The squat, square structure dated from antiquity, when all these lands dwelt outside the Quuros Empire. The border fortress had been repurposed into the local government seat. Gracing it with the label castle was like comparing his native Eamithon’s gently rolling hills with the Dragonspires.
The “town” resting in a valley below the castle plateau differed from the clay brick, wood, and stone structures used in western Quur. Instead of houses, private patios and arbors covered the valley. Flags and banners flew from the posts. In a high wind—or even a low wind—the town became a sea of waving cloth. Pretty, but useless for protecting anyone from the storms for which Jorat was so infamous.
Horses and elephants wandered through the streets. Dholes—a dog breed with fox-like features—roamed streets or stayed close to family patios.
But where were the houses?
The only structures resembling buildings nestled on the same plateau as the castle: hundreds of Joratese tents called azhock. Formed from fabric and hides stretched over a wooden frame, the azhock were large enough to house men and horses both. These temporary homes sheltered the tournament travelers: merchants, traders, farmers, and those who represented their interests in the event itself.
The captured bandits walked before Brother Qown and Dorna, apart from Ninavis, who rode astride Arasgon. Count Janel journeyed with the outlaws too, refusing to ride with Captain Dedreugh or the guards, although she’d been content enough to let them carry the deer carcass intended as a guest offering for the baron. Brother Qown suspected Janel escorted the prisoners to make sure no one molested them. He recognized his naïveté, but even he noticed the way the male soldiers eyed the female brigands.
The Joratese have a word for this: thorra. The word literally means “a stallion who is not safe to leave with other horses.”
It is never a compliment.
The road to the castle took them through the fairgrounds. More than one person peeked from otherwise quiet camp flaps and then ducked back.
A black-skinned girl with silver dapples and coarse gray hair dashed from one tent to another, spreading news of their arrival. Seconds later, a larger dappled man, a blacksmith by his apron and thews, stepped outside an azhock and watched the group, wiping his hands off on a towel. His disapproval lingered long after they passed.
The hate wasn’t directed at Brother Qown, Dorna, Janel, or the bandits. The smith reserved his anger for the guards. A young man, fur clad, paused while hooding one of the eagles the Joratese often used for hunting. He seemed about to unleash his bird against the escorts, but another hunter held him back with a hand on his arm.
The townspeople recognized the outlaws, but not with malice. They were not the enemy here; the guards were. The whole town eyed them like the baron’s men were lions wandering into their meadows. Thorra—bullies—to put it mildly.
Brother Qown felt chilled. Jorat wasn’t a dominion he associated with rebellion.2 Joratese society rested on the idea each member in it accepted their place. This hatred for the banner’s soldiers stood out like a thunderstorm in an otherwise cloudless sky.
As the group continued toward the castle, Kalazan flipped around and walked backward to address his companions. “It’s been an honor and a privilege. You’re the best of people. Let no one tell you otherwise.”
The largest bandit (Brother Qown thought he was Dango) snorted. “Ah, Kalazan. Save your sweet talk. We ain’t even married yet.”
Kalazan gave Dango a sad smile. “In my next life, perhaps. I think I’ll lie on the Pale Lady’s wedding bed tonight, not yours.” His eyes met another bandit’s, the young woman with laevos hair named Gan the Miller’s Daughter. His sad smile turned bitter.
Dorna turned back to Count Janel, who watched the exchange with a flat expression. A funny look crossed Dorna’s face. “Couldn’t we—”
“Keep walking, damn it,” Captain Dedreugh ordered.
“No burial speeches just yet, Kalazan,” Ninavis said. “We’re not done here.”
“You will be soon enough,” Dedreugh snapped. “Now move, or I’ll use my sword.”
“Let’s continue,” Count Janel suggested.
They kept walking.
* * *
Brother Qown had assumed Mereina Castle would be comfortable since this banner’s rulers called it home. He realized his mistake. The stone walls had been made for security, not comfort, but in this age of modern magical siege-craft, they were long since obsolete. The castle was stuffy, cold, and cramped. He suspected when the summer rainy season arrived it would be stuffy, hot, and cramped. At no point did the fortress seem a pleasant place to live. The azhock tents appeared much more practical.
Qown pined for a House D’Talus Red Man to cast a warming spell, but given the local superstitions about magic, he didn’t like his chances of finding one.
Despite its lack of comforts, the castle had beautiful original features: wooden corbels made from cypress and Tung wood, carved with horse motifs. Tapestries, old and faded, hid the crumbling walls. Lanterns—sun patterns burned into their stretched hide covers—cast painted shadows over the tile floors. The fortress hadn’t strayed far from its military roots; armed men and women camped in the courtyard, horses left to mill in the mud-churned yard.
The guards paused at the gate while Dedreugh sent a messenger inside for the baron.
“Preparations for the tournament,” Captain Dedreugh explained to Janel. Between their first encounter and final destination, Dedreugh had decided to impress the count, transforming from belligerent to obsequious.
“I see,” she replied.
He grinned, a gleam in his eyes. “I’ll be competing myself.”
She looked at him sideways. “How nice for you.”
“I’m going to win,” he confided.
Her jaw set against her neck in a manner that suggested the grinding of teeth. Brother Qown watched her for any sign she might be rash. Not that he could stop her. He just needed to know which way to jump.
Captain Dedreugh leaned toward her. “I always win.”
That time she focused on him. “The baron doesn’t consider that a conflict of interest? Don’t you oversee who’s arrested?”
As Captain Dedreugh pulled himself up to counter the accusation, the double doors leading into the castle were flung open.
The Baron of Barsine marched into the courtyard.
The baron was dressed in sumptuous attire, far more opulent than Count Janel ever wore. Still, he didn’t match the priest’s expectations. Golden skinned and fine featured, he was also young.
As young as Count Janel herself.
“Tamin.” Janel laughed. She threw out her arms in delight as the baron gave her the traditional Joratese greeting: forehead to forehead, hands placed behind each other’s necks. She cradled him like the finest porcelain, her touch so gentle it would be easy to mistake her delicacy for shyness. “I’ve brought you a gift for your fires and goodwill for your herd.”
“And I welcome you as a guest to my fields,” he said, finishing the formal greeting. “I’m so sorry about your grandfather,” Tamin said when they parted. At Count Janel’s surprised blink, he added, “My men told me the Count of Tolamer had arrived. Yet instead of your grandfather, I find you.”