“My dearest Janel!” The old Vishai priest rose to his feet and walked toward me with arms outstretched. “My dear child, it has been too long. I’m so sorry to hear about your grandfather. His light shone to the furthest reaches of our souls.”

“Father Zajhera,” I said, trying with everything in me to keep my voice level. I had to fight the urge to run into his arms, to collapse crying with my head against his chest. Instead, I set my hand against the back of his neck, rested my forehead against his. He returned the greeting. He probably hadn’t been subject to a proper Jorat greeting since the last time he’d seen me, years before. “I thought you were across the Dragonspires.”

Brother Qown rose to his feet. “Oh, he was, Count. I sent a message for him.” He paused, and a shadow crossed over his face. “I thought it would be best.”

I stepped away from the Vishai faith’s leader, lowered my hands. “I see. Thank you, Brother Qown.” I examined them, and my heart broke. Brother Qown looked anxious, Sir Baramon shame-faced, but Ninavis—

Ninavis wouldn’t look at me at all.

“I need the room,” I said. “Father Zajhera and I have matters to discuss.”

Silence lingered, and then everyone shuffled out.

“Ninavis?”

She paused at the doorway, turned to face me.

“I’ll speak with you when we’re done here.”

Ninavis started to say something, frowned, and nodded an affirmative before following the others.

I stared after her a moment before turning my attention back to Father Zajhera. “Your Luminance, you know I owe you everything, but you shouldn’t have come.”

The old man smiled. “Sit with me. Tell me how things have been.”

“Why? Am I to believe Brother Qown hasn’t already given you a full report?”

He tsked under his breath and patted the chair cushion across from him. “Don’t be so hard on him, child. Brother Qown called me in because he found out what I’ve known for some time: you’re not an easy person to heal. You fight it. You fight it the way a sorcerer fights a rival’s curse.” His kind gaze turned stern. “Now sit.”

Some ancient tone all parents learn from their children had me following his orders—I sat down by the fire across from him. “How much did he tell you?”

“Something about an evil sorcerer, an evil witch, you needing to find a way to see the duke. Continuing troubles with the Malkoessian family that have never gone away.” He leaned forward. “Nothing you can’t solve, my dear. I have all possible faith in you.”

I breathed deeply and once more fought the desire to collapse into his arms, a little girl finding comfort in the priest who had always been there for me. At least, the priest who had been there for me since I was eight years old.