The scroll rolled across the desk and back off the other side.2
“We know Janel Theranon played the part when she interrupted our plans in Mereina, but obviously she hadn’t been around during these latest events. Find out as much as you can and report back to me.”
Brother Qown picked up the paper. Janel’s name would be there. So would Sir Baramon’s and Captain Mithros’s. Ninavis was the last person he saw wear the outfit, although Qown didn’t know if she counted since she’d only done so to escape Duke Xun’s soldiers. Since Relos Var hadn’t given him a direct order, Qown felt no compulsion to volunteer what he knew.
“Yes, sir. I’ll start right away.”
The Hon stared at Brother Qown for a long second and then grunted. “Good.”
“Kaen—” Relos Var said.
Duke Kaen paused.
“About the women,” Var said. “Your wives.”
Kaen sighed and waved a hand. “Ex-wives. And I don’t care. You want that D’Lorus royal to teach them magic? Fine. Maybe they’ll be good for something.”
“Not all of them will have an aptitude for magic,” Relos Var said, “but I believe Thurvishar D’Lorus wants to start by teaching them how to read.”3
“Whatever. You have my permission.” The duke swept out of the room as quickly as he had entered it.
Relos Var, however, stayed. He watched the Hon leave, waited a few seconds, and then pulled up a seat next to Brother Qown. He opened a small gate with his usual graceful style and began pulling plates and cups from that small portal. Within seconds, Relos Var had filled the tabletop with steamed rice buns, Brother Qown’s favorite black truffle soup, and a steaming pot of tea.
“Oh, this isn’t necessary—”
“I rather think it is. You’re forgetting to eat, which isn’t like you.” Relos Var gave him an intent look. “I’m told you had some trouble while I was away.”
Brother Qown looked down at his hands, even as Relos Var began to pile up a plate with vegetable-stuffed buns and then ladled him a bowl of soup. “It was fine. Just weak men who wanted to feel strong.”
Relos Var smiled. “Yes, weak men are always the ones who cause problems, aren’t they?”
Brother Qown had the feeling a trap waited in that sentence, so he didn’t respond. He instead spent about two seconds contemplating if wanting to help himself to Relos Var’s food made him a bad person. Var had presented proper Eamithonian cuisine, the kind Qown would daydream about while reading in the Ice Demesne library. He decided no man, no matter how moral, could resist such a temptation. Qown began to eat.
The sorcerer put his hand on Brother Qown’s shoulder. “I’m also told you have been spending time with Thurvishar D’Lorus.”
Brother Qown set down the food. “Is that a problem?”
“Be careful. Thurvishar can’t be trusted any more than you.”
Brother Qown blinked. Could Relos Var mean—
“He’s gaeshed,” Relos Var said, just in case there had been any doubt. “Gaeshed by Gadrith the Twisted. If you ever run into a pale, slender man with D’Lorus black eyes, run the other way. He’s not your friend. He’s not anyone’s friend.”
“Oh gods,” Brother Qown said. “I did meet someone like that. I think—” He shuddered then, remembering the hungry stare of the pale man he’d met at Shadrag Gor. “Wait, Gadrith the Twisted? I thought Gadrith D’Lorus died.”
“It is very much to his benefit everyone thinks so. However, his house is useful to the Hon, and his libraries are useful to me, and he has—” Relos Var paused. “He has something important to me. Gadrith knows I won’t move against him while he possesses it.”
Brother Qown managed not to choke on his soup, managed not to show any reaction at all, but inside, his emotions churned. After all, if a talisman or artifact existed that could be used against Relos Var—and Gadrith had this in his possession—then perhaps Qown could find it—that is, if Brother Qown ever freed himself from Relos Var’s gaesh.
“So Thurvishar is gaeshed, and Thurvishar is Gadrith’s spy.” Brother Qown turned the conversation back to safer territory.
“Yes. Now Thurvishar is even more magically talented than his father, so there’s no one better to help you with your studies. Except for that one tiny detail—he’ll follow Gadrith’s commands, no matter how horrifying or treacherous.” He scowled as he helped himself to several bean-paste-stuffed buns. “Sometimes it is useful to know where one stands with another person, whether they be allies, enemies, or, as in this case, both.”
“I’m sure they feel likewise,” Brother Qown responded, “but you all have a common enemy, right? Quur?”
Var chuckled. “I don’t play so small, dear Qown. Let the Iron Circle—Gadrith and Darzin and all those weak-minded folk—think this is about overthrowing Quur and its High Council. The real stakes are larger than they can comprehend.”
Brother Qown chewed at his lip for a moment. “So when you came in, the woman you said should die…”
Relos Var didn’t respond right away. He ate more steamed buns, drank tea, sipped at his own soup.
Finally, Relos Var said, “I’m fond of Azhen Kaen. That doesn’t mean we agree on all things. Sometimes you watch your friends make mistakes and there’s nothing you can do but let them.”
“You mustn’t think it’s so important a mistake, or you’d stop him.”
“He isn’t my only game piece, Qown. Not by half.”
“Is that how you think of us? Game pieces?” He couldn’t hide the heartbreak in his voice.
Relos Var reached out again, put his hand on Qown’s, and squeezed his fingers the way he used to when his name was Father Zajhera and not Relos Var. “No, not at all. But I have lived too long and seen too much to let any single person’s moral failures or bad choices stop me. What we’re trying to do is more important.”
Brother Qown wondered if the wizard would abandon that stance if Relos Var himself became disposable.
“‘What we’re trying to do’ makes it sound like you have a plan.”
Relos Var smiled at the priest. “Dear boy, I always have a plan.”
* * *
The list the Hon had given Brother Qown must have taken Senera quite some time to write out. And as predicted, Sir Baramon and Janel Theranon’s names were both listed.
So was Ninavis’s name. And Dorna’s.
And Dango’s. And Kay Hará’s.
In fact, many names didn’t belong to knights or to people one would expect to ever be knights. Brother Qown had a good idea what must have happened, even before he’d used Worldhearth to scry them.
His friends were muddying the waters.
Almost as if they somehow knew their enemy had a way to discover information about them, they had put as many people as possible in the Black Knight’s costume. This made it difficult—if not impossible—to find out the identity of the “real” Black Knight.
A thought occurred to Brother Qown, a thought so outrageous he had to stop and jerk himself away from the firepit he had been scrying in Atrine.