“You don’t own a ruby ring, do you?” Kihrin’s eyes narrowed.
Qown regarded him strangely. “What an odd question. No, I would never. Vishai priests live modest lives.”
Kihrin pulled himself together. “Sorry. Of course.”3
“Well,” Janel said. “I, for one, don’t mind if you record my account, Qown, so why don’t I just begin?” Without waiting for his response, she did.
Janel’s Turn. Barsine Banner, Jorat, Quur.
After I broke the woman’s leg, I threw down the branch and stepped back, so Brother Qown might rush forward. Arasgon nosed around me, making sure I’d taken no serious injury. Not without cause; I already felt the bruises ripening along my jaw and ribs.
That woman kicked like Khorsal himself.
The other bandits dropped their weapons by the campfire, signaling surrender. I paid little attention to them, besides counting their number. Eight total, including their leader. I caught a few names in spite of my best efforts at apathy. The woman with the white stripe was named Kay. Someone else was named Vidan, although I wasn’t sure who. Fool that I was, I didn’t think them important other than as a method to raise funds.
Luck was with us since Barsine’s capital seat, Mereina, was about to start their tournament, which the local baron was obligated to attend. We wouldn’t have to wait long for our reward.
Brother Qown had been astonished the first time we had played bait the bandit. He couldn’t understand why the other bandits never ran or fought once their leader was beaten. And while I tried to explain …
You see, everything in our world is divided into two concepts—idorrá, the power and strength possessed by those who protect others, and thudajé, the honor gained from submitting to one who is superior. We hold trials, contests, and duels to determine the difference. This fosters good leadership and good community bonds. There is no dishonor in defeat either. Our bandit prisoners would find sympathy and pardon by showing their thudajé. Naturally, they would surrender. And naturally, they would be treated well.
How could one strong in idorrá do otherwise? Those who use their strength to oppress are nothing more than bullies and tyrants. We have a word for that too in our language: thorra.
I knew Qown didn’t understand. Things were done otherwise across the mountains, to the west.
Everything, I think, is done otherwise in the west.
But in this particular scenario, one bandit had less thudajé than the others. A man with a laevos, the horse-mane hair we claim to hallmark our noble status. The same man who had bet on my defeat and lost. While all other eyes were on their former leader or Brother Qown, he stared at me.
“I know you,” he said. “You’re Janel Danorak, the Count of Tolamer’s granddaughter.”
Oh. How wonderful. He knew who I was.
I raised my chin even as I cursed my luck. “You’re mistaken,” I said.
Confusion flickered across his handsome face. He had dark gray skin and a white laevos, which must have been lovely once. He struck me as someone used to luxury turned to squatting in the woods, hiding from his enemies.
Much like myself, I suppose.
“I am?” He blinked his surprise.
“Yes. Once, I was the Count of Tolamer’s granddaughter. Now I’m the Count of Tolamer.” I forced my eyes back to his. “How do you know me? It’s been many years since I’ve visited this banner. I expected no one here to recognize me.”
His bitter smile mocked himself more than me. “I remember your visits from when we were children. You always convinced Tamin to play with you and that fireblood. You’d ride back filthy after making castles in the mud or climbing trees. You’re she, aren’t you? You’re Janel Danorak.”
“My family name is Theranon. You’re one of Baron Barsine’s pledge men?”
“Was.” A pained expression crossed his face. “But you are Danorak?”
The bandits had been a noisy gaggle of birds fretting over their leader’s injury, but with that question, all talking stopped. Every eye turned to me.
I sighed. “I’m merely someone who ended up in a Hellmarch’s path.”
He chuckled. “Humble too.”
“No, I’m not—” But I bit off the rest of my sentence without finishing. I had been warned my entire life never to tell what really happened at Lonezh Canton when the demons had rampaged through its borders. As a result, I never corrected people when they wove myths from my childhood horrors.
For those unfamiliar with Joratese history, Danorak was a fireblood. He rode Jorat’s length and breadth for a week straight—without food, drink, or rest. He warned the human and fireblood herds to reach high ground before Emperor Kandor flooded the Endless Canyon to force our tyrant god-king into the open, where he could be slain.
Once Danorak had saved everyone, he dropped dead from exhaustion.
The Lonezh Hellmarch had started because some witch in Marakor had summoned a demon more powerful than they could control. The results were predictable and only ended after a large swath of Jorat and an entire canton—Lonezh—had been depopulated.
People started calling me Danorak afterward. Word spread I’d run for days, a step ahead of the demons, to warn Emperor Sandus about the invasion. They meant it as a badge of honor. Instead, it served as a reminder of how my life, my reputation, was based on a lie.
No one outruns demons, especially not an eight-year-old girl.
I didn’t want to talk about the Hellmarch. So I turned my attention to Brother Qown, still patching up their leader. “Will she be able to travel?”
“I’m right here,” the woman said, struggling to sit.
“Stop that,” Brother Qown chided. “I haven’t finished setting your leg.”
“You touch my leg again and I’ll show you how hard I can kick with the other one.”
“I have to—” My priest turned to me for aid. “Count, please, would you explain to her that I’m trying to help?”
“Trying to get a peek at my legs, that’s what you’re trying to do.”
Dorna laughed. “He ain’t. Our Qown here is a gelding through and through.” Her grin widened. “They are pretty legs, though. I’ll look if he don’t.”
Qown closed his eyes and whispered a prayer.
“What’s your name?” I asked the woman I had defeated.
She sniffed and looked away.
I tugged the mask from her face. She batted at my hand, but her strength had fled. Without its concealment, she looked Joratese enough: dark brown with an irregular rose splash across her left cheek and forehead. Her hair was straight and black. I guessed her age at twice my own.
But she wasn’t Joratese.
She’d convinced an entire Joratese band to give her their thudajé. Perhaps they hadn’t realized her true ethnicity.
Or perhaps she was just that good at kicking.
“She’s Ninavis,” said the man with the laevos. “We all call her Nina. She worked as a hunter around here before the baron declared this all his forest. His soldiers have moved whole villages out on pain of death. Families who’ve hunted these lands for generations are now poachers.”
“Really, Kalazan?” Ninavis scolded. “Why don’t you just go ahead and tell my name to the baron too!”