Sir Baramon frowned at him. “I’m not sure what you could do, priest, although it’s a nice offer…”

Father Zajhera took no offense at the dismissal. Indeed, his eyes twinkled with warm amusement. “Where would you like to go? Still in Atrine, I assume?”

I blinked at him, but Brother Qown stammered. “Father! This is Jorat. Are you sure such a display is wise?”

“Don’t fret. No one’s going to come after me for being a witch. That silly god-king tale about Joras and his descendants must have some advantages. Although don’t tell House D’Aramarin. I’ve never paid a lick of dues to them.” Father Zajhera adjusted his agolé and raised his hands, positioning his fingers just so—his body posed like a dancer before a performance. He whispered something, low and gentle and velvety, a voice to drift a thousand restless babies into slumber’s arms. Energy strands floated from his fingertips, fractal shapes coalescing in the air into mathematical skeins. There was an order to it, a pattern. It tugged at me, daring me to comprehend its meaning. The energy circle brightened, then cooled, leaving a mirror finish at its center.

A mirror finish that didn’t reflect the rooftops behind us.

“Witchcraft,” Sir Baramon sputtered.

“Blood of Joras, you oaf. He can’t be a witch. Not by anyone’s definition.” Mare Dorna crested the steps with several bags slung over her shoulders. “Now grab our things and go. There’s a saying about gifts and horses that applies right about now, so quit your whining.”

Sir Baramon started to protest.

“Follow me,” I ordered him, and I ducked back inside. I didn’t need Sir Baramon’s Joratese sensibilities about magic clashing with our need for an escape route. I hefted my travel valise and let him grab his own bags, reflecting I should be glad I’d habitually kept my possessions packed and ready to go since Tolamer. I had no idea what trinkets from the Barsine apartments had slipped and fallen into Dorna’s pockets, but I would send my apologies and replacements to Kalazan at the first available opportunity.

Back on the roof, traveling supplies now in hand, I saw the soldiers lurked just a few rooftops away. Close enough to see their faces, pale and almost certainly Yoran under makeup and disguises.

Banging echoed from the door downstairs.

“Go!” I shouted. I saluted the soldiers, then walked through the gate myself.

23: THE GREEN

Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Three days since the mimic Talon escaped her capture

“So let me see if I’ve got this straight,” Kihrin said, “you’re saying that in Jorat, being a hero is seen as an act of … conquest?”