“I care a great deal,” she said. “And don’t worry. Hurting you and Dorna isn’t part of the plan, no matter what that idiot Oreth thinks.”

“Why not? Why would you treat us any differently here from how you did at Mereina?”

Her gaze tightened. “Be grateful I’m treating you differently.”

“Ah, foal. How long have you known you’re on the wrong side?”

Senera whipped her head around and stared at Mare Dorna. The old woman’s expression looked grim as tears slipped down her face, but she held her chin up, defiant. She met the younger woman’s eyes without flinching.

Seconds passed.

“I’m not on the wrong side,” Senera said. She motioned, and the guards pulled Mare Dorna and Brother Qown to their feet. “There’s no point waiting around.”

The guards escorted them back to the staging grounds.

“There has to be something—”

Mare Dorna shook her head. “Shush.”

Brother Qown shut his eyes and tried to slow his racing heart. The whole way back from the tournament grounds he’d tried to plan any kind of escape. But he couldn’t think past the numb pain. Had Janel challenged Relos Var to a duel? The reverse? Had Duke Xun forced this, to determine who was guilty?

Count Janel was dead.

Wasn’t she?

A guard nudged him as Brother Qown slowed, forcing his thoughts toward more immediate concerns. His own safety, for one thing. They needed to escape; he couldn’t imagine how they were more useful to Senera and Sir Oreth alive than dead.

Unfortunately, his own magical talents had always been subtle. He’d never had much talent for the destructive arts.

Instead of returning to the Stavira azhock, the guards took them behind the main stands, to the “backstage” areas of the tournament not meant for the public.

Of course. Senera had said she wished to collect Janel’s body.

The guards asked a few questions. Directions were given. Brother Qown saw a pair of grooms carrying a body wrapped in tournament flags.

Senera burst into tears and began waving for the grooms to wait.

As she did, Brother Qown felt a guard pull him close, pressing a dagger against his ribs. The message seemed clear enough: Don’t make trouble. The grim expression on Mare Dorna’s face suggested a similar experience.

A groom paused. “Uh … can I help you?”

“My count!” Senera wailed.

Brother Qown couldn’t help but notice she knew enough Karo to use the correct pronouns.

“We, uh—” The two grooms looked at each other. “We’re taking the body to the Blue House.”

She sniffled and wiped her eyes. “Her fiancé, Sir Oreth, asked me to collect her. I can’t believe this has happened.” She pulled herself up, gathering her dignity around her. “We’ll take her.”