House D’Aramarin closely guarded their monopoly. They’d therefore be horrified if they ever learned of someone strong enough to open a gate, single-handedly, who didn’t take orders from their guild at all. Worse, that he led a fringe religion many viewed as little better than a cult.
Watching Father Zajhera touch the divine always filled Qown with joy; Zajhera made spellcasting seem as easy as writing out a prayer with brush and ink. His movements shaped the universal tenyé with a skill Brother Qown envied.1
Father Zajhera blessed them with his presence. Qown knew everything would be better now.
“Father Zajh—” As they crossed through the portal, Brother Qown saw the old priest give his pupil a warm smile.
He raised his right hand and moved his fingers in a twisting motion.
“No, wait—” Brother Qown knew in that instant Zajhera had never planned to follow them. “Father!”
And the gate vanished.
Count Janel set down the large traveling valise holding her belongings. She’d raised her cloak’s hood over her hair and face. “He didn’t stay behind, did he? Senera—”
“Oh no,” Brother Qown reassured her. “I’m sure he just went back to Eamithon. He’s a busy man, after all. He only stayed to heal your injuries.”2
She put a hand to her back, to where the crossbow bolt had run her through. “Yes, of course. I’m sure Father Zajhera is quite able to see to his own protection. Which we should do as well. That’s the second hiding place we’ve been forced to flee.”
“To be fair, foal, they weren’t clever hiding spots, were they?” Mare Dorna squinted and looked around. “So let’s see if we can do better in the middle of the herd.”
Brother Qown chewed on his lower lip. The priest hadn’t yet had a chance to tell Janel about the Name of All Things. He hadn’t had a chance to tell her Senera might well track them—no matter where they went to ground.
She only had to ask the Cornerstone.3
Then Dorna’s last comment struck home, and Brother Qown realized she hadn’t, in fact, been speaking metaphorically. He’d been so wrapped up in Father Zajhera’s departure, he’d paid no attention to their circumstances.
Horses surrounded them.
Hundreds at least. Horses nickered, shifted weight, blew air through their noses. Grass and musk scented the air, mixing with the more odoriferous but still green scent of horse droppings. The horses roamed over an enormous parklike space, Atrine’s buildings encircling them like a giant wall. The shining pinnacles of the duke’s palace and the sword-point towers of Khored’s Temple formed an axis pointing to the sky.
This was the Green, which they had seen in their first futile attempt to meet the duke. Most of a large city might have fit inside that ocean of grass, the only place inside Atrine large enough to hold all the horses needed for the Great Tournament. Colorful azhocks and waving banners, galloping horses, and practicing knights overwhelmed the senses. Hiding in such a space seemed impossible, except so many people and so many horses milled in the area, identifying any one single person became an exercise in frustration.
Somewhere in the Green, the firebloods—Arasgon and Talaras—met with family and caught up with important news and gossip. Somewhere here, the horses they had brought with them from the Tiga Pass grazed. Their own horses too, brought all the way from Barsine by Arasgon. Brother Qown looked forward to seeing Cloud again. He had grown fond of that sweet little gray, even if the horse loathed moving faster than a walk.
Probably because of that reason.
“Sir Baramon,” Janel said, “help me with this trunk. Also, where does Captain Mithros keep his training camp?” She plucked at the red cloak resting on her shoulders. “It seems I have something to return.”
“Oh, smart thinking, foal. Some mercenary work would be just about what we need right now. Hired knights are always coming and going. Nobody pays them no mind.” Dorna put her hands to her hips and grinned. “’Sides, the captain’s an old friend.”
“The Markreev of Stavira’s your ‘old friend’ too,” Sir Baramon said. “Please note how Dorna’s old friends never seem to want to have anything to do with her.”
Dorna snorted. “The Markreev’s still sore about his wife, that’s all.”
Sir Baramon rolled his eyes as he picked up the case. “Really? That’s all, is it?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned back to the count. “We do need to find you something else to wear. The Red Spears will take offense at you wearing that, even if you mean to return it.”
Janel hesitated before nodding her agreement. She’d been wearing the red cloak since Mereina, although Brother Qown wasn’t sure why. She ducked her head and pulled it off, folding the fabric over her arm. Dorna handed her a plain brown sallí—Brother Qown didn’t ask where she’d found it—and Janel wore that instead.
“This way.” Sir Baramon jerked his head back toward Khored’s Temple. Their destination veered from the temple itself as they headed to a roped-off area in the temple’s shadow. Red-hued azhocks adorned with bright pennants and crisp streamers populated the rear grounds. A second roped-off area, tourney combat yard–sized, provided an area where knights practiced. Other training grounds surrounded it, their purpose obtuse but with one common quality: they all catered to contests fought on horseback. Women trained as well as men, and almost everyone wore some variation of red cloak, or at least a red arm band. Only one figure didn’t wear red: a knight on horseback practicing to be the Black Knight. He wore the appropriate hue.
If they wanted to enter the grounds, they would either need to duck under the rope or deal with the guards at the solitary entrance.
“I’m here to speak with Captain—” Before she finished the sentence, the guard snatched the cloak from her grasp.
“Thanks for returning the cloak. Only Spears inside the practice yard. No exceptions. Have a nice day.”4 He went back to talking to the other guards, clearly expecting the count and her retinue to move on.
The count stared at him, open mouthed.
Brother Qown realized Janel didn’t resemble a noble or even a stallion. Her stained and patched clothing, combined with an unbrushed laevos and no jewelry, left little doubt as to her gender. Who would look at her and think her anything other than a mare?
“Hey now! Do you have any idea who this—?” Dorna stopped as Janel put her hand on the old woman’s shoulders.
“I’m here to audition,” Janel said.
“Auditions ended two weeks ago,” the guard replied. “We’re good now, thanks.”
Ninavis chuckled and pulled her bow off her arm, stringing it. The guards didn’t notice.
“I just need to speak with Captain Mithros.”
He grinned at her. “Funny how all the pretty mares do.”
She inhaled.
Brother Qown winced and reached out to her before she did something foolish. “Count—”
The guard waved a hand. “Go on, get off with you. He’ll be out to say hello to his fans later. Right now, he’s busy.”
Ninavis snapped an arrow to her bow and fired.
The blasted arrow moved so fast Brother Qown didn’t see much more than a blur, but he thought the arrow passed right before the guard’s face, parted the raven feathers decorating the Black Knight’s helmet, and then embedded itself, still quivering, in the central archery target on the far side of the compound.