“I’m worried for her. It’s not just her injury.” Qown took the cup of blue-glazed Kazivar porcelain from his leader’s hands. Qown wondered if the cup had come with the house or if Zajhera had brought it with him. Focus. “I don’t think—” Brother Qown fumbled, started again. “I don’t think I’m the right person to help her, Father. I know how much she means to you. I think sending me to her was a mistake.”

Father Zajhera stared at Brother Qown, who in turn tried not to cringe. Zajhera had a way of looking at people that channeled every parental disappointment ever to sting tears in a child’s eyes. Seeing dissatisfaction in Zajhera’s eyes hurt worse than a dagger’s edge.

“Tell me what happened. Something more, I think, than her injury by brigands.”

Brother Qown motioned for Father Zajhera to follow him, since this wasn’t an appropriate conversation for bathing rooms. They walked downstairs, where a small sitting room offered comfortable chairs and tables upon which to rest their tea.

Ninavis had left to track down Mare Dorna and Sir Baramon. No one else occupied the apartment save for a sleeping count, who would continue her deathlike slumber throughout the night.

“I have followed your suggestions,” Brother Qown said as they both sat down, “and I have avoided discussing the source of her abilities. She has, since I first met her, maintained her strength is due to Xaltorath’s curse. But in recent weeks…” Brother Qown paused to sip his tea. “Well. It’s become difficult to ignore abilities that cannot be described this way.”

Father Zajhera looked surprised. “She’s developed a second spell-gift?” Neither would call it a witch-gift. Witches were not just sorcerers who’d forgotten to pay their license fees.

“With all respect, Father, I believe she has developed a third. You’ve long contended her strength is her own doing, a defense mechanism after the trauma she experienced at Lonezh. I believe the ‘curse’ that sends her to the Afterlife every night is also a spell-gift. And I think she’s beginning to show signs of a third ability involving fire.”

Father Zajhera chuckled. “Impressive. It’s such a shame her grandfather would never let me train her.”

“Of course he wouldn’t. She’s not ‘Blood of Joras.’” Brother Qown gave the other priest a scolding look. “A concept that you never mentioned to me.”

“Hmm? Oh yes. I’d forgotten about that.”

“Well, I’m never going to forget that label. I’m wondering if I can find someone to embroider it on my robes. Maybe Dorna…” Brother Qown sighed and stretched. “That’s not all. That’s not even half.” Without waiting for a response, he continued, “We were in Mereina when it was attacked. A sophisticated attack organized by genuine witches, who wiped out almost the entire town and everyone gathered for the tournament. Thousands dead.”