How long did it take Brother Qown to make tea, anyway? “Uh … I might need time to adjust to the idea. Do I refer to you as he or…?”

“She,” Janel said. “We try not to confuse the rest of Quur too much.”

“I don’t think it’s working.” Kihrin took a moment to collect himself. “So … what about you, then?”

“Me? I’m not confused on the matter at all.”

“No, I mean, do you run with … stallions or mares?”

She raised her eyebrows at him. “Why would I run with just part of the herd?”

Kihrin was glad he hadn’t been taking a drink. “Aha, why indeed.” He smiled back. He liked her forwardness. He liked her unflinching lack of shame. And while Kihrin understood Janel had an agenda, she only had to meet his stare for a few seconds too long before he started to forget why that might be important. Kihrin knew this wasn’t smart. Not smart at all.

Kihrin reached for her hand, anyway.

Brother Qown set down a tray laden with a kettle and cups.

Kihrin pulled his hand away. “You found tea. Great.”

“Isn’t it?” Brother Qown said. “I’m so pleased.”

Janel said, “Brother Qown, shall I take a turn? It’ll help save your voice.”

“Are you sure?” Qown offered his book to her.

“That won’t be necessary,” Janel said. “I’ll tell the story my way.”

Kihrin almost laughed at the scandalized stare Qown gave her.

The priest recovered and poured himself a cup of tea. “Would you mind if I recorded your account, then?”

Janel blinked at Qown. “If you did what?”

Qown reached into his satchel and recovered another journal. “It’s a spell I learned from”—he cleared his throat—“my old monastery. To document interviews for historical records. It’s very subtle. You won’t even know it’s happening.”

“Wait.” Kihrin leaned forward. “You know a spell that will record everything we say? Because I’m familiar with that spell.” His adoptive father, Surdyeh, had known how to do something very similar.

“Really? Oh, it’s a lovely spell, isn’t it? I can’t even begin to tell you how many times it’s saved my fingers from cramping—”

“You don’t own a ruby ring, do you?” Kihrin’s eyes narrowed.

Qown regarded him strangely. “What an odd question. No, I would never. Vishai priests live modest lives.”

Kihrin pulled himself together. “Sorry. Of course.”

“Well,” Janel said. “I, for one, don’t mind if you record my account, Qown, so why don’t I just begin?” Without waiting for his response, she did.

Janel’s Turn. Barsine Banner, Jorat, Quur.

After I broke the woman’s leg, I threw down the branch and stepped back, so Brother Qown might rush forward. Arasgon nosed around me, making sure I’d taken no serious injury. Not without cause; I already felt the bruises ripening along my jaw and ribs.