Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Three days since Kihrin wondered if he could take Gadrith by himself (answer: no)
Kihrin just stared at Dorna.
“What?” she said. “Oh, like you’ve never been dead before?” She raised her eyebrows while reaching for her drink.
Kihrin paused. “That … is a fair point.” And his own death had only happened a few days previously, no matter how long ago it seemed. “I forget sometimes how easy it is to pull off if you know the right people.”
“Everything is easier to pull off if you know the right people,” Dorna said gently.
“I’m just curious,” Kihrin said, “what do you have over the Markreev of Stavira?”
“I have wondered that myself,” Janel said.
“Nothing as sinister as what that brat Oreth seems to think,” Dorna said. “I played the tournament circuit in my youth. Aroth was a fan … and one thing led to another.”1 She put an arm around Star and ruffled his hair.
“Momma,” Star said. “Stop that.”
Dorna did, grinning. “No regrets. Got Palomarn out of the deal, didn’t I? The whole thing fell apart after a few years, though. Later on, I decided I’d be happier female, and Aroth decided he’d be happier male. Fine by me, except I still run with mares and he ain’t one anymore.” She shrugged. “It was never gonna work out.”
Kihrin raised an eyebrow at Star. “Palomarn? Your real name is Palomarn?”
The large man shrugged. “I like Star.”
Janel gave Dorna a long, slow blink. “You had a child with Aroth Malkoessian?”
“Hey,” Star said. “Not a child.”
“So your son…” Kihrin had a hard time imagining Star as having been born at all. He seemed more like something spawned into existence. Star as a child? Star as a baby? No. “How did I just happen to stumble across your son for sale in the Octagon slave pits?”
Dorna gave Star a disapproving look. “What’s this? A slave?”
“Not my fault,” Star said. “People who mistreat horses don’t deserve to keep ’em.”
Dorna slapped Star’s shoulder. “No, I mean you letting them catch you. Raised you better than that.”
Star grinned as he turned to Kihrin. “I didn’t plan on you buying me. Luck, I suppose.”
“Right. Luck.” Kihrin couldn’t even discount the possibility. The Goddess of Luck sometimes did him favors. She rarely asked permission first.2
Janel said, “Would you mind taking a second turn, Qown? I’ve never heard what happened right after we were kidnapped.”
Qown gave her a long look.
“What?”
The priest sighed. “You’ll see.” He opened his book.
Qown’s Turn. Senera’s cottage, location unknown.
The guard carried Brother Qown through the gate and set him down on a wooden bench. “Colonel, this one’s injured.”
Brother Qown ground his teeth together as he tore at his wet robes, stained red. The wound still bled freely.
It also hurt. He’d been warned it often proved difficult to heal oneself, because pain sapped concentration, but he’d never experienced the phenomenon. If he was being honest, he’d always assumed he’d be the exception, able to ignore the agony through force of will.
“Put the count’s body on this table. On her back, please. Molash, go bring my bag. It’s the red leather one hanging next to the door.” Senera set down the eight-month-old dhole and untied her collar. The puppy made an immediate beeline for a velvet pillow by the fireplace, her bed, turning around three times before lying down, tail thumping her approval.3
Sir Oreth looked around for a moment, blinking, then crossed over to Senera. “Take me back. I must speak with my father.”
She ignored him and bent down next to Brother Qown. “How bad does it look?”
Qown winced. “Could’ve been worse. Skin and muscle tissue. The rib cage did its job and saved my internal organs. Mostly blood loss. If I could just … concentrate … I could…”
“Has anyone said you talk too much?” Senera smiled at him. “It’s no wonder you can’t reach Illumination.”
He blinked at her. “What did you say?”
Brother Qown felt his heart grow heavy. Please don’t let her be a follower of the Way of Vishai. Please don’t let her be someone who claims to share my faith.4 She didn’t answer his question but continued uncovering the wound on his chest.
“Are you listening to me, woman? I said I need to go back, right now.” Oreth’s anger bordered on panic. His hands started to shake.
Senera put her hand on Brother Qown’s chest. “Pragaos, watch Sir Oreth. If he makes any threatening moves, kill him.”
“Yes, Colonel.” Pragaos pulled his sword and moved to stand next to Sir Oreth.
“What?” Sir Oreth grimaced at the man. “Stand down this instant. You take orders from me.”
The soldier’s mouth quirked. “You may find you’re mistaken about that.”
“Why don’t you pour yourself a drink, Oreth,” Senera said. “You’re shaking like a—” She paused at the edge of a metaphor and narrowed her eyes at Sir Oreth. “You’ve never killed anyone before.”
Sir Oreth crossed his arms over his chest, looking more than a little wide-eyed. “What? Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I have. I just didn’t think—” He went over to the bench and sat down. “I didn’t think—”
A soldier poured a glass of brandy at the bar. He crossed back to Sir Oreth and handed it to him.
“I have to talk to my father,” Sir Oreth whispered as he took the brandy and drank it, too quickly. “I need my father.”
“Why are you helping me?” Brother Qown tore his gaze away from Sir Oreth to look at Senera.
“Seems a shame to waste a perfectly good healer,” Senera said. “You never know when you’ll need one. Now stop talking; I need to concentrate.”
Brother Qown understood that last part all too well. He leaned back and tried not to think about the pain, although the wound hurt less with every passing second. The physical pain, anyway.
Dorna. Damn it all, Dorna. It had happened so fast …
To keep himself from repeating that scene in his mind, he concentrated on gathering information. Brother Qown looked around the room. It was still night, but by the time the sun set in Jorat, it had already been night for several hours on the west coast of Quur. Mage-lights set into glass lanterns lit the room. Herbs hung from the rafters in neat bundles. Occult formulas had been burned into the wooden joists. A fire blazed in a hearth large enough for cooking or cremations. Racks of bottles framed an apothecary cabinet of medicinal powders and supplies. Windows were set into two walls, two doors led from a third—and an impressive accumulation of books, piled floor to ceiling, took up the entirety of the last. The whole room existed as a messy and cluttered altar to the arcane.
The windows provided no clues; the view outside was black.
He could make guesses, though. The cottage sat above ground, so it couldn’t be a cellar home. It clearly wasn’t an azhock either, eliminating Jorat’s two main styles of housing. The temperature felt moderate, removing Yor as an option. With cob construction, straight plumb lines, and a stone floor, it didn’t match Marakori stilt-house styles.