Brother Qown let that pass. “So who are you? Who are you really? If this”—he waved his hand at Relos Var’s body—“is a lie, and Father Zajhera is too, what do you look like? What’s your real name?”
“Rev’arric,” Relos Var answered. “As for what I look like…” He grimaced. “I’d rather not. A ritual gone wrong has left me in a state not fit for polite company. Best not to demonstrate. Kaen would be upset if I destroyed his palace.”
Brother Qown looked away, crossed his arms across his chest, and rubbed his arms as if cold.
“You’re a monster,” he whispered.
“No,” said Relos Var. “Monster is such an easily digestible idea. Horrible, evil to its core, irredeemable. If I’m a monster, then anyone who opposes me is by logical deduction a hero, yes?” He leaned over. “It’s not that simple. Sometimes everyone is wrong and you must decide whose wrongness is more acceptable.”
Brother Qown wouldn’t look at the tea. It sat there, steaming, smelling wonderful, reminding him of comfortable lies. Father Zajhera hadn’t ever been Father Zajhera. Monster.
Relos Var sighed and picked up his quill again. He dipped it in ink and continued writing. “You’re being dramatic, Qown.”
“I just feel stupid not to have realized the truth.”
“Why would you have? And you’re not an idiot, Qown. I don’t train idiots.”
“Baron Tamin back in Barsine Banner suggests otherwise.”
Relos coughed. “I’ll admit I’d hoped for … more … from Tamin.” He set his tea aside, put down his quill. “Qown, I never meant to betray you.”
His wording brought Qown’s head up. “So you admit you have?”
Var looked sad. “Of course. How could any sane person interpret what happened otherwise? The fact I never meant to hurt you doesn’t change that I had you gaeshed. A fact that gives me no joy. Gaeshing is a nasty business, but I couldn’t take the risk you would tell Janel about me.”
The fact Relos Var was right—Brother Qown would have told Janel about Father Zajhera—gave little comfort. “And now? What are you going to do with me? Sacrifice me to a demon? Sell me to some Yoran nobleman who wants a healer? Maybe the duke would put some extra metal in your pocket…”
Relos Var smiled. “I thought I’d tell you anything you wanted to know. Explain the whole plan. Answer every question you might have.”
Brother Qown froze. “What?”
“You must have questions, concerns. And you—” Var looked at him. “Well, you’re my punishment for insisting on bright students. Someone with a slower wit wouldn’t have made the connection between Relos Var’s magical signature and Father Zajhera’s.” He chuckled. “Senera or Irisia would have caught it, but again, see the point about insisting on smart students.”
Brother Qown stared. He knew Relos Var flattered his ego—a lure meant to turn Qown to his cause. Then again, even if Qown’s gaesh kept him silent, could he afford to turn away from an opportunity to find out Relos Var’s plans?
He didn’t think he could. What question to ask, when he had so many? In the end, one question stood out to him above all others.
“Why are you doing all of this? To take over Quur?”
Relos Var didn’t laugh or scoff. He nodded, sipped his tea, and pondered the inquiry. “Unlike Kaen or the Royal Houses, I don’t care about ruling Quur. It’s a means to an end.” Var paused. “I’m trying to save humanity. It’s harder than you would think.”
Qown stared at him. “Save humanity? You wiped out an entire village. That wasn’t you?”
“No, it was me,” Relos Var admitted. “And it’s been more than one village. Far more. I don’t enjoy killing, but in my quest to save our people, I would soak the ground with the blood of a million newborns if I must.”
Qown leaned back in his chair, wide-eyed. The word Relos Var had already dismissed repeated itself: monster.
“Qown…” Relos Var shook his head. “I don’t expect you to approve. I would be horrified if you did. But I would hope, after all the years we’ve known each other, that you’d take my word this is necessary.”
“But I don’t know you at all. And you can’t justify that. There’s no excuse that makes it acceptable.”
Relos Var nodded. “I understand. War—the very concept of war—is against everything the Vishai believe in. I created the faith to be better than I am. That I succeeded is a comfort, even as it’s a current frustration. I won’t say you’re naïve or you just don’t understand. I only hope I can make a world one day where people like you won’t fall victim to…” His smile was bitter. “Well, to people like me.”
Brother Qown wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. “This isn’t war.”
“But it is. A rare case where the Eight and I agree—the war never stopped.”
Brother Qown drew a deep, shuddering breath and set his tea aside. His feelings—his outrage and anger and deep, deep pain—couldn’t be allowed to gain control. This was an opportunity. He had to look at it as an opportunity. A chance to find out more information in the hope, no matter how faint or impossible, he could one day share his knowledge with others.
“What about Janel?”
Relos Var raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“What about Janel? You healed her. You helped her. And you sent me to help her. She must be important to your plans. How does she fit into all this?”
Relos Var smiled. “Would you believe me if I told you there’s a prophecy?”
“The quatrain Senera recited back at her cottage.”
“Not only that one. I know you’re familiar with the prophecies. I lent you several books on the subject, when you were going through that phase as a teenager. I believe a distressing percentage of those quatrains concern Janel. Specifically, Janel.”
“They’re demonic ramblings.”
“Demons, my son, don’t perceive time the same way we do. Terrifyingly, they may not experience time the same way we do. They speak even less of the universal language than we ever did and are bound by fewer rules. We cannot discount their predictions. I’d love to think there’s nothing more to the prophecies than demons pulling our collective legs. Over the millennia, I have come to believe a far worse possibility is likely: the prophecies are genuine. And I’m not alone in that belief. The Eight Immortals are just as committed to fulfilling the prophecies—to their benefit, naturally. And they control reincarnation in a way quite beyond my abilities. Janel is one of their ‘entries into the race’—bespoke tailored to fit a thousand demons’ predictions. I must hand it to Tya—another student too smart for my own good—I almost didn’t find Janel. If Xaltorath hadn’t tracked Janel down first, I wouldn’t have.”
“Tya, Goddess of Magic? What does she have to do with Janel?”
Relos Var quirked an eyebrow. “She’s Janel’s mother. Her real, biological mother. And let me tell you, Tya doesn’t have children often.”
“Her mother? But that’s—”