“Don’t be lecherous,” Janel said. “I know it’s hard, but try. Also, trust me when I say they don’t need to be rescued.”

“And your third meeting with Teraeth confirms who Elana is,” Kihrin said, shaking his head. When Janel looked at him, he said, “Remember you said I kept calling you Elana in the Afterlife? That was the only Elana I could recall. Atrin Kandor’s wife: Elana Milligreest.”

“Milligreest?” Janel looked quite surprised.

“Yeah, after Kandor died, she went back to using her maiden name.” Kihrin paused, blinked, and then started rubbing his thumbs into his temples.

Apparently, the Goddess of Death had a mean streak so vicious it left Kihrin open-mouthed in awe. Thaena had taken two infamously mortal enemies—Atrin Kandor and Terindel the Black—and had reincarnated one of them as the other’s son.

That was just … mean.

And it didn’t even begin to explore the part where Atrin’s widow—Elana—had later married Terindel.

Yes, the same Terindel.

Kihrin found himself grateful he could watch that tangled knot from a safe distance. Well, mostly. Given his feelings about Janel, he couldn’t claim impartiality.

“Are you … all right?” Qown asked.

Kihrin looked up. “Sorry. I just, uh … I was just thinking about how Janel also has a ‘type.’” Teraeth and his father, Terindel, both possessed a certain resemblance, after all. Just like Terindel probably resembled his father—Mithros.

“Oh, that’s true,” Dorna said. “I never really noticed before, but you’re a damn close match to Oreth’s coloring, aren’t you? I mean, not the eyes, but … everything else.”

“No,” Kihrin said. “That’s not what I—” He pressed his lips together and looked over at Janel. “Seriously?”

Janel raised her hands helplessly. “Similar, yes, but I like you a lot better than him.” She shifted uncomfortably before she turned to Qown. “Would you mind? Please?”

“Not even slightly,” Qown said.

Qown’s Turn. The Ice Demesne, Yor, Quur.

Brother Qown waited in the library, staring at the agate sitting in its box. Its raw edges glittered, light flickering over them as though he held the stone before a fire.

Relos Var walked back inside the room. He carried a stack of books, ink, brushes, and probably an inkstone—which he dumped on the table.

Qown frowned. “Why will I need this?”

“You’ll see.” Relos Var pulled up a chair next to him and sat down. “Pick up the stone and concentrate on it. It may help to close your eyes.”

Brother Qown hesitated.

Relos Var just raised an eyebrow. “Second thoughts?”

Qown grimaced and picked up the stone.

And … it didn’t feel special. His arm didn’t burst into flame. He felt no strange energy flow through him. Nothing about it felt special at all. He held a normal, if exquisite, rock.

He closed his eyes and concentrated.