“Nothing as sinister as what that brat Oreth seems to think,” Dorna said. “I played the tournament circuit in my youth. Aroth was a fan … and one thing led to another.” She put an arm around Star and ruffled his hair.

“Momma,” Star said. “Stop that.”

Dorna did, grinning. “No regrets. Got Palomarn out of the deal, didn’t I? The whole thing fell apart after a few years, though. Later on, I decided I’d be happier female, and Aroth decided he’d be happier male. Fine by me, except I still run with mares and he ain’t one anymore.” She shrugged. “It was never gonna work out.”

Kihrin raised an eyebrow at Star. “Palomarn? Your real name is Palomarn?”

The large man shrugged. “I like Star.”

Janel gave Dorna a long, slow blink. “You had a child with Aroth Malkoessian?”

“Hey,” Star said. “Not a child.”

“So your son…” Kihrin had a hard time imagining Star as having been born at all. He seemed more like something spawned into existence. Star as a child? Star as a baby? No. “How did I just happen to stumble across your son for sale in the Octagon slave pits?”

Dorna gave Star a disapproving look. “What’s this? A slave?”

“Not my fault,” Star said. “People who mistreat horses don’t deserve to keep ’em.”

Dorna slapped Star’s shoulder. “No, I mean you letting them catch you. Raised you better than that.”

Star grinned as he turned to Kihrin. “I didn’t plan on you buying me. Luck, I suppose.”

“Right. Luck.” Kihrin couldn’t even discount the possibility. The Goddess of Luck sometimes did him favors. She rarely asked permission first.

Janel said, “Would you mind taking a second turn, Qown? I’ve never heard what happened right after we were kidnapped.”

Qown gave her a long look.

“What?”

The priest sighed. “You’ll see.” He opened his book.

Qown’s Turn. Senera’s cottage, location unknown.

The guard carried Brother Qown through the gate and set him down on a wooden bench. “Colonel, this one’s injured.”

Brother Qown ground his teeth together as he tore at his wet robes, stained red. The wound still bled freely.

It also hurt. He’d been warned it often proved difficult to heal oneself, because pain sapped concentration, but he’d never experienced the phenomenon. If he was being honest, he’d always assumed he’d be the exception, able to ignore the agony through force of will.

“Put the count’s body on this table. On her back, please. Molash, go bring my bag. It’s the red leather one hanging next to the door.” Senera set down the eight-month-old dhole and untied her collar. The puppy made an immediate beeline for a velvet pillow by the fireplace, her bed, turning around three times before lying down, tail thumping her approval.