“Not necessarily,” Janel said. “If centaurs appeared in Tolamer and I fought them off, then I’m doing my duty as count. Both heroic and acceptable. It’s the job of a stallion to protect the herd from threats. If I can’t, what good am I?”

“And if you can’t, but someone else comes along who can … what then? Do people expect you to step down and let this new person take over?” Kihrin couldn’t believe anyone would be so naïve. People who had power didn’t just give it up. That wasn’t how power worked.

Kihrin remembered Father Zajhera’s words. That man understood power. He’d understood Janel’s need to save her homeland would inevitably force her into conflict. She’d clash with people who would see her aid only as a threat to their own authority. And that would lead to … to what?

Overthrowing Duke Xun? Janel had said he wanted her dead. Rebelling against the entire empire? Quite possibly, yes. On a fundamental level, the Quuros Empire couldn’t allow a woman—a witch at that—to wield genuine authority. They’d squash her for that alone. Kihrin thought of prophecies describing how the Hellwarrior would shatter Quur and remake it. He also reminded himself that the Hellwarrior wasn’t one person but four.

Which meant when the armies marched across Quur, he wouldn’t have to be the commander leading them. That honor might be Janel’s.

“It’s how it’s supposed to work,” Janel said, head down. “But it seems our leaders have forgotten why they have power in the first place.”

Ninavis shrugged one shoulder and smiled. “Eh. We’ll just have to remind them. Your turn, right, Qown?”

Brother Qown nodded.

Qown’s Turn. Atrine, Jorat, Quur.

Few people in the whole empire are strong enough in the magical arts to open a gate by themselves. Brother Qown wasn’t one; his skills had always centered around healing. In fact, even most Gatekeepers beholden to House D’Aramarin couldn’t open a gate without assistance. That’s why they needed Gatestones.

House D’Aramarin closely guarded their monopoly. They’d therefore be horrified if they ever learned of someone strong enough to open a gate, single-handedly, who didn’t take orders from their guild at all. Worse, that he led a fringe religion many viewed as little better than a cult.

Watching Father Zajhera touch the divine always filled Qown with joy; Zajhera made spellcasting seem as easy as writing out a prayer with brush and ink. His movements shaped the universal tenyé with a skill Brother Qown envied.

Father Zajhera blessed them with his presence. Qown knew everything would be better now.

“Father Zajh—” As they crossed through the portal, Brother Qown saw the old priest give his pupil a warm smile.

He raised his right hand and moved his fingers in a twisting motion.