The Spectral Blaze botg-3
Page 12
“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.
“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 q
uintet 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.”