I felt sick. “Yes. We do.” I’d never seen anyone gaeshed, but Xaltorath had always loved to talk shop about technique. The right way to pull out just a sliver of someone’s soul. How to bind it with a talisman that could be used to give the victim commands. The victim either obeyed … or they died in agony.

I wasn’t immune. No one was.

Mithros nodded. “If he cannot be sure he owns you, he’ll gaesh you. And a gaesh will destroy any chance you’ll have of stealing the spear Khoreval from Duke Kaen. The first command any gaesh victim receives is an order not to attempt escape. He must not gaesh you.”

“And how am I supposed to stop him?”

“You can’t. Myself, on the other hand … I’m going to take steps.”

Then I swallowed. “What steps?”

“It’s better you don’t know,” Mithros said. “He’ll try to mold you, turn you to his side. He’s good at that. He’ll ferret out secrets you didn’t know you possessed, reveal truths you never knew existed. He’s had millennia of experience, and you are—much as you may not wish to admit it—hardly more than a child.” Mithros raised an eyebrow. “If you want to triumph, you’ll first need to fail. Relos Var will try to break you. You must let him succeed.”

31: SAELEN

Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Three days since Darzin D’Mon made a bad bet

Ninavis slammed her hand on the bar. “Damn it!”

Dorna rolled her eyes. “Oh, quit your whining. So you sexed up the God of Destruction. So what? At least you had fun.” She pointed a bony finger at the woman. “Seems to me you got off light compared to the rest of us.”

Ninavis’s expression turned to a scowl. “Right.” She grimaced. “Right.”

Kihrin looked at the group. “It’s about to get worse, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes,” Qown said and began to read.

Qown’s Turn. The tournament grounds, the Green, Atrine, Jorat, Yor.

Brother Qown gripped the wood railing so hard he drove splinters under his fingernails. Everything seemed to slow down. He heard Mare Dorna’s shuddering gasps and, a long way away, Arasgon’s furious screaming. The crowd booed their displeasure at the outcome, but no one stopped Relos Var from leaving. No one rushed forward to pick up the count, whose blood made a small, neat pool on the ground.

He’d won; she’d lost.

He was strong; she was weak.

Winners were right; losers were wrong.

Innocent; guilty.

Brother Qown felt hands on his shoulders as the guards stopped him from leaping down into the tournament ring.

“No,” Brother Qown said, “I can help her!”

“Patience, priest,” Senera said. “She doesn’t need your help.”

Her calm, pleasant tone stopped him. Brother Qown turned back to Senera. “She’s dying down there, but you don’t care, do you?”