For some reason, she wore a small slate inkstone. The undecorated gray stone rested in a silver cradle hanging around her neck. I thought it must have been a guild symbol or perhaps a scribe symbol.
“You look lovely,” she said to me.
“I don’t feel it.” I walked over to the dresser and opened it. Arrayed in neat rows, I found gold rings and necklaces and a long sweeping metal belt meant to be worn low around the hips. I took it, thinking I could use it as an improvised flail. The jewelry looked to be very fine quality: gold with gems like fire. Rubies, jacinths, topazes, and carnelians. I didn’t recognize the style except to note it wasn’t Joratese.
Halfway through, I realized the signals this would send in Jorat—a powerful, proud, successful stallion—might not have the same meaning in Yor.
I paused.
“Whose jewelry am I wearing?”
“Relos Var’s,” she replied.
I began removing the jewelry.
“No, no,” she said, holding up her hands. “Look, I understand how you must be feeling.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
“This is for your protection.”
“In what possible way is that true?”
The witch sighed. “Look, Yor is … provincial in its views about women. Even compared to the Capital, which is saying something. Women of a certain age are expected to be married. It’s a matter of religion, believe it or not. We’ve had to work around these quaint local customs. You’re going to need to adapt too.”
“Are you suggesting I need to be married? Who did you have in mind as this partner?” I gestured toward Brother Qown. “Him?”
She grimaced. “No. Definitely not. Here it’s acceptable to murder a man for his wife. Well, not acceptable … the Hon has outlawed the practice. But it happens. Our dear Brother Qown wouldn’t last long if we told everyone you two are husband and wife. It needs to be someone no one dares try to kill.”
“If you say Sir Oreth—”
“Hmm, not a bad idea,” Senera agreed, “but I’m not supposed to let him die either.”
I crossed my arms, remembering the conversation where Khored promised me Relos Var wouldn’t kidnap a woman and take her by force. “So you mean Relos Var, then.”
Senera shrugged. “I’ve been ‘married’ to Relos Var for five years. All for show. You won’t even suffer the indignity of a ceremony.”
“How considerate.” I rolled my eyes.
“I wanted to warn you,” Senera continued, “so when Relos Var introduces you to the Hon as his wife, you don’t do something rash. Polygyny is legal here, so no one will question Relos Var taking another bride.”
“What are you going to do with Brother Qown?” I asked.
“Relos Var’s new assistant,” Senera said. “No one needs to know what he really is: our hostage for your good behavior.”
“You don’t need to do that,” I protested. “I’ll behave. Let him go.”
She tapped me on the cheek. “Finish dressing. It’s time you meet the rest of the rebellion.”
But Brother Qown had his own plans. We both turned as we heard the Vishai priest retching all over the floor, just before he collapsed.
34: THE ONLY WAY OUT
Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Three days (sort of) since Talon gave Thurvishar a magic rock
Brother Qown cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. “I, uh … I don’t have good notes for the next part.”
Janel seemed surprised. “What? But you—” Then she stopped herself. “Oh.”
Kihrin raised an eyebrow. “I’m missing something, aren’t I?”
“I didn’t write down much of what happened next,” Brother Qown admitted. He opened his book. “I’ll read what I have, but then you should take back over, Janel.”
She nodded. “Of course. Whatever you need.”
Qown’s Turn. The Ice Demesne, Yor, Quur.
Brother Qown spent the first few hours after his gaeshing giving serious consideration to the benefits of killing himself.
What could they do to stop him, after all? If he disobeyed the gaesh, the pain would kill him. So to commit suicide, all he had to do was disobey. His free soul would travel to the Land of Peace and his next reincarnation. Or be plucked up by demons, but he might escape.
He’d be free. That meant Janel would be free. If he guaranteed Janel’s good behavior, then removing that guarantee was as simple as removing himself.
The gaesh meant he always held a weapon he could use upon himself. They could never take away his power to say no—or that refusal’s consequences. They could make him follow every order except one—the order not to kill himself.
But he didn’t do it.
He didn’t commit suicide because of a single word: too. Janel hadn’t planned on him ending up in Yor too.
Which meant she’d planned to end up there herself.
He couldn’t put such a thing past her. Challenging Relos Var to a duel had been foolish behavior for a young woman not normally foolish—even if she did possess a distressing tendency to reach for violent solutions to her problems. Janel had to have known that using Joratese idorrá/thudajé concepts would be meaningless against an outsider. But if she’d intended to lose from the start …
Maybe. Just maybe.
But Janel didn’t know the truth about Relos Var’s identity. She also didn’t know someone out there possessed a slice of her soul.
She didn’t know the truth, and he couldn’t tell her.
He had never in his life felt as powerless as he felt right then.
Brother Qown ignored the conversation between the two women and concentrated instead on the sun medallion he always kept on his person. They hadn’t taken it from him, and neither Relos Var nor Senera had been so sadistic as to make it the vessel for his gaesh. He still had the symbol, and he habitually polished it with his thumb. Father Zajhera was a fraud, but was the religion as well?
Was Selanol’s grace, Illumination’s truth, forever tainted by lies? Could truth still be found there? Was that truth too important to discard, even when its outcome had been twisted to serve an evil man?
He must have put on the clothing Senera had brought, but he didn’t remember doing it. One minute he wore his nightclothes, and the next, furs. It seemed an instant thing. Ever since he’d woken, he’d found himself flashing through moments of time, skipping over sections to land on new horrors.
He was in shock. He knew enough to diagnose his own condition. Zajhera’s betrayal, his gaeshing, had proved too traumatic.
Zajhera had been like a father to him. Qown had trusted him with his life.
Janel’s grandfather, the previous Count of Tolamer, had trusted the man too, trusted Zajhera with his granddaughter’s life. Zajhera had been the one who’d exorcised Xaltorath when the demon prince had proved immune to all the normal methods, including a direct order from the emperor. Zajhera had been the one who put Janel together again afterward, who had guided her back to sanity—and kept her from devolving into a festering ball of hate and malice.
Zajhera was a good man. The best of men.