“And what does that mean?” Mare Dorna asked. “Maybe he assumed. I hear that’s how most of those people end up in Quur, ain’t it?”
Kihrin shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “I don’t know. It struck me as off, but maybe Dorna’s right and he just assumed she must have been a slave.”
“No.” Qown shut his eyes for a second. “No, he made a mistake—or he was testing me. Either way, I should have noticed.”
Janel looked at Qown oddly. “What are you talking about?”
“We haven’t reached that part of the story yet,” Brother Qown said, “but it’s your turn.”
Janel’s Turn. Barsine apartment, Atrine, Jorat, Quur.
I have wondered if it would be better if I couldn’t remember what occurred that night. Would it be cleaner, happier, if I had woken the next morning, unsure what I had done, innocent through ignorance? Could I pretend I had committed no wrong, or would I wallow in doubt? Which would be worse, to wake hoping I hadn’t killed someone or to know with absolute conviction I had?
No matter. I knew. I remembered.
I threw off the bedcovers and reached for a robe.
“Ah, foal!” Dorna scolded as soon as I moved. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.” Dorna sat at a small table by the hearth, darning the tears in my bloody tunic. She’d be the first to admit she’s a terrible cook, but amazing with needle and thread; by the time she finished, I wouldn’t be able to tell the fabric had ever been ripped. She’d dye the whole thing a new color to hide the stains.
“I’m fine, Dorna.” Which was true. I wasn’t in any pain, and touching my lower back, I felt no injury.
I picked up the bodice from the table next to her. “Who healed me? Qown?” I poked my finger through the hole in the back. The bodice could be salvaged. Not so long ago, I’d have thrown the garment out and ordered a servant to make me a replacement.
Now I would have to make do.
Dorna hadn’t answered. When I looked at her, she focused so hard on her embroidery I wondered just what had happened to me while unconscious. “Dorna? Did Qown heal my wounds?”
Dorna ignored the question as she laid her embroidery to the side. “Was it a bad one? To be fair, last time you weren’t shot through the middle, but still…”
I set the bodice back down on the table. “Where are we? Is this the Barsine apartment?”
“Aye, foal,” she said, smiling. “We’re even here legally. Kalazan granted us permission.”
“I know. Did you meet up with Arasgon and Talaras?”
Dorna gave me a hard look, started to say something, then pressed her lips together. “Foal—”
“What about my mother’s jewelry? Did you sell it?”
Dorna sighed. “No. Aroth’s always been a crafty bastard. He’s got the pawnshops watched too. But I’m wise to his tricks.” She saw the look on my face. “We’ll figure something out. I still have a little metal saved up. We’re not turning out our pockets yet. And the firebloods are fine. Romping over on the Green and catching up with old friends. Flirting with the mares like the shameless stallions they are.” The old woman stood. “Ninavis told me what happened. Don’t be hard on yourself. They were bad men.”
“They were desperate men,” I corrected. “I know nothing else about their character.”2
“They would have killed you.”
“I don’t know that. Neither do you. Unless I meet their souls the next time I’m in the Afterlife, their true intentions remain unknown to me.” I rubbed my fingertips together. Dorna or someone—Qown, maybe—must have washed my hands while I slept. They hadn’t done a very good job, though; a sticky crust of blood lingered under my nails.
“All I know for certain is I massacred them.”3
Dorna had nothing to say to that, either because she agreed or because she thought arguing with me was pointless. “Let me fetch you some breakfast.”
“No. Let’s go back to the original question. Did … Qown … heal … my … wounds?” I asked. Dorna’s refusal to answer had turned an idle question into an important one.
“Oh. I imagine he did, with Zajhera’s help—”
Zajhera? My eyes widened.
“You should rest!” she called after me as I walked out into the main room.
Most apartments in Atrine have a sameness to them. There isn’t much variety to the floor plans, although since a baron is lower ranked than a count, the Barsine apartment is smaller in scale than the Tolamer apartment. Same fireplace in the same position, same ornamental corbels, same carved ceiling, same main hall. A hundred generations had burnished the plaster walls into a soft smoothness you’d be forgiven for mistaking for marble.
A pot cooking on the hearth smelled like something spicier than normal for Joratese breakfast porridge. A large and prominent altar to the Eight held pride of place in the main hall, but only a few paintings or tapestries decorated the apartment. No sculptures, no books. That fit what I remembered of Tamin’s father, a grim man who had associated everything from art to poetry as a potential entry point for demonic corruption.
Sir Baramon, Brother Qown, and Ninavis all sat in the main hall, talking to a fourth person. He was leaning toward them in earnest enthusiasm, ignoring the spiced porridge cooling on the table beside his elbow. A white beard and plaited cloud-curl hair marked the newcomer, vivid against his Quuros brown skin. He had wise eyes and a cheerful smile.
Without him, I would never have made it to adulthood at all. Father Zajhera had saved me in a thousand ways. He’d made it possible for me to ignore the screaming in my mind, to believe I could be better than Xaltorath’s daughter.
“Have you seen her when she’s like this? It’s terrifying—” Ninavis shut up as soon as Sir Baramon nudged her with his boot. An awkward silence fell over the group as they realized I’d entered.
All except for one.
“My dearest Janel!” The old Vishai priest rose to his feet and walked toward me with arms outstretched. “My dear child, it has been too long. I’m so sorry to hear about your grandfather. His light shone to the furthest reaches of our souls.”
“Father Zajhera,” I said, trying with everything in me to keep my voice level. I had to fight the urge to run into his arms, to collapse crying with my head against his chest. Instead, I set my hand against the back of his neck, rested my forehead against his. He returned the greeting. He probably hadn’t been subject to a proper Jorat greeting since the last time he’d seen me, years before. “I thought you were across the Dragonspires.”
Brother Qown rose to his feet. “Oh, he was, Count. I sent a message for him.” He paused, and a shadow crossed over his face. “I thought it would be best.”
I stepped away from the Vishai faith’s leader, lowered my hands. “I see. Thank you, Brother Qown.” I examined them, and my heart broke. Brother Qown looked anxious, Sir Baramon shame-faced, but Ninavis—
Ninavis wouldn’t look at me at all.4
“I need the room,” I said. “Father Zajhera and I have matters to discuss.”
Silence lingered, and then everyone shuffled out.