“Hey now! Do you have any idea who this—?” Dorna stopped as Janel put her hand on the old woman’s shoulders.

“I’m here to audition,” Janel said.

“Auditions ended two weeks ago,” the guard replied. “We’re good now, thanks.”

Ninavis chuckled and pulled her bow off her arm, stringing it. The guards didn’t notice.

“I just need to speak with Captain Mithros.”

He grinned at her. “Funny how all the pretty mares do.”

She inhaled.

Brother Qown winced and reached out to her before she did something foolish. “Count—”

The guard waved a hand. “Go on, get off with you. He’ll be out to say hello to his fans later. Right now, he’s busy.”

Ninavis snapped an arrow to her bow and fired.

The blasted arrow moved so fast Brother Qown didn’t see much more than a blur, but he thought the arrow passed right before the guard’s face, parted the raven feathers decorating the Black Knight’s helmet, and then embedded itself, still quivering, in the central archery target on the far side of the compound.

Brother Qown later discovered it had been a perfect bull’s-eye.

Then all hell broke loose.

Both Count Janel and Sir Baramon stopped, turned, and gave Ninavis an incredulous look.

Ninavis shrugged at them even as she lowered the bow and gave the guard a smug smile. “You’re good here, huh?”

Janel’s expression suggested she was struggling not to laugh.

“Are you out of your mind? Why, I’m going to—” But galloping interrupted whatever punishment the guard had in mind.

The Black Knight rode over.

This Black Knight didn’t dress the fool, the way Sir Baramon had during the Mereina tournament. His ornate armor was embossed with scenes of ravens and screaming demons; he wore a black feather cloak. Still more feathers formed a crest that mimicked a horse’s mane over his helmet—a feather version of a laevos. His black horse wasn’t a fireblood, but still proved an impressive specimen.

Then the man removed his helmet, and Brother Qown saw the black went all the way down to the skin. His eyes were light green, but his skin and hair looked blacker than the raven feathers.

Brother Qown had grown so used to seeing Joratese parti-color flesh he didn’t understand what he was seeing for a moment. Then he noticed the man’s features weren’t Quuros. Any Quuros, from either side of the Dragonspires.

He was vané. A Manol vané, to be specific, and that idea so startled Brother Qown, he could only stare in shock.

What was a Manol vané doing in Jorat?

“Who shot that arrow?” The vané leaped off his horse and stalked in their direction.

“Captain, I’m sorry. I didn’t think anyone would be stupid enough to—”