He smiled. “You see through me so easily.”
“I know I’m willful,” I said, “but I’m not thorra. I know my place. When it comes time for me to submit to Duke Xun’s idorrá, I will.”
Father Zajhera clasped me on the shoulder. As he started to speak, however, steps echoed on the stairs, quick and loud. Ninavis burst into the main room.
“Janel! You said that witch back in Mereina was a white-skinned Doltari, right?” She didn’t look panicked, but her urgency proved impossible to ignore.
“Yes. Why, what’s happened?”
“Well, I hate to interrupt you, but she’s here.”8
* * *
Because Emperor Kandor built Atrine to be a slaughterhouse rather than a capital, towers sat on many rooftops. Towers where one might sit and watch several twisting, winding streets at once, better to raise the alarm and organize a defense. Sir Baramon had been sitting in one when he saw a snow-white woman9 leading armed soldiers toward us, and sent Ninavis to find me.
“I’m not wrong, am I?” Sir Baramon squinted his eyes to make out the figures. The soldiers had stopped in a cul-de-sac, arguing over the right direction to go.
“No,” I said. “You’re not wrong. That’s Senera.” I recognized her even at this distance; the way she stood, the way she tilted her hips, had left as indelible an impression on me as her skin color. I felt dread shiver through me. She’d wiped out an entire town using magic.
Now she’d arrived in Atrine. And was on her way to the Barsine apartment.
It took no great genius to realize why this was. Only someone who knew Baron Tamin was dead or Censured would think to lodge in his empty apartments. Someone who had survived the attack on Mereina. So either Senera had the same idea we did and looked for a place to sequester herself and her men …
… or she was looking for us.10
“There.” Ninavis tugged on my arm. “The skyways.” She pointed across the roofs. I saw more men crossing over, heading toward us.
Maybe it was coincidence. More people in Atrine traveled by the skyways than traveled by the labyrinthine streets, after all.
But I couldn’t help but notice such travel cut off our escape routes. And these men roaming the skyways carried themselves like soldiers.
“They’re here for us,” I murmured. “They must be. Quickly, gather our things.”
“Perhaps I can help?” Father Zajhera suggested.
Sir Baramon frowned at him. “I’m not sure what you could do, priest, although it’s a nice offer…”
Father Zajhera took no offense at the dismissal. Indeed, his eyes twinkled with warm amusement. “Where would you like to go? Still in Atrine, I assume?”
I blinked at him, but Brother Qown stammered. “Father! This is Jorat. Are you sure such a display is wise?”
“Don’t fret. No one’s going to come after me for being a witch. That silly god-king tale about Joras and his descendants must have some advantages. Although don’t tell House D’Aramarin. I’ve never paid a lick of dues to them.”11 Father Zajhera adjusted his agolé and raised his hands, positioning his fingers just so—his body posed like a dancer before a performance. He whispered something, low and gentle and velvety, a voice to drift a thousand restless babies into slumber’s arms. Energy strands floated from his fingertips, fractal shapes coalescing in the air into mathematical skeins. There was an order to it, a pattern. It tugged at me, daring me to comprehend its meaning. The energy circle brightened, then cooled, leaving a mirror finish at its center.
A mirror finish that didn’t reflect the rooftops behind us.
“Witchcraft,” Sir Baramon sputtered.
“Blood of Joras, you oaf. He can’t be a witch. Not by anyone’s definition.” Mare Dorna crested the steps with several bags slung over her shoulders. “Now grab our things and go. There’s a saying about gifts and horses that applies right about now, so quit your whining.”
Sir Baramon started to protest.
“Follow me,” I ordered him, and I ducked back inside. I didn’t need Sir Baramon’s Joratese sensibilities about magic clashing with our need for an escape route. I hefted my travel valise and let him grab his own bags, reflecting I should be glad I’d habitually kept my possessions packed and ready to go since Tolamer. I had no idea what trinkets from the Barsine apartments had slipped and fallen into Dorna’s pockets, but I would send my apologies and replacements to Kalazan at the first available opportunity.
Back on the roof, traveling supplies now in hand, I saw the soldiers lurked just a few rooftops away. Close enough to see their faces, pale and almost certainly Yoran under makeup and disguises.
Banging echoed from the door downstairs.
“Go!” I shouted. I saluted the soldiers, then walked through the gate myself.
23: THE GREEN
Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Three days since the mimic Talon escaped her capture
“So let me see if I’ve got this straight,” Kihrin said, “you’re saying that in Jorat, being a hero is seen as an act of … conquest?”
“Not necessarily,” Janel said. “If centaurs appeared in Tolamer and I fought them off, then I’m doing my duty as count. Both heroic and acceptable. It’s the job of a stallion to protect the herd from threats. If I can’t, what good am I?”
“And if you can’t, but someone else comes along who can … what then? Do people expect you to step down and let this new person take over?” Kihrin couldn’t believe anyone would be so naïve. People who had power didn’t just give it up. That wasn’t how power worked.
Kihrin remembered Father Zajhera’s words. That man understood power. He’d understood Janel’s need to save her homeland would inevitably force her into conflict. She’d clash with people who would see her aid only as a threat to their own authority. And that would lead to … to what?
Overthrowing Duke Xun? Janel had said he wanted her dead. Rebelling against the entire empire? Quite possibly, yes. On a fundamental level, the Quuros Empire couldn’t allow a woman—a witch at that—to wield genuine authority. They’d squash her for that alone. Kihrin thought of prophecies describing how the Hellwarrior would shatter Quur and remake it. He also reminded himself that the Hellwarrior wasn’t one person but four.
Which meant when the armies marched across Quur, he wouldn’t have to be the commander leading them. That honor might be Janel’s.
“It’s how it’s supposed to work,” Janel said, head down. “But it seems our leaders have forgotten why they have power in the first place.”
Ninavis shrugged one shoulder and smiled. “Eh. We’ll just have to remind them. Your turn, right, Qown?”
Brother Qown nodded.
Qown’s Turn. Atrine, Jorat, Quur.
Few people in the whole empire are strong enough in the magical arts to open a gate by themselves. Brother Qown wasn’t one; his skills had always centered around healing. In fact, even most Gatekeepers beholden to House D’Aramarin couldn’t open a gate without assistance. That’s why they needed Gatestones.