44: THE COURT OF TRUTH

Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Three days since Kihrin realized he was homesick

Ninavis came back from the kitchen with a pot of coffee. “What did I miss?”

“This is all a trap set up by Relos Var, I’m going to kill him, anyway, and Duke Kaen’s wife is dead but still walking.” Kihrin stole the coffee from her and helped himself to a cup.

“You told him about Relos Var?” Ninavis turned to him. “And you’re still here?”

“Are you kidding? And miss the chance to know exactly where he’s going to be next?”¹ Kihrin turned to Janel. “So is Xivan Kaen a vampire like Gadrith?”

“Similar,” Janel admitted. “At least I think so. Less into sorcery, though.”

“That’s something,” Kihrin said.

“I don’t know,” Janel said. “She’s amazing with a sword.”

“Plus, do you need to know sorcery when you can devour someone’s soul?” Qown asked. He skipped to the next part and began to read.

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

Brother Qown fell to his knees as the guards pushed him into the great hall.

“Is that necessary?” Thurvishar D’Lorus said.

Qown wiped the blood from his lip and tried to stand. The guard, who liked Qown’s prone position better, set his spear butt against Qown’s back and shoved him prostrate again.

Brother Qown should have realized the first person who would fall under suspicion for Janel’s disappearance would be himself.

Qown wasn’t in much of a position to take in the geometric perfection of the palace’s grand hall. The air smelled cold and sharp. Qown felt like he was outside on a clear winter’s day, standing in a cathedral to winter and snow.

Except for the Yoran crowd gathered to see to his disposition.

Except for the duke, standing near the giant central hearth. Qown’s heart sank as he realized neither Relos Var nor Senera were present.

He had been counting on their presence—and Senera’s use of the Name of All Things—to establish his innocence. They would have been able to easily ferret out the truth.

“We checked all the rooms, Your Grace,” the guard said. “She’s not in the palace.”

The duke scowled. “Who last saw Janel?” He cast his questions toward the several dozen women standing to the side.

A woman the same age as the duke himself stepped forward. “Veixizhau welcomed Janel back upon her return.”

A younger woman—presumably Veixizhau—whipped her head round to glare at the woman who’d spoken. She stepped forward. “I left after Segra delivered her food, my husband, but I must say Janel seemed unhappy. Is it possible she didn’t want to be here? The young man is a sorcerer, is he not? Could he not have helped her escape?”

It took Brother Qown several seconds before he realized young man meant him.

“I haven’t seen—”

The guard hit him.

Brother Qown put his hand to his face. His jaw ached with a dull throb.

“Let him answer,” the duke said.

Brother Qown tried to stand a second time. He felt a hand on his arm; Thurvishar had stepped forward to help him. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“You’re welcome.”

Brother Qown wiped the blood on his mouth against his agolé. “With all respect, Your Grace, I haven’t seen the count for at least…” And then his mind blanked. Had a day passed? Two? How many? He’d lost track. “And I’m quite unable to even contemplate, uh…” He paused. “Escape is impossible.”

“For you,” said Duke Kaen, “but perhaps not for her.”

“Maybe she climbed out the window,” Veixizhau suggested.

“And what?” Thurvishar asked. “Slid down a castle wall in the middle of a blizzard while wearing nothing but a slip? I doubt she’d be strong enough for such a climb in winter gear.”

“You’re both wizards,” she snapped. “What did you do with her?”

“We aren’t allowed in your apartments.”

“Enough!”

Everyone fell quiet at the duke’s voice. He walked forward, boots echoing against the marble floor. He stopped before several men—all of whom had been present when Darzin D’Mon burned Brother Qown’s journal. Darzin himself was evidently back in the Capital.

“Son,” the duke said to Exidhar, “do you have anything to do with this? I understand the woman embarrassed you, but she’s important to my plans.”

“The priest’s probably lying,” Sir Oreth interrupted. “He’s always protecting her—” The knight went silent as the duke met his eyes.

Kaen returned his attention to his son.

Brother Qown found himself holding his breath. If Exidhar or any of his friends had been involved in Janel’s disappearance, Exidhar seemed the most likely to confess. If he convinced his father that Brother Qown possessed an overactive imagination, or worse, was covering for Janel’s escape, he was in trouble.

Oh, it made Qown shake just to consider how this might end for him, never mind how it might have already ended for Janel.

“Well?”

Exidhar blinked, then gave a panicked glance at his friends.

“Father, I—” He licked his lips. “I wasn’t involved, I swear. I didn’t know—” He glanced over at the wives.

The duke sighed. “What you mean is, you didn’t know, but your friends did.” With no warning, he turned and grabbed Sir Oreth by his laevos.

The knight went for his sword. In turn, Oreth found a half dozen soldiers pointing swords at him.

“It will be no great inconvenience to me, horse man,” the duke said, “to throw you out into the storm. And you’re new here, so my son won’t claim any loss if I kill you. So tell me everything.”

Sir Oreth didn’t hesitate. “It was Darzin D’Mon’s idea, my lord. A prank and nothing more. He said the winter snow wouldn’t bother her because she’s an Ogenra of House D’Talus.”

At this confession, the entire congregation broke out into murmured outrage. Brother Qown felt his own anger, but for different reasons. Janel was resistant to cold, but Darzin D’Mon had no way to know that. Indeed, Darzin would have assumed the opposite—because the Royal Houses didn’t teach their women magic.

Which meant Darzin D’Mon had tried to murder Janel as a lark. Assuming Sir Oreth wasn’t lying. It might well have been the knight’s idea all along.

“And how did you gain entry to the wives’ quarters?” The duke demanded. “Be specific.”

Before he could answer, a woman screamed and everyone turned toward the main doorway.

A dead woman walked into the hall.

She might have been beautiful, except for being so clearly lifeless. This woman appeared to be an animated corpse, left on the ice for years. Frozen blue crystals clung to her like tiny jewels. The ice and cold had dried her flesh to her bones.

She wasn’t Yoran. Her skin looked too dark. Her hair resembled snakes made from black wool, tied back with silver pins and rings. She dressed for battle, all silver chain and sparkling steel. Nothing about her seemed appropriate to the duke’s court.

Except her manner, the envy of any sovereign.

Two women trailed behind her, handmaidens to a queen of war.

One of them was Janel.

A shocked silence fell over the great hall.

Xivan Kaen, the dead but not gone Duchess of Yor, began to laugh.

“Oh, husband,” she said, grinning with a smile made grisly by how little tissue existed between her skull and skin, “Have they forgotten me so quickly?”

“It’s been a long time, my love,” said Duke Kaen.

Xivan drew her sword and pointed it to the gathered courtiers, each in turn, before sheathing the blade again. “Did you think you’d kept me down just because you’d murdered me? Did you think it would be that easy?”

“Xivan, have you decided to return?” Kaen didn’t seem upset or surprised to see her. “You know I’ve always wanted you here and not in those damn caves.”

She chuckled. “Yes, and I’ve missed you and Exidhar both. I needed time to think things over.”

“It’s been fifteen years,” Kaen reminded her.

“Who knew it would be so hard to reconcile being assassinated? Besides, I didn’t think you’d be happy with me if I slaughtered your entire court. But I really wanted to.”

“And now?”

She cocked her head to the side. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

He swept her into his arms, twirling her around him even as the crowd stepped back in ill-concealed horror at this show of affection.

A wife fainted, or at least pretended to.

Brother Qown, no longer guarded, made his way to Janel.

She grabbed at his arm. “Oh, thank the Eight you’re all right.” She touched his face. “Although you’ll need to do something about those bruises.”

“It’s you I’m worried about. You’re bleeding.” He glanced over at the other woman. “I’m going to look at her leg, if you don’t mind.”

“Please.” The second woman, also Khorveshan, looked past him and waved her hand to someone behind Qown as if greeting a long-lost friend.

Thurvishar, he realized. She was waving at Thurvishar. He wrested his attention back to Janel. “What did you do—”

“I tripped on the ice,” Janel explained, “while running from Aeyan’arric.”

Since only the duke and duchess had been talking, and their words had turned to whispers, Janel’s pronouncement echoed with perfect clarity throughout the entire hall.

The duke refocused his attention on Janel. “And why were you on the ice?”

“You’ll want to ask Veixizhau,” Janel responded.

The wife in question put heel to toe with commendable vigor. It didn’t save her. Long flowing dresses don’t make for good running attire. Soldiers caught her and returned her to the duke.

Xivan looked at the woman, raised an eyebrow, and turned back to her husband. “You can thank Veixizhau for my presence; I’m reasonably sure she tried to sacrifice your young guest to Suless. Isn’t that interesting?”

Qown knew Suless had once ruled Yor, as goddess of witchcraft and betrayal, along with her god-king husband, Cherthog. Then after Quur invaded and conquered Yor, the empire outlawed their religions. Unusual for an empire typically happy to fold conquered faiths into their own.

While Duke Kaen might hate the empire, he wouldn’t tolerate anyone breaking that law. Not when his own grandfather had helped slay Suless and Cherthog. Worshipping either of those old god-kings was the equivalent of openly declaring rebellion against Kaen, not just Quur.

Which might explain why Duke Kaen’s expression became a scowl. He gestured to some of his soldiers. “Search the wives’ quarters. Bring back any signs of the witch-queen you find. Don’t take your time.”

They bowed quickly and then ran out of the room.

“Please!” Veixizhau threw herself to the ground before the duke. “Please have mercy! I’m carrying your child!”

A murmur carried through the hall.

The duke’s expression turned cold. “Wyrga!”

An old woman tottered forward, dressed in stained tatters. “Yes, my Hon?”

“Is she carrying my child?”

Wyrga made her way to the wives, a polar bear cub tucked under her arm. She grabbed Veixizhau by the chin and looked her over. “She’s carrying a child,” she said. “But it’s not yours.”

“Damn you!” Veixizhau screamed, flinching back. “You bitch! You—” She put her hand to her throat then, as though choking while trying to say something.

Wyrga cackled and then gave a sly look to the duke. “Would you like to know who the real father is? You’ll just love it.”

Duke Kaen’s stare looked wary. “No.”

“Aw, but it’s—”

“Quiet!” Kaen snapped. “Not another word from you until I say so.”

Wyrga growled, holding the bear cub to her chest.

Ignoring that, the duke turned to Veixizhau. “Who is the father?”

She raised her chin. “You—you are.”

“Really.”

Veixizhau didn’t respond.

A minute passed, with no one talking.

“What are we doing?” Xivan Kaen finally asked. “Besides making the rest of the court very uncomfortable.”

“We’re waiting,” Duke Kaen replied.

“Ah,” she said.

So they waited.

After ten minutes or so, the soldiers who had left earlier returned, carrying a chest between them. “Your Grace? You’ll want to see this.”

The duke looked back. “What have you found?”

The men placed the chest on the floor and opened it. Brother Qown couldn’t see what the chest contained, but the duke’s expression turned murderous.

“Where did you find it?” Kaen asked the men.

“In a room off from the main gathering area, Your Grace. The door wasn’t locked.”

The duke reached down into the chest and lifted an animal skull—a carnivore to judge by the solid, sharp teeth. The skull had been singed black and carved with intricate patterns. Long ribbons decorated with beads had been tied to the jaws.

Duke Kaen showed the skull to the crowd. People gasped and then stepped back. Wyrga bared her teeth.

Brother Qown didn’t understand its significance. To judge by Janel’s expression, as well as the other girl who’d arrived with the duchess, neither did they. The Yorans sure did, though.

“Is that a Suless worship mask?” Thurvishar asked. “I’ve never seen one in person.”

Duke Kaen didn’t answer. He did, however, turn and give a hard look to his many wives.

“Is that a wolf skull?” Qown whispered to Janel, although he wasn’t sure why he thought she’d know.

“I suspect it’s hyena,” she whispered back. “Apparently, they used to be sacred to Suless.” She glanced over at the old woman, Wyrga.

“Who set up this altar? Veixizhau? Were there others? Which of you worshipped there?” His voice carried through the hall. “Tell me now.”

Silence.

Kaen tossed the skull back into the chest. “Kill them all.” His voice blistered with anger. “Then return their bodies to their families.”

The guards looked at each other. “Sir?”

“Have you gone deaf? I said kill my wives.”

“All your wives?” The men’s eyes widened.

The duke waved a hand. “Never mind. Xivan, they’re yours.”

Some women cowered or broke out in tears. A few fainted, this time for real. The rest stood straight and defiant.

Qown wondered if those were the ones who had worshipped at their homemade altar to the witch-queen. Veixizhau stood in this last category.

The duke noticed this. “You have something to say to me?”

Veixizhau shook her head. “Not a word, my lord.”

Xivan looked curiously displeased for someone who’d brought the matter to the duke’s attention in the first place. She cast her eyes about the room as if searching for any other recourse but didn’t seem willing to defy the duke’s ruling. When the guards stepped forward to escort the wives, she stepped aside.

“Wait!” Janel cried out.

Duke Kaen turned. “Yes?”

“I plead for mercy.”

Brother Qown bit down on his fingers to keep from shouting at her. He felt torn between concern and pride.

The hall fell silent once more.

Duke Kaen tilted his head. “What did you say?”

“I plead for mercy, Your Grace.” Janel pointed to the chest. “How are we to know who was involved with that? Your wives aren’t the only ones with permission to enter those quarters. Senera didn’t need permission to enter. Can Wyrga come and go as she wishes?”

That made Kaen pause. “Yes.”

Behind him, Wyrga made horrible faces but didn’t speak.

“So perhaps the reason your wives couldn’t answer your question is because they didn’t know the answer.”

“Are you forgetting Veixizhau tried to kill you? Sacrifice you to a dead goddess? She at least is quite guilty. And no one tried to stop her either. None of my ‘wives’ called for the guards. And let’s be clear: more than my wives conspired in this. Darzin D’Mon and Sir Oreth are implicated at minimum, and then they involved my son. They’d have seen you dead and smiled at themselves for a job well done.”

Janel’s face set into a stubborn cast. “I seek clemency for your wives,” she repeated. “Even if a few wives knew what Veixizhau planned, they couldn’t all have known. I ask Xivan to spare them.”

Xivan stepped forward. “Spare them? Why?”

Qown asked himself the same question. Not that he wanted to see them executed, but Janel seemed to have something specific in mind.

Janel turned to Xivan. “Because they’re prisoners. Because they’ve spent years living in a fine gold cage, and the only power they’ve ever had is what they hoped to gain by capturing one man’s attention. Is it any wonder these women thought their only recourse was to eliminate competition?”

The wives who were not weeping gave Janel odd looks. She might as well have spoken a foreign language for as much as they’d understood her meaning.

Xivan tilted her head. “What are you suggesting, child?”

Janel spread her arms as if to take in the whole court. “You’re already training Talea. Why not expand that? Train these women too. Give them a chance to be something beyond hostages and trade goods.”

Xivan frowned. “Now why would I do that?”

“How many women did Yor lose when Quur invaded? How many died who could’ve taken up arms to help defend this land? How is that different from what Khorvesh suffered when the morgage invaded? Didn’t the women of Khorvesh take up arms then? Isn’t that the reason you and every other woman of Khorvesh wear swords now?”

Xivan blinked. “It’s not the same.”

“Isn’t it? Most of these women are likely innocent, but you and I both know innocence is no shield against a sword.”

The duke cleared his throat. “These women aren’t warriors.”

“Not yet,” Janel responded. “But we can change that. Why does Yor lock away the people it forces to be women, when what you should be doing is training them? They should be taking up sword and shield to defend their homes. Why deny yourselves the support of half your population?”²

The duke blinked at Janel in stunned surprise.

Then the whole room erupted in laughter. Mocking laughter, scornful laughter. Janel had made a fine joke. Of the men, only Exidhar looked unhappy. The rest thought she was adorable and hilarious. Woman warriors? Comical.

Every woman scowled.

Finally, the laughter quieted. Janel stood in the center, hands locked into fists.

Brother Qown felt for her. It had been a worthy attempt. What Yoran would ever listen to such a heretical notion? Most Quuros wouldn’t have either.

“I like it,” Xivan said.

Duke Kaen turned to her. “What?” Then he chuckled. “My darling, it’s a terrible idea.”

“Why? Don’t we need soldiers?” Then she added, “Besides, it’s not your decision.”

The whole hall seemed to hold its breath.

The undead duchess raised an eyebrow. “You gave these women to me. Just a few minutes ago.”

“Don’t twist my words, wife. I gave them to you for you to execute, the same as all the other condemned I send down to the caves to sate your hunger.” Duke Kaen held up a hand before Xivan could make any further protest. He turned to Janel. “I’ll give them to my wife in truth, but since you’re the one asking for mercy, you’re the one who will pay the price.”

Janel grew wary. “Price?”

“I asked for your assistance in a matter just before your adventure outside the palace walls. Now I want your word that you will give me that aid. I want your vow of loyalty.” His smile was dark. “What is it the Joratese call it? Your thudajé? I want your thudajé.”

Janel looked like she’d been struck. The court murmured among themselves. They were perplexed. Why did their duke care about a woman’s loyalty? Even the women seemed to be asking themselves the same question. They probably assumed Kaen was adding another Khorveshan woman to his collection, even though Janel was “married” to Relos Var.

“Well?” the duke said. “I won’t ask again.”

Janel fell to her knees and bent her head. She said something softly.

“What was that?”

Janel looked up. “I said I pledge myself to your service, Your Grace.”

Qown heard a gasp and then realized it had come from him.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it, Janel Danorak? But let’s do this properly.” He gestured to one of the attendants while saying something in a language Qown didn’t understand.

Immediately, a large man with a tightly curled beard and shaved head stepped forward. He wore so much jewelry in that beard it was a wonder he could even move his head. Whatever he said to the duke, it was clear the man wasn’t happy.

The duke responded in kind, his tone dismissive.

The courtier stormed out of the great hall, and several other men followed.

Meanwhile, the attendant came back with an open wooden box. Kaen reached inside and pulled out a piece of jewelry, very similar in style to the jewelry in his own beard, the jewelry in the beards of many of the men in the room. He separated a lock of Janel’s laevos and threaded the band around the base. “Repeat after me: as the winter is cold, I cleave to the protection of my king.”

“As the winter is cold, I cleave to the protection of my king,” Janel repeated.

Another jeweled band came out of the box, this one slightly different in design. “As the winter is long, I protect my people in his name.”

She repeated this. He laced the band around another lock of hair.

“As the winter is hard, I will overcome our enemies.” Again, he granted her another jeweled piece as she repeated his words.

“Until the winter ends, my life belongs to Yor.” The same ritual repeated.

The whole time, the crowd was silent and wide-eyed. Qown wondered if this was some sort of knighthood, the sort that wasn’t associated with tournament contests and commodity trading. That might explain why that courtier had been so furious. Duke Kaen finished lacing the last jeweled band into her hair and then stepped back. “Now I name you hand, extension of my will. Rise.”

Janel rose to her feet, looking shaky.

The duke tilted his head toward his undead wife. “They’re all yours.” The two continued to speak, while various courtiers looked upset or uncomfortable.

Janel rejoined Qown.

“Are you all right?” Qown leaned toward her.

“Ask me again later,” Janel said. “Why was everyone staring at me?”

“Because you’re the first woman to ever be given that particular honor,” Thurvishar D’Lorus said. “My apologies. I couldn’t help but hear the question.”

Janel started to respond, then stopped and blinked. “I remember you from the banquet. D’Lorus, yes? The Academy?”

“The same,” Thurvishar responded. He started to say more but paused and looked toward the duke instead.

At that moment, Duke Kaen turned his attention back to Janel and gestured toward Sir Oreth. “And what about this one? Shall you plead mercy in his case as well?”

Sir Oreth blinked. “Me? Wait, I thought we’d agreed it was the women—”

“Be quiet,” Duke Kaen ordered. “Do you want him to live?”

“Him?” She raised an eyebrow, incredulous.

Sir Oreth’s eyes widened. “Janel, please—”

“Three times,” she told Oreth. “Three times you have moved against me. The first time, you tried to force me to be your mare. The second time, you took my lands. The third time, you tried to take my life.”

“Janel, damn it, it wasn’t like that! Would you just listen to me? I did nothing wrong. I had nothing to do with this! This is ridiculous!”

She turned back to the duke. Only Brother Qown could see the tremor—rage—moving through her fingers. “No mercy from me. Do with him as you wish, Your Grace.”

The duke nodded. “He’s all yours, Xivan.”

“What? No!” Sir Oreth pulled out his sword, pointing it in the undead woman’s direction as she approached.

“I agree. It’s better to go to your death with a sword in your hands.” Xivan Kaen unsheathed her own sword. She used a curved Khorveshan blade, very different from Oreth’s straight sword.

Brother Qown looked away. “I can’t watch this.”

As it happened, he didn’t have to. No sooner had he averted his gaze than metal hit the ground followed by a grunting noise. When Qown glanced back, shocked, he saw Sir Oreth had been disarmed. Xivan Kaen held him by the throat. He writhed and tried to break her grip, without success.

And a glowing light trailed from his eyes and mouth to the duchess while the entire hall watched in silence.

It took seconds or an eternity, depending on how one measured such things. When Xivan finished, she dropped his corpse to the ground. Xivan looked haler already; her skin didn’t appear so blue, her cheeks had filled out. She almost passed for someone alive.

“We’re done here,” the duke announced.