“Do you know I found an altar to the Black Knight set up two villages back? They’re claiming the Black Knight is the Nameless Lord.”

Brother Qown blinked. The Joratese called the eighth of the Eight Immortals the Nameless Lord. Their name, or lack of a name, for Selanol, Qown’s own god.

“What do you expect? The Black Knight is answering their prayers. These days, you can’t ride through a town without seeing a word or two about the Black Knight scrawled somewhere. There’s some good songs making the rounds too.”

“If we don’t split up—”

“Janel said—” And Dango stopped himself.

“How do we know Janel Danorak said anything?” Sir Baramon said. “The last I saw Janel Danorak, she lay dead on the tournament floor in Atrine. Talaras would bite my fingers off to hear me talk this way, but we only have Arasgon’s word she survived. And now we’re supposed to believe he’s talking to her every night?”

“Bary!” Dango’s voice was a low warning scold. “Only the firebloods are supposed to talk about this!”

For a long time, Sir Baramon didn’t say anything, then he shook his head. “Right. Right. Of course.” He smiled. “There’s writing about her too on the walls. Warms my heart to see it. Even if it’s ridiculous to think she’ll come back and save us.”

Dango laughed and hugged him. “Don’t you see? She’s doing that very thing right now. We’re her hands and her arms and her sword. We’re saving Jorat for her.”

Sir Baramon tried to smile, but it came at an effort. “What would I do without you?”

Dango pulled Sir Baramon to him. “Be miserable, probably—”

Brother Qown pulled himself away from the divination and sat there for a moment, exhaling, thinking about what he’d heard.

Janel had been using the firebloods to relay instructions and information, knowing no Yoran or western Quuros understood their speech. She had figured out how to pass notes to her people in Jorat and had been feeding them detailed information on Yoran strengths, plans, and numbers ever since. Everyone knew she couldn’t be involved; she’d never left Yor.

Janel Danorak had been controlling the rebellion in Jorat this entire time.

“So,” Relos Var said, “find out anything interesting?”

Brother Qown jumped in his chair and sat there for a second, feeling stupid and scared and caught with his hand in the sweet jar. Relos Var sat at the table. The wizard dressed in traveling clothes that would have been inappropriate for the weather here—but of course, he’d used a gate. Var had also brought a late dinner—sag flatbread, vegetable-studded saffron rice, mushroom-stuffed peppers, and a deep red stewed eggplant dish, swimming in oil and spices.