“I’m not married to Teraeth,” Janel said. She reached over to flick thumb and forefinger against the priest’s shoulder. “Don’t give him a heart attack.”

Qown sipped his cup, smiling.

“Who’s this stallion you’re talking about?” Dorna demanded. “Teraeth? How come I ain’t met this man?”

Dorna hadn’t demanded any such introduction to Kihrin. But he suspected everyone in the tavern knew his identity.

“Dorna, I’ve never met him in the Living World,” Janel said, “but if I ever do, I promise I’ll bring him around to meet you.” She paused. “Assuming he ever figures out he’s not in charge.”

“Oh, you have got to stop falling for stallions who think you have to be the mare,” Ninavis said, shaking her head. “Anyway, you don’t even know if he’s alive.”

“Oh, Teraeth’s alive,” Kihrin said, feeling much better about the entire conversation. Teraeth hadn’t won Janel over? Perfect. “I spent a few years training with him. He is, however, an assassin and would-be revolutionary.”

Ninavis grinned. “Oh, now you’re talking. Sounds like my kind of man.”

Dorna held up a finger. “But is he reins or saddle? That’s the question.”

Kihrin frowned. “What does—gods, you’re not talking about horses again, are you? Stop that.”

Everyone, save perhaps Brother Qown, had a good laugh.

“Now keep going,” Dorna said, waving. “I want to hear what happened to my foal.”

“Oh, we’ve been switching back and forth, Mare Dorna,” Brother Qown explained, “so our voices don’t wear out.” He pulled out his journal and started to read.

Qown’s Turn. Just outside the Tiga Pass, Jorat, Quur.

They traveled from Mereina to Atrine in the most miserable fashion. The weather continued to be execrable since leaving the estava. Brother Qown resorted to using magic to keep them from losing fingers and toes to the cold, and not even Sir Baramon protested. They were only able to forage after several days, when the weather finally turned in their favor. Later, they stopped at a small village to buy supplies.

Brother Qown chose not to point out the count never seemed to need healing. Her skin stayed warm no matter how cold the ice or snow, as if she kept a real fire behind her red eyes.

By the second week, they had moved to areas of Jorat beyond the reach of Aeyan’arric’s cold snap. The land bloomed with flowers. Smiling was easier. The count woke one morning as if she’d never known pain nor suffering, a broad smile on her face, which made even Dorna stop and stare.

“Were you any other, foal, I’d say you must have had sweet dreams.”

“Sweet enough,” the count agreed. She looked to her side, blinked, and then shook her head. “I keep expecting to see Arasgon.”