The Name of All Things (A Chorus of Dragons #2)

by Jenn Lyons

Qhuaras.

Nemesan,

Raenena

Hamarratus.

“Avranila,

“Aeyan

Zajhera

Tolamer.

Arasgon

Kirpisari

Normally, when one refers to a human as a stallion or mare, we’re discussing their gender.” Kihrin stared. “And you weren’t talking about gender before? You’re a woman. Isn’t that what you mean by mare?” Her mouth twisted. “You’re conflating gender with sex. My sex—my body—is female, yes. But that’s not my gender. I’m a stallion. And stallion is how Joratese society defines our men. So you’re wrong; I’m most certainly not a woman.” Kihrin’s eyes widened. “You just said you were female.” She sighed. “Who I am as a man is independent of”—she gestured to herself—“this. It wouldn’t matter if I were male, female, or neither; I would still be a stallion.” Kihrin stared harder. “You’re … a man.” His gaze wandered down her tunic, lingered at her legs, then hiked back up to her face. “Obviously.” Janel rolled her eyes. “Again, you’re conflating woman and female. I can’t blame you; they must be synonyms in the west. But rest assured, they’re not here.” She looked down at herself, plucked the neck of her tunic. “Normally, when one uses mare or stallion to describe a person, they’re talking about gender. And by that definition, I’m a man. But for sex, the rules change. Because then we’re talking about aesthetic preferences, in which case”—she looked down at herself—“I’m most likely to meet the standards of someone who prefers female partners. I am in fact a female man.” She smiled. “Do you see the trap now?” He shook his head. If someone looked like a woman to him—Janel, for example—h...

That's because it is. SO lovely to see the nonsense has made its way into the books I read now. =/

Danorak

Ninavis,”

Dedreugh.

Kalazan

Kasmodeus

She grinned and set a crimson tongue against her green lips. ***WILL YOU CONTINUE TO BE CONTRARY, I WONDER? KNOWING ALL YOUR BEHAVIOR IS BY MY DESIGN?*** “And how little you understand me if you think I act this way from spite. I despise you and I hate everything you represent. I won’t rest until your kind is no more.” Xaltorath half blinked, slowly lowering her eyelids like a house cat. Her green lips curled. Then she leaned forward and uttered the single word that has haunted me for years since. ***GOOD.***

saelen,

much6

Selanol’

Kovinglass.

Talaras,

Kihrin met Janel’s eyes. “A good friend told me we volunteered for this. Four of us. From the Afterlife, we volunteered to return and help fight the war. I think you’re one of us.”

“I think to understand whether or not it makes sense, we’d have to understand Xaltorath.” “Good luck with that,” Janel said. “The demons want to live,” Brother Qown said, speaking up at last. “What does anyone want? They want to survive. The question we must ask ourselves is: Can they only survive at our expense? Is this a Zaibur game where a single side wins, or is this ravens and doves?”

Khoreval,

“Teraeth, she has made up her mind.” I paused. “His name is Teraeth?” “Yes.” I chewed on my lower lip while regarding Teraeth. He seemed young enough. Not much older than myself. I turned back to Thaena. “Is he claimed yet? He’s lovely.” She blinked again, looking once more surprised, while Teraeth stared at me in mute shock. Then Thaena smiled. “Why … what are you offering for him?” “Well, you do still owe me a boon.” “A very good point.” “Mother!” Teraeth’s scandalized tone banished any possible doubts I might have had about their relationship. He was mortified. His mother was embarrassing him. Perfect. Adorable. Oh, I wanted him.

Dorna held up a finger. “But is he reins or saddle? That’s the question.” Kihrin frowned. “What does—gods, you’re not talking about horses again, are you? Stop that.”

Kavisarion

Dalrissia?”

Desrok

Brother Qown had asked why we spent so little time in a usable city, but that answer should have been obvious. How could any Joratese worth her mane stand to spend so long removed from our herds?

Malkoessian.”

Sominias,

Shiniah.

“So you were engaged to marry this Oreth person?” Kihrin asked. “The Markreev’s second son, yes,” Janel answered. “But Oreth and I had very different ideas about my place in the relationship. I’m not a mare. I’m never going to be a mare.” “And mare doesn’t mean … female?” Kihrin wanted to make sure he understood. Nina laughed. “Not even a little. Mares stay at home and see to the house, yes, but they’re also farmers, teachers, caretakers, organizers. And stallions are the preening, prancing warriors circling the herd in case lions show up. Ask most stallions and they’ll tell you they’re in charge too while the mare who’s making sure everything gets done just laughs.” “It’s not so simple,” Janel chided. “And not everyone is so labeled.” “No,” Dorna agreed, “but you ain’t ever going to stay at home and raise the foals while your stallion mate goes off to war, and that’s a fact.”

In my experience, a man whose loyalty may be purchased once with your metal may find it purchased a second time with someone else’s.” Sir Oreth laughed. “Oh? And how do you buy loyalty?” “Purpose, meaning, and appreciation,” Relos Var answered without hesitation. “My people aren’t loyal because of my coffers; they are loyal because of my cause.” He paused. “The coffers don’t hurt, though.”

Also, remind me to stay far away from you in a fight.” “I hardly ever lose control anymore.” Kihrin shook his head. “Now see, it’s that ‘hardly ever’ part I find so disconcerting.” “Welcome to the party,” Ninavis said. “At least the beer’s free.”

“The stone she used is no river rock. It is the most dangerous of all Cornerstones: the Name of All Things.” Brother Qown felt a shiver sweep through him. The priest knew very little about the Cornerstones. Father Zajhera seldom spoke of them, but Brother Qown remembered enough to know they were eight artifacts with different and significant magical abilities. “You once told me the Cornerstones are gods trapped in stone,” Brother Qown whispered. Zajhera waved a hand, irritated. “I was being poetic. That description gives the stones more credit for sentience than they deserve. The Cornerstones are eight gems, tied to universal concepts. They contain godlike power, but not a divine being’s will and intelligence. Such direction must be supplied by another. Anyone who holds them in fact.” His smile turned sardonic. “Even an escaped slave from Doltar.” “What…” Brother Qown’s throat felt dry and thick. “What does the Name of All Things do? What are its powers?” Zajhera shrugged. “Who can say with any certainty? It provides information. Its power is subtle. Its sphere is knowledge. It seems the stone can be used to answer questions. Even perhaps questions as esoteric as, what tenyé sigil might turn the air sweet and pure?”

Father Zajhera looked confused. “But she’s female…?” “Physically,” Brother Qown agreed. “But do you remember when you first told me about her? How you said there had been all those false reports about the Count of Tolamer having a grandson? You assumed people saw her dressed up in boy’s clothes and jumped to the wrong conclusions. I don’t think they did. Because the Joratese don’t see it the way you or I would. She’s not a mare; she’s a stallion. To the Joratese, Count Janel—and note how it’s Count and not Countess—is a man to the Joratese, by all the standards we’d use in the west. Except for one thing: she’s female.” “But she was engaged to marry that boy—” “It’s no scandal for two stallions to marry—and notice how those labels have nothing to do with biological sex. And they have three, you’ll note.” “Three what?” “Three genders. Gelding is also allowed. It has nothing to do with whether you like sex or are even capable of sex. Gelding is a catch-all term for anyone who doesn’t quite fit into the stallion and mare definitions or who doesn’t want to fit into those definitions.

Fucking gender nonsense. Could they stop harping on it already? We get it - MOVE ON!

“I murdered six people last night. Did Brother Qown tell you?” “Murder,” Father Zajhera answered, “requires premeditation. And if I understand the legalities, you had every right to defend yourself against those men or indeed to take their lives for their affront.” He held up a finger as I started to retort. “They didn’t belong to your herd. They were not saelen. These were dangerous men committing illegal acts.

I tilted my head, looking at him as much as I could without turning my face from the altar. “Oreth believes his right to command me is the natural order. He thinks he’s the stallion and I should be the mare. That is not and never will be who I am.” He gave a hard look to the side, past me to where Dorna sat, not moving and barely breathing. “You should have gone to the Festival of the Turning Leaves, then.” Anger spilled into me, anger with Oreth, anger with his father, anger with my own grandfather for putting me in this situation. The Markreev’s suggestion burned. Not because I had any problem with those who spent their year in the nature goddess Galava’s service, in exchange for the gift that followed. If Dorna lived happier as a woman than as her birth sex, who was anyone to question it? If the Markreev had chosen to become male, that was his right too. But I wished to remain female.

Precisely. This is why gender is such nonsense and actually very regressive. It is saying certain likes and behaviors are unique to men and some are unique to women. When in actuality, you shouldn't have to class yourself as a guy just because you like battle and taking charge. 🙄

“Khored?” The word slipped out before I could stop myself, at once question, prayer, and statement. I had already met a god once that week. It didn’t seem so impossible an idea I might meet another. I’d grown up on a thousand divine stories. Not one featured Khored as a black-skinned Manol vané. But not one said he didn’t look like such either. The smile slipped a little from his face, but then returned and shone all the brighter for the lapse. “Please, call me Mithros.

Palomarn

Since Brother Qown had been quiet and hadn’t moved from his position, he’d been easy to ignore. No one stopped him from letting his focus drift into Illumination. So he saw why Relos Var seemed so familiar. He cast magic the same way as Father Zajhera. Now Brother Qown had received a more in-depth education on the magical arts than most Academy graduates. Father Zajhera had been a thorough instructor, one who believed in teaching fundamentals and theory. So Brother Qown knew magical instruction could only inspire and advise. Magic was personal. No two people approached spellcasting the same way. Even twins would have different approaches to how they cast spells. But Relos Var cast spells the same way as Father Zajhera. Exactly the same. Qown saw no difference at all.11 And his eyes widened in horror as he stood up from the bench. “Zajhera,” he whispered. Relos Var looked up. Their eyes met across the room. Relos Var frowned. For that split second, Var looked bereft. Heartbroken.

“Father Zajhera used to tell me stories,” she whispered. “He’d sing me to sleep at night.” Kihrin’s throat tightened, but he tried for lighthearted, anyway. “Wait. He can sing?” Janel stared at him in despair. “No,” she said. “He really can’t.”2 She burst into tears. He put his arms around her, drew her to him, and let her cry into his misha. He knew this wasn’t easy for her—crying was embarrassing, messy, a sign of stallion weakness. Kihrin was beginning to understand Jorat put the same expectations on its men that the Capital did; they just allowed some of those men to be female. He held her as if none of that mattered, because it didn’t. Janel made fists against his chest and sobbed with all the anger of someone betrayed by a loved one. Which is what Relos Var had almost certainly been.

“Exidhar,

Exidhar Kaen looked like he planned to crawl under the table. “I was, uh … I mean, I—” He pointed at me with one hand, still clutching his bleeding nose with the other. “She hit me!” Of course, it came out more like “She hith may!” Duke Kaen raised an eyebrow at him, glanced at me, and then turned to Relos Var. “Am I correct in assuming my son just grabbed your newest wife’s ass?” Behind Exidhar, the royal in blue cleared his throat and started paying attention to his wine. I ground my teeth, wondering if I had in fact punched the wrong man.5 Mind you, I wanted to punch them all, but that wouldn’t help me in the long run. Relos Var seemed unconcerned. “I believe she’s already satisfied any demands of honor.” “Two minutes,” Senera muttered. “We’ve been here less than two minutes.”

I closed my eyes and concentrated on the pain to distract me from saying something rash. I hadn’t been prepared to be treated like I wasn’t even in the room, someone who could be talked around rather than talked to. Someone who would stay politely silent while the adults discussed important matters.6

He looked over to Relos Var. “Seriously, name your price for her. What do you want?” “I want you to be smarter,” Relos Var snapped. “But it’s not a sum you’ll ever raise.”

“Don’t let them see it bother you,” someone whispered. I looked over. One of the black-clad royals had spoken. The bald one. “They thrive on the pain they cause,” he said. “It feeds them. Don’t give them the satisfaction.”11 “They? Aren’t you one of them?” His mouth quirked. “I’m nothing like them.” He wasn’t looking at me. The voices around us created a din. Yet somehow, I still heard his whisper. “My name is Thurvishar D’Lorus. I’ll try to help if I can, but don’t rely on it. My hands are tied in many ways.”