* * *
I set down the harp once called Valathea on the edge of ruined streets, not liking the way these ruins feel familiar, the way I feel like I’ve been here before. Worse, I know I’m being followed. I’ve felt eyes on me for days now. I don’t think it will be long before the morgage make themselves known. But I’ve come here for a reason, and that reason is to negotiate for the lives of my people. I refuse to believe the only path to victory lives on a sword’s edge.
There must be another way.
Up ahead I see a large palace, the least ruined structure in the whole dead damn city. Surely if the morgage leaders are anywhere, they will be there. I lift the harp again, muttering that Valathea might have at least waited until we’d left before cursing herself, and head in that direction …
Then I remember darkness and hunger and a great, unending void. I remember a voice, screaming. I remember pain, not my own, but felt as keenly.
* * *
I blinked my eyes, waking. I was still on the mountain, still in Suless’s dream world. The goddess of witchcraft and betrayal still held me.
“What was—”
“Did you think you’d forgotten the lives you’ve lived before? That such knowledge is lost? What interesting lives you have led, my dear. I can see why Tya picked you.”
I backed away from her. “I don’t…” I shuddered. “I saw fleeting images. They didn’t mean anything.”
“Just as well.” She wiped her hands against each other. “We’re done here for now, anyway.”
“What did you do to me?”
“Left road marks.” Her smile seemed every bit as feral as I remembered from the normal world. “A foundation for you to build upon. It’s much easier when you’re a baby, but it can work to some extent on anyone who hasn’t finished their neural development. You, for example. And you didn’t need much help—either Tya or Xaltorath must have beaten me to the most important changes.”
I pulled myself upright. My head hurt; I wanted to throw up. “I don’t believe I’ll thank you.”
Suless grinned and the hyenas next to her did as well, tongues lolling.
“No, I wouldn’t expect you to thank me at all. I’m not doing this to help you, but you already know that. I just want to see the look on Kaen’s face when you kill his dragon and grab hold of every prize he thinks should be his. When you—oh yes—betray him. Oh, what joy.”
“Fine. That part I’ll be happy to oblige.”
She waved her arms, and I woke back in my room.
48: REVELATIONS
Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Three days since a witch-hunter with the ridiculous name of Piety didn’t return to the Capital City
Everyone stared at Janel.
She sat back and drank her coffee, looking embarrassed.
“Oh, foal, you—” Dorna gave her a look of deep concern. “You didn’t really cut out one of your eyes, did you?”
Star nodded slowly in approval. “Not bad.”
Janel cleared her throat and looked away.
Qown’s Turn. The Ice Demesne, Yor, Quur.
Sir Baramon ended up giving the whole scheme away.
Brother Qown knew Sir Baramon hadn’t meant to, but someone was bound to slip up. Over time, Qown had figured out the times and places where he could count on people to be indiscreet, to gossip, to whisper. He lurked invisible in rooms where people knew beyond all doubt they were alone, and people who knew they were alone sometimes let down their guard.
And in Sir Baramon’s case? Well, Sir Baramon liked his pillow talk.
One evening, Brother Qown checked in with the knight to find Sir Baramon energetically enjoying Dango’s company, much to Qown’s embarrassment. Qown left for long enough to check on his normal targets and returned later to find the two men finished with the sex, but not with the intimacy. While the two men cuddled together under blankets next to a burning fire, they talked.
That part, he stayed to watch.
“Tomorrow’s going to be rough,” Sir Baramon said as he rested his head against the other man’s shoulder.
Dango smiled and grazed his hand against the knight’s arm. “Ah, now don’t be like that, love. Tomorrow’s going to be dangerous, but no more so than the dozen times we’ve done this before.”
Baramon sat up, letting Dango’s hand slip away. “I liked it better when we didn’t have to split up. And when one of us could ride in pretending to be the Black Knight without anyone making a fuss. I can’t even do it anymore. And it used to be my real job! All you have to do to make a noble faint these days is mention the Black Knight.”
“That’s their doing, not ours.”
“Do you know I found an altar to the Black Knight set up two villages back? They’re claiming the Black Knight is the Nameless Lord.”
Brother Qown blinked. The Joratese called the eighth of the Eight Immortals the Nameless Lord. Their name, or lack of a name, for Selanol, Qown’s own god.1
“What do you expect? The Black Knight is answering their prayers. These days, you can’t ride through a town without seeing a word or two about the Black Knight scrawled somewhere. There’s some good songs making the rounds too.”
“If we don’t split up—”
“Janel said—” And Dango stopped himself.
“How do we know Janel Danorak said anything?” Sir Baramon said. “The last I saw Janel Danorak, she lay dead on the tournament floor in Atrine. Talaras would bite my fingers off to hear me talk this way, but we only have Arasgon’s word she survived. And now we’re supposed to believe he’s talking to her every night?”
“Bary!” Dango’s voice was a low warning scold. “Only the firebloods are supposed to talk about this!”
For a long time, Sir Baramon didn’t say anything, then he shook his head. “Right. Right. Of course.” He smiled. “There’s writing about her too on the walls. Warms my heart to see it. Even if it’s ridiculous to think she’ll come back and save us.”
Dango laughed and hugged him. “Don’t you see? She’s doing that very thing right now. We’re her hands and her arms and her sword. We’re saving Jorat for her.”
Sir Baramon tried to smile, but it came at an effort. “What would I do without you?”
Dango pulled Sir Baramon to him. “Be miserable, probably—”
Brother Qown pulled himself away from the divination and sat there for a moment, exhaling, thinking about what he’d heard.
Janel had been using the firebloods to relay instructions and information, knowing no Yoran or western Quuros understood their speech.2 She had figured out how to pass notes to her people in Jorat and had been feeding them detailed information on Yoran strengths, plans, and numbers ever since. Everyone knew she couldn’t be involved; she’d never left Yor.
Janel Danorak had been controlling the rebellion in Jorat this entire time.
“So,” Relos Var said, “find out anything interesting?”
Brother Qown jumped in his chair and sat there for a second, feeling stupid and scared and caught with his hand in the sweet jar. Relos Var sat at the table. The wizard dressed in traveling clothes that would have been inappropriate for the weather here—but of course, he’d used a gate. Var had also brought a late dinner—sag flatbread, vegetable-studded saffron rice, mushroom-stuffed peppers, and a deep red stewed eggplant dish, swimming in oil and spices.