“You said that name before.” Janel’s eyebrows drew together. “Who?”
Qown’s mouth dropped open. “What? Janel! You don’t know who Vol Karoth is? No one’s explained who Vol Karoth is to you?”
Janel turned up her hands in a helpless gesture. “No? I assume from your scandalized tone that they must be someone important.”
Kihrin cleared his throat. “Yeah, you might say that.”
Janel narrowed her eyes at him.
“He’s the King of Demons—” Qown started to explain.
“No, he’s not,” Kihrin snapped. “He’s what happened to that god you do and don’t worship, Qown, the eighth of the Eight Immortals.”
Qown just stared at Kihrin, mouth open, expression full of horror.
Kihrin sighed. “A long time ago, a wizard tricked one of the Eight Immortals into participating in a ritual,” Kihrin finally said. “I say tricked, because the ritual apparently culminated with the Immortal in question being sacrificed. One assumes he didn’t volunteer for that. Anyway, something went wrong.
“The rest of the people who were involved in the ritual all became dragons, but that Immortal—I realize you call him Selanol, but that’s not his real name—became something even worse. He actually died, but what was born out of his corpse was an avatar of annihilation and evil so dangerous that the monster had to be imprisoned or he’d have destroyed the entire world. Maybe the whole universe. And so, they renamed him: Vol Karoth. I really don’t think he’s the King of Demons. He’s just as eager to destroy demons as he is to destroy everything else.”
“Oh.” Janel swallowed. “Then I apologize; I know exactly who that is. The morgage call him something else.3 And the Devoran Prophecies I’ve read never referred to him as Vol Karoth. The King of Demons, though? That name I’ve heard.”
Kihrin exhaled. He didn’t explain the rest—that even though S’arric’s body had been turned into the vessel to house a corrupted force of darkness, S’arric’s soul had eventually been freed and returned to the Afterlife.
To eventually be reborn as Kihrin D’Mon.
Janel’s gaze locked with Kihrin’s. “But I have also heard that this prophesied Hellwarrior will be the one to free him, the one to usher in the end of the world.”
“That’s … that’s still very much under debate. I don’t think that’s true at all either.” Kihrin said, “We’re sure it’s not just one person, anyway. Not just a single ‘Hellwarrior.’ There are four of us.”
“Us?” Qown repeated.
Kihrin made a face and didn’t answer.
“That makes no sense either,” Janel said. “Why not eight? Eight immortals, eight dragons, eight Hellwarriors?”
Before Kihrin could make any comment, Qown interrupted. “Okay, wait. Go back to that part about the dragons. Even if the rest of what you say is true, you said the participants became dragons. Are you sure you heard that detail correctly?”
“Emphatically,” Kihrin replied without looking at Qown. “That’s how all nine dragons were created.”
“Eight dragons,” Qown corrected.
Kihrin frowned as he glanced over at the priest. “I can see this is going to become a habit. Nine. That’s what I was about to say to Janel: the numbers don’t always match. You see, the man who devised the ritual, performed it—he became a dragon too. You’ve met him. He runs around calling himself Relos Var these days.”
Qown blinked. “Relos Var isn’t a dragon!”
“Oh yes, he is. Relos Var just chooses not to look like a dragon most of the time.” Kihrin shrugged. “Maybe that’s why he’s not insane the way the other dragons are? I honestly don’t know.”
As Qown sat there, eyes wide and shocked, Kihrin turned back to Janel. “The first quatrain does sound like it refers to you.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Does it really? Am I gathering outlaws and witches while I plot an uprising?”
“You tell me. Are you?”
Brother Qown held up his book. “I’ll just keep reading, shall I?”
Neither Kihrin nor Janel protested.
Qown’s Turn. Mereina Castle, Barsine Banner, Jorat, Quur.
The castle felt empty, with a skeleton crew and a locked gate left behind. Most residents crowded into the arena on the tournament grounds. But Brother Qown still felt exposed and vulnerable as Mare Dorna and he, supporting a limping Ninavis between them, pretended to be servants returning from some assignment gone awry.
“Is she all right?” A guard pointed at Ninavis.
Mare Dorna waved a hand. “Oh, she’s fine, fine. Just a clumsy mare. Tripped on a stair.”
“Hey now, what do you mean I’m clumsy?”
“Well, who went and tripped over her own two feet? Wasn’t me, I tell you.”
The guard chuckled and returned to walking the castle grounds. He never gave Brother Qown so much as a glance.
They headed for the third-floor suite where the old steward’s chambers now housed the count.
All three exhaled as they closed the door behind them.
Dorna abandoned Ninavis and started packing.
Brother Qown frowned. “The count said—”
Dorna looked back over her shoulder. “You think I’ve gone deaf, foal? I know what she said. But I guarantee you we ain’t leaving this place slow and leisurely-like. Best be prepared for the quick exit.”
Brother Qown started to retort but then stopped himself. Ninavis still leaned against his shoulder. “Let me look at your leg. The splint was a temporary solution. I should try to come up with something more durable.”
Ninavis gave Brother Qown a flat stare as she pulled the impromptu cloak off her head and began limping toward the bed. “You sure you’re not just hoping for another peek at my calves?”
Brother Qown fought the urge to roll his eyes toward the heavens. “I’m a priest of the Vishai Mysteries.”
“And?”
“He can’t run with the herd at all, if you know what I mean.” Dorna made snipping motions, miming scissors.
With effort, Brother Qown ignored Dorna. He motioned for Ninavis to sit on a nearby chair. “Not can’t. Won’t. We take a vow. I’m not interested in your legs except to make sure they’ll heal.”
He also ignored Dorna’s snort.
He didn’t use Illumination on Ninavis for several reasons, not least because she was awake, alert, and damnably Marakori. That last point meant she might even recognize what he was doing. The Marakori didn’t share the Joratese distrust of magic.
Indeed, the Marakori were the reason for the Joratese distrust of magic.
Fortunately, the broken bones had never pierced skin, which created less chance for infection. She had predictable muscle damage and swelling. Given adequate rest, she’d make a full recovery. He just wasn’t sure she’d have the chance.
“Dorna, do you think it might be possible to find wax creeper? I’ll make a plaster.” Brother Qown started to look around the room for fabric that might be boiled and cut into strips.
Before he’d begun his preparations, however, Count Janel came rushing into the room. “You made it back. Good. Dorna, help me with my armor. Then I need you three to leave here at once. Go north to Visallía. The Markreev there is a distant cousin. She’ll give you shelter.” She crossed over to where Dorna had packed their belongings and retrieved her family sword.