46: THE SEARCH FOR THE BLACK KNIGHT
Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Three days since Janel crossed a really rickety bridge
“I always wondered what had happened to Talea,” Kihrin said. “I thought about asking Thurvishar, but I was afraid he’d tell me she’d been eaten by … you see, I used to know this mimic … Anyway, I’m glad Thurvishar freed her.”1
Qown raised his head. “Did you say a mimic? I thought those were myths.”
“Oh no,” Kihrin said. “Very real and very terrifying. And this particular mimic—Talon—is the same assassin Talea mentioned, the one who murdered her sister, Morea.”
“Well, I’m just glad you saw sense and decided to run with mares,” Dorna said, nodding and patting Janel on the shoulder. “Talea seems lovely.”
Janel rolled her eyes. “Dorna, don’t start.”
“You run with whoever you like, dear. I will always love you,” Dorna said.
Janel plastered a tight smile on her face and turned to Qown. “Start reading. Right now.”
Qown’s Turn. The Ice Demesne, Yor, Quur.
Brother Qown didn’t see Relos Var again for several months, but when he did, the wizard seemed in a foul temper. He paused at the study door, still speaking to someone outside.
“Why haven’t you killed her yet?” Relos Var said, looking behind him, and, as far as Brother Qown could tell, failing to notice Qown. “Mark my words, you’re going to regret your misplaced loyalty. She’s dangerous. She should be destroyed.”
Then the Hon, Azhen Kaen, pushed past the wizard. “I have my reasons. This isn’t up for discussion, Var.”
As both men came into the room, Brother Qown found himself hoping they might overlook him, too involved with the conversation to realize someone was already present.
Luck wasn’t with him.
The Hon slapped the table before Brother Qown, making him jump. “You’re Var’s new apprentice, right?”
“I, uh—” Brother Qown swallowed. Apprentice wasn’t the right word, considering. But reminding the Hon he was Relos Var’s ensorcelled, soul-chained slave didn’t seem a good idea either.
“It’s fine, Qown,” Relos Var said, smiling down at him. “The Hon has asked for our help with a situation in Jorat. And since I’m sure you’ve had enough time to grow accustomed to Worldhearth, I volunteered your services. I hope you don’t mind.”
Brother Qown swallowed again, but this time managed a wan smile. “No. Of course not, Lord Var.”
“Good,” said the Hon. “I need to find out who has picked up the Black Knight’s mantle. Someone’s assumed that role at the last dozen tournaments—and I’m sick of it.”
“I’m sorry?” Brother Qown asked. “How does the same person playing the Black Knight cause a problem? It’s a tournament. It affects commodity prices and business deals…”
The Hon gave Qown such a fierce “you’re an idiot” glare the priest found himself fighting the urge to duck. “Pick your reason. When he won the tournament in Praliar, he used his idorrá to convince the local baron to evacuate the entire town afterward—before Aeyan’arric arrived. Or the several occasions where he was so disruptive, the local rulers canceled the tournament and sent everyone home. Or simply the fact that he’s sneaking into tournaments, knocking out whoever should be the Black Knight, taking their place and winning—often before scattering his prize money to the crowds. Which is making the local rulers look like fools.” He growled. “That’s supposed to be my job, Var. How am I supposed to come in and save these people if this bastard keeps beating me to it?”
Brother Qown blinked and looked up at Relos Var. “Wouldn’t it be better to use the Name—”
Relos Var shook his head. “That would require too open-ended a question. The Black Knight isn’t a unique identifier. Since it’s a role and not a title, we’d receive a thousand names or no names at all. There are times in Jorat where no one is the Black Knight, because no one is playing the role in a tournament. But we’ve made an initial list of people who’ve played the part in the last year. It’s likely one of them.” He untucked the large vellum scroll he’d been holding under his arm and unrolled it on the desk.
The scroll rolled across the desk and back off the other side.2
“We know Janel Theranon played the part when she interrupted our plans in Mereina, but obviously she hadn’t been around during these latest events. Find out as much as you can and report back to me.”
Brother Qown picked up the paper. Janel’s name would be there. So would Sir Baramon’s and Captain Mithros’s. Ninavis was the last person he saw wear the outfit, although Qown didn’t know if she counted since she’d only done so to escape Duke Xun’s soldiers. Since Relos Var hadn’t given him a direct order, Qown felt no compulsion to volunteer what he knew.
“Yes, sir. I’ll start right away.”
The Hon stared at Brother Qown for a long second and then grunted. “Good.”
“Kaen—” Relos Var said.
Duke Kaen paused.
“About the women,” Var said. “Your wives.”
Kaen sighed and waved a hand. “Ex-wives. And I don’t care. You want that D’Lorus royal to teach them magic? Fine. Maybe they’ll be good for something.”
“Not all of them will have an aptitude for magic,” Relos Var said, “but I believe Thurvishar D’Lorus wants to start by teaching them how to read.”3
“Whatever. You have my permission.” The duke swept out of the room as quickly as he had entered it.
Relos Var, however, stayed. He watched the Hon leave, waited a few seconds, and then pulled up a seat next to Brother Qown. He opened a small gate with his usual graceful style and began pulling plates and cups from that small portal. Within seconds, Relos Var had filled the tabletop with steamed rice buns, Brother Qown’s favorite black truffle soup, and a steaming pot of tea.
“Oh, this isn’t necessary—”
“I rather think it is. You’re forgetting to eat, which isn’t like you.” Relos Var gave him an intent look. “I’m told you had some trouble while I was away.”
Brother Qown looked down at his hands, even as Relos Var began to pile up a plate with vegetable-stuffed buns and then ladled him a bowl of soup. “It was fine. Just weak men who wanted to feel strong.”
Relos Var smiled. “Yes, weak men are always the ones who cause problems, aren’t they?”
Brother Qown had the feeling a trap waited in that sentence, so he didn’t respond. He instead spent about two seconds contemplating if wanting to help himself to Relos Var’s food made him a bad person. Var had presented proper Eamithonian cuisine, the kind Qown would daydream about while reading in the Ice Demesne library. He decided no man, no matter how moral, could resist such a temptation. Qown began to eat.
The sorcerer put his hand on Brother Qown’s shoulder. “I’m also told you have been spending time with Thurvishar D’Lorus.”
Brother Qown set down the food. “Is that a problem?”
“Be careful. Thurvishar can’t be trusted any more than you.”
Brother Qown blinked. Could Relos Var mean—
“He’s gaeshed,” Relos Var said, just in case there had been any doubt. “Gaeshed by Gadrith the Twisted. If you ever run into a pale, slender man with D’Lorus black eyes, run the other way. He’s not your friend. He’s not anyone’s friend.”
“Oh gods,” Brother Qown said. “I did meet someone like that. I think—” He shuddered then, remembering the hungry stare of the pale man he’d met at Shadrag Gor. “Wait, Gadrith the Twisted? I thought Gadrith D’Lorus died.”
“It is very much to his benefit everyone thinks so. However, his house is useful to the Hon, and his libraries are useful to me, and he has—” Relos Var paused. “He has something important to me. Gadrith knows I won’t move against him while he possesses it.”
Brother Qown managed not to choke on his soup, managed not to show any reaction at all, but inside, his emotions churned. After all, if a talisman or artifact existed that could be used against Relos Var—and Gadrith had this in his possession—then perhaps Qown could find it—that is, if Brother Qown ever freed himself from Relos Var’s gaesh.
“So Thurvishar is gaeshed, and Thurvishar is Gadrith’s spy.” Brother Qown turned the conversation back to safer territory.
“Yes. Now Thurvishar is even more magically talented than his father, so there’s no one better to help you with your studies. Except for that one tiny detail—he’ll follow Gadrith’s commands, no matter how horrifying or treacherous.” He scowled as he helped himself to several bean-paste-stuffed buns. “Sometimes it is useful to know where one stands with another person, whether they be allies, enemies, or, as in this case, both.”
“I’m sure they feel likewise,” Brother Qown responded, “but you all have a common enemy, right? Quur?”
Var chuckled. “I don’t play so small, dear Qown. Let the Iron Circle—Gadrith and Darzin and all those weak-minded folk—think this is about overthrowing Quur and its High Council. The real stakes are larger than they can comprehend.”
Brother Qown chewed at his lip for a moment. “So when you came in, the woman you said should die…”
Relos Var didn’t respond right away. He ate more steamed buns, drank tea, sipped at his own soup.
Finally, Relos Var said, “I’m fond of Azhen Kaen. That doesn’t mean we agree on all things. Sometimes you watch your friends make mistakes and there’s nothing you can do but let them.”
“You mustn’t think it’s so important a mistake, or you’d stop him.”
“He isn’t my only game piece, Qown. Not by half.”
“Is that how you think of us? Game pieces?” He couldn’t hide the heartbreak in his voice.
Relos Var reached out again, put his hand on Qown’s, and squeezed his fingers the way he used to when his name was Father Zajhera and not Relos Var. “No, not at all. But I have lived too long and seen too much to let any single person’s moral failures or bad choices stop me. What we’re trying to do is more important.”
Brother Qown wondered if the wizard would abandon that stance if Relos Var himself became disposable.
“‘What we’re trying to do’ makes it sound like you have a plan.”
Relos Var smiled at the priest. “Dear boy, I always have a plan.”
The list the Hon had given Brother Qown must have taken Senera quite some time to write out. And as predicted, Sir Baramon and Janel Theranon’s names were both listed.
So was Ninavis’s name. And Dorna’s.
And Dango’s. And Kay Hará’s.
In fact, many names didn’t belong to knights or to people one would expect to ever be knights. Brother Qown had a good idea what must have happened, even before he’d used Worldhearth to scry them.
His friends were muddying the waters.
Almost as if they somehow knew their enemy had a way to discover information about them, they had put as many people as possible in the Black Knight’s costume. This made it difficult—if not impossible—to find out the identity of the “real” Black Knight.
A thought occurred to Brother Qown, a thought so outrageous he had to stop and jerk himself away from the firepit he had been scrying in Atrine.
Did Janel have a way to communicate with the others?
It seemed impossible, but he knew Janel’s consciousness went elsewhere when she “slept.” He had always assumed the ability passive, not under her control, even if she’d inadvertently created that spell. But could she somehow use her ability to keep in touch with others?
No, he thought. It wasn’t possible. If she went to the Afterlife, she’d have to be able to communicate with someone else with the same ability. He didn’t know anyone else with that power besides gods. And possibly Relos Var.
He had a hard time shaking the nagging feeling he’d missed something.
And what if he had? He wouldn’t do Janel any favors by ferreting out her secret, only to report it to Relos Var the next time the wizard asked Qown to tell all he had discovered. Better to leave it alone, a truth not confirmed and thus impossible to betray.
As Relos Var himself had said, Brother Qown couldn’t be trusted.
He therefore decided to start with the other names on the list, the unfamiliar names not associated with Marakori bandit queens or her forest-dwelling outlaws. It proved difficult to track down the Black Knights, because they lived their own lives while not performing. Nobody spent every hour running around a tournament wearing black and upturning people’s ale mugs for laughs.
Then he came across a Black Knight who wasn’t trying to be funny.
It had taken weeks, hampered because tournaments didn’t happen every day of the week. On days when tournaments ran, they tended to happen all at once, all across Jorat, leaving Qown to try to goat-leap across multiple locations. Additionally, they tended to happen during the day, when people didn’t light fires, lanterns, or candles. And kitchen fires were seldom built within viewing distance of tournament stands. All this made fulfilling the Hon’s request tricky indeed.
He almost asked Thurvishar for help, thinking a retreat to Shadrag Gor would give him the time he needed. But he decided he didn’t want Thurvishar to know.
When he found the right Black Knight, he almost missed him, skipping over the horse and rider. Then he recognized the horse.
Not a horse at all, but Arasgon, disguised and wearing black.
Brother Qown didn’t recognize the rider, but the Black Knight seemed far too large to be Ninavis.
A chance arrangement of azhocks allowed Qown to see the tournament grounds from the farrier’s forge. Enough to see the Black Knight compete. Not unusual, but the fact that the Knight won contest after contest was—as demonstrated by the muttering and whispered complaining from other knights. Those complaints rode a strong undercurrent of awe.
Word of what had happened in Mereina had spread, where the Black Knight slew a demon on the tournament field. This had mixed with Janel’s now-legendary duel with Relos Var, itself often misreported. No one knew if this was a normal Black Knight or the Black Knight.
People had started to spread stories, grander with each retelling.
This Black Knight looked well on his way to taking the prize, when a great hue and cry rose from the nearby castle. Someone came running into view wearing the local Markreev’s colors. “Fire! Fire! There’s a fire at the mill!”
Chaos spread. Brother Qown tried to leap his way back across fires again, but too few existed. He did manage to spy a wagon, parked behind a guard azhock near the stands. People were loading boxes of weapons and armor earmarked for the local Markreev’s soldiers.
Brother Qown recognized Dango.
“What are you up to, Ninavis?” Brother Qown asked aloud, even though no one could hear.
The robbery finished swiftly. By the time the guards returned with the happy news that the mill was undamaged, the Markreev’s men had been robbed of their martial supplies. The Black Knight made a fast retreat before the tournament finished. And in an impressive display of obfuscation and distraction, his target rode into an azhock and vanished. Arasgon stepped out in his normal black and red. Then the black-skinned smith, whom Brother Qown had first seen in Mereina, started loudly complaining that he too had been robbed.
Everyone agreed it was the best tournament they’d seen in ages.
Brother Qown lost the thieves as they left town, since no one needed torches or lanterns in broad daylight. He saw a few he remembered from Ninavis’s party, but he didn’t see Dorna, and he didn’t see Ninavis herself.
Brother Qown might have thought Dango had joined another bandit clan, returning to a familiar life of crime, if not for Arasgon.
The second time he spotted someone who appeared to be the Black Knight, months later, the circumstances made his stomach turn. An “enterprising” baron had decided Marakori refugees fleeing onto her land could be used to harvest her crops. Whether she paid them was unclear, but Brother Qown suspected not.
She wouldn’t have needed whips to motivate them, if they were being paid.
The Black Knight sat astride a steed on the bridge to the baronial manor house after dark. In an echoing, demonic voice, the Black Knight warned if the baron didn’t release the Marakori by the next morning, he’d curse her lands with a disaster beyond imagining.
The baron laughed and ordered her soldiers to shoot him.
It didn’t go the way the baron had planned, though, as every soldier’s bowstrings snapped, and not a single arrow fired.
Then the people hiding in the forest fired back. Their bowstrings didn’t snap. More volleys followed that first, softening up the baron’s defenses before raiders dispersed throughout the compound, gathering up Marakori.
Brother Qown lost track as the group retreated into the woods, but he hadn’t needed to see Dorna to know she’d been there. He knew how her mage-gift worked. He wasn’t sure what Dorna would do with the Marakori. But several freed people had demonstrated a skill with the same weaponless fighting style Ninavis practiced, helping in the skirmish.
Brother Qown took diligent notes, but it didn’t take long to realize the numbers didn’t make sense. He’d originally suspected Ninavis and Dorna had returned to crime, since they both had a predilection for such.
But these activities had involved far greater numbers than could be explained by Ninavis, Sir Baramon, Dorna, and their five or so companions. In the months he’d been observing, he’d already seen closer to several hundred different people, including multiple firebloods, operating across the entire dominion. They seemed … organized.
Brother Qown sat back in his chair, exhaling as reached for tea long since grown cold.
What he was witnessing wasn’t some ne’er-do-well bandits with hearts of gold, stealing metal from the rich of Quur to help the oppressed.
He was witnessing the beginning of an organized rebellion.
Following the Black Knight’s exploits wasn’t Brother Qown’s only research project. Several weeks after Sir Oreth had been executed and forty-plus women had ended up simultaneously divorced, a servant brought Brother Qown a box of his favorite chocolate biscuits and a note from Janel.
The note said, “Thank you for your help researching Quuros war curses. I’m sure it will be invaluable in the future. Also, thank Thurvishar for me as well.”
But of course, Qown hadn’t researched Quuros war curses.
So he started.
Which did require Thurvishar’s help.
“How would one go about researching the war magic the Quuros used when they invaded Yor?” he asked Thurvishar when Qown next visited Shadrag Gor.
The D’Lorus Lord Heir had thrown himself into teaching the Hon’s wives to read. He was scanning suitable materials when Brother Qown interrupted.
Thurvishar looked up. “Why in all the heavens would you want to know that?”
“Obviously, because it would help Yor.” That didn’t seem obvious at all, but Brother Qown had a good idea why Janel wanted to know. The weapons unleashed against Yor haunted its land still. Since the Yorans didn’t understand what had been done to them, an opportunity existed to gain the duke’s trust, gain greater privileges and great access to—well, whatever Janel had come to Yor to do. If someone like Janel—or Brother Qown—presented the duke with information on what had been done, and better yet, how to reverse it …
Thurvishar narrowed his eyes and leaned back. “You want to make friends with the Yorans.”
“My life depends on being perceived as useful,” Brother Qown reminded him. “You do know, don’t you? What was done?”
“Oh yes,” Thurvishar said. “We unleashed horrors upon these people.”
Brother Qown waited.
Thurvishar sighed. “It’s not reversible,” he said. “The things we did—” He stood up from his chair and walked over to a large book stack. “Here. Rituals of War by Ibatan D’Talus. Also … Siege Tactics of the Yoran Invasion by Sivat Wilavir. Those two will have the most information. But I wouldn’t read them just after you’ve eaten.” He set the books down.
Brother Qown blinked at the magician, but he seemed serious.
“Selanol preserve us. How bad was it?”
Thurvishar scowled and looked away. “We should be ashamed. But we aren’t. We never are. It is our duty, you see, our destiny. We’ll make any excuse that lets us believe we were righteous when we crushed our enemies underfoot.”
Brother Qown’s mouth felt dry. “Did they deserve it?”
“Define deserve.” Thurvishar’s mouth quirked. “The god-kings Cherthog and Suless were fiends. Cherthog was a power-hungry brute, and Suless—oh, Suless had so much blood on her hands, entire oceans wouldn’t wash them clean. Did you know Suless invented the god-king ritual?”
Brother Qown blinked. “What?”
“She invented the process, figured out how to turn a wizard into a god. She was the very first god-king. God-queen, I suppose. The Eight Immortals are much older and didn’t come into existence the same way. Even if no one worshipped Argas, as one of the Eight, he’d still exist—because the concept he represents still exists. Same with Thaena and death or Galava and life. The Eight are tied to concepts that give them power. The god-kings, though, require active worship, they require tenyé sacrifices to maintain their power. Without the ritual Suless created, we would have no god-kings, just powerful wizards. She found a way to be more. Then she taught her husband, Cherthog, and her daughter, Caless. Caless taught her lover, Qhuaras—who went on to found what would later become Quur…” Thurvishar spread his hands. “The rest is history. Maybe someone else would have figured it out, if Suless the witch-queen hadn’t done it first, but she did do it first. Think of all the monster races in the world who wouldn’t exist if not for Suless. The snake-king Ynis wouldn’t have created the thriss. Jorat’s Khorsal would never have made centaurs or firebloods. The Daughters of Laaka wouldn’t exist. It’s a long list. So … did Suless ‘deserve’ to be slain when Quur conquered Yor? Interesting question.”
“Even if she did, a lot of Yorans didn’t.”
“Yes, true.” Thurvishar tapped his hands against the table, unhappy and bitter. “There’s one spell in there in particular … Invented by Henakai Shan about two hundred and fifty years ago, it transforms common rock, igneous or otherwise, into razarras ore, which is … deadly. Not even House D’Talus’s Red Men know how to work razarras safely anymore.4 And it kills every living thing around it. Whole caverns in this dominion can’t be used because the ore poisons anyone who comes close. It’s not a fast death either. No. When our wizards realized Yorans grew their food in those caves, they cast the curse to break the siege. The poison ruins everything it touches. And it doesn’t go away.”
Brother Qown felt sick. “Why would—”
He didn’t finish the question. He didn’t have to. He knew very well why. They did it because they could, because it had seemed like an easy, clever answer to their problems.
He was growing to loathe easy, clever answers to problems.
Brother Qown opened a book. The very first chapter was titled “Suppressing Large Population Centers Using Self-Distributing Lysian Gas.” The very first paragraph included a warning about experimenting in areas without adequate ventilation systems. And the very first sentence noted that the summoned magical gas manifested as a pleasant shade of blue.
Brother Qown closed the book, fighting back nausea.
“I told you it would be hard reading,” Thurvishar warned.
Brother Qown took several deep breaths. He reminded himself he had, at least on some level, always known Quur capable of atrocities. After all, one didn’t become the largest empire in the world through compassion and a generous spirit. Quur had always crushed its enemies, mercilessly and without hesitation. This was … just that. Just another example.
But he had seen this example with his own eyes. And he knew it wouldn’t be the worst example he’d find in these books.
“Do you have any more volumes?” he asked instead of fleeing.
Thurvishar frowned at him. “This is dark research, my friend.”
“If I’m going to figure out how to cure a curse, I need to understand how the curse works,” Qown replied.
“The advanced books are kept locked away in the House D’Lorus archives,” Thurvishar admitted, “but since I’m the lord heir, I have the key.”