I rubbed my lower lip, reminded myself temper tantrums wouldn’t help my cause—no matter how good they might feel in the short term. “You don’t understand.”
“I think I do.”
“If Oreth is right—if Relos Var is right—I’m not even Joratese. And that matters a great deal.” I paused. “How did Relos Var know who my parents were? My grandfather didn’t know.”
Senera pulled up the inkstone she wore around her neck and then tucked it back under her gown’s neckline. “It’s this. If you ask it a question and use the stone, what you write will answer your question.”
I stared at her. What a useful toy. Such a useful tool that I felt like a naked baby trying to fight off lions.
Did they already know my motives? Had they known the whole time I was only here to steal a magic spear and kill their pet dragon? To undermine their invasion efforts?
She smirked. “It’s not foolproof. Ask a bad question, get a bad answer. And it won’t answer opinions. It won’t tell you events that haven’t happened yet. And my personal favorite: once you start writing, the stone won’t let you stop until you’ve finished answering the question. So it’s rather important to ask unambiguous questions. It didn’t end well for the last person Relos Var let use the stone. He asked a question so sufficiently vague he was still writing out the answer when he dropped dead from exhaustion.”
“So you’re the one who asked about my parents.”
Senera nodded. “Yes.”
“Who are they? Are they still alive? I want names.”
She chuckled as we neared the doorway she’d locked earlier. “Maybe if you’re good, I’ll let you know. Right now, I think it should just be my little—” She frowned. “What?”
I turned to see what she was staring at.
The door stood ajar.
I rushed inside. Brother Qown was missing.
36: AN INSUFFICIENT APOLOGY
Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Three days since Tishar D’Mon made a lovely blue tsali stone
“So you have met my brother Darzin,” Kihrin said to Janel. “And hard as it may be to believe, Darzin was behaving himself.”
“If that’s his definition of ‘behaving himself,’ I have an arrow that’ll fix his problem,” Ninavis offered.
“Generous of you,” Kihrin said, “but I killed Darzin three days ago.”
Janel smiled. “I knew I liked you.”
“Did you ever find out who your real parents are—” Kihrin started to ask.
“I did,” Janel said quickly. “Eventually. And Dorna knew the entire time.” She gave the old woman a look.
“Oh, foal, it weren’t like that.”
Janel raised a hand to stop Dorna from saying more.
“But you do know now?” Qown asked Janel again. “Because I don’t want to read this next part unless you do.”
“Don’t worry. It won’t be a shock.” Janel’s gaze returned to Kihrin, and her head tilted to the side as she watched him. “You know who they are too, don’t you?”
Kihrin hesitated, then said, “I have a strong suspicion. I think I’ve met your mother.” He drilled his fingers against the bar top. “And your father doesn’t like me. Not after—” He made a vague gesture toward Urthaenriel.
Janel’s smile tightened. “I cannot even begin to tell you how little my father’s opinion matters to me.”
“He’s a good man,” Kihrin said.
“He supports the rule of the greedy, the oppressive, and the degenerate. How good can he be?”1
Ninavis leaned forward. “Who are we talking about here?”
“That’s what I was about to ask,” Dorna said. “I don’t know who your father is, foal. Never mattered to me.”
Janel made a face. “We’ll get to that part.” She gestured to Qown. “Do you feel ready to take over?”
Qown nodded. “Yes, I believe so.”
Qown’s Turn. The Ice Demesne, Yor, Quur.
Brother Qown woke in a library. He knew before he opened his eyes, smelling leather and the rich vanilla scent of old paper mixed with the scent of his favorite cinnamon tea. He woke smiling before he remembered why the tea seemed so comforting.
He sat up from the low, backless couch upon which he’d been sleeping. His clothes had been changed. He felt clean. He had no stubble on his chin. His book satchel sat next to the couch and his sun symbol hung from his neck. Brother Qown felt in perfect health, but a metaphoric black chasm of despair lurked off to the side—so wide and yawning he could’ve almost seen it with his naked eyes, if he’d just turned his head.
But his despair’s physical embodiment was present too. Relos Var sat at a nearby table, writing with a Kirpis-style quill. A large blue Kazivar-glazed teapot sat on the table next to matching teacups. The same teapot Father Zajhera used.
Brother Qown knew he should do something, say something, but he just stared, feeling numb.
“Have some tea,” Relos Var offered. “It’s your favorite.”
Qown hesitated a second, but he felt no pain, no suggestion he’d die bent over in misery if he disobeyed. He didn’t know if that meant Relos Var didn’t have his gaesh or had simply chosen not to use his gaesh.
Tea sounded nice.
Var poured two cups, placing the second one before the opposite chair. “I realize apologies are quite insufficient to the turmoil you’ve experienced. I would never have sent you to help Janel if I’d intended this outcome. You’re one of my favorite students. Curious, intelligent, compassionate toward others. Fine qualities, worthy of better than this.”
Brother Qown picked up his tea, fighting back nausea. Apologies were insufficient. Relos Var had torn out a piece of his soul. Qown didn’t even know who held the piece now. “Apologies were quite insufficient” didn’t exactly cover how he felt about the situation.
“You lied to me,” Qown said after sifting through a hundred insults and childlike protests.
“No.”
Qown couldn’t help himself; his mouth dropped open. “No? Did you just say no?”
“Qown, I have lived a very long time,” Relos Var said. “Was it lying to show myself to you as an identity I’ve worn since before you were born? Zajhera isn’t a throwaway disguise some assassin mimic might wear and discard. Zajhera is a good man who wants to help people find their better selves. He’s no less real than Relos Var, although Relos Var’s views are more confrontational. And if neither one is who I really am, their existence is no less sincere.”
Brother Qown narrowed his eyes at the wizard. In his days with the Way of Vishai, he’d encountered people who had been so traumatized, they’d separated their minds, like crystal shards, to try to protect themselves from trauma. He didn’t think Relos Var was so afflicted.
He hoped.
Finally, he snorted and looked away. “That’s an excuse. You lied to me. You lied to everyone.”
“Let’s have this talk again in a few thousand years, when you’ve had to reinvent yourself a hundred times and have seen your loved ones come and go like leaves falling in a forest.”