7: PLANS OF ATTACK

Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Two days since Urthaenriel was picked up off the ground

Kihrin sat back in his ch7air, feeling like all the stone surrounding them was pressing down against his skin. He shuddered. “That was me, you know. I’m the younger brother that was sold as a slave in Kishna-Farriga. And Relos Var did try to buy me.”

“Oh,” Janel said, “so you’re that brother.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not his brother at all, technically. At least, not in this life.”

Janel shrugged. “I don’t think he sees the distinction.”

“No, no, I suppose he doesn’t. He hates me like I’m his real brother, anyway.”

She paused, her expression unreadable. “Does he?”

“Yes. Very much so.” He looked at her again. “You think he doesn’t?”¹

She pondered her answer before saying, “Our emotions are rarely simple when it comes to family.”

“Easy for you to say. You’ve never met my older brother Darzin. I’m happy to say you never will.”

She looked startled. “I see. Well, it does feel like we know all the same people, so who can say?”

He leaned forward and smirked. “Darzin’s dead.”

Janel stared at him. “So were you.”

Kihrin felt the smirk fade. Could Darzin—no. The Death Goddess had loathed Darzin. She’d never let him Return.

“What about those prophecies Tamin mentioned? They sound—” Kihrin hesitated. “They sound like Devoran prophecies. I once met a Voice of the Council who was a Devoran priest—he was convinced that every time a bird chirped, it related to one of those damn quatrains.”²

“Oh, they are Devoran prophecies,” Brother Qown interjected. “I checked in case either Tamin or Relos Var had invented them whole cloth as an excuse for their atrocities. But no—the stanzas Tamin quoted are genuine. Of course, that doesn’t mean they’re any truer than any of the other thousands of quatrains the Devorans have collected over the centuries.”

“How reassuring,” Kihrin said. “Tamin got it wrong, you know. At least with that first prophecy. That has to be referring to Vol Karoth.” He inhaled as he glanced at Qown. “Let’s just hope that particular quatrain never comes true.”

“You said that name before.” Janel’s eyebrows drew together. “Who?”

Qown’s mouth dropped open. “What? Janel! You don’t know who Vol Karoth is? No one’s explained who Vol Karoth is to you?”

Janel turned up her hands in a helpless gesture. “No? I assume from your scandalized tone that they must be someone important.”

Kihrin cleared his throat. “Yeah, you might say that.”

Janel narrowed her eyes at him.

“He’s the King of Demons—” Qown started to explain.

“No, he’s not,” Kihrin snapped. “He’s what happened to that god you do and don’t worship, Qown, the eighth of the Eight Immortals.”

Qown just stared at Kihrin, mouth open, expression full of horror.

Kihrin sighed. “A long time ago, a wizard tricked one of the Eight Immortals into participating in a ritual,” Kihrin finally said. “I say tricked, because the ritual apparently culminated with the Immortal in question being sacrificed. One assumes he didn’t volunteer for that. Anyway, something went wrong.

“The rest of the people who were involved in the ritual all became dragons, but that Immortal—I realize you call him Selanol, but that’s not his real name—became something even worse. He actually died, but what was born out of his corpse was an avatar of annihilation and evil so dangerous that the monster had to be imprisoned or he’d have destroyed the entire world. Maybe the whole universe. And so, they renamed him: Vol Karoth. I really don’t think he’s the King of Demons. He’s just as eager to destroy demons as he is to destroy everything else.”

“Oh.” Janel swallowed. “Then I apologize; I know exactly who that is. The morgage call him something else.³ And the Devoran Prophecies I’ve read never referred to him as Vol Karoth. The King of Demons, though? That name I’ve heard.”

Kihrin exhaled. He didn’t explain the rest—that even though S’arric’s body had been turned into the vessel to house a corrupted force of darkness, S’arric’s soul had eventually been freed and returned to the Afterlife.

To eventually be reborn as Kihrin D’Mon.

Janel’s gaze locked with Kihrin’s. “But I have also heard that this prophesied Hellwarrior will be the one to free him, the one to usher in the end of the world.”

“That’s … that’s still very much under debate. I don’t think that’s true at all either.” Kihrin said, “We’re sure it’s not just one person, anyway. Not just a single ‘Hellwarrior.’ There are four of us.”

“Us?” Qown repeated.

Kihrin made a face and didn’t answer.

“That makes no sense either,” Janel said. “Why not eight? Eight immortals, eight dragons, eight Hellwarriors?”

Before Kihrin could make any comment, Qown interrupted. “Okay, wait. Go back to that part about the dragons. Even if the rest of what you say is true, you said the participants became dragons. Are you sure you heard that detail correctly?”

“Emphatically,” Kihrin replied without looking at Qown. “That’s how all nine dragons were created.”

“Eight dragons,” Qown corrected.

Kihrin frowned as he glanced over at the priest. “I can see this is going to become a habit. Nine. That’s what I was about to say to Janel: the numbers don’t always match. You see, the man who devised the ritual, performed it—he became a dragon too. You’ve met him. He runs around calling himself Relos Var these days.”

Qown blinked. “Relos Var isn’t a dragon!”

“Oh yes, he is. Relos Var just chooses not to look like a dragon most of the time.” Kihrin shrugged. “Maybe that’s why he’s not insane the way the other dragons are? I honestly don’t know.”

As Qown sat there, eyes wide and shocked, Kihrin turned back to Janel. “The first quatrain does sound like it refers to you.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Does it really? Am I gathering outlaws and witches while I plot an uprising?”

“You tell me. Are you?”

Brother Qown held up his book. “I’ll just keep reading, shall I?”

Neither Kihrin nor Janel protested.

Qown’s Turn. Mereina Castle, Barsine Banner, Jorat, Quur.

The castle felt empty, with a skeleton crew and a locked gate left behind. Most residents crowded into the arena on the tournament grounds. But Brother Qown still felt exposed and vulnerable as Mare Dorna and he, supporting a limping Ninavis between them, pretended to be servants returning from some assignment gone awry.

“Is she all right?” A guard pointed at Ninavis.

Mare Dorna waved a hand. “Oh, she’s fine, fine. Just a clumsy mare. Tripped on a stair.”

“Hey now, what do you mean I’m clumsy?”

“Well, who went and tripped over her own two feet? Wasn’t me, I tell you.”

The guard chuckled and returned to walking the castle grounds. He never gave Brother Qown so much as a glance.

They headed for the third-floor suite where the old steward’s chambers now housed the count.

All three exhaled as they closed the door behind them.

Dorna abandoned Ninavis and started packing.

Brother Qown frowned. “The count said—”

Dorna looked back over her shoulder. “You think I’ve gone deaf, foal? I know what she said. But I guarantee you we ain’t leaving this place slow and leisurely-like. Best be prepared for the quick exit.”

Brother Qown started to retort but then stopped himself. Ninavis still leaned against his shoulder. “Let me look at your leg. The splint was a temporary solution. I should try to come up with something more durable.”

Ninavis gave Brother Qown a flat stare as she pulled the impromptu cloak off her head and began limping toward the bed. “You sure you’re not just hoping for another peek at my calves?”

Brother Qown fought the urge to roll his eyes toward the heavens. “I’m a priest of the Vishai Mysteries.”

“And?”

“He can’t run with the herd at all, if you know what I mean.” Dorna made snipping motions, miming scissors.

With effort, Brother Qown ignored Dorna. He motioned for Ninavis to sit on a nearby chair. “Not can’t. Won’t. We take a vow. I’m not interested in your legs except to make sure they’ll heal.”

He also ignored Dorna’s snort.

He didn’t use Illumination on Ninavis for several reasons, not least because she was awake, alert, and damnably Marakori. That last point meant she might even recognize what he was doing. The Marakori didn’t share the Joratese distrust of magic.

Indeed, the Marakori were the reason for the Joratese distrust of magic.

Fortunately, the broken bones had never pierced skin, which created less chance for infection. She had predictable muscle damage and swelling. Given adequate rest, she’d make a full recovery. He just wasn’t sure she’d have the chance.

“Dorna, do you think it might be possible to find wax creeper? I’ll make a plaster.” Brother Qown started to look around the room for fabric that might be boiled and cut into strips.

Before he’d begun his preparations, however, Count Janel came rushing into the room. “You made it back. Good. Dorna, help me with my armor. Then I need you three to leave here at once. Go north to Visallía. The Markreev there is a distant cousin. She’ll give you shelter.” She crossed over to where Dorna had packed their belongings and retrieved her family sword.

“Colt? What happened? You can’t … wait, what are you doing?” Dorna set her hands on her hips.

“I gave my word,” the count said. “I will keep it.”

“What’s going on?” Ninavis tried to stand, then teetered and sat back down again. “What are they planning to do with my people?”

“Wait,” Brother Qown said. “Count, you’re upset. But please explain what’s going on.”

The Count of Tolamer crossed over to where a pewter goblet and pitcher rested on the sideboard. Her hand trembled as she poured water into the cup, before draining it dry and tossing it to the side.

She hadn’t been as careful as normal. She discarded a crushed finger-dented mass of metal.

Janel pulled her fingers through her laevos. “So before we left Tolamer Canton, when my grandfather still lived, he kept the services of a House D’Aramarin Gatekeeper named Kovinglass. Kazivarian man. I didn’t like him, but I never thought him disloyal. At least, I didn’t think that before my grandfather’s death. When I began to look through my grandfather’s papers, I changed my mind. I don’t know if my grandfather paid Kovinglass too little or if Kovinglass had suffered some slight never forgotten. As my grandfather sickened, Kovinglass recommended poor decision after decision, which mired our house further in debt.”

“Not all thieves use swords,” Brother Qown said. “Some are more successful with brushes and ink.”

The count nodded in bitter agreement. “So it seems.”

Ninavis scowled. “What does this have to do with Tamin? With my people?”

“Because of my experience with Kovinglass’s betrayal,” Count Janel explained, “I wanted to believe Baron Barsine had been misled as well. He seemed to be spinning a story about Kalazan’s dead father—and his father’s attempt at an assassination and coup. Even if Tamin had overreacted to his father’s murder, Tamin himself might have been exploited by men like Captain Dedreugh—and perhaps this Relos Var person.”

“Who?”

“Relos Var. A foreigner.⁴ Tamin’s teacher. After all, I’ve known Tamin for years. I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“Of course you did. You nobles stick up for each other, don’t you?” Ninavis rolled her eyes. “Always covering up each other’s shit.”

“Shut it, you,” Dorna said. “You don’t talk to my count that way!”

“No, Dorna. She’s earned the right to scold.” Janel sat down. She looked bereft.

“Count,” Brother Qown said, “what happened?”

“The baron doesn’t realize it, but he’s the one summoning the demons,” she explained. “He thinks he’s killing witches. But he’s claiming innocent people are witches, having them executed, and then dedicating those deaths to a demon named Kasmodeus. There is a witch problem in Barsine—and Tamin is the witch.”

“You have to kill him,” Ninavis said. “You have to kill the baron. There will never be a better opportunity. You’re the only one who can get past his soldiers and do it.”

Count Janel stared at the woman in shock. “Haven’t you heard a word I said? Tamin is being tricked. We have to show him—”

“And that’s supposed to make it all right? The villages swept clean? The men, women, and children sent to the flame?” Ninavis pushed herself upright from where she’d been sitting. “Don’t you dare tell me his gullibility excuses what he’s done.”

The count’s jawline whitened as she stared at Ninavis. Dorna stood. Brother Qown stood as well, unsure what he could do.

“There are ways—”

Ninavis thrust out her jaw. “Are you about to start talking about Censure? Because I swear if—” Her voice died, though, trailing into a numb silence as she stared at the Count of Tolamer.

Janel’s eyes glowed incandescent. Inhuman.

“Allow me,” the count said, “to explain how we do politics here in Jorat.” She stepped forward, and Ninavis stepped back. Except Ninavis already stood at the bed’s edge, so she sat down.

“If I march in there and murder the baron,” Janel explained, “who has no children, who has picked out no heirs—his title and lands don’t fall to me but to the strongest stallion in his service. Who might you think that would be, hmm? Dedreugh. Dedreugh will be in charge. You didn’t see him at the tournament. He’s as strong as I am, if not stronger. He’ll kill all of us, and nothing will change. In Jorat, you cannot assassinate your way into power.⁵ Maybe, just maybe, allow the possibility I have some idea how to handle this.”

The count walked over to a chest, threw open the lid, and began rummaging around inside.

A long, awkward silence wrapped around everyone in the room.

“What are you?” Ninavis asked.

The Count of Tolamer turned her head. “Determined.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know. I just don’t care.”

Ninavis inhaled. “Look—”

“Are you going to help me, or are you going to peck at my every action like a little bird?” Janel dropped the clothes in her arms and turned to face the woman. “I can help you and your people outside. But not if you think I’m an enemy whose purpose is to give you something to rebel against.”

Silence.

Dorna and Brother Qown both looked at the two women, not daring to breathe as they waited to see who would move first.

“Might have been a touch out of line back there,” Ninavis said.

Brother Qown exhaled.

Janel tilted her head to acknowledge she’d heard, but otherwise said nothing as she began to toss more clothing onto the floor.

“They’re my people,” Ninavis continued. “And they’re about to be sacrificed to demons.”

“Maybe…” Brother Qown cleared his throat. “Couldn’t we send a message to Tamin’s liege? Warn them he’s a rogue baron? Who is the count here, anyway?”

“Ysinia,” Dorna said, “but just how would you plan to do that, young man? It ain’t like we have a Gatekeeper, unless you have some talents you ain’t advertised yet?”

Brother Qown smiled wanly, which Dorna took as a negative.

He had no aptitude at all for teleportation magic, assisted by a Gatestone or otherwise. He’d never been much bothered by this. Although the Gatestones connected every corner of the empire, Qown had no real interest in being a glorified toll gate operator.

However, Brother Qown did have a legal House D’Mon license to practice magic. He kept up his membership fees. Unfortunately, in Jorat, unless someone was a priest of the Eight or an official Gatekeeper, they were labeled witches. Brother Qown wasn’t at all sure the local Joratese would give him enough time to present his paperwork before they reached for their torches and pitchforks.

“Well, then,” Mare Dorna continued, “since Barsine’s a banner seat, it’s home to a Gatestone. But way I hear from the locals, the baron’s too stingy to pay for his own Gatekeeper. He has those House D’Aramarin folks doing nothing but the barest. A Gate opened the day before the tournament. A Gate’s gonna open the day after. Anyone wants more, they got to pay it themselves. And like as not, have arranged it in advance.”

“That doesn’t help us,” Ninavis snapped.

“Oh no,” Dorna agreed. “Not at all. Which is why I’m still a mighty fan of running.” She moved two fingers in imitation. “I’m real sorry about your people, Ninavis. They all seemed like good folk. But I ain’t hearing a plan that’s going to let us get near enough to free them. We’ll have so many crossbows pointed at us one of them’s bound to hit. And if this Captain Dedreugh fellow is strong as you, foal, but twice your size? I don’t think of your chances in straight-up warfare as all too great. Plus, let’s not forget your friend Tamin’s got himself some witchy magic at his fingertips. I wouldn’t bet all your metal on that absent teacher being the only one casting spells.” Dorna squinted at the count through one eye, cocking her head to the side. “So how are you going to handle this?” She raised a finger. “Don’t say, ‘I’ll fight my way out.’ You hear me, young stallion? Don’t you dare.”

“Not at all,” the count said as she pulled a thick pile of mail from her valise. “I plan to fight my way in.”

The dark indigo mail hauberk shimmered with iridescence as if spawned from night and rainbow, fire dancing below the blue-black metal surface. Not brass, iron, or steel but shanathá—the metal for which the Quuros Empire had conquered Kirpis and cast out the vané. Shanathá metal was all but illegal for civilians to own, even if they could afford the cost.

Joratese nobles, technically still Quuros military, were exempt.

“‘In’?” Dorna demanded. “What do you mean by fight your way ‘in’?”

The count smiled as she picked up more clothing from the ground: a burgundy arming doublet so dark it looked black and a worn cloak that had seen better days, its true color indecipherable. “The timing couldn’t be better. The baron is young and inexperienced.”

Ninavis snorted. “What are you? Seventeen?”

The count scowled. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Brother Qown glanced sideways at Janel and cleared his throat.

She looked abashed. “I mean, I reached my majority three months ago, just before we left Tolamer.”

Ninavis’s eyes widened. “Oh. Oh, I see. You’re right. What was I thinking. You’re sixteen. Obviously, that’s different.” She glared at Dorna and Brother Qown as if daring them to correct her.

“Young in years,” Janel said, “not in misery.”

Ninavis met her eyes. Whatever she saw there made her swallow and look away.

“And what does this have to do with what you have planned, colt?” Dorna had lost her patience.

Count Janel didn’t seem to mind her nurse’s ill temper. She seemed pleased to see the subject turned from her age, young by anyone’s reckoning. “Tamin isn’t our target. Dedreugh is. And unlike the baron, Dedreugh is accessible; he’s fighting in the tournament. Although after what I saw, I’d be very surprised if he does much fighting after this. His opponents will withdraw and give him victories by default. Since no one wants to share Sir Xia’s fate, he’ll win—but make no mistake, for the baron to legally kill Nina’s men, Dedreugh must win. Those prisoners don’t belong to the baron otherwise.”

“But … the accusations of witchcraft against them?” Brother Qown hated to bring up the point but felt obligated.

Janel shook her head. “Also decided by the tournament. Tamin will combine the normal contest of judgment with the tournament outcome. It’s not unprecedented. But again—for the baron to prove them witches, Dedreugh has to win.”

“But who’s going to fight him?” Ninavis asked. “My leg’s broken, and you’re a titled noble. You’re not allowed to fight in the tournaments.”

“No. No, I am not,” the count agreed as she shrugged herself into the arming doublet. “As Count Tolamer, I may be represented by a knight in a tournament, but I would never be allowed to participate myself. It’s not allowed.” Humor hinted her voice. She’d told a joke but hadn’t delivered the punch line.

Dorna gave the young noble a stern look. “The Black Knight? That’s what you’re talking about, isn’t it? You’re thinking to go in as the Black Knight.”

Brother Qown blinked. “I don’t understand. Who is the Black Knight?”

Dorna snorted. “Nobody. Anybody. Anyone who wants to can take on the knight’s identity. The Black Knight is anoy-amony—”

“Anonymous,” Ninavis said.

“Right. That. The Black Knight’s a fool, a jape. Heaven’s jester. They’re unknowable—black’s the color of mystery and danger, you see—and living proof no matter how fine the barding on your horse, there’s always going to be some jack’s ass who can piss on your riding boots. The knight’s the pisser. It’s a lark job, a retirement prize, given out to some drunkard who gets to spend all day mooning the crowds, guzzling free ale, and squeezing cute boys on the bum. Lots of fun.”

“I still don’t understand. How does that help us?”

The count finished fastening the doublet. She wore several thick layers. Since she always wore a corset bound tight across her bosom, the net effect hid her curves. “If the Black Knight’s identity is never known,” the count said, “then anyone can play the part—even a ruling noble. No one talks about it, but the worst-kept secret in the dominion is that the person wearing the black armor at any given tournament might well be a titled noble having fun. Which means I can fight—and Dedreugh’s chances in the tournament aren’t as certain as he’s been led to believe.” Her mouth quirked.

“The Black Knight is always picked out before the tournament,” Ninavis said. “I think folks might notice if a second one shows up.”

But the count’s smile hadn’t faltered with this declaration. “Indeed,” she agreed as she shook the shanathá mail down over her body, “so I suppose it would be rude not to pay Baron Tamin’s Black Knight a visit in advance.”⁶