The Name of All Things, page 40
* * *
The clothes Senera had brought were heavy, thick, and woolen. They included wool pants and a shirt trimmed with animal fur for Qown, and a long, red woolen dress for me. I stared at the dress with distaste.
“I wouldn’t want to fight in that,” I said.
“I suspect Yorans believe women shouldn’t fight,” Qown said.
“I’m not—” I paused and sighed. “I’m not going to be able to convince them to treat me as one of the men, am I?”
“I don’t … I don’t think so. No.”
I growled something unintelligible as I stripped off the nightgown. Paint flaked off my skin underneath.
“I need a bath,” I said. “But I very much doubt I’ll get one in Yor—wait.” I didn’t see a chamber pot anywhere. Either Senera had forgotten—which didn’t seem like her—or she was being cruel—which didn’t match her behavior.
I examined the walls. Black stone perfectly fitted without mortar. If I had a knife, I wouldn’t have been able to fit the blade between the blocks. The level of workmanship rivaled anything I’d ever seen in Jorat—except Atrine.
Which suggested …
I walked to a smaller door and discovered a bathroom, one with hot running water. I remembered some royal guild or another who handled such matters. The duke (or Hon) wasn’t afraid to hire magical services.
That’s the one thing I miss about Atrine every time I leave; running water on demand is glorious.
“You need to escape,” Brother Qown said, his voice echoing from the main room. “You can’t stay here. I’ve heard stories about how the women are treated.”
I paused while wiping the ink stains off my face. “I’ve heard those stories too. Anyone who tries anything with me is in for a rude surprise.”
“I don’t just mean that,” Brother Qown said. “Well, I do mean that, but also … I mean … I’ve never heard of an unmarried woman in Yor. Never. If you’re not married, they marry you. Women don’t have a choice.”
“Again, I’d like to see them try.”
But I knew I’d have to deal with this. As much as I wanted to believe my sex shouldn’t be an issue, Yorans didn’t see gender as role expression. To them, it was nothing more than a person’s physical form. The vessel’s shape, never the contents within. So I was a woman to them, and they thought women were … only.
Only wives. Only mothers. Only chattel.
I ground my teeth.
I heard the main door open. “Are you two ready?”
Senera’s voice.
“One moment.” I sighed and tossed the chemise and red dress over my body. The dress fit tightly around the bodice and flowed below the waist. I thought I’d trip on the damn thing, coming and going, if I ever had to use stairs. Despite the wool, the fabric provided no protection if I ever had to go into the cold, which was probably deliberate.
Winter is a fantastic cage if all you’re wearing is a summer dress.
“I brought shoes. I hope they’ll fit. Qown, why don’t you try those on?”
I entered the room. Senera had switched to a silver dress that made her look like a marble statue enchanted into life. It had the same flaring shape as mine, although the dress had been cut looser at the top. She wore tiny silver pins in her hair and rings on her fingers, but nothing I could take away from her and use as a weapon.
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.
Zajhera couldn’t be Relos Var.
Except he was.
Everything was too much. The betrayal was too much, the pain was too much, existence was too much.
But if he disobeyed, the pain would end.1
He remembered vomiting and then nothing else.
35: THE CASTLE OF ICE
Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Three days since Talon failed to kill a Manol vané
No one spoke as Brother Qown finished.
“That must have been a hard choice,” Kihrin said. He’d known that choice himself, back when he’d been gaeshed, but had never seriously considered it.
“I’m glad you decided to stay,” Janel said. She leaned over and kissed the top of Qown’s head.
Dorna reached over and patted the priest’s hand.
“Me too,” Qown said. “I want to help make things better. I thought that ability would have been limited in the Afterlife.” To Dorna, he said, “And I didn’t know the right people to guarantee my Return.”1
“I’ll pick up from here,” Janel said.
Janel’s Turn. The Ice Demesne, Yor, Quur.
Senera and I rushed over to Brother Qown. He had pulled his legs to his chest, rocking back and forth, crying into his robes.
“Is this because of the gaesh?” I asked her.
“No.” Senera felt Brother Qown’s wrists, the skin under his jaw, then looked at both eyes, lifting his eyelids with her thumbs. “He’s not experiencing a gaesh loop.”
“A loop?”
“Contradictory gaesh commands. The conflict usually proves lethal. That said, something’s put him into shock. Help me get him over to the bed.”
I went to lift him and cried out as I felt like my arms might jerk from their sockets. I’d forgotten my lack of strength.
“Together,” Senera said.
“I see.” I lifted with her this time, and we managed to carry Brother Qown to the bed. I saw what she meant—he hadn’t lost consciousness, nor was he having a seizure. He stared straight ahead, eyes unfocused.
And I knew that look. I knew it in my bones.
I’d lived in that state where you’re too numb to be sad or unhappy or angry. That place where nothing has meaning and everything hurts.
“It may not be a … what did you call it? A gaesh loop? But I do think it’s in response to the gaesh. He’s gone into a stupor due to what’s happened to him.” I paused. “Or he’s been possessed by a demon, but I don’t think so.”
Senera sighed. “Fine. Leave him.”
I threw her a look filled with venom.
“We don’t have time,” she explained. “His attendance isn’t mandatory at the banquet. Yours is. We’ll deal with him later.”
I hopped up on the bed and put my arm around Brother Qown. “I’m not leaving him alone like this. He could snap out of it and hurt himself. And if someone tries to hurt him, he’s defenseless. I’m staying.”
Senera’s nostrils flared. “You’re not.”
“I am.”
Before I could do anything else, she touched Brother Qown’s forehead. His eyes closed and his chin fell to his collarbone, and he settled as dead weight in my arms. “There. He’s sleeping and won’t be a danger to anyone, himself included. I’ll lock the door when we leave. Now you can come with me on your own two feet, or I can summon guards to drag you, but either way, you’re going to the feast, now. I’ll let you choose.”
I slid my arm back out from behind Brother Qown, eased him back onto the bed, and pulled the furs up over him.
I tried to be as dignified as possible walking to the door. I had always planned to accompany her. I’d come here with a single job: find the spear Khoreval and steal it. Now I had two: find the spear Khoreval and Brother Qown’s gaesh and steal both. Doing either job would require being treated like something other than a prisoner. I had to convince Relos Var that he’d turned me to his cause. But I had to sell it. I had to make it believable.
Nobody values the prize they win without an effort.2
So we left Brother Qown to sleep, and Senera locked the door behind us.
No guards stood in the halls, no soldiers hovered over us. There was no need.
The building’s décor looked like nothing I’d seen before; all perfect black rock and geometric crystal insets and sparkling silver lines. Everything felt clean and crisp and cold, conjuring up an impression of endless glaciers and frozen icicles.
“How old is this palace?”
“Older than the empire,” Senera admitted. “Built by the god-king Cherthog and the god-queen Suless.”
“I’m surprised it survived the Quuros invasion.”
“Technically, it didn’t. They rebuilt it.”
I didn’t even pretend not to be impressed. This construction rivaled Atrine, and Kandor himself had built that.
We climbed stairs, and I decided my earlier assessment of this palace’s beauty and complexity had been premature.
At first, I thought the stairs had led us outside, to an enormous marble square set on a mountaintop. All around us, below us, jagged mountain ranges wrestled with silken teal skies. White clouds danced at our feet. The father of a thousand storms lurked in valleys below us but left our position untouched, so we might enjoy lightning play in clouds miles away.
Then I realized I felt no wind, no cold. The air didn’t swirl around me. The sunlight glinted off a silver lattice leading up above our heads. When I reached out as if to touch the sky, my fingertips rested against invisible cold crystal walls. Perfect, transparent walls.
We were still inside.
In a fallen age, the god-king of winter had fashioned himself a great hall to showcase his domain. And by some miracle, his Quuros destroyers had salvaged it, even as they ruined everything else.
The snow king’s palace …
The view struck me as so miraculous, I nearly forgot to breathe.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Senera said. “The first time I came here, I must have stood here for hours.”
I placed my hand against the clear wall again, watching as my fingers’ warmth left condensation trails against the cold, clear substance. “What are the walls made from?”
“Not a clue.”3
The walls were angled. I thought they must meet above our heads, a truncated pyramid flattened to form a small square ceiling—the only opaque section. Here, geometric crystal and silver glittered, crafted to suggest a vast and mighty empire of cold and ice. Crystal shards framed in metals jutted up or crouched down at precision angles, fitted together to form patterns like icicles or snowflakes—or cold and distant stars. The ceiling floated at least a hundred feet high, refracting mage-light so it glittered violet and blue through the crystals.
And like Senera, I might have spent hours just taking in this scene, but voices reminded me we weren’t alone.
In the room’s center, a massive firepit provided the lion’s share of warmth for the great hall. A large iron ring, scorched black by the heat, surrounded the pit and provided a barrier against stray sparks. Tables also circled the firepit, each home to courtiers and nobles—who were all watching us. Most of the dinner guests looked Yoran compared to the “normal” Quuros coloring. Yoran complexions were often white, but also pale blue, violet, or gray. These guests wore their pale hair long but braided up into tall topknots. The men wore beards, braided and decorated with jewelry. And they all preferred to dress in light colors. By comparison, Senera had given me a dress guaranteeing I stood out like a flame burning its way across paper.
