“Qown…” Relos Var shook his head. “I don’t expect you to approve. I would be horrified if you did. But I would hope, after all the years we’ve known each other, that you’d take my word this is necessary.”

“But I don’t know you at all. And you can’t justify that. There’s no excuse that makes it acceptable.”

Relos Var nodded. “I understand. War—the very concept of war—is against everything the Vishai believe in. I created the faith to be better than I am. That I succeeded is a comfort, even as it’s a current frustration. I won’t say you’re naïve or you just don’t understand. I only hope I can make a world one day where people like you won’t fall victim to…” His smile was bitter. “Well, to people like me.”

Brother Qown wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. “This isn’t war.”

“But it is. A rare case where the Eight and I agree—the war never stopped.”

Brother Qown drew a deep, shuddering breath and set his tea aside. His feelings—his outrage and anger and deep, deep pain—couldn’t be allowed to gain control. This was an opportunity. He had to look at it as an opportunity. A chance to find out more information in the hope, no matter how faint or impossible, he could one day share his knowledge with others.

“What about Janel?”

Relos Var raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“What about Janel? You healed her. You helped her. And you sent me to help her. She must be important to your plans. How does she fit into all this?”

Relos Var smiled. “Would you believe me if I told you there’s a prophecy?”

“The quatrain Senera recited back at her cottage.”

“Not only that one. I know you’re familiar with the prophecies. I lent you several books on the subject, when you were going through that phase as a teenager. I believe a distressing percentage of those quatrains concern Janel. Specifically, Janel.”

“They’re demonic ramblings.”