48: REVELATIONS

Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Three days since a witch-hunter with the ridiculous name of Piety didn’t return to the Capital City

Everyone stared at Janel.

She sat back and drank her coffee, looking embarrassed.

“Oh, foal, you—” Dorna gave her a look of deep concern. “You didn’t really cut out one of your eyes, did you?”

Star nodded slowly in approval. “Not bad.”

Janel cleared her throat and looked away.

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

Sir Baramon ended up giving the whole scheme away.

Brother Qown knew Sir Baramon hadn’t meant to, but someone was bound to slip up. Over time, Qown had figured out the times and places where he could count on people to be indiscreet, to gossip, to whisper. He lurked invisible in rooms where people knew beyond all doubt they were alone, and people who knew they were alone sometimes let down their guard.

And in Sir Baramon’s case? Well, Sir Baramon liked his pillow talk.

One evening, Brother Qown checked in with the knight to find Sir Baramon energetically enjoying Dango’s company, much to Qown’s embarrassment. Qown left for long enough to check on his normal targets and returned later to find the two men finished with the sex, but not with the intimacy. While the two men cuddled together under blankets next to a burning fire, they talked.

That part, he stayed to watch.

“Tomorrow’s going to be rough,” Sir Baramon said as he rested his head against the other man’s shoulder.

Dango smiled and grazed his hand against the knight’s arm. “Ah, now don’t be like that, love. Tomorrow’s going to be dangerous, but no more so than the dozen times we’ve done this before.”

Baramon sat up, letting Dango’s hand slip away. “I liked it better when we didn’t have to split up. And when one of us could ride in pretending to be the Black Knight without anyone making a fuss. I can’t even do it anymore. And it used to be my real job! All you have to do to make a noble faint these days is mention the Black Knight.”

“That’s their doing, not ours.”

“Do you know I found an altar to the Black Knight set up two villages back? They’re claiming the Black Knight is the Nameless Lord.”

Brother Qown blinked. The Joratese called the eighth of the Eight Immortals the Nameless Lord. Their name, or lack of a name, for Selanol, Qown’s own god.¹

“What do you expect? The Black Knight is answering their prayers. These days, you can’t ride through a town without seeing a word or two about the Black Knight scrawled somewhere. There’s some good songs making the rounds too.”

“If we don’t split up—”

“Janel said—” And Dango stopped himself.

“How do we know Janel Danorak said anything?” Sir Baramon said. “The last I saw Janel Danorak, she lay dead on the tournament floor in Atrine. Talaras would bite my fingers off to hear me talk this way, but we only have Arasgon’s word she survived. And now we’re supposed to believe he’s talking to her every night?”

“Bary!” Dango’s voice was a low warning scold. “Only the firebloods are supposed to talk about this!”

For a long time, Sir Baramon didn’t say anything, then he shook his head. “Right. Right. Of course.” He smiled. “There’s writing about her too on the walls. Warms my heart to see it. Even if it’s ridiculous to think she’ll come back and save us.”

Dango laughed and hugged him. “Don’t you see? She’s doing that very thing right now. We’re her hands and her arms and her sword. We’re saving Jorat for her.”

Sir Baramon tried to smile, but it came at an effort. “What would I do without you?”

Dango pulled Sir Baramon to him. “Be miserable, probably—”

Brother Qown pulled himself away from the divination and sat there for a moment, exhaling, thinking about what he’d heard.

Janel had been using the firebloods to relay instructions and information, knowing no Yoran or western Quuros understood their speech.² She had figured out how to pass notes to her people in Jorat and had been feeding them detailed information on Yoran strengths, plans, and numbers ever since. Everyone knew she couldn’t be involved; she’d never left Yor.

Janel Danorak had been controlling the rebellion in Jorat this entire time.

“So,” Relos Var said, “find out anything interesting?”

Brother Qown jumped in his chair and sat there for a second, feeling stupid and scared and caught with his hand in the sweet jar. Relos Var sat at the table. The wizard dressed in traveling clothes that would have been inappropriate for the weather here—but of course, he’d used a gate. Var had also brought a late dinner—sag flatbread, vegetable-studded saffron rice, mushroom-stuffed peppers, and a deep red stewed eggplant dish, swimming in oil and spices.

Then Qown realized he’d been asked a question, and this time he did feel the pain of forced compliance kicking in. He had to answer.

“Yes,” Qown gasped out, grabbing the table’s edge.

“Oh good,” Relos Var said, smiling at the young priest. “Come have supper, and tell me all about it.”

Qown felt as if he were walking to his execution as he sat at the table and helped himself to the food. Eamithonian food. Probably made by Loma back at the monastery. Loma never used enough cardamom but still made a delicious stew.

Qown blinked and pulled himself back to the present. “I’m sorry, I didn’t … you surprised me.”

“I’m sorry. We’ve all been so busy these days.” Relos Var ate a stuffed mushroom. “You know, Loma never uses enough cardamom.”

“That’s what I’ve always said. I think he’s afraid he’s wasting it because it’s so expensive.”

Relos Var waved a piece of sag bread. “That attitude just proves he’s clinging to a false notion of material importance.” Then he paused and made a face. “Sorry, Father Zajhera would have said that.”

“It’s fine.” It wasn’t fine, and nothing would ever be fine. Qown concentrated on eating. He ate without tasting the terrific meal, only able to think about how he’d have to talk before the end of it.

“It must be bad. Look at you. You’re shaking.”

Qown pushed away his food.

“Tell me,” Relos Var said.

“Janel’s found a way to communicate with Arasgon while she sleeps. He’s then talking to other firebloods and giving them orders and information, which they pass along to human resistance groups—either by gate or by running. Janel’s been organizing rebels, interfering with your plans to undermine Duke Xun’s authority in Jorat. She’s still undermining his authority, mind you, but so it benefits her, not Duke Kaen.”

“How? The Joratese must think she’d dead.”

“Oh no. Ask your average Joratese and they’ll tell you Janel didn’t die in your duel. She ascended, or she tricked you and escaped, or Khored chose her to be his champion to save Jorat. How do you kill a legend? We’ve never been able to spy on her people passing plans, because her human followers aren’t the ones disseminating the plans. Janel’s certainly told them about Worldhearth and the Name of All Things. They know they’re being watched. But since every Joratese grows up understanding firebloods, they can relay orders openly. I haven’t figured out what they’re doing about the Marakori yet, but they must have figured something out…”

“Wait, Marakori? How are they involved?”

“They’re being recruited in massive numbers. Pulling the same trick Duke Kaen does with his soldiers and disguising themselves as Joratese. So many villages were left deserted by the Lonezh Hellmarch that they’re just blending into the countryside, taking over farms. And training. And when the rebellion has seeded enough of these people into a banner, Janel’s people Censure the local ruler and put one of their own people in charge. Enough banners turn, and they can take over a canton…” Qown shook his head. “I know Kaen wanted to put Jorat in so much danger that it would be obvious to everyone that Duke Xun can’t protect his people, but Janel’s taking the opposite approach. Starting small and working her way up.”

Relos Var leaned back in his chair. “Janel? Our Janel is doing this?”

Qown winced. “Yes, sir. She’s been directing the Black Knights since the beginning.”

Relos Var looked surprised and then began laughing.

Brother Qown just stared. He looked around to see if someone else had slipped into the room or if a joke involving a morgage, a vané, and a high lord had appeared above his head.

“Oh, Qown.” Relos Var slapped his hand down on the table. “That is amazing. I couldn’t be prouder.” He raised his hand again, pointed with a single finger. “I give you permission to lie to Kaen. Don’t breathe a word of this to him. Falsify your next reports to him. Don’t tell him what’s going on.”

Qown blinked and stared harder. “What?”

Var smiled at Qown. “My boy, would I have invested the years I did into Janel Danorak if I had no plans for her?” Without waiting for Qown to answer, he continued, “Now I admit, when she challenged me back in Atrine, I thought she’d made a fatal error. And she’s been so … cooperative … since coming here, I thought she’d just given up. I should have known better. When has Janel ever given up on anything? Delightful!”

Qown felt numb. The pain of betraying Janel felt bad enough, but he had expected Var to be upset, angry. Happy? Pleased? He didn’t know what to do with Var’s satisfaction. “I don’t understand.”

Var leaned forward. “If you want to make certain you’ll win a horse race, bet on all the horses. I have pushed Kaen into uniting Yor and Jorat, because we’ll need that strength soon. But Janel has, right under my nose, taken important steps to unite Jorat and Marakor—a better result I hadn’t pursued because I hadn’t thought it practical. Or even possible.”

“Quur won’t tolerate that … as soon as Duke Xun asks for aid, the troops will come in.”

“Except Duke Xun won’t admit there’s a problem. That’s admitting weakness,” Relos reminded him. “Admitting weakness terrifies our dear Joratese duke. And since Kaen has taken steps to keep most of the Royal Houses from making too much fuss about disturbances in Jorat, Janel’s rebels benefit there too. In fact, there’s a good chance that, by the time the High Council realizes there is a problem in Jorat, it will be too late, and when they do—” He chuckled. “Oh, I can just imagine the look on High General Milligreest’s face when he realizes who he’s fighting. How delightful to find my wild filly isn’t out of the race yet.”

“I thought you’d be more upset,” Qown admitted.

“Kaen will be furious. He’ll order her execution, guaranteed.” The wizard looked rueful and sighed. “Do what you can to help her, Qown. Try not to put yourself at risk, but I think we’re approaching a time when I will have to decide if I want to keep saving that man from his own bad decisions.”

“You have a plan, don’t you? A plan for how you’re going to save the world?”

Relos Var stopped smiling. “Yes, I do.”

Qown’s throat felt tight as he wrestled with emotions he couldn’t name, let alone control. “I’ll see what I can do to help her. She’s, uh…” He cleared his throat. “She’s trying to learn magic.”

“I suppose if she must. It won’t do her much good when we track down Urthaenriel, but it will help her in the meantime. I’d rather she focused on her lessons with Xivan.”

“Urthaenriel?” Qown sat up. “You’re looking for Urthaenriel?” He’d naturally heard of the Ruin of Kings, the fabled magical sword of the Quuros emperors, but he’d assumed it was permanently lost—or decorating the vané king’s wall.

“Yes,” Relos Var said. “And if it were any other sword, I could just ask the Name of All Things to tell me its location. Which is a pity, because we’ll need it soon.”

“Why?”

Relos Var laughed in surprise as he stood. “Because its other name is Godslayer, dear boy. And we are, after all, going to kill gods.”