The air smelled like fire from more than just the cooking pit, and the sky above the city looked like a dirty smudge.
Brother Qown didn’t recognize the other people inside the azhock, but they all wore red, presumably members of Mithros’s Red Spears. They held themselves with the tense air of soldiers waiting for the fight to start.
Then the ground began to shake.
Brother Qown didn’t know what the sound meant, but everyone reacted immediately. “Stampede!” someone shouted. People began running. Indeed, a large horse herd, gathered on the Green for the tournament, now ran in panic.
The azhock’s back panel moved, and Dorna stepped inside, holding a large bag hoisted over her shoulder. “There you are. Been looking for you.”
Brother Qown exhaled—she was alive. So Relos Var hadn’t been lying about Dorna at least.
“What are you doing here?” Ninavis snapped. “The Markreev promised he’d get you out of town.”
“I ain’t leaving without the rest of you. Besides, Mithros has a plan.” The old woman tossed a large bag down next to the fire. “Put that on right fast. Arasgon and Talaras can only keep the horses riled up for so long before another fireblood settles ’em back down again.”
“They’re arresting any Marakori they find, Dorna, and they have my description. What can you do about—” But she stopped talking as she finished opening the bag and pulled out Mithros’s black enameled helmet, armor, and raven feather cloak.
The Black Knight’s costume.
“Mithros swears it will fit you. He changed it up special. Now hurry.”
Brother Qown turned away as Ninavis stripped off her clothing. He instead watched Dorna wander about the tent. The old woman seemed healthy enough. She nodded to the Red Spears who hadn’t left to watch the stampede. While she walked, a variety of small, valuable items disappeared into her skirts, but never when anyone but Brother Qown was paying attention.
“Help me with this cloak, please,” Ninavis said.
The black armor hid her general size and gender, with sinister-looking pauldrons and a chest plate whose ornate design obscured her bosom.
A horse whinnied from outside; Brother Qown saw Arasgon’s red tiger-striped legs at the entrance to the tent.
“We’re almost done!” Dorna shouted. She lifted the raven-feather cloak over Ninavis’s shoulders. “Arasgon’s ready for you. You head to Khored’s Temple. The others are already there. Mithros will smuggle you out of the city.”
“What about you? The duke’s not going to just let you stroll away…”
The old woman waved a hand. “Oh sure. Rise from the dead before a couple of nobles and they label you witch before you can fill your lungs. Don’t you worry about me. I’ll meet up with you in the caves.” Noises interrupted them: soldiers returning, horses trotting back to their corrals. “Hurry now. They’re expecting you.”
“Who are?” Ninavis asked.
“Your army.” Dorna wagged a finger. “Best not keep them waiting.”
39: HANDED THE CROWN
Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Three days since Tyentso wasn’t even a little bit ready for this
Ninavis picked up a dishrag and threw it at Qown.
“I’m sorry!” he said, throwing up his hands. “I was gaeshed!”
“Yeah, yeah,” she groused. “That’s what they all say.”
Janel laughed and launched into her turn.
Janel’s Turn. The Ice Demesne, Yor, Quur.
Bikeinoh found me a dress and ushered me from the women’s quarters. The entire way, I felt the wives’ angry stares, who seemed to think me a threat—siphoning the attention that should have been theirs.
I wanted to laugh, call them fools, and mock the very idea. But I didn’t know Duke Kaen. Maybe, despite Relos Var’s opinion, Kaen wouldn’t respect the “territory” of our sham marriage. Maybe he’d want what he couldn’t have.
Maybe they had a point.
I didn’t feel reassured when Bikeinoh brought me to the duke’s private parlor. Like the wives’ quarters, this room faced an outside wall, giving one a mind-numbing view of mountain vistas. As soon as she left, another door opened, and Wyrga stepped through. The hunched old woman carried an armful of clothing, including the red dress I’d been given to wear and Relos Var’s jewelry. Which also made me uneasy. As she’d pointed out to Senera, Wyrga wasn’t a maid.
“Ah, it’s the little whore,” Wyrga said, chuckling.
“Tell me, do you spend time gossiping with demons? Because you have a similar originality to your insults. I don’t think you’re trying hard enough to hurt my feelings. Come now. Do better.”
She laughed in delight as she dumped all the clothing in a chair. “I knew your mother, you know.”
“You’ve mentioned. And what, by chance, was my mother’s name?”
“Irisia, although people don’t call her that now. They all came back, after Vol Karoth had finished with them, to find the world had given them new names to replace their old ones.” The old woman walked up to me, and leaned close, sniffing me. “I knew your mother, watched the Veils flash. You’re just like her. But don’t let them turn you into a cute little pet. Irisia made that mistake. Lions should never love their cages.”
I paused. “Is that so?”
“You think I can’t recognize my own kind? We’re both wild monsters, you and I.” She grinned again. “So Rev’arric thinks he can tame you. Foolish man. My husband thought he’d tamed me too, but I never learned to love my leash. Oh, I made him pay. Isn’t it the prerogative of all unjustly imprisoned, to revenge themselves on their jailers?”
I found myself becoming intrigued, against my better judgment. “Who’s Rev’arric?”
“Did I say Rev’arric? I meant Relos Var.” Her breath smelled like raw meat.
“Who … who are you? Who are you really?”
She leaned back, looking as scandalized as if I’d just asked her to play bed sports. “I can’t tell you that.” She started cackling again. “But I know why you’re here. I know all about you, little lioness.”
I ignored how uncomfortable the entire conversation made me. She seemed quite insane, but that didn’t mean she was lying. Quite the opposite.
“And what do you know?”
“In the stone city of three roads, the lion cub singed with great catastrophe, as the terrible march of death takes the land of plenty. The cub alone lives, cursed with great strength, to be raised by horses.” She backed up and pointed at me. “That’s you, darling.” Wyrga whispered, almost an exhale. “Hellwarrior.”
Before I could respond, the door opened, and Duke Kaen appeared. “Wyrga, what are you doing here? Go back to your animals.”
“Yes, yes, Your Grace,” She gave the man a bow that seemed no more sincere than a hyena’s grin and shuffled out of the room.
“Count Tolamer,” the duke said. “Please, join me. We have much to discuss.”
* * *