“Ysinia,” Dorna said, “but just how would you plan to do that, young man? It ain’t like we have a Gatekeeper, unless you have some talents you ain’t advertised yet?”

Brother Qown smiled wanly, which Dorna took as a negative.

He had no aptitude at all for teleportation magic, assisted by a Gatestone or otherwise. He’d never been much bothered by this. Although the Gatestones connected every corner of the empire, Qown had no real interest in being a glorified toll gate operator.

However, Brother Qown did have a legal House D’Mon license to practice magic. He kept up his membership fees. Unfortunately, in Jorat, unless someone was a priest of the Eight or an official Gatekeeper, they were labeled witches. Brother Qown wasn’t at all sure the local Joratese would give him enough time to present his paperwork before they reached for their torches and pitchforks.

“Well, then,” Mare Dorna continued, “since Barsine’s a banner seat, it’s home to a Gatestone. But way I hear from the locals, the baron’s too stingy to pay for his own Gatekeeper. He has those House D’Aramarin folks doing nothing but the barest. A Gate opened the day before the tournament. A Gate’s gonna open the day after. Anyone wants more, they got to pay it themselves. And like as not, have arranged it in advance.”

“That doesn’t help us,” Ninavis snapped.

“Oh no,” Dorna agreed. “Not at all. Which is why I’m still a mighty fan of running.” She moved two fingers in imitation. “I’m real sorry about your people, Ninavis. They all seemed like good folk. But I ain’t hearing a plan that’s going to let us get near enough to free them. We’ll have so many crossbows pointed at us one of them’s bound to hit. And if this Captain Dedreugh fellow is strong as you, foal, but twice your size? I don’t think of your chances in straight-up warfare as all too great. Plus, let’s not forget your friend Tamin’s got himself some witchy magic at his fingertips. I wouldn’t bet all your metal on that absent teacher being the only one casting spells.” Dorna squinted at the count through one eye, cocking her head to the side. “So how are you going to handle this?” She raised a finger. “Don’t say, ‘I’ll fight my way out.’ You hear me, young stallion? Don’t you dare.”

“Not at all,” the count said as she pulled a thick pile of mail from her valise. “I plan to fight my way in.”