The Spectral Blaze

FOUR

10-14 E LEASIS, THE Y EAR OF THE A GELESS O NE

An inn that specialized in catering to those who traveled on the backs of flying steeds, the Eagle’s Idyll resembled a stone beehive floating in midair, with only three arcing bridges connecting it to other bits of Airspur. The open-air tavern on top was famous for its cuisine, and Gaedynn was a man who appreciated fine food. Still, he looked down at the broiled spiced shrimp, wild rice, green beans, and roll on the octagonal plate before him and realized he wasn’t hungry.

“Curse it,” he said. “For a moment, I thought I had the queen on my hook.”

“Why did you say we brought our information hoping for a reward?” Cera asked. With her blonde curls and gold-trimmed yellow vestments gleaming on the bright, summer day, she looked like a proper agent of the god she worshiped, except that there was nothing sunny about her scowl. “After you blurted it out, Aoth and I had no choice but to follow your lead.”

“I didn’t ‘blurt,’ ” Gaedynn replied. “I weighed the options, then told the queen and her deputies we were behaving exactly as people expect knavish sellswords to behave. It was something they could understand. Did you really want to claim that we were here because Amaunator sent us? Reveal that we revived Alasklerbanbastos? Maybe call the gruesome brute into the royal presence to vouch for us?”

“Yes!” Cera said. “Because it’s the truth, and it might have worked. Your way didn’t.”

Gaedynn smiled crookedly. “I admit, you have me there.” He turned to Aoth. “What do you think?”

Aoth shook his head. “It’s possible the genasi just hate the dragonborn too much and that plans for the war have progressed too far for our arguments to have prevailed no matter what we said. It’s even possible that Tradrem-or Lehaya or Myxofin-opposed us because he’s secretly in league with one of the dragons. After all, Nicos Corynian-our own original employer, may the Black Flame help us-took bribes to advance Skuthosin’s schemes.”

Gaedynn took a sip of chilled green tea. “I’m getting tired of feeling like somebody’s always a move ahead of us. Or worse, that we still aren’t really players at all, but merely pawns. It’s injurious to my pride.”

Aoth snorted. “I suspect it will withstand the blow.”

“We can only hope. So what’s the plan now? I don’t suppose it’s simply to give up, fight in Tchazzar’s new war and profit thereby like sensible sellswords, and then clear out of Chessenta as soon as it’s practical?”

“Sorry,” said Aoth.

“Then how about this? I’ll fly back to Threskel and fetch a few dozen of our fellow griffon riders to accompany us on a dragon hunt.”

“No,” said Aoth. “Someone would likely notice the absence of so many and send word to Tchazzar or Halonya. We three are already taking a big risk just by being gone ourselves.”

“Hunting Vairshekellabex and his wyrmkeepers and whatnot all by ourselves strikes me as a fair-sized risk as well.”

“We have Alasklerbanbastos,” Cera said, chicken, mushrooms, and chucks of red pepper impaled on the skewer in her hand. “Our own wyrm to pit against the other.”

“Right up until the instant he sees a chance to turn on us,” Gaedynn said. “Excuse me. I meant, turn on us again. I realize that if we go ahead with this, we probably have no choice but to use him as a weapon, but-”

Aoth leaned sideways. Gaedynn realized it was so he could look past him. “Company,” the warmage said.

Gaedynn turned. Well dressed in a wine red taffeta jacket and cambric shirt, a firesoul was striding across the terrace with its scatter of round tables, mosaic floor, and low parapet. The pattern of golden lines on his face was asymmetrical, with more on the right than the left. Gaedynn wondered if it was the genasi equivalent of a birthmark. Whatever it was, the fellow was handsome enough otherwise, with an aristocratic self-assurance to his expression and a swagger in his walk.

Aoth rose and offered his hand. “I believe we met some comrades of yours on our journey to Airspur. The patrol led by Yarel-karn.”

For a moment, Gaedynn wondered how Aoth knew the genasi belonged to the Firestorm Cabal. Then he noticed the rectangular gold ring on the middle finger, with its dusting of tiny garnets. Some of the riders in the red-coated patrol had worn similar ones, and even at a distance, Aoth’s spellscarred eyes had spotted it.

The firesoul blinked. “Really? How are they faring?”

Gaedynn grinned. “Not so badly, thanks to us.”

“Then you’ll have to tell me the story. But first I’d like to discuss something else.” He glanced at an empty chair. “May I?”

“Certainly.” Aoth sat back down in his own chair. “Maybe you should start with your name.”

“And how you knew to come looking for us,” Gaedynn added, “when we’ve only been in the city half a day.”

“Of course,” said the firesoul. “My name is Mardiz-sul. I’m a Bright Sword in the Cabal.” Gaedynn surmised that was a position of authority. “And I knew you were in Airspur because our fellowship has more friends that most people realize, including some close to the throne.”

In other words, Gaedynn thought, Arathane’s court was as rotten with intrigue as Tchazzar’s.

“Then I assume,” said Aoth, “that you know what was said in our ‘private’ audience with the queen.”

“I do,” said Mardiz-sul.

“And you believe us?” Cera asked.

“Well, sunlady,” the firesoul said, “I’m inclined to. We firestormers flatter ourselves that we know the lands where the attacks occurred better than the army does. And although our scouts and trackers have searched, we haven’t found the hidden trail the dragonborn allegedly used to sneak all the way north from Tymanther and then back home again. But we have heard rumors of a gray dragon. And if it’s really there, I imagine it’s powerful and malicious enough to get up to all sorts of tricks.”

Cera smiled at him. “If you’re leading up to telling us you’ll give us the help we need, then Amaunator bless you today and forevermore.”

Her warmth appeared to make Mardiz-sul uncomfortable. “Ah, thank you, sunlady, truly. But nothing’s decided yet. I believe that Captain Fezim asked for fifty men-at-arms, with the implication being that he would be in command.”

Aoth frowned. “That’s right.”

“I mean no insult, but that’s unacceptable. Firestormers expect to be led by one of their own. I can’t ask them to follow a Thayan with a dubious reputation.”

Gaedynn grinned at Aoth. “Imagine if he had meant to insult you.”

Aoth shot him an irritated glance then turned his luminous blue gaze back on the genasi. “I respect your honesty. I trust you’ll respect mine if I talk to you in the same way.”

Mardiz-sul hesitated. “I suppose.”

“Can I assume Yarel-karn is well regarded within the Cabal? The rest of you don’t think of him as incompetent, a simpleton, or anything like that?”

“No!” said Mardiz-sul. “Of course not.” Flame flowed along one of the golden lines on his hand, stopping just short of the ring.

“Well, as Gaedynn mentioned, we helped him and his men. They needed it because he made a mistake no competent professional soldier would make.”

“Anyone can make an error,” Mardiz-sul replied.

“Anyone who lacks training and experience,” said Aoth. “Does that describe you? I ask because I suspect you mean to command the expedition to kill Vairshekellabex, with the three of us tagging along as guides and advisers.”

“I come from a noble family,” the genasi said, glowering. “My forefathers were warriors remembered to this day. Naturally my education encompassed the martial arts.”

“But I’ve got a hunch you’ve never had to apply what you studied,” said Aoth. “Not until the army abandoned the settlers in the hinterlands, and that so bothered you that you felt called to join the firestormers.”

“And as long as we’re talking about training and experience,” said Gaedynn, “let’s not limit the conversation to you and Yarel-karn. I assume the fellows who would accompany us are the firestormers you can gather quickly, the ones here in Airspur as opposed to those already making themselves useful out in the borderlands. Who are they, new recruits? The rawest of the raw and the greenest of the green?”

“You have no right to jeer at us!” said Mardiz-sul. “The Cabal has saved hundreds of lives since it began!”

“I believe it,” said Aoth, his tone conciliatory. “Yarel-karn and his men fought bravely. I’m sure you and the warriors who follow you do the same. My point is simply that you’re not seasoned professionals, and we’re talking about going after a dragon and its servants. To have a fighting chance, you need to let the two fellows who are professionals apply their skills to best advantage. That means letting me command with Gaedynn as my lieutenant.”

“Please,” Cera said. “You referred to Aoth’s ‘dubious reputation.’ But if you’ve heard reports of the war in Threskel, then surely you realize that he and his company were instrumental in Tchazzar’s triumph.”

Mardiz-sul sighed. “I have heard, sunlady. Those reports, and your holy office, are why I take your story seriously. But still, to entrust my command…” He turned back to Aoth. “If you’re so certain it would be suicide to follow me, will you simply tell me where to look for Vairshekellabex? Then we firestormers can go fight him by-”

Gaedynn heard a soft scratching sound. “Shut up,” he said.

Mardiz-sul gaped as if no one had ever spoken to him so rudely. His stunned silence enabled Gaedynn to be sure of what he was hearing.

Wishing he were wearing his brigandine, he sprang up from his chair, slung his quiver over his back, and restrung his bow. Instantly following his lead, Aoth jumped up and grabbed his spear. A greenish glimmer flowed along the razor edges of the head.

Cera took only a heartbeat longer to stand up and grip her gilded mace. She was learning.

Meanwhile, Mardiz-sul gawked at them with all the other diners, tipplers, and servers on the terrace. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Something’s climbing up the outside of the building,” Gaedynn said. “Probably because it isn’t kindly disposed-”

A creature swarmed over the parapet.

Gaedynn had noticed various species of domesticated drakes since coming to Akanul, but this reptile seemed different. Something about it reminded him of the beasts that had fought alongside Alasklerbanbastos’s troops, the diverse but always ferocious creatures called dragonspawn.

Whatever it was, it was even bigger than a griffon, with gray scales that gleamed like metal in the sun. It also had a dragon’s shape, including the batlike wings. Apparently it had flown in low, below its intended victims’ lines of sight, then climbed up the wall in the hope of surprising them.

I’m afraid that didn’t work, Gaedynn thought. He nocked, drew, and released, and the shaft plunged into the dragonspawn’s serpentine neck.

As he’d expected, that first wound wasn’t enough to stop it. Its chest swelled and it cocked its head back, revealing its intention to spit some sort of breath weapon. Gaedynn poised himself to dodge, then noticed Mardiz-sul’s situation. Slow with astonishment, the self-important firestormer was still getting up. Which meant that he almost certainly wouldn’t be able to evade the incoming blast.

It occurred to Gaedynn that it might not be entirely bad if he didn’t. Maybe the next firestormer to come along would be more amenable to reason. But even as the thought flickered through his head, he jumped up onto the table and scrambled across it. He sprang at Mardiz-sul and hurled both the genasi and his seat backward.

He and the firesoul slammed down in a heap, the chair shattering beneath them. At the same instant, the dragonspawn’s head shot forward, and its jaws snapped open.

Whatever streamed out was invisible. But it smashed the table to splinters and the crockery to bits and sent the wreckage flying the length of the terrace.

Gaedynn jumped up off Mardiz-sul, reached for another arrow, and pivoted to put the dragonspawn in front of his bow again. The rooftop was chaos as screaming genasi ran back and forth, either trying to reach the stairs that led down into the inn or simply to put distance between themselves and the beast. Windsouls leaped into the air and flew toward safety.

Gaedynn wished the cursed dragonspawn would fly too because he was having trouble lining up a shot through the frantic crowd. But the beast stayed on its feet and plowed straight through the genasi, brushing them aside like a top knocking over pins on a game board. Maybe the creature was cunning enough to know they were providing it with cover.

Retreating, Gaedynn managed to drive one arrow into its chest despite the living obstacles in the way. Then he had his back against the parapet, and the dragonspawn was closing fast. Curse it, where was Aoth? Gaedynn snatched for one of his enchanted shafts-

Then he happened to look into the dragonspawn’s dull blue, slit-pupil eyes. A shock ran through him, except that, paradoxically, it was a jolt of dullness and lethargy. He still knew that his only chance was to shoot instantly, yet suddenly his thoughts were muddled, and his hands, numb and slow. He couldn’t line up the nock with the string.

The dragonspawn opened its jaws, exposing double rows of jagged fangs. But as it started to reach for him it faltered, then spun around.

The motion revealed Mardiz-sul standing behind it. He’d just cut the dragonspawn’s hindquarters with his sword, distracting it, and the blade was still stuck in the wound. As the creature whirled to retaliate, it yanked the hilt from his grip.

It was the genasi’s turn to make a frantic retreat. He thrust out his arms, and his hands burst into flame and burned like torches, but that didn’t deter the dragonspawn. It lunged after him anyway.

Fortunately, once the creature had averted its gaze, Gaedynn’s half-stupor fell away from him. He drew the arrow back and loosed.

The enchanted shaft hit the reptile at the base of its tail, just to the right of the spot where Mardiz-sul’s lost sword was bouncing around. The arrow stabbed all the way into the gray creature’s body and disappeared. According to Jhesrhi, who’d evaluated its properties, it should burrow relentlessly onward until it reached a vital spot.

And maybe it did, because after another instant the dragonspawn faltered, flailed, and screeched. But then it darted after Mardiz-sul again. Even if it was mortally wounded, it wasn’t ready to flop down and die just yet.

Gaedynn drove another shaft into its rump and yelled in an effort to distract it. It spun around widdershins, and he scrambled in the same direction, keeping ahead of its fangs and claws. He nocked another arrow.

Then Eider plunged down on its back. Gaedynn surmised that Aoth had used his psychic link to call to Jet, and the familiar had brought the other griffon out of their rented roost along with him.

Eider’s talons dug into the dragonspawn’s scales. Her beak snapped shut on its neck, and blood spurted around the edges of the bite. The reptile thrashed, trying to shake her off or at least get her into a position where it could bring its natural weapons to bear. Then it collapsed as one or another of its hurts finally caught up with it.

“Good girl!” Gaedynn called to Eider, meanwhile turning and looking for other threats. They weren’t hard to find, even though the tunnel vision that often overtook a man fighting for his life had kept him from spotting them until that moment. Aoth, Cera, and Jet hadn’t come to his aid because they were fighting two dragonspawn of their own.

One of the creatures was twice as big as the one Gaedynn, Eider, and Mardiz-sul had just slain, and Aoth was battling that one by himself. Likely finding it difficult to throw proper spells at close quarters, he simply kept destructive power flowing through his spear, and it flared and crackled whenever he thrust it into his adversary’s flesh. Yet despite the punishment he inflicted thereby, the reptile struck at him relentlessly, like a living storm of snapping jaws, raking claws, and hammering wings.

Then it spit its invisible breath weapon, and Aoth jumped aside, but not quite far enough. Gaedynn winced as the stream of power caught the edge of his commander’s body and spun him staggering around.

The dragonspawn instantly raised a forefoot high to follow up. Aoth kept turning until he was facing his foe again then dropped to one knee and braced the spear. When the reptile lashed its extremity down, it impaled it on the weapon’s point, which punched completely through. The steel triangle blazed. The blood on it bubbled and smoked, and the dragonspawn howled.

Probably because Aoth had told him to, Jet stood between Cera and the smaller of the dragonspawn. He lunged and bit, retreated and ducked, reared on his leonine hind legs and snatched with his talons, fighting savagely. But a griffon was less agile on the ground than in the air, and despite the flying mace the priestess had conjured to battle alongside him, he had fresh blood on his head and wing where the enormous reptile had clawed him.

“Get your sword,” Gaedynn snapped, “then help kill this one.” He showed which one he meant by shooting the smaller dragonspawn in the flank. The wound made it falter, and Jet slashed it across the snout with his beak.

Mardiz-sul scurried to retrieve his blade. “The other one’s bigger!” he called.

“Trust me!” Gaedynn loosed another shaft then, with a pang of reluctance, set down his bow, reached across his body with both arms, and drew his short swords because it would be too dangerous to keep shooting at the dragonspawn with Jet, Cera, Mardiz-sul, and Eider all scurrying or flying around it. He was too likely to hit one of them instead.

He and Mardiz-sul charged the dragonspawn together while Eider swooped in overhead. Then Gaedynn fought as Khouryn taught squads of warriors to tackle a big opponent, attacking the reptile whenever its attention was elsewhere and defending whenever it oriented on him. That took focus, but he tried to keep an eye on the firesoul too.

Mardiz-sul had sense enough to evade when he realized the reptile was about to attack him. But he had trouble keeping track of all its natural weapons. At one point Gaedynn had to bellow, “Left!” The firestormer looked in that direction, saw the tail whipping at him, and dropped low just in time to avoid a broken neck or skull.

Cera’s flying mace blinked out of existence. Chanting, she swept the similar but fully corporeal weapon in her hand over her head in an arc, then, on the final word of her prayer, thrust it at the dragonspawn. Even though Gaedynn wasn’t the target of the spell, he felt a fleeting twinge of fear. The reptile recoiled in sudden panic.

That meant it dropped its guard relative to its other foes, who seized the chance that afforded them. Gaedynn thrust with one sword, then the other. Eider plunged down on top of the dragonspawn. Her momentum slammed it down on its belly, audibly snapped bones, and left its legs splayed out flat at unnatural angles. Jet pounced and bit away a big piece of its neck.

The reptile was clearly finished, so Gaedynn and Jet both pivoted immediately, orienting on the other fight. At some point, Aoth had evidently managed to cast an actual spell or two because his dragonspawn had burns down the length of its scaly body. It was also thrashing and straining in an effort to break free of the grip of a dozen black tentacles that grew from the mosaic flooring underneath it.

Aoth didn’t give it a chance to get loose. He shouted words of power that made Gaedynn’s ears ache and spun his spear over his head. The twirl looked like the sort of unnecessary flourish that got fools killed in melee, but since Aoth wasn’t a fool-at least where combat was concerned-it was no doubt a part of the spell. He drove the spear in behind the dragonspawn’s shoulder, and magic rotted its body to nothing in a heartbeat. The tentacles melted away along with it.

Aoth immediately lowered his left arm. Gaedynn realized it was the same one the dragonspawn’s breath had caught. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“I think it’s out of the socket,” Aoth replied.

“I wish I’d realized. I thought you had things under control.”

“I did. I used a tattoo to mask the pain.” Aoth looked around. “How’s everyone else?”

“How do I look?” Jet rasped. Mardiz-sul jumped. He might have seen griffons up close before, but he’d almost certainly never heard one talk. Jet was unique.

“Scratched,” Aoth replied unsympathetically. “Cera, will you attend to the poor maimed chick? Since there’s no else who needs it worse.”

Gaedynn looked around and saw that it was true. There were no dead or grievously injured bystanders littering the terrace. It was a final bit of proof that the dragonspawn had been targeting Aoth, Cera, and him, not that he’d had any doubt of it before.

“Well,” he said, “now we know that Vairshekellabex has a spy at Arathane’s court too.”

“Apparently,” said Aoth. He turned his gaze on a dragonspawn carcass. “I suppose I’d call those scales gray. But they’re a shiny kind of gray.”

“Whatever they are,” Cera said, “won’t this convince the queen that we’re telling the truth?”

Gaedynn grinned. “Don’t count on it. Remember, we just finished a war where we fought dragons, many of which might well be holding a grudge. If I wanted to discredit us, I’d simply suggest that our recent troubles followed us to Akanul.”

Mardiz-sul shivered. He’d fought courageously once he got going, but since the threat was past, the fear that he hadn’t allowed himself to feel before was nibbling at him. “This is what it’s like to fight dragons,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

Jet answered anyway, with a screeching laugh. “This is what it’s like to fight dragonspawn. True wyrms are far more dangerous.”

The firestormer swallowed. “Captain, I… suppose we could talk further about how the expedition should be led.”

Tchazzar claimed Jhesrhi’s gift was a surprise, and so he chattered about everything but the gift as he led her through the War College. He rattled on about his plans to sculpt every remaining natural exterior surface of the fortress into a huge bas-relief celebrating his reign, the preparations for the invasion, salacious stories about Sune and other deities, and a dozen other subjects.

Perhaps he meant it to distract her. But she soon realized they were heading for the dungeons, and a chill crawled up her spine. Did he still suspect her of helping Khouryn to escape? Was he taking her back to the scene of the offense in the hope that she’d do something incriminating? Or had he already made up his mind that she was guilty and decided to punish her in the same place where she’d betrayed him?

Her fingers tightened on her staff, and the presence inside it stirred at the prospect of a fight, idiotically so, for the fire in which it delighted would be useless against a red dragon, whose own nature partook of flame. Even if Tchazzar were a wyrm of a different breed, it would be insanely optimistic to think that she could prevail against such a creature by herself.

The war hero spoke the password that Shala had taught her, then led her down the stairs. The door swung open before them, seemingly of its own accord, and the guards in their alcove leaped up and saluted when their sovereign came into view. In his haste, one overturned his chair, and it clattered on the floor.

Instead of conducting Jhesrhi down the next flight of stairs, to the level where she’d found Khouryn and fought the wyrmkeepers, Tchazzar ushered her into the stench and muddled noise of the cells crammed full of prisoners. She felt some of the tension quiver out of her muscles and tried not to let her relief show in her face.

The captives fell silent as they spotted Tchazzar and her. “Do you know who these wretches are?” he asked.

As was often the case when she responded to him, she tried to frame an answer warily but quickly, so he wouldn’t notice any hesitation. “Folk accused of crimes against either the Crown or your Church. Against you either way.”

Tchazzar grinned. “Mostly right but not completely. One is accused of crimes against you.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You’ll see.” He waved her down a branching corridor. The cells along the sides were dark and empty, except for one halfway down on the left.

The wavering yellow light of the torch burning in a wall sconce revealed a pale, flabby, white-haired man lying facedown in dirty straw. Someone had torn away most of his clothing, the better to flog his back to scabby ribbons oozing pus.

“Show your face,” Tchazzar said. “Quickly! Or I’ll order the inquisitors to slice away something else.”

Cringing, the old man lifted his head, and Jhesrhi understood what the dragon meant. Like his back, the prisoner’s mouth and chin were filthy with dried blood, and his jaws and neck were swollen with infection. Someone had cut out his tongue. Despite all the wounds and brutality she’d seen on the battlefield, Jhesrhi felt a little queasy.

Tchazzar studied her face then, sounding slightly irritated, asked, “Don’t you recognize him?”

“No,” Jhesrhi said. “Should I?”

“Most people would think so. He’s your father.”

She caught her breath. “What?”

“Your father,” the dragon repeated. “The coward who mistreated his own helpless child for years and then finally gave her to the elemental mages to save his worthless life.”

Back in Impiltur, Jhesrhi had dreaded the prospect of returning to Chessenta, but not because she’d expected to encounter her parents. For some reason, perhaps simply because it was easier to assume it, she’d imagined that they must be dead. She studied the prisoner’s bloody face and still couldn’t recognize the merchant who’d been ashamed of her arcane gifts and beaten her whenever he caught her experimenting with them. But maybe she shouldn’t expect to, not when she’d struggled for years to forget him, and age, dread, and suffering had altered him. He looked back at her with wide, bewildered eyes.

“What about my mother?” she asked.

“Dead,” Tchazzar said. “But at least this one lived long enough to face retribution.” He snapped his fingers, and the cell door unlocked itself and swung open. “Crawl out,” he told her father. “Kiss the feet of the daughter you betrayed.”

During her years of slavery, Jhesrhi had sometimes fantasized about subjecting that man to the same tortures her hulking captors used on travelers who fell into her hands. But as she stood there, the thought of his groveling before her made her sick to her stomach. “That isn’t necessary,” she said.

“Of course,” Tchazzar said. He looked back to the old man. “She doesn’t want your filthy lips on her. But you will crawl.”

“Please, no,” she said. “Truly, none of it is necessary.”

Tchazzar frowned at her. “I thought this would delight you.”

She took a breath, trying to compose herself and respond in a way that would appease him. “I know you did, Majesty, and I’m grateful. It’s just that this is… well, a shock.”

“I suppose so,” Tchazzar said. “But we agreed that in some cases, giving justice to those with arcane abilities requires more than reparations. Those who raped, maimed, and murdered them must suffer in their turns. So why not start with the creature who wronged the foremost wizard in the realm?”

Jhesrhi shook her head. “I… envisioned it being done in the usual way. With courts and trials.”

“Flame and blood, woman, you told me the truth, didn’t you? And is the lord god of Chessenta obliged to seek permission from a magistrate or a jury before taking action?”

“No, Majesty. Of course not.”

“I’m glad to hear you say so. So deal with this piece of dung. At the very least, you must want to berate him, spit on him, or give him a kick.”

She supposed that maybe a part of her did, and even if not, some token abuse might placate Tchazzar and bring the dizzying, surreal moment to an end. She stepped into the cell doorway.

“How could you do it?” she asked. “Even if you were terrified that the giants would kill you, Mother, and everybody else in the caravan, even if you were certain I was tainted, I was your daughter and I loved you!”

He tried to answer, but she couldn’t understand the gurgling, croaking sounds that came from his ruined mouth.

Then she realized how odd it was that Tchazzar had deprived the old man of the power of speech and so denied her the chance to have a true conversation with him and understand his pleas for mercy. In fact, she could only think of one reason he would have done it. She scrutinized the prisoner’s face again, and then she was certain.

She turned. “Majesty, this isn’t my father.” She knew even as she spoke that she shouldn’t say it, but Tchazzar’s ruse had so roiled her emotions that she couldn’t hold back.

He frowned. “Of course it is. Do you think your god could be mistaken?”

Upset as she still was, she made more effort to choose her next words carefully. “No, but Your Majesty has fallible mortal servants. I assume you gave one of them the task of finding my father.”

“Well, yes,” Tchazzar said. “Shala Karanok. Apparently I can’t trust the ugly sow with even the simplest task.” Jhesrhi felt sure that Shala had had nothing to do with it. “But I can correct her mistake.”

With that, the Red Dragon narrowed his slanted, amber eyes and pressed his fingertips to his temples. Jhesrhi didn’t know if he was actually attempting some sort of mystical feat or merely pretending to, but since she didn’t sense any telltale stirring of magical energy, she suspected the latter.

Tchazzar held the pose for a few heartbeats then let out a breath and smiled. “There,” he said and paused.

He was clearly waiting for Jhesrhi to ask, “ ‘There’ what?” So she did.

“Your father was dead. But I fished his soul out of the Nine Hells and placed it in this cringing carcass before us. Now you can deal with him as you see fit.”

Jhesrhi wondered if Tchazzar truly expected her to believe his bizarre assertion. She wondered if he truly believed it himself.

Whether he did or not, she couldn’t abuse the prisoner, whoever he was, any further. It just wasn’t in her. She took a breath and said, “In that case, Majesty, I pardon him.”

Tchazzar scowled. “What?”

“I agree that we with arcane gifts deserve justice. You’ve heard me assert it myself. But my father hurt me a long time ago. And you’re trying to create a Chessenta where everyone lives in harmony, not one where the persecuted and the persecutors merely switch roles. So let me set an example by forgiving.”

“If that’s what you truly want.” Tchazzar snapped his fingers, and the cell door clanged shut. “The turnkeys will release him in due course. Let’s get out of this dismal hole.”

They walked back past the cells stuffed full of prisoners. Hoping to repair whatever damage to their relationship she might have done, Jhesrhi said, “I do appreciate what you did for me. Truly.”

“Show me,” Tchazzar growled. He pivoted, grabbed her by the forearm, jerked her into an embrace, and planted his mouth on hers. Although her staff gave her a measure of protection against flame, she could still feel that his lips and probing tongue were blistering hot.

He’d caught her by surprise, and once again, although she knew how she should respond, she couldn’t control her revulsion. As she strained to pull away from him, it was all she could do to curb the impulse to knee him in the groin or resort to one of the other wrestling tricks Aoth had taught her.

Tchazzar was stronger than she was, and for a moment, it seemed that he wasn’t going to let her escape. Then his arms opened all at once. She reeled backward and banged her shoulders against the iron bars at the front of one of the cells. One of the prisoners on the other side yelped as if it meant something terrible was going to happen to them.

“I’m sorry,” Jhesrhi panted, fighting the urge to scour her lips with her sleeve. “You startled me.”

“That night in the orchard,” Tchazzar said, “I thought we were making progress. But now it seems like nothing’s changed.”

“It has,” Jhesrhi said. “It is. It’s just that, like I told you, I need time.”

“And I gave it to you,” the dragon said. “But be careful it doesn’t run out.”

Medrash, Balasar, and Khouryn stood at the rail of the carrack and watched the three Chessentan warships sail out of the north. They were still tiny with distance but not as tiny as they’d been.

Unsteady on her feet-she hadn’t acquired her sea legs yet-Vishva approached. Brown-scaled, with puckered scars on her face where she’d worn her piercings before her clan cast her out for the disgrace of dragon worship, she was one of the Platinum Cadre’s officers and the person who’d begged Medrash to purge her and her fellow cultists of Tiamat’s influence.

“Are they going to catch us?” she asked.

“I doubt it,” Medrash said, “and if they do, we’ll make them wish they hadn’t.”

“Glad to hear it.” Vishva bobbed her head and opened her arms slightly then moved off.

“I’d really rather the Chessentans not intercept us,” said Khouryn, keeping his voice low. “They’ve got us outnumbered, and I never got around to training your fellows to fight on shipboard.”

It still seemed strange to Medrash to hear the Cadre warriors referred to as his, in any sense. Adhering to the common prejudice, his own clan elders had raised him to despise wyrms and those who revered them; thus he’d taken command of the cultists with reluctance. But a good deal had happened since then, and he didn’t feel the same disdain anymore.

“I wonder if our weather witch can do any more,” Khouryn continued, glancing in Biri’s direction.

The white-scaled wizard stood near the stern, where both masts and sails were in front of her. She stared at them and chanted, mostly whispering, but sometimes raising her voice to a howl. At those moments, she accompanied her incantation with sweeps and jabs of a wand that was evidently solid to the touch but looked like a spindly, gray wisp of cloud.

“She’s doing as much as anyone could,” Balasar said. “She explained to me that she’s having to force the winds to blow contrary to their natural inclination.”

“I don’t doubt her ability,” Khouryn said. “But I still wish Jhesrhi were here.”

“I don’t know that I can help her,” Medrash said. “I’ve never done anything comparable before. But I’m going to give it a try. Excuse me.”

He looked around for a clear section of deck. Clear, of course, was a relative term in the cramped confines of a troop ship, with the sheets running every which way, mariners scrambling around to accomplish their various tasks, and everyone else gawking at the oncoming Chessentan vessels. But toward the bow and to starboard, on the opposite side from the enemy, there was a strip of space that should do.

He walked there, stood in the center, and took a breath, centering himself. Then he snatched his broadsword from its scabbard and stepped forward. He cut to the head, spun back around, parried an imaginary thrust to the heart, and riposted. It was a training dance, one intended to prepare a swordsman who might someday have to fight in a tight little alleyway or tunnel.

The final move of the dance was to sheathe one’s sword. Medrash did so and reviewed his performance. He assumed the ready position then grabbed for his blade again.

As he danced the brief dance-it was only twelve moves all together-repeatedly, he turned, struck, and parried faster and faster. His focus sharpened and narrowed until he was acutely aware of his own body and weapon, his phantom attackers, the equally hypothetical walls hemming him in on either side, and nothing else. A kind of exultation overtook him.

Many warriors and athletes knew that pure, primal feeling. Maybe other sorts of folk, musicians and craftsmen, perhaps, experienced something similar when they practiced their particular skills. Medrash couldn’t say. But he did know that for the god-touched, the exhilaration could serve as a gateway to something grander still.

He didn’t perceive Torm’s presence all at once. It wasn’t that the god was being coy, but rather that Medrash’s exertions were gradually heightening his awareness. And even when he became entirely cognizant and executed the last three actions of the dance for the final time, he didn’t truly see the deity. But he had a sense of the Loyal Fury as a dragonborn warlord taller than the tallest giant and made of golden light, looming over the ship with a greatsword canted casually over his shoulder.

Even as he caught his breath, Medrash recognized another presence too. A silvery, wedge-shaped head at the top of a serpentine neck towered even higher than Torm, the better, perhaps, to see past him.

Medrash wasn’t altogether surprised. The Loyal Fury, who’d rescued a weak, timid child from misery and humiliation, would always be his patron deity. But as poor Patrin had tried to teach him, Torm and Bahamut were comrades, and the latter, too, had occasionally helped Medrash in what he now understood to be his struggle against Tiamat, the Platinum Dragon’s archenemy, and her minions.

And he evidently meant to help now. It made sense, for one of Bahamut’s titles was Lord of the North Wind.

Medrash raised his sword in a salute and opened himself to whatever gift the dragon god might choose to give. Nostrils flaring, Bahamut sucked in a breath. His jaws snapped open, and he spewed it forth again.

Intense cold and a sense of relentless pressure stabbed into the core of Medrash’s body, or perhaps his soul. He cried out, staggered, and grabbed a sheet to keep from falling but not because the sensation was painful. Somehow it wasn’t. It was simply overwhelming.

Balasar and Khouryn came scurrying. Medrash raised his hand to signal that he was all right. He looked up again, but as his instincts had already told him, Torm and Bahamut had vanished as soon as they finished bestowing their blessing.

Since they were no longer present to receive his thanks, he strode to Biri. Though it still wasn’t painful, the power pent up inside him turned, tumbled, pushed, swelled, and generally sought release. He felt as if he’d swallowed a tornado or a beehive.

Though intent on her magic, Biri spotted him coming from the corner of her eye. She recited a tercet, bobbed the wand of cloudstuff on the rhyming word at the end of each line as though she counting three of something, and that apparently brought her to a point where she could safely take a break. Breathing heavily, she turned and gave him an inquiring look.

“I think I can make your magic stronger,” he said. “I’ve received a gift of power to pass along.”

“Divine power?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, “but the gods know who you are and what you do. I think that when it transfers to you, it will come in a form you can use.”

“I’m game,” she said. “What do we do?”

“You face the sails just like before, and I’ll rest my hands on your shoulders.” He grinned. “Although it may make Balasar jealous.”

“Really?” she asked, and for that moment she sounded like a hopeful, love-struck maiden, not a battle-seasoned adept in the midst of an arduous task.

“Really,” he said. He waved toward the masts. “Shall we?”

The hard part was letting the power flow a bit at a time. It wanted to blast and scream out like a winter gale, but Medrash suspected that Biri wouldn’t be able to handle it if it came to her all at once. As it was, she cried out as he had, and her knees buckled. He shifted his grip to her forearms so he could hold her up.

Until she planted her feet underneath her and said, “It’s all right. No, better than all right.”

When she resumed her chant, her high, melodious voice was the same as before, yet different. It had an undertone to it that at various moments reminded Medrash of the whistle of the wind or a dragon’s roar. He suspected that he was hearing it less with the ears of the flesh than with those of the spirit.

The sails bellied as a stronger, steadier wind filled them. Sailors called out to one another and scrambled to make the most of it.

Lost in a sort of half trance, Medrash couldn’t tell how long it took him to drain away Bahamut’s gift completely. But when he had, he looked around. The Chessentan warships were so far to the northwest that he could barely even make them out.

Exhausted, he slumped down where he stood. Biri did the same and flopped back against him. Her head lolled and after a moment she snored a tiny gurgling snore.

Halonya’s heart pounded as she and her escort-a quintet of warriors oath bound to the church-headed for the imposing, gilded double doors at the end of the corridor. Maybe that was foolish, for the god had summoned her many times before, and sometimes every bit as late. But on those occasions, it had always been to attend him in some throne room or counsel chamber, not his private apartments.

She would have liked to stop and make sure her miter, vestments, and necklaces were straight, maybe even pinch a dash of extra color into her cheeks. But of course, she couldn’t. Not in front of her escort and the royal guards bracketing the golden doors. When in public, the high priestess of the god of gods had to comport herself with stately dignity. She couldn’t primp like some empty-headed wench.

One of the two sentries opened the gilded doors for her. “The wyrmlady is here, Your Majesty,” he said.

“Send her in,” said Tchazzar’s voice. The rich, deep tones sent a thrill singing through her, perhaps even more than usual.

“Stay here,” she told her guards. She entered the outermost chamber, a spacious room where she and five or ten other guests had sometimes shared a supper or a bard’s performance with their lord, then gasped. For an instant, she felt light-headed.

That was because it was apparent that Tchazzar was wearing a robe of crimson silk and nothing else. He hadn’t even bothered to close it well or knot the sash particularly tightly.

By Lady Firehair’s sweet, stinging lash, was it really happening? Halonya had told herself she didn’t even want it. That their sacred bond as god and priestess was more wonderful than any fleeting carnal connection could ever be. That she in no way resented the endless parade of sluts he took to his bed. But still, was it?

“I apologize for calling for you so late,” said Tchazzar, seemingly oblivious to her emotional agitation. “Would you care for some wine?”

She swallowed. “Yes, Majesty.”

He moved to one of the tables and filled a pair of golden goblets from the carafe. “And would you like to talk on the terrace? It’s nice on these summer nights.”

She was sure it would be, in the dark, with the lights of the city below them and the moon and stars above. It would be the kind of place where a man took a woman when he wanted to court her-not that Halonya had any experience with such matters. Looking back, she could see how even from her youngest days, destiny had set her steps on a higher path.

“That would be fine,” she said.

Tchazzar smiled, handed her one of the cups, opened the casement, and led her out onto the balcony. He seated her across from him at a table, and they pledged one another. The wine was an Aglarondan red of which he was fond, tart at the instant it touched the tongue but then somehow flowering into sweetness.

“I want to talk to you about Jhesrhi,” he said.

For a heartbeat Halonya could make no sense of what he’d said, or perhaps, she imagined, she hadn’t heard him correctly. Then a jolt of disappointment made her body clench.

She reminded herself again that she was the head of Tchazzar’s clergy, and that was not only enough; it was more than any other mortal could ever possess. She took a breath, let it out, and said, “What about Lady Jhesrhi, Majesty? I’ve been trying to treat her like my friend and your loyal deputy, just as you told me to do.”

Tchazzar smiled. “Even though it’s contrary to your inclinations.”

“Majesty, I swear to you-”

The Red Dragon raised his hand. “Please, Daughter. I wasn’t doubting you. Or scolding you. I was leading up to saying that I’m starting to wonder if perhaps you actually do see something in Jhesrhi Coldcreek that I haven’t permitted myself to see.”

Halonya’s lingering feelings of bitterness and humiliation fell away. He had given her an opening, an opportunity! But she had to proceed carefully. She was sure that, even if he was finally experiencing a moment of clarity, Tchazzar’s infatuation with the golden witch hadn’t faded away entirely.

“Has something happened?” she asked.

Tchazzar snorted. “It’s more what hasn’t happened.”

Halonya hesitated. “I don’t understand.”

“Well, let’s put it this way. I’m a god, am I not?”

“The greatest of gods,” Halonya replied.

“And the monarch of a splendid realm. I raised Lady Coldcreek up to be one of the two most powerful personages at my court. I ended the persecution of the arcanists, and thus, she told me, granted her fondest wish. And yet…”

“What, Majesty?”

“There’s still a… reserve in her. Something that makes her hold herself aloof. Mind you, she explained to me early on that she has a defect in her spirit, a flaw that makes her different from others, and I believe it. But sometimes it doesn’t feel like she’s trying to climb over the wall. It feels like she’s sheltering behind it.”

Halonya still wasn’t sure what Tchazzar was actually talking about. But whatever the source of his doubts, she wanted to encourage them. Her first impulse was to do so by pointing out that, like all wizards, Jhesrhi was demon touched. Unfortunately Tchazzar probably wouldn’t agree. He hadn’t only freed Chessenta’s arcanists to please the wretched sellsword. He truly did believe they were basically the same as everybody else. Halonya might someday be able to persuade him away from that dangerously generous viewpoint, but it would be shrewder to attack the immediate problem in another way.

“Majesty, even the humblest of your subjects owes you love, loyalty, and gratitude. And considering all that you’ve done for Jhesrhi Coldcreek, her debt is even greater. If she isn’t willing to pay it… well, even I, your prophetess, find that hard to understand.”

Tchazzar took a long drink from his cup. “It isn’t just the one thing I knew from the start would be difficult. Does the bitch even know how to smile? I granted her a miracle tonight. I threw open the door between life and death, even though Cousin Kelemvor wept and begged me to forbear, just to give her a gift that no one else in all the worlds could have given. And it meant nothing to her.”

Halonya shook her head. “Again, I have to say I have no idea how any of your children could be so ungrateful.”

Tchazzar eyed her. “Really? Aren’t you the one who tried to convince me repeatedly that Jhesrhi is a traitor? That she helped Khouryn Skulldark escape and all the rest of it?”

Halonya drew breath to say yes, then thought again that it might be counterproductive to push too hard. “Your Majesty commanded me to put all such suspicions out of my head.”

“Yes. Because, despite what I’ve just told you, Jhesrhi… well, she’s done glorious things for me.”

Halonya assumed she knew what one of the “glorious things” was. Jhesrhi had rushed to Tchazzar’s aid when Alasklerbanbastos had him at a disadvantage. She would have liked to know what the others were too, but the living god didn’t discuss them. It was a mark of his distress that he’d even alluded to them.

But whatever had happened in the interval between the moment when Jhesrhi and Gaedynn Ulraes first encountered Tchazzar and the day the Red Dragon returned to his people, Halonya could see his mood altering in its sudden, unpredictable way, his mind shying away from hurt feelings and suspicion. Fearful that her chance was likewise slipping away, she said, “I’m grateful for any good thing the wizard has ever done for Your Majesty. But can we be sure that means she’s loyal today? She’s a sellsword. You’re a warlord and understand such folk better than I ever could, but isn’t it necessary to buy their loyalty again and again and again?”

Tchazzar frowned. “I hoped that Jhesrhi was shaped of purer clay.”

“I pray you’re right,” Halonya said. “But I fear what could happen if you’re not. Especially now, when some undead horror has sneaked into your palace itself and you’re about to start another war.”

“You have a point. There are so many players, working on so many levels. Any of them-” He caught himself, as if he’d been on the brink of saying something he shouldn’t. “The dragonborn, that is, and the remaining renegades in Threskel.”

“I understand,” Halonya said, although she wasn’t sure it was true.

“But I can’t move against Jhesrhi unless I have proof she’s disloyal,” Tchazzar continued. “And it’s not just because I love her, although that’s part of it, of course. I’ve always believed that you and she are the two halves of my luck, my sister Tymora’s double gift to me. And anyone who spurns such a blessing without cause trades good fortune for bad.”

“Your Majesty is wise as always. But I beg you to consider that when you have doubts about Jhesrhi, that, too, is your wisdom coming out.”

Tchazzar smiled a crooked smile. It was a cast of expression Halonya almost never saw on his long, amber-eyed face, seemingly reflective of a wry, self-aware amusement. “But if my instincts tug me in opposite directions, where does that leave me?”

“It leaves you with the need to test which feeling is the true one. I confess I’ve done my best to keep an eye on Jhesrhi. I didn’t tell you because I was afraid it would anger you, and the need to go behind your back limited what I could do. But if you now agree that someone should watch her…” Halonya spread her hands.

Tchazzar nodded. “Then we can watch her properly.”

“There’s something else,” Halonya said. “If Lady Jhesrhi is disloyal, then it stands to reason that Aoth Fezim and his company are too, and probably committing treason up in Threskel.” She remembered the Thayan gripping her forearm from behind, the threat of his spear and his magic, and she had to clamp down on a spasm of loathing to keep her voice steady. “I think you should check on them as well.”