Arasgon nodded. “And with Talaras, Sir Baramon, and Ninavis. We’re in hiding now, because we have prices on our heads.” He drew back his lips. “Foolish two-legs.”
“Foolish two-legs indeed,” I murmured. “Do you think you’ll be able to come back here again? Since Tya has shown you the trick?”
“It isn’t a trick. She has told me I will know when you’re sleeping and will have the choice to join you. That may not be possible every night, depending on the timing.”
My eyes widened. I had a way to communicate with Ninavis and Dorna. I had a way to pass messages, to pass along the information I’d gleaned from the duke’s invasion map plans on his parlor wall. Even if I didn’t help the duke, I could move forward with his plans myself. And if they thought I was helping him …
Well. I had to find a way to examine his plans and maps, didn’t I?
Wasn’t I Janel Danorak? Time to make that work to my favor.
I grinned. “Perfect. Then we have a lot of work ahead of us. We’re going to steal a rebellion.”
* * *
I didn’t stay in the Afterlife for as long as I normally do, because I had been rendered unconscious rather than sleeping. I felt relief when I woke; I wasn’t dead.
That relief lasted five seconds, at which point I realized white surrounded me.
Snow. Snow swirling around me and ice underneath me. I tried to stand, a fact made more difficult because I lay in a puddle, making the ice below slippery.
Veixizhau had dumped me outside the castle, straight into the arctic weather surrounding the Ice Demesne. Ice water soaked through my wool dress, worse than no protection at all.
No sooner did I realize this than I noticed an additional fact:
I didn’t feel cold. Senera had stolen my strength, but not my magic.
I started laughing, the sound caught and tangled in the storm winds surrounding me. I’d realized that with my Khorveshan father and my immortal mother, I was as Blood of Joras as they came. So not a witch to my own people.
Only to the rest of Quur, who only cared that I was female.
The snow made it difficult to see any distance, but a series of loud whoops echoed from nearby. I recognized the sound from the plains of my home: hyenas. I’d seen white hyenas in the duke’s hall too, thicker-furred and larger than their southern counterparts.
Hyenas could prove a problem, depending on their clan size. I thought I could fight off a couple easily enough, but if they were anything like their southern cousins, I might easily find myself facing thirty or forty of the cursed creatures. I began seeing shapes in the snow as they closed in.
A whoop cut off abruptly.
Thunder cracked the sky, and the ground rumbled. The sky’s gray blanket rolled back, and steady snowfall lifted around me. A razor of teal sky sliced the gray clouds from apex to horizon, like the curtains drawn back on the start of the world.
And into that gap in the cloud cover flew the ice dragon, Aeyan’arric, heading straight for me.
42: THE WOLF CUBS
Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Three days since Xaloma, the Dragon of the Afterlife, tried to swallow the wrong damned soul
“Don’t you think you might have been a bit harsh on your mother?” Dorna said.
Janel threw her a look. “No, I don’t.”
“But still—”
Janel held up a finger. “You know I love you, Dorna, so please don’t remind me you have been working for Tya all this time and never told me the truth.”
Dorna sighed and looked mournfully into her cup while Star put his arm around her. Across the bar, Ninavis reached over and nudged Qown.
“Right,” he said, returning to his spot in his journal.
Qown’s Turn. The Ice Demesne, Yor, Quur.
When not studying in Shadrag Gor, Brother Qown returned to the library at the Ice Demesne. But his studies were interrupted.
The door to the library opened, and several men entered. He didn’t look up from his writing at first, being engrossed in describing clairvoyance using thermal variance.
Then someone grabbed his book.
“What’s this?” The offending man—tall, handsome, and Quuros—paged through the book. “Are you seriously writing about crop yields?”
Brother Qown stood up, slipping Worldhearth into his agolé as he did. His heart sank as he recognized Sir Oreth. He didn’t know the other men, but he knew enough to recognize royalty—except for one pale-skinned young man who looked part Yoran.
“My pardon,” Brother Qown said, bowing. “But I’m working on research at Relos Var’s request.” He hadn’t been writing about crop yields at all, but one of his earliest spells involved hiding his writing behind an illusion of tedious drivel. He used it often.
“Oh, look how tame he is, Darzin,” Sir Oreth cackled. “This is Janel Theranon’s lackey priest, the one Relos Var gaeshed. Kept hostage against Janel’s good behavior.”
“He doesn’t need to worry about that anymore,” the Yoran young man said. “What a sad joke, being gaeshed for nothing.”
Darzin rolled his eyes. “Exidhar, we must work on your subtlety.”
Brother Qown felt cold. “I’m sorry, lords, but I don’t understand your meaning.”
“Oh, nothing,” Sir Oreth said, still smirking. Then he crossed his arms over his chest and mimed a shiver. “Brrr.”
The other men laughed.
Brother Qown’s sense of dread threatened to turn into a full-blown panic. “Are you implying something has happened to Count Tolamer?”
Sir Oreth said, “She’s not a count anymore. She’s not even Joratese.” He smiled. “She’s not anything.”
“Give us the room,” Darzin commanded. “We came here looking for privacy.”
Brother Qown bent down to pick up his supplies.
Darzin slapped his hand down on the brushes. “Just go.”
Brother Qown straightened and then held out his hand. “Of course, my lord. But I’ll need that. Relos Var is waiting on it.”
Darzin glanced down at the book and then cast his gaze at the fire.
“No, please.”
Darzin grinned as he threw the book into the fireplace.
Brother Qown darted after it, but the D’Mon royal grabbed him by the shoulders and held him back. “Relos Var is waiting on it, hmm? You’ll have to tell him you tripped and it landed in the fire, won’t you? How clumsy.”
Brother Qown stopped struggling. The royal wanted to see him struggle. Qown stopped resisting, straightened up, and bowed to Darzin D’Mon. “Thank you, my lord.”
Darzin blinked, taken aback. “What? Uh … didn’t you need that?”
“Oh yes, my lord. Very much. And when I tell Relos Var what happened, he’ll know I’m telling the truth. But you have given me a valuable lesson in the importance of detachment from material things, even books. There is nothing in those pages that cannot be re-created. So thank you for reminding me.” He bowed again.1
Darzin looked bemused. Finally, the man rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Get out of here.”
Brother Qown went searching for Thurvishar.