d encountered people who had been so traumatized, they’d separated their minds, like crystal shards, to try to protect themselves from trauma. He didn’t think Relos Var was so afflicted.

He hoped.

Finally, he snorted and looked away. “That’s an excuse. You lied to me. You lied to everyone.”

“Let’s have this talk again in a few thousand years, when you’ve had to reinvent yourself a hundred times and have seen your loved ones come and go like leaves falling in a forest.”

Brother Qown let that pass. “So who are you? Who are you really? If this”—he waved his hand at Relos Var’s body—“is a lie, and Father Zajhera is too, what do you look like? What’s your real name?”

“Rev’arric,” Relos Var answered. “As for what I look like…” He grimaced. “I’d rather not. A ritual gone wrong has left me in a state not fit for polite company. Best not to demonstrate. Kaen would be upset if I destroyed his palace.”

Brother Qown looked away, crossed his arms across his chest, and rubbed his arms as if cold.

“You’re a monster,” he whispered.

“No,” said Relos Var. “Monster is such an easily digestible idea. Horrible, evil to its core, irredeemable. If I’m a monster, then anyone who opposes me is by logical deduction a hero, yes?” He leaned over. “It’s not that simple. Sometimes everyone is wrong and you must decide whose wrongness is more acceptable.”

Brother Qown wouldn’t look at the tea. It sat there, steaming, smelling wonderful, reminding him of comfortable lies. Father Zajhera hadn’t ever been Father Zajhera. Monster.

Relos Var sighed and picked up his quill again. He dipped it in ink and continued writing. “You’re being dramatic, Qown.”

“I just feel stupid not to have realized the truth.”

“Why would you have? And you’re not an idiot, Qown. I don’t train idiots.”

“Baron Tamin back in Barsine Banner suggests otherwise.”

Relos coughed. “I’ll admit I’d hoped for … more … from Tamin.” He set his tea aside, put down his quill. “Qown, I never meant to betray you.”

His wording brought Qown’s head up. “So you admit you have?”

Var looked sad. “Of course. How could any sane person interpret what happened otherwise? The fact I never meant to hurt you doesn’t change that I had you gaeshed. A fact that gives me no joy. Gaeshing is a nasty business, but I couldn’t take the risk you would tell Janel about me.”

The fact Relos Var was right—Brother Qown would have told Janel about Father Zajhera—gave little comfort. “And now? What are you going to do with me? Sacrifice me to a demon? Sell me to some Yoran nobleman who wants a healer? Maybe the duke would put some extra metal in your pocket…”

Relos Var smiled. “I thought I’d tell you anything you wanted to know. Explain the whole plan. Answer every question you might have.”

Brother Qown froze. “What?”

“You must have questions, concerns. And you—” Var looked at him. “Well, you’re my punishment for insisting on bright students. Someone with a slower wit wouldn’t have made the connection between Relos Var’s magical signature and Father Zajhera’s.” He chuckled. “Senera or Irisia would have caught it, but again, see the point about insisting on smart students.”

Brother Qown stared. He knew Relos Var flattered his ego—a lure meant to turn Qown to his cause. Then again, even if Qown’s gaesh kept him silent, could he afford to turn away from an opportunity to find out Relos Var’s plans?

He didn’t think he could. What question to ask, when he had so many? In the end, one question stood out to him above all others.

“Why are you doing all of this? To take over Quur?”

Relos Var didn’t laugh or scoff. He nodded, sipped his tea, and pondered the inquiry. “Unlike Kaen or the Royal Houses, I don’t care about ruling Quur. It’s a means to an end.” Var paused. “I’m trying to save humanity. It’s harder than you would think.”

Qown stared at him. “Save humanity? You wiped out an entire village. That wasn’t you?”

“No, it was me,” Relos Var admitted. “And it’s been more than one village. Far more. I don’t enjoy killing, but in my quest to save our people, I would soak the ground with the blood of a million newborns if I must.”

Qown leaned back in his chair, wide-eyed. The word Relos Var had already dismissed repeated itself: monster.

“Qown…” Relos Var shook his head. “I don’t expect you to approve. I would be horrified if you did. But I would hope, after all the years we’ve known each other, that you’d take my word this is necessary.”

“But I don’t know you at all. And you can’t justify that. There’s no excuse that makes it acceptable.”

Relos Var nodded. “I understand. War—the very concept of war—is against everything the Vishai believe in. I created the faith to be better than I am. That I succeeded is a comfort, even as it’s a current frustration. I won’t say you’re naïve or you just don’t understand. I only hope I can make a world one day where people like you won’t fall victim to…” His smile was bitter. “Well, to people like me.”

Brother Qown wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. “This isn’t war.”

“But it is. A rare case where the Eight and I agree—the war never stopped.”

Brother Qown drew a deep, shuddering breath and set his tea aside. His feelings—his outrage and anger and deep, deep pain—couldn’t be allowed to gain control. This was an opportunity. He had to look at it as an opportunity. A chance to find out more information in the hope, no matter how faint or impossible, he could one day share his knowledge with others.

“What about Janel?”

Relos Var raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“What about Janel? You healed her. You helped her. And you sent me to help her. She must be important to your plans. How does she fit into all this?”

Relos Var smiled. “Would you believe me if I told you there’s a prophecy?”

“The quatrain Senera recited back at her cottage.”

“Not only that one. I know you’re familiar with the prophecies. I lent you several books on the subject, when you were going through that phase as a teenager. I believe a distressing percentage of those quatrains concern Janel. Specifically, Janel.”

“They’re demonic ramblings.”

“Demons, my son, don’t perceive time the same way we do. Terrifyingly, they may not experience time the same way we do. They speak even less of the universal language than we ever did and are bound by fewer rules. We cannot discount their predictions. I’d love to think there’s nothing more to the prophecies than demons pulling our collective legs. Over the millennia, I have come to believe a far worse possibility is likely: the prophecies are genuine. And I’m not alone in that belief. The Eight Immortals are just as committed to fulfilling the prophecies—to their benefit, naturally. And they control reincarnation in a way quite beyond my abilities. Janel is one of their ‘entries into the race’—bespoke tailored to fit a thousand demons’ predictions. I must hand it to Tya—another student too smart for my own good—I almost didn’t find Janel. If Xaltorath hadn’t tracked Janel down first, I wouldn’t have.”

“Tya, Goddess of Magic? What does she have to do with Janel?”

Relos Var quirked an eyebrow. “She’s Janel’s mother. Her real, biological mother. And let me tell you, Tya doesn’t have children often.”

“Her mother? But that’s—”

“True,” Relos Var said. “It’s true. Tell Janel if you like. I won’t stop you. You’re smart enough, however, to see how that single piece of news would bring her whole sandcastle crumbling down, aren’t you?”

Brother Qown inhaled. He was. Because even if, by some miracle or curse, Janel was the daughter of the Goddess of Magic—rather than the noble family of Theranon—the truth would be anything but a blessing. Where was Tya during the Lonezh Hellmarch? Where was Tya when Xaltorath possessed Janel? Where was Tya when Janel’s grandfather lay dying and Oreth evicted Janel from her ancestral home? Where was Tya, a goddess, one of the Eight, in all the painful hours and days and months since her daughter had needed her?

It would break Janel’s heart. It would turn her against everything the Eight represented.

And Relos Var would love nothing more.

Just as Relos Var would love Brother Qown knowing the secret and keeping it from Janel. The wizard would be able to drive a wedge between Janel and Qown whenever he felt the need. Relos Var could simply reveal Qown had known the truth and said nothing when he could’ve.

Brother Qown had always tried to be respectful to the Eight. Even so, if Tya had appeared before him, he’d have slapped her. Tya had played right into Relos Var’s hands by keeping the truth from her own daughter.

Relos Var left the table and returned a moment later with a carved wooden box. “Knowing you can’t help Janel by sharing these secrets, I have a proposal, dear Qown. If you like, I’ll send you home.”

Brother Qown blinked. “What?”

“I’ll send you home. Back to Eamithon. Back to the Temple of Light. You’ll still be gaeshed, and you won’t be able to reveal any secrets, but you’ll be safe and comfortable. You’ll be back at the temple, back with your friends, spending your days in meditation and healing the supplicants who travel to Rainbow Lake.” Relos Var brought the box over to the table and set it down before Brother Qown. “Or you can help me save humanity. I leave the choice to you.”

“What’s in the box?” Brother Qown asked.

“A gift if you decide to help me. Open it.”

Brother Qown did. A large chunk of agate rested on a bed of black velvet inside. The stone’s heart sparkled and shifted like flame.