“You’re planning to talk to us inside a temple to one of the Eight?” Janel’s tone sounded scandalized.
To be fair, Brother Qown felt a bit scandalized himself.
Mithros snorted. “It’s not just a temple to one of the Eight; it’s a temple to Khored.” Mithros flashed Janel a smile. “Don’t worry. I have permission to lurk about as much as I like.”
Brother Qown felt a chill he couldn’t quite explain.
They all followed the man into the God of Destruction’s temple.
24: THE BLACK KNIGHT
Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Three days since property values in the harbor district of the Capital City dropped precipitously
“Mithros,” Kihrin said. “Huh.” Then he grinned at Ninavis. “Did you take him up on his proposal?”
“No!” Ninavis said. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not a brood mare who’s going to spit out children for some ageless vané who likes to slum with mortals. Me? Married? I’m not doing that again.” She leaned an elbow on the counter and grinned. “I mean, sure, I did have sex with him. I’m not stupid.”
Kihrin stifled a laugh. “Oh no, I never thought you were.”
Ninavis pursed her lips, her gaze far off for moment. “Oh yes. I recommend that, by the way. Find yourself a vané. Apparently, when you’re a couple of thousand years old, you learn some stuff.”
“If only he were female,” Dorna said.
Janel started laughing. She laughed so hard she put her head down on the table.
“It’s not that funny,” Ninavis protested.
Janel raised her head, still grinning. “Oh, Nina, you have no idea.”
Janel’s Turn. The Green, Barsine Banner, Jorat, Quur.
I found it difficult to keep my expression placid. I hadn’t taken Dorna’s boast about knowing Captain Mithros seriously. Captain Mithros must have known my mother, Frena, who had started in tournaments under Dorna’s tutelage. My parents had met during the tournaments.
Captain Mithros posed a different problem. His resemblance to Death’s green-eyed son Teraeth seemed too close to be coincidence. They clearly weren’t the same person, but the similarity … Unlike Teraeth, Mithros favored broad grins and flirty winks. Yet when he waved a hand or rested his wrist against sword pommel the resemblance to Teraeth’s lethal elegance shone. I felt a further familiarity too, as though Mithros reminded me of someone else besides.
Since I only knew one other Manol vané, I found the feeling disconcerting.
“Hells and ice. Keep your hood up.” Dorna tugged the replacement cloak’s hood farther over my eyes.
I blinked at her but ducked down my head.
No sooner had I done so than I saw red and gold. Looking from the corner of my eye, I saw an honor guard dressed in the Stavira March’s colors.
The Markreev of Stavira’s colors. My liege lord Aroth Malkoessian’s colors.
Everyone in Atrine stopped by Khored’s Temple at some point to pay their respects and pray for good favor in the tournament. The temple always echoed with the susurrus of worshippers.
I know dedicated gods of games and sport are worshipped in other dominions, but those were all once Marakori god-kings. Any Joratese would rather smear hot lead onto their feet than honor them. Some might say Taja—Goddess of Luck—would be more appropriate in such contests. But in Jorat we don’t believe tournaments are won by luck. Thus, it is the custom to look to Khored as the patron of challenge, conflict, and contests.
Also, Khored was Emperor Kandor’s patron god. Now he’s ours as well.
Khored’s Temple is awful. Awe-filled. Horse statues stand guard around the perimeter, while a red marble carving of swarming crows ascends or descends from the battlefield altar at its center. Incense smelling of blood and cinnamon filled the cathedral with fog. Light, red and violet, filtered through the stained-glass windows above.1
And Aroth Malkoessian, Markreev of Stavira, prayed at the main altar.
Dorna tugged at my elbow. “No, don’t slow down. Don’t stare.”
I forced myself to keep walking and muttered a prayer under my breath to the Eight. I pushed down panic when I remembered Brother Qown wore a Vishai priest’s distinctive robes. I reminded myself Aroth had never met Qown. The Markreev likely had no idea what a Vishai priest even looked like.
Regardless of one’s destination inside the temple, everyone stopped at the altar first. No rule said I had to stop right next to Aroth. So I found a pillow farther back and went down on my knees as I offered the ritual prayers. Dorna picked a spot several seats away, and the others spread out farther so as not to draw any attention. Qown, I noticed, sat quite far away as if to distance himself from me in case his presence might betray my own. As I prayed, I saw Aroth stand from the front row, gather his soldiers to him, and turn to leave.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
A few seconds later, Dorna made a small, strangled sound as Aroth Malkoessian sat down on the cushion to my left.
All the air in the cathedral turned heavy and weighted, a thick morass allowing me to neither move nor breathe. My skin burned, and I didn’t have to look to know Aroth’s men surrounded us. Even here, they would be armed.
I didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at me. We gave each other no formal greeting.
“I wasn’t convinced you would appear for the tournament.”
“It’s my duty.”
“Given the circumstances surrounding your departure from Tolamer, your feeling toward duty has been in question.”
“It’s an odd situation,” I said, trying hard not to grind my teeth, “to be a canton’s ruler yet own no land within it, not even one’s ancestral castle.”
“You have my condolences on your grandfather’s passing,” he murmured next to me. “He was a good man.”
“And far too trusting,” I agreed.
“He knew his place.” His rebuke was unmistakable.
Clearly, I didn’t know my place. Then again, Aroth had always felt my “place” was married to his son Oreth.
I would rather eat dung.
My fists clenched. “Perhaps because you never tried to force him into an unwanted marriage.”
“Insolence is unbecoming.”
“So is foreclosing on the liens of someone under your idorrá.”
“Oreth would have returned those debts paid as a wedding gift.”
“Was that supposed to be a comfort or a threat?”
He sucked in his breath, exhaled it as a low growl. “I’ve protected you in ways you can’t understand.”
I bit back on the impulse to say something rash. I wanted to say a great deal to the man. I wanted to ask how he’d managed to sire a creature as vile as his son Oreth. His older son, Ilvar, was as different from Oreth as night from day. I wanted to know why Aroth had betrayed my grandfather’s trust.
I didn’t ask. I’d already pushed further than decorum allowed. He’d be well within his rights to tether me right then.
I tilted my head, looking at him as much as I could without turning my face from the altar. “Oreth believes his right to command me is the natural order. He thinks he’s the stallion and I should be the mare. That is not and never will be who I am.”