* * *
Such a simple thing reminded Brother Qown the Joratese lived in a city they hadn’t built:
Atrine possessed working plumbing.
Even by western Quuros standards, the bathing rooms amazed: beautiful tile work, efficient sewage disposal, sunken wading pools—heated, of course.
He wondered if the Joratese took it for granted. Did they think about it at all? Did the citizens ever stop to marvel at the sorcery that brought fresh water to their apartments, which also bore away their waste? Did some forgotten branch of House D’Evelin maintain the sewer system—or was Atrin Kandor’s enchantment on this city so great it continued to function after centuries? Did the sewage dump into Lake Jorat or the Zaibur River, or did someone do a roaring business selling fertilizer back to the Royal Houses?
Trivial matters such as these filled Brother Qown’s thoughts as he washed his hands.
“She’ll be fine, dear boy. I can see from the look on your face you’re still worried about her.” Father Zajhera stepped through the door behind Qown and presented the priest with a cup of hot tea; Nina’s hot water had served a different purpose.
“I’m worried for her. It’s not just her injury.” Qown took the cup of blue-glazed Kazivar porcelain from his leader’s hands. Qown wondered if the cup had come with the house or if Zajhera had brought it with him. Focus. “I don’t think—” Brother Qown fumbled, started again. “I don’t think I’m the right person to help her, Father. I know how much she means to you. I think sending me to her was a mistake.”
Father Zajhera stared at Brother Qown, who in turn tried not to cringe. Zajhera had a way of looking at people that channeled every parental disappointment ever to sting tears in a child’s eyes. Seeing dissatisfaction in Zajhera’s eyes hurt worse than a dagger’s edge.
“Tell me what happened. Something more, I think, than her injury by brigands.”
Brother Qown motioned for Father Zajhera to follow him, since this wasn’t an appropriate conversation for bathing rooms. They walked downstairs, where a small sitting room offered comfortable chairs and tables upon which to rest their tea.
Ninavis had left to track down Mare Dorna and Sir Baramon. No one else occupied the apartment save for a sleeping count, who would continue her deathlike slumber throughout the night.
“I have followed your suggestions,” Brother Qown said as they both sat down, “and I have avoided discussing the source of her abilities. She has, since I first met her, maintained her strength is due to Xaltorath’s curse. But in recent weeks…” Brother Qown paused to sip his tea. “Well. It’s become difficult to ignore abilities that cannot be described this way.”
Father Zajhera looked surprised. “She’s developed a second spell-gift?” Neither would call it a witch-gift. Witches were not just sorcerers who’d forgotten to pay their license fees.
“With all respect, Father, I believe she has developed a third. You’ve long contended her strength is her own doing, a defense mechanism after the trauma she experienced at Lonezh. I believe the ‘curse’ that sends her to the Afterlife every night is also a spell-gift. And I think she’s beginning to show signs of a third ability involving fire.”
Father Zajhera chuckled. “Impressive. It’s such a shame her grandfather would never let me train her.”
“Of course he wouldn’t. She’s not ‘Blood of Joras.’” Brother Qown gave the other priest a scolding look. “A concept that you never mentioned to me.”
“Hmm? Oh yes. I’d forgotten about that.”
“Well, I’m never going to forget that label. I’m wondering if I can find someone to embroider it on my robes. Maybe Dorna…” Brother Qown sighed and stretched. “That’s not all. That’s not even half.” Without waiting for a response, he continued, “We were in Mereina when it was attacked. A sophisticated attack organized by genuine witches, who wiped out almost the entire town and everyone gathered for the tournament. Thousands dead.”
Father Zajhera didn’t seem surprised. Brother Qown supposed he should have expected that. Father Zajhera knew a great many people and a great many things.
“The people responsible for the attack included a Doltari woman named Senera. She released magical smoke that choked its victims—it’s how almost everyone died. However, I also saw what she did, so she wouldn’t be overcome by the smoke herself.” Brother Qown reached out and drew a line in the air, tracing out the sigil. It glowed but didn’t do much else—although Qown assumed the air around the glyph was clean and pure. The demonstration would have been more obvious if he’d drawn the glyph near smoke.
Father Zajhera’s expression shifted fast through several emotions, including anger, before settling on unhappy concern. He stared long and hard at the rune, before sighing and leaning back in his chair.
Brother Qown had known Father Zajhera for his whole life. He knew how to read the man’s moods.
“You know what this is, don’t you?”
“It’s a sigil,” the elder priest said, then shook his head. “No, I apologize. That makes it sound like a toy one might paint on a child’s nursery for luck. What you have just drawn is a symbolic and equivalent representation of tenyé, an object’s true essence. Tell me, this woman, Senera, did she keep a small stone on her person? A necklace or jewelry? Perhaps this large? A crystal?” He held thumb and forefinger a few inches apart.
“No, nothing like—” Brother Qown paused. “No. No wait. Not jewelry, no, but she had an inkstone. A small one. She kept it tucked into her bodice, pulling it out when she cut herself. She used her blood to draw that sigil on her forehead. I thought it was ritual magic.” He frowned. “I still think so. That brush must have been made from hairs pulled from all her Yoran soldiers. Sympathetic magic would have ensured her ‘sigil’ ended up on everyone’s forehead simultaneously.”
“Yes,” Father Zajhera agreed. “Astute. Even more astute to notice the sigil itself and use it to your advantage.2 I’m proud of you.”
Brother Qown blushed. “Father, I—thank you, but that glyph is what worries me. What is its nature? Where does it come from? I put no tenyé into its creation. It should have no power, yet every time this sigil is drawn, its magical effect is the same.”
For a long time, Father Zajhera said nothing. He sipped his tea as he contemplated his response. Finally, he said, “This woman, Senera. If that is her real name.3” He nodded to Brother Qown. “The stone she used is no river rock. It is the most dangerous of all Cornerstones: the Name of All Things.”
Brother Qown felt a shiver sweep through him. The priest knew very little about the Cornerstones. Father Zajhera seldom spoke of them, but Brother Qown remembered enough to know they were eight artifacts with different and significant magical abilities.
“You once told me the Cornerstones are gods trapped in stone,” Brother Qown whispered.
Zajhera waved a hand, irritated. “I was being poetic. That description gives the stones more credit for sentience than they deserve. The Cornerstones are eight gems, tied to universal concepts. They contain godlike power, but not a divine being’s will and intelligence. Such direction must be supplied by another. Anyone who holds them in fact.” His smile turned sardonic. “Even an escaped slave from Doltar.”