12: A FAIR TRADE

Qown’s memory The Upper Circle of the Capital City, Quur

Just after the assassination attempt on Galen D’Mon

In the end, Relos Var drove the carriage, as he was the only one who knew how. The others rode inside.¹

The D’Mon carriage suggested impossible levels of wealth, lined with blue silk, decorated with gilt trim. Either those were blue crystals nestled amongst the carvings, or—Veils—those couldn’t be real sapphires, could they?

But it wasn’t all gold and luxury. The bloodstains served as a bracing reminder of just what had brought them there.

Qown forced himself to concentrate on more important matters, such as the injured. Of the seven guards and two royals who had left the funeral together, three remained alive. Galen D’Mon held his arm against his body, surreptitiously cradling it. Worse, a darker stain had begun to spread along his sleeve.

“You’re bleeding,” Qown told the prince.

Galen D’Mon looked up from examining his guard, in turn uncomfortable with the fussing being made over him. “It’s nothing. Finished seeing to my man.”

Qown summoned up a ball of mage-light and held it toward the prince’s arm. That was a lot more blood than “nothing.” “Is every D’Mon as stubborn as you?” Qown bit down on saying anything else as his sense finally caught up with his indignation and reminded him that there were proper ways to address royalty—and not a single word he’d said qualified.

He’d been expecting a certain amount of selfishness from any Quuros royal—especially from Darzin D’Mon’s son—but this man was … well, he wasn’t acting the right way. Of course, if he had been, he wouldn’t have given that disastrously honest speech at the funeral.

“Oh yes,” Sheloran answered, more amused than scandalized. “Every single one. Let him look at your arm, Blue. You’re no good to me dead.”

“You’re injured too, Red,” Galen reproached.

She snapped open her metal fan. “You’re bleeding,” she said. “I’m not.”

Qown coughed. “Apologies, Your Highness, but we can’t be sure of that. We’ll need to look over you both. And your guard.” Qown glanced at the injured man. “I’m sorry, but what’s your name?”

The guard’s voice was weak. Despite Relos Var’s efforts, he barely seemed conscious. “Anlyr.” He shifted his eyes toward the high lord. “I wasn’t here last week, my lord,” he said. “My sister was getting married.”

Qown had no idea why the guard had felt the need to explain that. Possibly he was feverish.

Galen D’Mon’s mouth quirked. “Are you apologizing to me for still being alive, Anlyr?”

The guard let out a short, surprised laugh before wincing and falling silent. Qown snuck a better look at Anlyr. He was young, in his early twenties. The sort royals would keep around as much for accessorizing as protection. Handsome, with deep brown eyes and a face meant for poems and heartbreak.

Not the sort Qown would think wise to keep around a wife like Sheloran, but maybe Galen was just that confident of his wife’s fidelity.² Relos Var had said Galen just wasn’t interested in women, but Qown was finding that difficult to believe. Galen clearly cared about his wife a great deal.

“Don’t apologize,” Galen said, his expression turning grimmer, “you’d have only put yourself in the path of forces you couldn’t possibly have defeated.” His gaze grew distant. “One man can’t stop the ocean.”

Qown shifted seats so he sat next to Galen, pretending it didn’t bother him. He examined the prince’s sleeve. The wound wasn’t so serious that he’d die from blood loss, but that didn’t make Galen immune to complications later.

Galen scowled at him. “Must you?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Qown answered. “I must.”

The royal tried his best to cow the priest into submission, but that was always going to be a losing battle. Qown had been bullied by Galen’s father, Darzin, had met Gadrith, knew Relos Var; Galen was a lightweight in the intimidation department.

Qown eyed the fabric. Blood had clotted and begun sticking to the cloth. There was no help for it. “This is going to hurt,” Qown warned. “Let me numb the pain first.”

“Will it keep me from being able to fight?”

Qown frowned. There was no physical resemblance, but Galen reminded Qown of Janel just then. That same twisted sense of priorities. “It’s not … I mean, only for a short while.”

“Then skip it. Just get on with it.”

The two men locked stares. Galen had a stubborn, determined look on his face. Had Qown been giving the matter thought, he’d have agreed he mirrored the expression. But he wasn’t, distracted as he was by both Galen being incredibly muleheaded and the realization that none of the sapphires in the carriage were bluer than the man’s eyes.

Qown looked away, shook his head, and ripped the fabric from the wound, breaking open the still-forming scab.

Galen didn’t flinch. Qown might have thought someone else had beaten him to numbing the wound if he hadn’t been so certain such wasn’t the case. Galen should have reacted differently. It would have been normal to react differently.

“At least that wasn’t my favorite shirt,” Galen said. “This is why I hate wearing white.”

“Didn’t you feel that?” Qown found himself staring at the man’s eyes again.

“I did,” Galen admitted, “but it’s just pain.”

Sheloran sighed.

Qown felt more than a little appalled. People responded to repeated trauma in any number of ways, each as different and myriad as herbs in the Temple of Light garden. It wasn’t uncommon for people to become hypersensitive to pain, hypervigilant to anything that might cause them discomfort, their bodies a beacon, every nerve screaming. But the reverse was also possible—people so out of tune to the song of flesh and nerves they could no longer feel its signals, blunting the edges of qualities like pain. Or pleasure. Or happiness.

Whatever Galen D’Mon saw in Qown’s wide-eyed stare, it amused him. Despite the open wound, despite the discomfort, Galen gave Qown a soft smile.

Qown flushed. He looked down at the wound instead, which seemed a far safer target for his attention. He clasped his hand over it as if his fingers were a cloth bandage to stop the bleeding. Qown concentrated on spells to clean out the wound, reattach muscles and nerves, fuse the skin back into place.

“How old are you?” Galen D’Mon asked suddenly.

The question almost broke Qown’s concentration, but he kept it for long enough to finish the spell. Qown moved his hand away. “You were right,” he said. “It was nothing.” He didn’t answer the question.

There was no shame in the answer. Qown was old enough. Older than Galen, certainly. Just … younger than most people ever realized. He’d always looked old for his age. His mother used to say he was born ancient. If someone were to ask Janel how old he was, Qown confidently expected she would answer incorrectly.

“What are priests of Vishai, anyway?” Sheloran asked. She leaned against one side of the carriage, fanning herself. One might think this was a pleasant outing to the baths if one ignored the splashes of blood against the white cloth. “I thought I was familiar with all the local gods.”

Before Qown could answer, Galen did. “It’s not the name of a god. They’re an Eamithonian mystery cult. Celibates.” Galen gave Qown a sideways look of amusement before returning his attention to his wife. “You’d like them.” His voice was teasing.

She laughed. “Excuse me? I can’t imagine how.”

“Healers, or so they like to claim—”

“I’m right here,” Qown said, “healing your arm.”

Galen leaned back in his seat. His eyes had a glassy look about them as if this were all incredibly funny or he was drunk. Which meant the shock was setting in.

He ignored Qown. “Obviously, the Vishai can’t operate without a Blue House license. Except they don’t like to charge for their services, so guess who’s always defaulting on paying their dues? Father used to go on and on.” Then Galen winked—winked!—at Qown.

Sheloran laughed. “You’re right, Blue. I do like them.”

The carriage came to a halt. The wooden ceiling creaked as Relos Var helped himself down.

The guard, Anlyr, seemed prepared to rise from his deathbed to be the first to leave the carriage. Instead, he was too weak to fight off Qown as the healer grabbed him by the elbow and helped him. Galen and Sheloran followed last.

“Forgive me, my lord, but this place isn’t…,” the guard began to say, then shut his mouth. No doubt he was reminding himself of the same proper etiquette Qown had been so prone to forgetting.

“It’s safer than the Blue Palace right now,” Galen said, “which I realize isn’t saying much.”

“Where are we?” Qown asked.

Sheloran snickered behind him. “You’ve never been to the Culling Fields?”

They stood on a broad street, with the large, grand buildings of the Upper Circle in the distance. More immediately, a parklike area with trees and shrubs sat on his left, while on the other side of the road lurked a few meager buildings. A large, dark stone tower that had suffered greatly in the recent Hellmarch and a two-story whitewashed brick building, atypical of the normal Quuros style only in that it had several large glass windows, now shattered. There was no signage, no identifying markings. A few people moved around inside.

Relos Var left the horses by the side of the road. He didn’t bother to remove their tack, suggesting he didn’t expect to be there long. Which was probably prudent, given Galen’s funeral speech, its consequences, and the assassins.

Although the assassins had moved so quickly, Qown thought it unlikely they’d been a response to the speech itself.

Despite his injuries, Anlyr insisted on opening the front door for everyone else, which wasn’t locked, only closed. The inside of the tavern stood almost empty, likely because of the hour. People had more important things to do than go carousing in taverns.

Also, it wasn’t open for business.

Workmen piled broken furniture in a corner for repair or kindling. Scorch marks and signs of violence marred the walls and floors.

A woman sat at the bar, head down on a countertop littered with liquor bottles, while another woman stood behind it. Qown couldn’t see any other details from the first woman besides her long, dark hair, but the second one wore a man’s misha and an exasperated look. When they walked inside, she noticed them, and that expression turned into recognition.

“Oh gods. Galen. Are you lot all right? Was it a demon attack?” The woman walked out from behind the bar. “Sit down, sit down.” She pointed at Anlyr. “You too, damn it.”

“I’m fine,” the guard protested.

“‘Fine’ is a state rarely accompanied by bloodstains,” Relos Var said dryly. “Now sit down and allow me to finish healing you.”

“No, Taunna, it wasn’t demons,” Galen said, “but I did just survive my first assassination attempt. I feel so grown-up now.”

As he spoke, the woman seated at the counter raised her tear-streaked face. Her eyes were a beautiful amber color, if otherwise glossy and red from sobbing.

She saw Galen and rubbed a hand over her face. “Hey, it’s my cousin. Hello, cousin!” She raised a glass in mock salute.

“Eledore?” Galen said. “Is this where you’ve been hiding?”

Judging from the unfocused look and the dead bottles, Eledore was quite drunk.

Galen walked over to the bar and took a seat next to the woman. He pushed aside several empty glasses and threw the bartender, Taunna, a reprimanding glare. She shrugged in response.

Qown frowned as Sheloran walked over to Eledore’s other side. The princess claimed the remaining bottle of sassibim brandy and poured the contents into a glass for herself. She took a single sip and then set the bottle to the side.

Out of Eledore’s reach.

“Who is that?” Qown asked Relos Var, who had watched all of this with a slight smile on his face.

“Eledore Milligreest,” Var whispered.

Oh.

“I didn’t see you at the funeral,” Galen told Eledore.

She snorted. “I won’t tell Jarith if you don’t.” Then she plucked at Galen’s bloodstained shirt. “I thought we made a deal you weren’t going to die again.”

“I won’t tell Thaena if you don’t,” he responded. “When did you get back into town?”

“Yesterday,” she answered. “I just … can’t. You understand, don’t you? Daddy wanted me to make a speech.”

“Oh, I think Galen’s said enough for everyone.” Sheloran threw her husband a look simultaneously fond and scolding. “Now how is it that in the two years that we’ve been married, I have never met this woman?” Her voice was light and breezy, but there was a noticeable tremble lurking under the surface. The second sip of brandy was far more generous than the first, before she recovered her fan and opened it again.

“Oh, Daddy sent me away,” Eledore explained. “For my ‘safety.’ I’ve heard stories about you, though.” She examined Sheloran critically before turning back to her cousin, a feat that required her to turn her entire body on the stool. “Jarith was right, you know. Your wife has amazing tits.”

The bartender dropped her face into the palm of her hand.

Qown coughed, while Galen visibly bit back on a laugh. “Ah yes. I’ve been told.”

Galen glanced back at the table where Qown and Relos Var sat, and Qown realized his embarrassed cough must have betrayed his eavesdropping. Galen leaned past Eledore and said to his wife, “Would you mind, Red? I should talk to the priests.”

Sheloran waved her fan demurely, covering her lower face. “Of course, Blue. I’m sure I can find something to discuss with Taunna and Eledore. The magnificence of my breasts, if all else fails.”

Galen laughed, regarded his wife with obvious fondness. Qown, on the other hand, had turned several shades of red and was trying to pretend he wasn’t listening.

Dorna would have found Sheloran adorable.³

Galen gave an insouciant bow to the bartender before heading back to their table. Halfway there, his eyes met Qown’s.

To be fair, Qown had been staring.

Galen reminded Qown a bit of Kihrin, more than a bit of Darzin, and yet he also wasn’t like either man. He caught Qown with those bluer-than-blue eyes, studied the priest, and then did something exceptionally unnecessary.

He grinned.

Galen D’Mon was handsome in the same way Qown assumed all the men of the D’Mon family were probably handsome, but it was ridiculous and unreasonable—absolutely unacceptable—how that smile transformed him into something transcendentally beautiful. He was pure sunlight. Qown felt the floor drop out from under him, dizzy even though he still sat, with no chance to lose his balance. His pulse roared through the veins in his ears.

Qown kept his face perfectly expressionless as he forced his attention elsewhere—what an interesting lamp sat against that wall—all too aware that it was ludicrous that just being smiled at by some Quuros prince would be enough to force all the blood to his cheeks.

To use the Joratese expression, if Qown ran with horses—which he most certainly did not—he would run with mares, not stallions. This … this … overwhelming abundance of feeling was simply the result of being unused to anyone giving him that sort of look, man or woman. That was the only explanation. Qown huffed under his breath.

If Galen noticed, he didn’t say anything.

Relos Var wrapped a cleaning spell around his hands as he finished healing Anlyr. “That should do the trick. For best results, please try not to let anyone stab you for at least three days.”

Anlyr chuckled. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.” He stood and bowed as Galen approached the table.

“With your permission, my lord, may I make a suggestion? If you’d be willing to stay here for a short while, I can venture next door to the Citadel and bring back more men. That way, you’ll still have a proper escort when you leave and, um, a driver for the carriage.” He didn’t make any further comments on the security of the tavern, but he did frown at the room as if he might conjure up bars on the windows and barricade the door.

Galen shrugged. “If you like. But there are two Milligreest women here. I’ve never been safer.”

Qown looked again at the bartender. It hadn’t occurred to him that she might also be a Milligreest, but it was certainly possible. She did look Khorveshan.⁴

“Hey, you all want something from the bar?” the same woman, Taunna, called over to them. “Might as well. For a tavern that’s not open for business, we seem to be doing plenty of it today.”

“I would love a glass of wine,” Relos Var said happily. “Something Kirpis, please.”

“Do you have tea?” Qown examined the alcohol lining the shelves doubtfully.

Taunna narrowed her eyes. “Why not? It’s not like Galen’s old enough to drink anything else.⁵ Might as well put a pot on to boil.”

Galen didn’t rise to the bait; he simply claimed the chair Anlyr vacated. “So I’m going to assume all this goodwill and healing—not to mention that you haven’t left—has some expectation of reward.”

Relos Var waved a hand. “Less a reward than a business opportunity, my lord.”

Galen cocked an eyebrow. He spared Qown the briefest glance, but Qown was giving a close inspection to the opposite wall, sitting as straight as possible, and doing his very best impression of a statue.

Statues never blushed and were rarely, if ever, flustered.

Relos Var regarded Galen with stern severity. “Do you know the Way of Vishai, my lord?”

“If this is about to turn into evangelizing, we’re done here.”

“Oh no, my lord,” Relos Var said. “Nothing like that. But our order has always had two main interests: healing and demons. I cannot help but think the empire currently rests in a state where both those expertises might be valued. If rumors are true, the Physickers Guild has lost a great many people; you’ll need all the healers you can gather to your banner.”

Galen’s expression flattened. “Maybe you haven’t heard, but I’m not the High Lord of House D’Mon.”

Var shrugged. “I’m sure you’ll sort that out.”

“Even if I did, I’m not sure you understand just how thoroughly I’ve salted my own fields. Those assassins we met on the road won’t be the last.”

“No,” Qown corrected, “but those men couldn’t have attacked you for what you said at the funeral. Not unless they’d been able to see into the future or someone knew what you were planning to do in advance. Did you … did you tell anyone what you were going to do?”

Galen scowled. “I didn’t even know what I was going to do.”

Relos Var beamed at Qown. “Just so! I’m sure what you said—shocking as it no doubt was to royal sensibilities—wasn’t their motivation. Far more likely one of your aunts arranged that attack after you were Returned in spite of their best efforts to ensure otherwise. How inconvenient for their own ambitions.”

Galen didn’t seem surprised by this revelation. “So shouldn’t you be making this offer to them?”

“Well, no. They won’t suit my needs—oh, bless you, child. Truly, you are an angel.” Relos Var took the wine from Taunna’s hands and sipped appreciatively before setting it down again on the table. “I have no faith in their ability to see the larger picture. Whereas, if I can help you both keep your position and your heads, I believe you’ll be far more trustworthy and grateful.” Relos Var offered the wine to Qown. “You should try this. It’s delightful.”

Qown did his best not to sigh at his teacher—who knew Qown didn’t drink alcohol—and instead shook his head. “No, thank you, Father.”

“Hmm. Your loss.”

Galen rubbed his temples. “You’re not going to keep me in power. Everyone knows what a miserable high lord I’d make. Even the people who like House D’Mon—a truly small number, I assure you—want me gone for the house’s own good. The only reason anyone tolerated me as heir was because my father had younger brothers and—” A sick, bitter look flashed across Galen’s face. “I can’t believe he ran. Again.”

“I’m sorry?” Qown didn’t have to fake his confusion. “Who ran?”

“My brother—” Galen inhaled. “Never mind. It’s not important.”

Who his brother was clicked in a half second later. Galen was wrong; it was important. This was why Relos Var was there. This was why Relos Var was interested in Galen. Because where Relos Var was concerned, it was always about Kihrin.

Brothers, indeed.

It made Qown feel more than a little ill. Galen had no idea what he was being dropped into. Qown couldn’t help but think of Janel and her rants about Relos Var’s game pieces. It was unfortunate, if necessary.

He reminded himself how necessary this all must be, even if he didn’t yet understand why.

Galen scowled. “A business opportunity. You have healers. Even if I were in a position to approve this, which I must emphasize, I’m not, what would you want in payment for this?”

“Well, there is the matter of license dues…”

Galen stared at Relos Var for several long, disbelieving seconds. Then he began to laugh.

Relos Var took it all in with quiet amusement—to a point. Then he frowned.

“You want forgiveness for license fees.” Galen guffawed, his body language mocking. “You know, if you’d come a few days ago, we might have had a deal.”

Confusion washed the benevolent expression from Relos Var’s features. “I’m not sure I understand.”

Galen cast his gaze on the two men in disbelief. “You didn’t hear? The gods themselves came down from heaven in Atrine and declared an end to license fees. Anyone who wants to practice magic can.” He waved his fingers at the two priests. “Congratulations. You’ve paid up your guild fees, because you don’t owe any.”

A wave of lightheartedness nearly overtook Qown. “But that would mean … the Royal Houses—”

“The Royal Houses are like roaches,” Galen complained. “Don’t worry about us. We’ll figure out some justification to survive. If nothing else, the gods only said we can’t make magic illegal. Nothing was mentioned about free access to education. Right now, we are the only port in the seas if you want to learn how to cast spells.”⁶ He scoffed as he sipped his tea. “Even if some of us never had the opportunity, as my aunts are so eager to remind me.”

Qown’s mouth worked silently. He wasn’t sure if he should think Galen naïve, trustworthy, or just cynical for giving away that information. He might have been able to force the Vishai into an agreement under false pretenses.

Relos Var straightened. “Then from the sound of things, you need us even more.”

Galen set down his cup. “What are you proposing? And since license fees can’t be what I use to pay you, what do you want from the deal? Again, please note that what you’re asking is impossible, if for no other reason than, again, I’m not high lord. You’ll want to talk to my grandfather. Good luck finding him.”

The pretend priest returned Galen’s sneer with a flat look. “I heard what happened to your grandfather. Even if he’s not dead, he’s not coming back. Which means you’re allowing a lifetime of your own expectations to limit your vision. Before you call the idea ludicrous, consider my offer. Your aunts want you out of the way, but their situation is even more precarious than yours. Do you know who the other high lords want in charge of a Royal House even less than a young, irate prince willing to tell them all to go to Hell? A woman.”

Galen started to protest, then stopped.

Qown watched his teacher plunge in the metaphorical knife and twist. He was really quite good at this. “The damage that’s been done to House D’Mon’s reputation is incalculable. The fact that your aunts weren’t in the Capital when the Hellmarch started won’t save them if the High Council decides to enact retribution or, worse, demand a payment against damages.”

Galen flinched before he recovered, pulling himself upright. “I don’t hear a proposal in that.”

Var smiled. “House D’Mon doesn’t have enough healers left alive to deal with even the normal workload the Blue Houses demand, let alone the casualties we’ve seen from the Hellmarch. That’s not even acknowledging the pestilence we know will soon spread…”

Galen’s blue eyes focused on Relos Var’s every gesture, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I’m offering priests of my order—wearing your colors—dispatched to every part of the city to tend to the wounded, the sick, the dying. My people won’t take orders from Tishenya or Gerisea. They will be under your authority alone. If you should die an untimely death, they’ll return to Eamithon, leaving your house without desperately needed personnel.”

Qown kept his expression neutral. Because for Vishai priests to leave their posts, to stop nursing those who needed their services, was unthinkable. What Father Zajhera suggested—

He blinked. Right. Relos Var, not Father Zajhera. How did he keep forgetting?

No matter what Relos Var promised Galen, Vishai priests would run true to their own tenets. So either Relos Var was underestimating the moral character of the religion he had himself created, or he was lying.

“Such a powerful show of goodwill might stay your aunts from making any continued attempts—” Relos Var cocked his head as Galen snorted. “Or it might not. But the option is yours. It will give you something quite valuable: leverage.”

Galen drummed his fingers against the tabletop. Less irritation, Qown suspected, than contemplation.

“And in addition,” Relos Var said, leaning forward and lowering his voice as if they were in a crowded room instead of an empty one, “it is my understanding—as you yourself just implied—that you, de facto head of house, have never been able to absent yourself from house duties for long enough to attend the Academy.”

“What a diplomatic way of phrasing it,” Galen murmured.

“My point is that you are—through no fault of your own—not trained in the healing arts.” Relos Var gestured toward the door Anlyr had exited through on his way to the Citadel. “You’d have hardly needed our services otherwise.”

Galen narrowed his eyes. “Your point?”

“My point is that I assume you’re still unable to absent yourself from house duties for long enough to rectify that oversight, but we Vishai are also excellent teachers.” Relos Var paused as Taunna returned with a teapot and two cups. She set all three down without fanfare and retreated to the bar, this time sitting next to Eledore.

Galen reached for the teapot at the same time as Qown, but the Vishai priest beat him to it because Galen pulled back his fingers.

Galen’s hands were shaking.

“Allow me,” Qown murmured, pouring for them both. The tea was a Kazivari jasmine-scented green. Expensive.

“Thank you.” Galen took a quick sip of the still-too-hot liquid before setting the cup down and returning his hands to under the table.

Qown pretended not to notice.

Relos Var continued, “Why should you leave the Capital and spend a half dozen or so years in Kirpis attending the Academy? You don’t have time for that. However, if you’re amenable to the idea, we will provide you with your own personal tutor in the magical arts. You have obvious talent. It would not take long to bring you up to a skill level comparable to your house physickers.” His smile was kind, his posture, sympathetic. He was so very, very good at this. “At the risk of seeming arrogant, I feel our training methods are superior to the Academy’s in every way.”

Galen’s expression turned from calculating to simply … shocked. Disbelieving.

Qown studied the prince. He had a hunch … He sat up straight, set his tea on the table, and slipped his vision past the First Veil. Qown was curious to see what Galen’s aura looked like.

Strong. Now, Qown had seen stronger. Relos Var’s was outlandish, and Janel’s nearly as bad, but Galen’s was respectable. Qown would have assumed him a proficient sorcerer.

But if Galen had never learned magic at all …

Oh, what potential had been wasted. And by a Royal House! Whatever could have possessed them to leave a talent like this untrained?⁷ To leave an heir like that untrained. The tragedy of it made Qown angry, which Galen noticed and frowned at in turn.

Galen returned his attention to Relos Var. “Since I wasn’t handling the accounts, how many healers are we discussing? That you’d be putting at House D’Mon’s disposal until the end of the crisis?”

“If we emptied our churches and monasteries, a little over two thousand people. All those healers who can use magic, of course. Twice that number if—” And here Relos Var stumbled verbally, before laughing. “What I mean to say is that if licenses and gender are no longer a concern, around four thousand people.”

Galen stared at the man.

Qown doubted the Blue Houses had ever possessed more than two thousand people in the Capital City, let alone twice that. If Galen returned to his family with that sort of reinforcement, what were the odds they wouldn’t suddenly decide to perceive him as useful? And meanwhile, Relos Var could take over Galen’s teaching. He was, after all, exceptionally good at it.

Galen D’Mon seemed to be thinking at least along the same lines. “And the teacher? You, I suppose?”

“Alas, no. Much as I would love to take you under my wing, so to speak, I am too busy at the moment. My apprentice here, Qown, will remain behind to see to your education.”

What.

Qown fought down pure, fluttery panic. No, no, no. Not with this man. “You’re leaving me? But I thought my job was going to be—”

He’d wanted to exorcise demons, push back the Hellmarch. Something important. Something helpful. Something that mattered. Not babysitting Darzin D’Mon’s spoiled, temperamental, suicidal, impossibly pretty teenage son who’d probably never known a single day of—

Qown forced himself to calm down. Galen was, after all, Darzin D’Mon’s son. Of course he’d known adversity. The man was so inured to pain he barely acknowledged it. Qown couldn’t accuse him of being pampered. Indeed, exactly the opposite. His childhood must have been torture.

“No, no, Qown. All things in their time and place. You’re one of the best students I’ve ever trained and a fine teacher yourself. This young man needs you. I understand staying in the Capital wasn’t what you had in mind, but we all serve the greater good.” Relos Var gave him a significant look.

Trust the plan. Qown knew he had to trust the plan.

“I’d rather not have a teacher who doesn’t want to be here,” Galen said, raising an eyebrow at Qown. “No offense.”

“Apologies,” Qown said, bowing as much as he could while still sitting. “It is not the idea of teaching you that bothers me. I had simply hoped I might be allowed to handle a demon.”

A dangerous glint sparked in Galen’s bright blue eyes. “Let’s not be premature,” he said. “You hardly even know me yet.”

It took Qown a second.

Qown knew he’d lived a sheltered life. He wouldn’t have understood the innuendo at all if not for time spent with Dorna, but he had and so he did. Demon. D’Mon. Handling. He froze, aware he had no idea how to react but was turning bright red.

Galen D’Mon sat back in his chair, gave the slender priest a little quirked smile, and drank the rest of his tea.

Qown looked away, swallowing the temptation to practice every Joratese curse word he’d ever learned from Dorna. Or, and this was a lovely thought, throw his own tea in the smug royal’s face. Punch him. This was …

Galen was just like his father, wasn’t he? Except subtler about his bullying, cleverer when it came to getting under one’s skin. Smarter.

It bothered Qown. It bothered Qown a great deal. He knew Galen wasn’t flirting with him.⁸ For one thing, Galen was married to … well, basically the most beautiful woman in the entire world and clearly doted on her. And Galen knew the Vishai order was celibate—he’d been the one to explain that very fact to Sheloran. So this had to be purposeful, said purely to shame.

Relos Var must have noticed Galen’s wordplay, but if so, he gave no outward sign. “Does that intrigue?”

Galen squinted at the old man. “You haven’t named your price. Like I said, license fees are no longer an issue.”

“Sponsor a temple in the Ivory District for us.”

Qown stopped sulking. Even if the Vishai faith was now legal, that didn’t mean the religion was, well … as Galen had said, it was considered something of a cult, too poor to have their own temple in the Capital’s Ivory District. That required royal family support—even sponsorship.

It was far more valuable than a reduction in license fees.

Galen seemed to understand the ramifications at once too. “If I give you a permanent position in this Capital, how long will it be before you’ve simply replaced House D’Mon? After all, you don’t charge for your services. You can’t tell me that would change.” His laughter was black. “My own fault for telling you the truth, I suppose.”

“With all apologies, my lord,” Relos Var said, “if you hadn’t, it just would have made things more awkward when we discovered the truth for ourselves later.” He slid his fingers against the table as if moving coins, even though none were present. “But I think we could make an arrangement to not provide competing services with the Blue Houses for at least, oh, the next five years?”

“Five years? How lovely to know exactly when my house will cease to be relevant—”

“Wouldn’t that be lovely,” Qown murmured.

Galen glanced over at the priest. “What was that?”

Qown set down his teacup. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

“Did you just say,” Galen said, “it would be lovely to know House D’Mon will be irrelevant in five years?”

Qown’s eyes widened. “Oh no, my lord. I was just wondering if any of us will still be alive then.”

Everyone at the table fell silent.

Qown bowed his head. “I do apologize. The last few weeks have all been a bit … much.” He sank down in the chair, aware that Relos Var was glaring at him, and not in a cute, scolding way.

Galen D’Mon started laughing. “Yes,” he said. “It’s certainly been ‘a bit much.’”

Relos Var said nothing.

Galen turned back to the old man. “I’ll take him. And you’ll get your temple—assuming your people are as skilled as you claim and assuming I live. So; a lot of conditions. None of it may work out. And if you’ve lied to me, the deal’s off.”

Relos Var didn’t seem offended. “I understand.” He drained his glass before setting his hand on Qown’s shoulder. “I’ll leave Qown with you. Where would you like me to start bringing in our people?”

“He can contact you?”

Qown narrowed his eyes, resisting the temptation to protest that he was still. Right. There.

“He can,” Relos Var answered.

“I’ll let you know,” Galen said.

Relos Var smiled, pleased. “Then we have a deal.”