He gave a hard look to the side, past me to where Dorna sat, not moving and barely breathing. “You should have gone to the Festival of the Turning Leaves, then.”
Anger spilled into me, anger with Oreth, anger with his father, anger with my own grandfather for putting me in this situation. The Markreev’s suggestion burned. Not because I had any problem with those who spent their year in the nature goddess Galava’s service, in exchange for the gift that followed. If Dorna lived happier as a woman than as her birth sex, who was anyone to question it? If the Markreev had chosen to become male, that was his right too.
But I wished to remain female.
Whereas the Markreev seemed to think I could only be a stallion if my sex and gender matched. Suddenly, I understood where Oreth had acquired his vile opinions.
The pillow underneath my fingers started to feel warm.
No … no, no. Not here. Not now.
I inhaled and tried to calm myself. I prayed to Khored, chanting the Litany of Challenges under my breath.
I inhaled and closed my eyes, feeling a deep bitterness welling inside me. “How little you know your son, if you think changing my sex would change his need to control me.”
“Oreth is very fond of you.”
“And Oreth thinks his choice is the only choice that matters.”
I heard Aroth stand. “That does not excuse your failure to meet your obligations—excuse me?”
I opened my eyes and looked up.
Mithros stood there, offering Dorna a hand up to her feet. “Apologies for losing you back there. Let me show you the way.” As soon as Dorna steadied, he extended his hand to me.
Aroth Malkoessian narrowed his eyes. “I don’t think you know who you’re—”
Mithros met his eyes.
All the color fled the Markreev’s face. “I—” His speech trailed off. He blinked several times.
Mithros stepped toward the Markreev. The mercenary captain seemed larger than he had been outside. Now he took up an enormous amount of space. A few feet separated the two men, but Aroth stepped back, as if Mithros stood far too close.
No one watched except for my people and Aroth’s. Everyone else was lighting incense, saying prayers, or leaving flower wreaths around the necks of horse saints.
A soldier put a hand to his sword. The Markreev shook his head, and the man lowered his hand, sword undrawn.
Aroth paid me no attention. All his energy focused on Mithros. I had no idea what the Markreev was thinking or feeling, but his eyes were wide and fearful.
Mithros raised his hand. Aroth flinched but didn’t move, and Mithros lowered it to the back of Aroth’s neck, touching his forehead to Aroth’s own. Mithros somehow turned the traditional greeting into something aggressive. Adversarial. A salutation between equals became an act of dominance. Aroth made a sound, but I couldn’t tell what emotion lay behind it.
“Go,” Mithros said as he released Aroth. The Markreev of Stavira stumbled back a few steps and uttered a swift apology as he stumbled over another penitent at prayer. He turned around. Motioning for his soldiers to follow him, he and his entire retinue left.
Aroth never looked at me.
Mithros turned back to me, smiling. “Sorry about that.”
“Khored?” The word slipped out before I could stop myself, at once question, prayer, and statement. I had already met a god once that week. It didn’t seem so impossible an idea I might meet another. I’d grown up on a thousand divine stories. Not one featured Khored as a black-skinned Manol vané.
But not one said he didn’t look like such either.
The smile slipped a little from his face, but then returned and shone all the brighter for the lapse. “Please, call me Mithros. Come now. This way.”
* * *
The others waited when Mithros led us to a back room, where a stairway stretched down under the temple. Priests of Khored also used the well-traveled passage, but they paid no attention to us. A few nodded or waved to Mithros as he passed.
When we left the main cathedral vault, Sir Baramon turned to me. “Was that Aroth Malkoessian? What happened? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. He came to pray.”
“But what—”
I shook my head. “We’ll talk later.”
The group fell into silence. Ninavis gave me several odd looks. She knew something had happened but hadn’t been close enough to hear. Qown wore the air of a child ignoring his parents arguing.
And Mithros felt no need to provide any explanations at all.
He led us through a long underground complex used for housing and meditation chambers for the temple priests. Like the others, they paid us little mind.
By the time we reached the second staircase, I felt like a fool. How could I have let my overactive imagination get the better of me? I had witnessed an impressive demonstration of idorrá upstairs, but Mithros’s race was immortal. Cowing Aroth hadn’t required a god, just a man who was a thousand years old.
Plus, the priests didn’t treat Mithros with any reverence. They all but rolled their eyes at him, like he was an old uncle who embarrassed everyone by telling lewd jokes at dinner. He was family, taken for granted.
Not how one treated a member of the Eight.
The second staircase debouched into a space so large its edges vanished into darkness. The air felt cold and moist. In the distance, I heard running water. This would have been quite normal for an estava, but Atrine had been built by a Quuros emperor. He wouldn’t have made estavas or cellar homes. Indeed, as far as I knew, Atrine had no cellars. Not one. The stairs weren’t designed for horses; even a fireblood would have balked at descending them.
Old stone blocks, massive but fitted, lined the floor. Small glowing lanterns illuminated the area, glowing whiter than candlelight or oil lanterns. Couches and tables filled an area similar to a tavern, manned by Red Spears, to judge by the armbands. They waved at Mithros and looked at us with interest before returning to more important activities: eating, drinking, gambling.
“Most people think this is a little oppressive, even for a people who prefer to build their homes underground,” Mithros explained, “so the priests let us use the space. I find it helpful for talking in private. Now do you want to continue pretending I’m only interested in hiring your archer’s services”—he motioned to Ninavis—“or do you want to explain what this is about?” He paused and smiled at Ninavis. “I should add the marriage offer is sincere.”
Ninavis rolled her eyes.
“We need to talk in private,” I cleared my throat and looked around. “At least, as privately as this allows.”
“Everyone, show my guests a good time.” Mithros pointed to the men and women at the bar. “Don’t take too much metal from them at dice.”
“Dice?” Dorna perked up. “Oh, I just couldn’t. I’m terrible at dice.”
“Oh hell,” Mithros muttered. “She’s going to rob them for every throne, chance, and chalice they have.” He gestured toward another stairway leading even farther down into the darkness. “Shall we?”
My companions all wore bemused expressions, because I hadn’t told them about my conversation with Thaena. They all thought I wanted to speak to Mithros about Ninavis, to gain a new place for us to stay—so why wouldn’t I be willing to talk about it publicly?