To keep himself from repeating that scene in his mind, he concentrated on gathering information. Brother Qown looked around the room. It was still night, but by the time the sun set in Jorat, it had already been night for several hours on the west coast of Quur. Mage-lights set into glass lanterns lit the room. Herbs hung from the rafters in neat bundles. Occult formulas had been burned into the wooden joists. A fire blazed in a hearth large enough for cooking or cremations. Racks of bottles framed an apothecary cabinet of medicinal powders and supplies. Windows were set into two walls, two doors led from a third—and an impressive accumulation of books, piled floor to ceiling, took up the entirety of the last. The whole room existed as a messy and cluttered altar to the arcane.

The windows provided no clues; the view outside was black.

He could make guesses, though. The cottage sat above ground, so it couldn’t be a cellar home. It clearly wasn’t an azhock either, eliminating Jorat’s two main styles of housing. The temperature felt moderate, removing Yor as an option. With cob construction, straight plumb lines, and a stone floor, it didn’t match Marakori stilt-house styles.

The room, despite its large size, felt cozy. Books and shelves filled with odd knickknacks filled all the gaps in the walls not taken up by windows or doors. Also, drawings were pinned to the beams: anatomical renderings, landscapes, architectural drawings. All of it seemed drawn by the same hand.

In the distance, Brother Qown heard crashing waves. Since Senera could open gates, they could be nearly anywhere, but he suspected Kazivar—possibly even Eamithon.

Assuming she’d bothered to stay on the same continent.

A cool energy spread over his skin. He looked down to see Senera closing the wound and sealing it.

“Thank you,” he said, because it would have been rude to do otherwise. “I’ll heal the rest.” He hoped by volunteering she’d forget to tie him up. He’d have an easier time acting on an opportunity to escape if he wasn’t bound.

“Good.” She stood up and crossed back over to her men. “How many did we lose?”

“Four,” one answered. “Two killed during the fighting, and the other two were about to be captured.”

A look of consternation came over Senera’s face. “Thank you.”

The soldier nodded and stepped back, his expression unreadable.

Sir Oreth slammed his drink against the table and stood up. “Order your men to leave the room, right now. You and I are going to talk in private.”

The lead soldier raised an eyebrow. The other men straightened and stood at attention. Several hands drifted toward sword hilts.

“If it pleases you,” Senera said.

“Colonel—” The soldier didn’t agree.

Brother Qown struggled to sit. He found himself agreeing with the soldiers, even though every person in the room made him regret his vows of nonviolence.