She stood up from her stool and started to walk back to their table, but then turned back. “Kihrin?”

“Yes?”

“When we were in the Afterlife together, I told you I was insulted—” She paused for a moment, still finding her words. “That I was insulted Xaltorath had assumed you and I would have a relationship—as long as you consented. That my interest had been taken as already granted.”

Kihrin felt like he’d eaten rocks. “Oh.”

“You should know I wouldn’t reject you just to spite Xaltorath. If I’m interested in a relationship, I’ll tell you.” She grimaced and held up a finger. “That didn’t come out right. What I mean to say is this: Xaltorath was right. I am interested.”

The rocks in his stomach changed into butterflies, a much more pleasant feeling. Still … “What about Teraeth?”

“Oh, I’d ask him about his attraction to you. It’s not my place to say.” The corner of her mouth turned up.

“Very funny,” he said.

“I thought so.” She smiled at him. “One more story. Then we’ll stop for dinner.”

Kihrin picked up his drink and headed back. It was Qown’s turn.

Qown’s Turn. The ruins of an estava, Barsine Banner, Jorat, Quur.

The rain poured down.

It stopped being rain by the second day, turning into slushy, dank snow. Mereina’s survivors huddled for warmth. Brother Qown felt grateful for being underground; the huge stone cavern provided insulation from the weather, but everyone still clumped together and shared their blankets.

They had no way to judge morning, but Janel opened her eyes at what Brother Qown suspected was the moment the sun crested the horizon to the west. She sat up and pulled away her blankets, stretching and examining her limbs as if amazed they were still attached.

Then she wandered over to the hearth in search of breakfast.

“They were clever,” she said later as Dorna, Sir Baramon, and Dango gathered together to play dice.

“Clever?” Brother Qown kept his voice neutral.

“Yes,” she agreed. “They knew the smoke would kill everyone in the town. The demons would then eat their souls and animate—kill still more people for their brethren to possess. Then the dragon comes through and buries the local countryside in storms and snow”—she waved a finger toward the ceiling to the storm still raging above them—“so when the army comes through, they are slowed by the weather.”

“Oh, I see,” Brother Qown said. He bit his lip. “I hate clever. I would much rather we were dealing with stupid.”

She sighed. “Alas. That would have been preferable.” She brightened then. “But at least they didn’t succeed. The weather may be grim, but it will have all been in vain. There will be no Hellmarch.”

“You’re sure?”

She smiled. “I am.”