15. THE SYMPTOMS OF A GREATER PROBLEM

Qown’s story

The Soaring Halls, the Upper Circle of the Capital City of Quur

Same day as their arrival, just before lunch

Everyone stayed at the table after Caless left, uncomfortable and skittish. The worst part of it was that they couldn’t be sure that she could help them with the Stone of Shackles. Not that she wanted to help them—she clearly did—but whether or not it was even possible. The only way they could test was, unfortunately, to attempt to gaesh one of them. Even if Qown had been willing (he wasn’t), Caless had refused to try.

The three people remaining (four if one was counting the little boy) were quiet in that absence. No one knew what to say.

Then the little boy started tugging at his uisigi and looking around the room in clear distress. Galen knelt next to the child. “Do you need to use the toilet?”

The boy stared at him, wide-eyed, and nodded quickly.

He held out his arms to the child. Tave had apparently decided Galen was acceptable company, because he scrambled into Galen’s hold quickly. “I’ll be back,” Galen told the others.

Qown watched him leave and wondered if he should have gone too, if for no other reason than he had no idea where the washrooms even were. A problem he’d have to tackle himself before too much longer, although hopefully with less impromptu dancing.

Sheloran folded several pieces of sag bread around a thick filling of spiced root vegetables and set the plate in front of Qown. “Eat,” she suggested.

Qown huffed. “I’m fine.”

“Eat something, anyway. Please?”

He stared at her for a few seconds. How was he supposed to eat? His stomach was twisted in knots. But it would make Sheloran happy, and no doubt Galen would start nagging too when he returned, so he managed to scarf down a few pieces. “If this doesn’t work…,” he started to say.

“It had better work,” Sheloran said. “It will work.”

“But if it doesn’t—”

“Qown!” Sheloran’s stare was all flames and searing heat.

“If it doesn’t,” Qown persisted, “then we need to consider what we can do to minimize the damage. Obviously, Relos Var cannot be allowed to gaesh us.” He unfolded two pieces of paper and set them in front of her. On each was written half of a glyph.

Sheloran stared at the paper and then raised her gaze to him. “What is this?”

“I asked Senera to make it,” Qown said. “It’s … um. It’s a worst case. I admit that. And it can’t activate until both halves are drawn on the same body, obviously. But Senera promised it would be painless. And it’ll keep the body from decaying, at least for a while.”

She didn’t understand right away, and then Sheloran turned gray. “Qown.” Her voice was very quiet.

“It’s not what you think,” Qown said. “I mean, it is what you think, but just consider: with what we know … who we know … and the body being undamaged … There are only two certain ways of curing a gaesh. Either destroy the Stone of Shackles, or kill the person, destroy their gaesh control talisman, and unite the pieces of their souls in the Afterlife before Returning them. So.”

So something they could accomplish. He wished he could spell it out more bluntly, but Sheloran was smart enough to fill in the lines. She knew what he meant. Under normal circumstances, yes, it would be suicide, but when they had Xivan on their side and the enemy didn’t know that she’d already become the new Goddess of Death?

Dying became a tactical retreat, a strategic choice. Nothing more than that.

She peered at him over the lip of her metal fan. “And you waited until Galen was out of the room to explain this because…?”

Qown gave her a bittersweet smile. “You know why.”

Because Galen would have absolutely refused under any and all circumstances. Whereas Sheloran was more pragmatic about such things. She understood the need. She wouldn’t like it, but she’d understand it.

Sheloran picked up the two pieces of paper and tucked them into her raisigi. “I don’t like it.”

“Oh, neither do I, so let’s hope your mother’s method works.” He paused. “You realize we still need the Stone of Shackles. We have to convince her to give it to us.”

“Yes, but at this point, Mother’s going to refuse anyone who asks out of general principle,” Sheloran said. “Don’t worry. We’ll talk her into it eventually.”

“I hope so.”

The quiet spread out between them once more. Suddenly, the room seemed small and cramped. Qown felt boxed in, which never usually bothered him but suddenly seemed suffocating. He needed something to do. Something that could help. Something. Anything.

A dark thought occurred to him. “No one’s looking to arrest Galen, are they?”

Sheloran paused her fanning. “What?”

“I mean, not just because of the high lord business. What about the Lysian gas at the Culling Fields? Even if Gerisea is dead, do you think there might still be a warrant out for Galen’s arrest?” He paused. “Or mine?”

Sheloran closed her fan. She looked concerned. “It’s possible,” she admitted. “We should have asked.”1

“I’m sure I can find your father by the soldiers.” The thought made him wince. He’d been intimidated enough by Sheloran’s father the last time they’d met, and that was before knowing that the man was a god-king. His recent behavior was only compounding the issue. Still, finding out might prove important.

Sheloran nodded. “If you’d be so kind.”

---

Qown didn’t wander far. The nearby courtyard opened to sky, the weather fair enough to encourage the soldiers using the location to train and spar. The air was scented thick with sweat, leather, and blood as groups of men practiced killing each other—or at least pretended they were trying to kill each other. Teachers wandered between them making corrections. The air thrummed with violence, the energy a rasp against Qown’s skin, the hairs at the back of his neck. Several of the practice bouts seemed impossibly close to the real thing.

Qown found Sheloran’s father, Varik, at the same place where he’d been before, helping the troops with weapons. The former high lord raised an eyebrow at him as he approached, but didn’t shout at him to go away. Qown took that as a good sign.

“A word, if I may?” Qown asked.

Varik gave him a flat look. Qown thought he might have passed judgment too soon on whether or not Varik was going to start shouting. But the former high lord handed over his task to an assistant and gestured for Qown to follow him to the back.

“What is it?” His irritation softened for just a moment as he gave Qown an appraising look. “You know, I might have something that would fit you. Yes, I’m almost sure of it. Any idea how to use a sword?”

“What? Oh no.” Qown cleared his throat. “I was just talking with your daughter, and we realized we didn’t know if there were still any active warrants out for Galen—or for any of us, really—because of what happened with that Lysian gas at the Culling Fields. So … are there?”

Varik checked to see if anyone obvious was listening before turning back to Qown. “No. You were all lucky about the timing. They were still able to check with Gerisea’s guards.”

“Check with—?” It took a moment for Qown to make the connection: Thaena had still been alive when the assassination attempt at the Culling Fields had occurred. So her priests would have been able to ask the souls of the dead what they knew. Gerisea hadn’t just murdered her sister, Tishenya, and her soldiers; Gerisea had left her own guards to die there too. While it was unlikely that most of those guards had known important details, the dead had included the sorcerer responsible for creating the Lysian gas in the first place. He had almost certainly known the truth.²

“No one’s going to come looking for Galen if he doesn’t force the issue,” Varik said. “Everyone knows Gerisea was head of House D’Mon when she died. And that speech Galen gave at Jarith Milligreest’s funeral denouncing the royals might just end up being the smartest thing he ever did. Word’s gotten around.”

“I can’t believe—” Qown shook his head. “I can’t believe it’s all falling apart so fast.”

“That’s what happens when you close down the gates and leave everyone to starve. People start to realize you were never on their side.”

But that only happened after Tyentso had ordered the high lords executed, Qown thought. He wondered what was going to happen to all the members of the Royal Houses who weren’t themselves royalty, who had been members because it was the only way to legally work with magic. Those people provided essential, vital services, and now what? Were they being dragged out into the street by rioters? Absorbed into some larger imperial amalgam? What happened to them?

“Yes, they most certainly do,” Qown said. “Thank you.”

Varik clapped him on the shoulder in a manner that might almost have been considered friendly before he stalked back to his tent.

Which left Qown in front of the training yard. He wrinkled his nose as he watched the men fight. He’d never spent time around Quuros soldiers, so he had no basis for comparison, but these men seemed to be a particularly violent example of the breed. Janel’s soldiers had been much more prone to laughter and teasing each other while they sparred. But maybe it wasn’t a proper comparison: Janel’s troops had been largely outlaws and criminals. And not that interested in killing anyone.

These men were very interested in killing.

As Qown watched, two soldiers who were earnestly driving weapons at each other escalated their bout into a more serious altercation. One of them managed to slice the other with his sword. These weren’t practice blades; the quick swipe past the other’s defenses opened up a stripe of red along the arm, slicing along veins, an artery. Blood sprayed with lethal ferocity.

Silence, then cheers and jeers. Nobody moved to help the man. Qown started to run forward. As he did, one of the teachers tossed the man a rag and said, “Clean that off and keep to it.”

The man rolled his eyes in response and wiped the blood off his arm.

Qown found himself pulling up sharply. The man had stopped bleeding. The red liquid seeped thick and sluggish, more like tar than blood. The soldier ignored his own injury.

Qown felt himself shudder. He looked around. No one noticed. No one seemed to think what had just happened particularly remarkable.

Qown backed away slowly, concerned that he not draw attention to himself.

Perhaps …

Perhaps the soldier knew magic. But that couldn’t have been so normal, so taken for granted, that no one would have even remarked upon it. Or it was possible that the man hadn’t been human at all, but a demon possessing a corpse. That seemed unlikely here in the royal palace, though. And even less likely not to draw attention. Again, no one seemed to think it odd. Training continued.

“What in all the world—” Qown blinked. There was a third option. Qown might not have even thought of it except that Cornerstones were such the topic of the day.

“Oh no,” Qown whispered. “Warmonger.”

Relos Var had wanted Galen to retrieve the Cornerstone Grimward for him, but Relos Var already possessed Warmonger. Qown had never fully understood its abilities, but he knew that it had once been owned by Nemesan, the god-king of Laragraen, who’d used it to keep both the Kirpis vané and Quuros Empire at bay for centuries. According to the stories, Warmonger had made Laragraen’s soldiers almost impossible to kill, and equally thirsty for the blood of their enemies.

If Warmonger was being used on Quur’s imperial army …

Oh, but it was worse than that, Qown realized. Warmonger didn’t just affect an army. Qown didn’t know what the range was, but if it had been large enough to cover an area the size of Kazivar, then surely it was large enough to affect the entire Capital. Anyone who was an enemy of the nation supported by Warmonger’s owner would suffer the consequences. Riots were just one symptom.

Relos Var had either given the stone away or he was close by. And Qown didn’t think Relos Var’s plans had reached a point where he was willing to give away any more Cornerstones. That meant Relos Var had to be present, physically present, inside the Soaring Halls.

Galen and Sheloran needed to know. Hell, everyone needed to know. He turned around to run back.

Relos Var’s henchman Anlyr blocked his path.

“Hello, Qown. It’s been a spell, hasn’t it?” Anlyr smiled cheerfully. “The boss wants to talk to you.”