The guard chuckled and returned to walking the castle grounds. He never gave Brother Qown so much as a glance.

They headed for the third-floor suite where the old steward’s chambers now housed the count.

All three exhaled as they closed the door behind them.

Dorna abandoned Ninavis and started packing.

Brother Qown frowned. “The count said—”

Dorna looked back over her shoulder. “You think I’ve gone deaf, foal? I know what she said. But I guarantee you we ain’t leaving this place slow and leisurely-like. Best be prepared for the quick exit.”

Brother Qown started to retort but then stopped himself. Ninavis still leaned against his shoulder. “Let me look at your leg. The splint was a temporary solution. I should try to come up with something more durable.”

Ninavis gave Brother Qown a flat stare as she pulled the impromptu cloak off her head and began limping toward the bed. “You sure you’re not just hoping for another peek at my calves?”

Brother Qown fought the urge to roll his eyes toward the heavens. “I’m a priest of the Vishai Mysteries.”

“And?”

“He can’t run with the herd at all, if you know what I mean.” Dorna made snipping motions, miming scissors.

With effort, Brother Qown ignored Dorna. He motioned for Ninavis to sit on a nearby chair. “Not can’t. Won’t. We take a vow. I’m not interested in your legs except to make sure they’ll heal.”

He also ignored Dorna’s snort.

He didn’t use Illumination on Ninavis for several reasons, not least because she was awake, alert, and damnably Marakori. That last point meant she might even recognize what he was doing. The Marakori didn’t share the Joratese distrust of magic.

Indeed, the Marakori were the reason for the Joratese distrust of magic.

Fortunately, the broken bones had never pierced skin, which created less chance for infection. She had predictable muscle damage and swelling. Given adequate rest, she’d make a full recovery. He just wasn’t sure she’d have the chance.

“Dorna, do you think it might be possible to find wax creeper? I’ll make a plaster.” Brother Qown started to look around the room for fabric that might be boiled and cut into strips.

Before he’d begun his preparations, however, Count Janel came rushing into the room. “You made it back. Good. Dorna, help me with my armor. Then I need you three to leave here at once. Go north to Visallía. The Markreev there is a distant cousin. She’ll give you shelter.” She crossed over to where Dorna had packed their belongings and retrieved her family sword.

“Colt? What happened? You can’t … wait, what are you doing?” Dorna set her hands on her hips.

“I gave my word,” the count said. “I will keep it.”