“No, wait—” Brother Qown knew in that instant Zajhera had never planned to follow them. “Father!”

And the gate vanished.

Count Janel set down the large traveling valise holding her belongings. She’d raised her cloak’s hood over her hair and face. “He didn’t stay behind, did he? Senera—”

“Oh no,” Brother Qown reassured her. “I’m sure he just went back to Eamithon. He’s a busy man, after all. He only stayed to heal your injuries.”

She put a hand to her back, to where the crossbow bolt had run her through. “Yes, of course. I’m sure Father Zajhera is quite able to see to his own protection. Which we should do as well. That’s the second hiding place we’ve been forced to flee.”

“To be fair, foal, they weren’t clever hiding spots, were they?” Mare Dorna squinted and looked around. “So let’s see if we can do better in the middle of the herd.”

Brother Qown chewed on his lower lip. The priest hadn’t yet had a chance to tell Janel about the Name of All Things. He hadn’t had a chance to tell her Senera might well track them—no matter where they went to ground.

She only had to ask the Cornerstone.

Then Dorna’s last comment struck home, and Brother Qown realized she hadn’t, in fact, been speaking metaphorically. He’d been so wrapped up in Father Zajhera’s departure, he’d paid no attention to their circumstances.

Horses surrounded them.

Hundreds at least. Horses nickered, shifted weight, blew air through their noses. Grass and musk scented the air, mixing with the more odoriferous but still green scent of horse droppings. The horses roamed over an enormous parklike space, Atrine’s buildings encircling them like a giant wall. The shining pinnacles of the duke’s palace and the sword-point towers of Khored’s Temple formed an axis pointing to the sky.

This was the Green, which they had seen in their first futile attempt to meet the duke. Most of a large city might have fit inside that ocean of grass, the only place inside Atrine large enough to hold all the horses needed for the Great Tournament. Colorful azhocks and waving banners, galloping horses, and practicing knights overwhelmed the senses. Hiding in such a space seemed impossible, except so many people and so many horses milled in the area, identifying any one single person became an exercise in frustration.

Somewhere in the Green, the firebloods—Arasgon and Talaras—met with family and caught up with important news and gossip. Somewhere here, the horses they had brought with them from the Tiga Pass grazed. Their own horses too, brought all the way from Barsine by Arasgon. Brother Qown looked forward to seeing Cloud again. He had grown fond of that sweet little gray, even if the horse loathed moving faster than a walk.

Probably because of that reason.