In the middle, as if to separate the other two groups, were sour-faced, mannish Shala Karanok and one of her clerks.
And on the left were Jhesrhi, Nicos, Daelric, Aoth, and the sunlady the war-mage had brought to the coronation—Cera, that was the name. The priestess had scratches and bruises all over her, and her yellow vestments were torn and stained.
That seemed a little ominous, but what bothered Tchazzar more was seeing the only two mortals he completely trusted on opposite sides of the hall. Halonya was the visionary who most clearly perceived his divinity, while Jhesrhi was his luck, the agent of destiny who’d helped him escape the endless torture of the Shadowfell. Even the hint that they might be at odds was … disquieting.
He let the men bow and the women curtsey, then told them when it was enough. As they straightened up, he said, “All right, what is it?”
Several people starting babbling at once.
“Stop!” Tchazzar glowered at Shala. “Chamberlain, what is it?”
“Captain Fezim and Cera Eurthos were the first to arrive,” Shala said. “That was a while ago. They claim that after she sneaked into your interim temple to look for evidence of treason, the sunlady was held against her will in a secret dungeon. They further claim the priests tried to kill both of them when Fezim entered the building to set her free.”
“That’s nonsense!” Halonya shrilled. “I’m told Cera Eurthos was detained—briefly—after she broke in to snoop around. Then the Thayan broke in too. Together they assaulted two of Your Majesty’s holy servants and killed a sacred beast.”
“Several days isn’t ‘briefly,’ ” said Aoth. “And what gives your gang of ruffians the right to lock up anyone for any length of time, under any circumstances? If they thought Cera had committed a crime, why didn’t they summon the city guards?”
“The Church of Tchazzar is the instrument of his sacred will,” Halonya replied. “Whatever we do is lawful and proper by definition.”
“Amen,” Luthen said.
“If your fellowship was truly and only the Church of Tchazzar,” said Aoth, “that might be a proper sentiment. But Cera and I found proof that some of the folk who pledged you their service are really priests of Tiamat.”
Tchazzar snorted. “Is that was this is all about? I already knew that, of course.”
Aoth stared at him. “You did?”
“Why wouldn’t they serve me, when I’m the Dark Lady’s champion, and she’s my mother and my bride? When I am her and she is me?”
Aoth took a breath. “Majesty, as I’m sure you realize, you’re talking about mysteries beyond a mortal’s understanding. What I do understand is that wyrmkeepers sent abishais disguised as dragonborn to murder me in Soolabax. There’s every reason to believe they used the same ploy to commit the Green Hand murders here in Luthcheq. They captured Jhesrhi and Gaedynn when they were in Mourktar and delivered them to Jaxanaedegor. They’re enemies of Chessenta, and that means they’re your enemies too.”
“It’s the way of wyrmkeepers,” Tchazzar said, “to attach themselves to one dragon or another. Those who committed offenses against Chessenta plainly serve Alasklerbanbastos or his lieutenants. The ones who pledged their devotion to me are just as obviously a different group.”
“Then why did they keep me prisoner for days on end without telling anyone?” Cera asked. “Why did they torture me to find out what I knew about their schemes? Why, if they have nothing to hide?”
“Frankly, milady,” Luthen said, “if they held you for a little while and twisted your arm a bit, that’s regrettable. But no more than you deserve for your meddling. Undertaken, I would assume, without the knowledge of your patriarch.” He turned an inquiring eye on Daelric.
Stout and ruddy-faced, his yellow vestments trimmed with amber and topaz, the sunlord took a long breath, then let it out again. “I knew nothing about it, and, rest assured, I will discipline her. But I must also say that the person of a priestess of Amaunator is sacred, and I’m outraged at the treatment she’s received.”
Halonya made a spitting sound. “No one cares a turd about your outrage.”
“Did you even understand that many of your new clerics are actually wyrmkeepers?” Daelric replied. “Did you even know they were holding a sunlady prisoner? I think not, just as I’m reasonably certain you can’t perform even the simplest feat of divine magic to support your pretensions to sanctity.”
“I proclaimed her a prophet and a priestess!” Tchazzar snapped. “Do you question my ‘pretensions’ to divine Power as well?”
Daelric’s pink block of a face turned white. “No, Majesty, of course not. It’s just … Lady Halonya is a visionary, but likewise an innocent. That may be precisely the quality that enables her to see what others don’t. Still, to appoint her leader of your church and thus, in effect, a part of the government, is perhaps no benefit to anyone, herself least of all.”
“Apologize,” said Tchazzar. “On your knees.”
Daelric swallowed. “Yes, Majesty.” He started to lower himself before the throne.
“No,” said Tchazzar. “To her.”
The high priest faltered.
“Do it,” Tchazzar said. “Or I’ll break you into something so wretched that even an illiterate pauper will look like a queen to you.”
Daelric stiffly kneeled before Halonya. “I apologize,” he said, “for doubting your fitness for your office.”
Halonya lashed him across the face with the back of her hand. The big red stones she wore on every finger tore his skin, and Tchazzar smelled the coppery tang of the beads of blood. “Now I forgive you,” she said in a tone as sweet as honey.
It was funny, and Tchazzar laughed until he realized that except for Halonya, no one else was laughing or even smirking along with him. These humans didn’t enjoy the perspective of a god, so he supposed they might not see the joke. Still, their failure to join in irked him nonetheless.
Well, if they wanted their master serious, so be it. There were still judgments to hand down.
“Captain Fezim,” he said, “we have yet to explore a fundamental point. What are you doing in Luthcheq at all?”
“I came back to urge you to come to the border as fast as possible,” the war-mage said.
Tchazzar noticed that unlike many other people, Aoth had no difficulty looking him in the eye. There was a part of him that respected that, and also a part that wondered if such boldness was the outward manifestation of disrespect. “I already told you I’ll come when it’s necessary.”
“Majesty, it’s necessary now. The dracolich is bringing all his strength to bear, including his circle of dragons. We griffon riders managed to kill a wyrm at Soolabax, but we can’t handle all of them. Not without your help and the support of the troops still hanging around this city.”
“Majesty, this is misdirection,” Luthen said. “Since the Thayan already had your assurances, it’s obvious he ignored his responsibilities in the field to search for his missing accomplice.”
Like Daelric before him, Nicos didn’t look happy about needing to speak up on behalf of his protégé, but he evidently felt that he couldn’t let his rival’s remarks pass unchallenged. “Majesty, who is Lord Luthen to criticize any decision that a soldier as famous as Captain Fezim might make concerning the conduct of the war?”
Luthen sneered. “He does have a kind of fame, I’ll grant you that. Or maybe notoriety is a better word. For breaking his contract with the Simbarch Council of Aglarond, taking the zulkirs of the Wizard’s Reach on a foredoomed expedition that cost each and every one of them their lives, and losing to a rabble of crazed demon-worshipers in Impiltur. When Shala Karanok was war hero, I warned her about trusting such a man, or relying on the judgment of the counselor who sponsored him. Unfortunately she ignored me, but perhaps Your Majesty will find a measure of prudence in my words.”
“Yes,” Tchazzar said, “if only because I don’t like people creeping around behind my back.” He fixed his gaze on Cera. “I leave your
punishment to Daelric. I’m confident it will be severe, because I’m going to require him to donate the tenth part of your church’s revenue until such time as my new temple is complete.”
“Yes, Majesty.” Daelric dabbed at his face with a bloody handkerchief.
Tchazzar turned his gaze on Nicos. “Poor judgment is a lesser offense than sacrilege. Still, it carries a penalty. You’ll donate the twentieth part of your income.”
“Yes, Majesty,” Nicos said.
Tchazzar glowered at Aoth. “Now, what to do with you?”
The war-mage still had no difficulty meeting his gaze. “Nothing. Not if you’re wise. Cera poked into the wyrmkeepers’ business because she thought Amaunator wanted her to, for the good of Chessenta. Maybe she was right, or maybe not, and I was just as misguided to try and pull her out of trouble. Either way, this little affair means nothing compared to the defense of the realm. And you need the Brotherhood to see to that.”
“You forget I’ve been to war with sellswords many times. I know what drives you. Your men will happily fight under a new commander if the price is right.”
“I’d make damn sure of that before you do anything you can’t undo.”
Tchazzar recognized that he almost certainly could make good use of Aoth Fezim. But it felt like the mortal was defying him, and suddenly that blasphemy seemed more important than any mundane consideration of military matters ever could. He drew breath to order the Thayan’s arrest.
Then Jhesrhi cleared her throat. It surprised Tchazzar a little. So often uncomfortable in crowds, she’d been quiet and still up until then, so much so that despite her golden comeliness and the esteem in which he held her, he’d all but forgotten she was there.
His anger cooling slightly, he said, “My lady? Is there something you wish to say?”
“I want to plead for clemency.” She waved her tawny-skinned hand in a gesture that indicated Aoth, Nicos, Cera, and Daelric too. “For all of them.”
“Are you sure?” Tchazzar asked. “It occurs to me that with Captain Fezim locked away to contemplate the fruits of sacrilege and insolence, you could command the Brotherhood of the Griffon.”
“That’s kind,” the wizard said. “But I don’t want to be a war leader. Even if I did, I would never want to steal what rightfully belongs to Aoth. He once saved me in much the same way.… What I mean to say is, I know in my heart that he and Cera truly were trying their best to serve Chessenta and you.”
“They desecrated your sanctuary!” Halonya snarled. “They have to pay!”
“Not if His Majesty shows them mercy,” Jhesrhi said.
“Witch!” Halonya replied. “Witch whore to a Thayan wizard! Naturally you don’t understand the importance of sacred things!”
Jhesrhi took a long breath as though quelling the impulse to answer Halonya’s gibe in kind. Then she said, “Majesty, you’ve been more than generous to me, and I’m grateful. But unlike Lady Halonya, I’ve never asked you for anything—”
“Liar!” Halonya cried, drops of spittle flying from her lips. “You asked him to let the dirty green hands live like honest people!”
“I was going to say,” Jhesrhi said, her teeth gritted, “I never asked for anything for myself. Now, I am. If what happened on that dark hill we both remember means anything to you, pardon these people. At worst Aoth and Cera are guilty of overzealousness in your service. What’s the point of punishing devotion?”
Tchazzar looked at the determination in the set of Jhesrhi’s jaw and the blaze of her golden eyes, then at the rage and disgust manifest in Halonya’s scowl and rigid posture. He realized he simply wanted the unpleasantness to end. Jhesrhi had a point. What did any of it mean, anyway?
Then he smirked. Because actually, there was a point of sorts. A secret the sunlady might conceivably have uncovered, if she’d been clever or lucky enough. But it wasn’t a secret intended for human beings.
“All right,” Tchazzar said. “I pardon everyone.” He looked at Jhesrhi. “Understand, I’m still your friend. But if I owed you any sort of debt, this pays it. So no more talk of dark hills.”
“I understand,” the wizard said.
Meanwhile, Halonya glared. Well, another present or two should mollify her. For all his deficiencies as a high priest and counselor, Daelric was right about one thing. She was endearingly childlike in some ways.
“That’s that, then,” Tchazzar said, gripping the arms of the throne as he prepared to rise. “We can still get a little sleep before my brother Amaunator summons us from our beds.”
To his astonishment, Aoth took a step forward. “Actually, Majesty, I still need you to tell me when you’re coming north.”
In truth, Tchazzar knew he had to go. He reminded himself several times each day he needed to announce his departure. But it was hard to forsake the pleasures of Luthcheq after decades of pain and deprivation. Nor was he eager to launch a campaign that would take him back to Threskel and conceivably even the Sky Riders.
He didn’t fear Alasklerbanbastos or any other foe he could fight with sword or fang. But no one could fight bad luck, and who could doubt that the hills were unlucky for him? It was there that the Blue Fire had crippled him and hurled him into the Shadowfell for Sseelrigoth to find and imprison.
“If Aoth says the matter is urgent,” said Jhesrhi, “then I promise you it is.”
And she’d be there with him, good luck to counter bad. He sighed and said, “So be it. Those of us who can fly will leave tomorrow. The rest of the army will follow as soon as it can.”
It was like the night of Balasar’s initiation. As he stood in the shadow of a stall on the dark Market Floor, laughter and the music of a mandolin, longhorn, and hand drum trio drifted on the breeze. He wasn’t close enough to hear the clatter of dice, but his imagination supplied it, just as it put the tart heat of spiceberry liqueur in his mouth.
Although he didn’t actually have to depend on imagination for the latter. He opened the pouch on his belt, removed a silver flask, pulled the cork, and took a swig.
Medrash might not have approved of him drinking when he had important work to do. But as far as Balasar was concerned, he’d earned a nip. Because it turned out that he didn’t care for spying. Not so much because of the ongoing strain of trying to pass himself off as a true worshiper of the dragon god, although that could be nerve-racking. Because it was so cursed hard to find out anything.
He’d infiltrated the Platinum Cadre on the assumption that there was something truly sinister about it, something that tied it to the wave of calamities that seemed to be afflicting countries all around the Alamber Sea. But he still had no idea what that might be. It didn’t become obvious just because a fellow wormed his way inside.
That left Balasar to grope for clues. Things that made no sense or didn’t fit, although he had little faith in his ability to recognize them. How was he supposed to know what was anomalous when none of this praying and groveling before altars made sense to a rational, properly raised dragonborn like himself?
But finally, he noticed something. It might not mean anything, but, bereft of more promising leads, he meant to find out for sure.
Raiann was one of Nala’s most fervent converts, and one far advanced in the mysteries. She swayed constantly from side to side like her mentor, went berserk in every battle, and could spew lightning a dozen times before running dry. More to the point, she’d abandoned her trade as a glassblower to serve the cult full-time.
So why did she still periodically slip away to the fields surrounding Djerad Thymar and fill a cart with fine white sand?
It was possible she was merely stockpiling the stuff for when the war ended and she could resume her profession. But hoping, if only forlornly, for a more damning explanation, Balasar had shadowed her to her dark, shuttered shop.
Two figures stalked out of the murk. Balasar couldn’t make out their faces, but they too displayed the subtle slithering-straight-up-into-the-air tic that afflicted Bahamut’s most devoted worshi
pers. They glanced around, then knocked on the door to the shop. Raiann opened it immediately, and the others went inside.
It was probably just Balasar’s impatience playing tricks on him, but it seemed to take a long while for anything else to happen. Then hooves clopped on the granite, and Raiann drove her donkey out from behind the building. A tarp covered the sand in the bed of the cart, and the other cultists walked to either side like they were guarding something precious.
Balasar waited for them to get a little way ahead, then followed.
He wasn’t surprised when they descended into the Catacombs, or when the wyrm-lovers subsequently chose a path that led into a part of them that wasn’t patrolled. He just hoped they wouldn’t turn down one of the passages where the working sconces gave out altogether. Although he supposed they couldn’t do that without striking a light of their own.
The echoing click of the donkey’s hooves was somehow sad and dreamlike in the gloom. A draft from somewhere blew cold in Balasar’s face and moaned almost inaudibly in his ear. It was like he was rubbing shoulders with a ghost, and it whispered his name as it brushed by.
Axles creaking, the cart turned another corner. Raiann or one of her companions whistled three ascending notes.
A signal? Balasar skulked onward even more warily than before. He peeked down the branching passage.
He glimpsed a surge of forward motion and the flicker of wings just beneath the ceiling. He started to look up, and then everything went black. At the same instant the floor beneath his feet became uneven. He lost his balance and fell on the hard edges of something. Stone steps or risers?
Before he could feel around and find out, something slammed down on the back of his head and neck. It reached around to scrabble at his face, slashing him just above one eye and just below the other.
He threw himself backward in an effort to crush his attacker between his body and whatever he was lying on. He grabbed, caught handfuls of what might be leathery wing, and shredded them with his claws.
Whisper of Venom: Brotherhood of the Griffon, Book II Page 12
