Kihrin met Janel’s eyes. “A good friend told me we volunteered for this. Four of us. From the Afterlife, we volunteered to return and help fight the war. I think you’re one of us.”
“Let me guess—my name was Elana.”
Kihrin blinked at her. “What? Why would you think—”
“When we met in the Afterlife, you called me Elana.” She paused. “Repeatedly.”
“Oh. Odd. I don’t know an Elana. Hell, the only time I’ve heard that name—” He frowned. “Huh.”
Janel raised both eyebrows and waited.
“I’ve been told that in my past life, a woman named Elana saved me from something, uh, terrible. In fact, I wouldn’t be sitting here without her.”
“Oh?” Janel rested her chin on her knuckles. “And however do you plan to say thank you?”
For a second, Kihrin thought she was talking about Atrine, but then he realized that no, she really wasn’t. He slowly smiled. “I have a few ideas.”
“I cannot wait to hear them.”
Qown cleared his throat.
Kihrin startled. He kept forgetting the priest was still sitting at the same table.
Janel looked vaguely embarrassed. “Anything else I should know?”
Kihrin gave her a sour smile. “There’s a prophecy.”
She rolled her eyes and laughed as she looked up toward the ceiling. “Gods.”
“Pretty much. So I think Xaltorath—as a demon—would have every reason to look for us. To track us down.”
“But then why hasn’t she killed us?” Janel questioned. “It makes no sense.”1
“I think to understand whether or not it makes sense, we’d have to understand Xaltorath.”
“Good luck with that,” Janel said.
“The demons want to live,” Brother Qown said, speaking up at last. “What does anyone want? They want to survive. The question we must ask ourselves is: Can they only survive at our expense? Is this a Zaibur game where a single side wins, or is this ravens and doves?”
Kihrin and Janel looked at each other. “Uh…”
Kihrin said, “Ravens and doves? I don’t know that game.”
“Oh,” Brother Qown looked abashed. “I grew up with it in Eamithon. It’s a children’s game, where it’s possible to have multiple simultaneous victories, and in fact, the most prestigious victory involves all the players winning.”
Kihrin made a face. “Eamithon sounds nice. Doesn’t Eamithon sound nice? I was going to open a bar there for my father.” He sighed, stared into his glass, and motioned to the bartender for another refill.
Kihrin turned back to Qown. “It’s your turn.”
Qown’s Turn. The tournament grounds at Mereina, Barsine Banner, Jorat, Quur.
Plans were made, tasks allocated—which, in Brother Qown and Dorna’s case, meant finding seats at the tournament. That ended up being a more complicated endeavor than Qown ever expected. While the stands were underpopulated, attendees crowded toward the front. A great many spectators had huddled together to talk in hushed tones about the day’s strange events, who else might be killed, and just how upset they should be over the whole matter.
“How long do you think it will take Sir Baramon to break down his tent?” Brother Qown leaned over and whispered to Dorna. If, or rather when, things started to go wrong, time would be at a premium. Someone would need to retrieve Ninavis too—a danger-fraught endeavor—so Qown wanted everything else readied first.
Dorna examined an engraved leather purse in her hands. “What was that?” She tucked the purse away into her skirts.
“How long do you think it will take Sir Baramon to break down his tent?” he asked again.
“It’s called an azhock,” Dorna said.
“That’s not the point.”
“Well, if you’re going to learn our ways, priest, you’d best start with the important words, doncha think?” The old woman winked at him before turning back to the tournament.
Dorna leaned over to tug on the sleeve of a woman sitting in a box seat. She wore a merchant family’s square crest on her sleeves. An embroidery hoop rested on her lap. “Morning there, Mare,” Dorna said. “Who’s the knight in the blue and yellow?” She pointed to the field, where two new knights approached.
The woman eyed Dorna’s lack of team colors before answering. “Gozen. Works for the Sifen family.” She sniffed. “Farmers. They grow mangoes.”
“Ooooh,” Dorna said. “He any good?”
The woman snorted this time. She started to return to her embroidery. “Wait, my purse! What happened to my purse?”
Dorna ignored Brother Qown’s accusing look. “Did you drop it? When did you last see it? Did you buy something? Maybe it’s still there.”
The woman gave Dorna a panicked look, grabbed her embroidery bag, and bolted back between the stands. Dorna took the woman’s place and motioned for the Vishai priest to join her.
“Dorna!”
She pulled him over beside her. “Don’t make a fuss. People will notice.”
“But you … you…” Brother Qown all but pointed a finger at her. “That seat doesn’t belong to you. Neither does that purse.”
“We’re saving a spot for Her Highness, if she comes back. You agreed.” Dorna took a sip of the weak tea she’d bought from a vendor earlier, made a face, and traded up for the cider flagon the woman had left behind. “Much better. Now shush. Gozen’s up, and he’s my favorite.”
“A minute ago, you’d never heard of Gozen!”
“Don’t be silly, priest. Gozen works for the Sifen family. They grow mangoes.” She returned to watching the sport.
“You’re a terrible person,” Brother Qown muttered.
The old woman looked proud.
Two knights entered the grounds. The one in yellow and blue, Gozen, looked like he’d just purchased the basic knight starter kit. Too new or unsuccessful at the contests to have yet gained himself full armor and barding for his horse. He faced an older knight in full red regalia. The older knight’s colors and banners identified him as a Red Spear, a mercenary company who sold their skills to the highest bidder.
The two knights entered the yard and made their customary first circuit around the field, complete with hurled invectives. Brother Qown saw Count Janel, or rather, the Black Knight, enter the grounds.
No one noticed. No one had paid much attention to the Black Knight earlier in the day, and the new Black Knight still wore black armor and rode a flame-kissed ebony fireblood. The differences seemed obvious to Brother Qown. The knight rode a flame-kissed ebony fireblood, but since Talaras had not agreed to let Janel ride him, it wasn’t the same flame-kissed ebony fireblood. The tiger striping on his legs was an easy giveaway. The Black Knight’s armor suddenly appeared oversized, strapped down to a slimmer body.
Still no one paid any attention.
All energy focused on the two men, now before the warden and a table filled with eight different statues.2 Gozen bent down from his saddle and picked up the small statue of a pregnant woman sitting cross-legged on a tortoise’s back: Galava, the Mother. Gozen held the statue aloft so the crowds in the stands might see his selection.