Not, of course, that the cheers were for her. They were for Tchazzar. His scaly crimson wings shining in the sunlight, the red dragon was returning to the city he’d ruled a century before. His long-tailed shadow swept along beneath him, and the griffon riders with whom he shared the sky looked tiny by comparison, like hummingbirds escorting an eagle.
Still, until recently Jhesrhi had feared and loathed the city of her childhood as it had feared and loathed her. Its prejudices were to blame for the nightmarish captivity that had scarred her spirit for all time. But recent events had given her the chance to heal at least one of her psychic wounds, and like it or not, Luthcheq was going to change for the better as well. Tchazzar had promised that it would.
Luthcheq sat at the foot of a towering cliff, and the citadel called the War College actually protruded from the rock face. Tchazzar landed in the plaza in front of it, which the city guard had kept clear for him. On the other side of the peace officers and the barricades, a collective moan rose from the crowd, many of whom carried the scarlet banners or wore the trappings of the Church of Tchazzar. For a moment Jhesrhi thought they’d rush in and mob the dragon, but somehow they managed to control themselves.
She set Scar down in the fenced-off corner reserved for griffons, and her fellow mercenaries did the same with their mounts. Stocky, bald, and covered in runic tattoos, his blue eyes glowing noticeably even in the daylight, Aoth Fezim had flown down from Soolabax with plump, pretty Cera Eurthos riding behind him. The sunlady, a high priestess of Amaunator, wanted to observe the ceremonies and had prevailed on her new lover to bring her.
Jhesrhi could tell that the captain of the Brotherhood of the Griffon was somewhat more ambivalent about attending, and she reckoned she knew why. Aoth needed to be there to make sure the company received the credit it deserved for Tchazzar’s deliverance and any rewards that came with it. But on the other hand, war was brewing in the north, and he resented the time filched from his preparations.
Meanwhile, Gaedynn Ulraes smiled as if all the drama and pomp was an entertainment staged for his personal amusement. Elegantly clad in a purple, red-slashed doublet, not a shining coppery hair out of place despite the fact that he’d just flown for miles, the lanky archer gave Jhesrhi a wink as he swung himself out of the saddle.
Tchazzar twisted his long neck to survey the waiting throng, then spat an arc of flame high enough to avoid incinerating anyone or setting a building on fire. The onlookers screamed in excitement.
Then the red dragon shrank, dwindling into a tall, broad-shouldered warrior with golden armor and a flame red cloak and plume. Though seemingly human, and despite his massive frame, he had a long, tapered face and slightly pointed ears subtly suggestive of his wyrm form. His slanted eyes were as tawny as Jhesrhi’s. She, Gaedynn, Aoth, and Cera hurried to attend him.
Tchazzar offered Jhesrhi his arm, and despite the extraordinary honor the gesture represented, she froze. If he scowled in response, it was only for an instant, and then the expression became a look of rueful comprehension.
“Forgive me,” he murmured. “But since you have no difficulty touching me when I’m a dragon, it makes it hard to remember you flinch from the man.”
“I’m sorry, Majesty,” Jhesrhi said.
“Don’t be.” He glanced around, evidently making sure everyone had taken up his or her proper ceremonial position. “Shall we?”
They climbed the stone staircase that led up to the terrace where Chessenta’s foremost dignitaries waited. The butt of the staff Jhesrhi had carried away from Mount Thulbane clicked on the steps. Behind them the city guards admitted the crowd to the plaza. As they streamed in, they made a noise like the rush of water when something breached a dike.
Tchazzar walked to the edge of the platform and gazed out at his people. As one, the folk in the crowd fell to their knees. So did everyone on the platform.
Then, as had been arranged, Shala Karanok paced out onto the terrace. A strongly built woman in her middle years, the war hero carried a steel and diamond circlet in her hands. Her face with its scarred, square jaw was without expression, and it was impossible to guess how she felt about what was happening.
She kneeled before Tchazzar and proffered the diadem. “I acknowledge your sovereignty and surrender my office,” she said.
Tchazzar took the circlet, raised it high to gleam in the sunlight, and set it on his own brow. “I crown myself War Hero of Chessenta,” he said. “And you may all rise.”
As soon as they did, the cheers began. The noise rose and fell, surging up at the platform like waves battering a rocky headland.
Tchazzar let his subjects vent their jubilation for a while. Then he raised a hand, and over the course of several heartbeats they fell silent.
“I thank you for your welcome,” the transformed dragon said. “It’s good to be back in the land and the city I love.”
That set off more cheering. After a few moments, he quelled it as he had before.
“As I always did and always will,” Tchazzar continued, “I have returned when you need me most. War is coming. Enemies, hateful and envious, threaten Chessenta on every side. But don’t be afraid. With me to lead you, you’ll butcher them to the last man!”
Again he had to pause and let the crowd roar.
“But vengeance and victory are tomorrow’s business. We have other matters to address today.
“I told you I come to my people when they need me. And how do I know you need me? Because I hear your prayers. Over the years, many have deemed me a god, and now it pleases me for everyone to know the truth. I am a god. A god in every sense, a being as exalted as Amaunator or Waukeen, and you will worship me as such.”
At that, no one cheered. Even if a person believed in Tchazzar’s divinity-and many Chessentans did-there was something disconcerting about hearing him proclaim it outright.
Jhesrhi peered surreptitiously at Cera, stout Daelric Apathos-her superior in the Church of Amaunator-and the other high priests assembled on the terrace. Presumably they all had their professional opinions concerning Tchazzar’s claim, but she couldn’t tell what those were from scrutinizing their solemn expressions.
“Some of you already worship me,” Tchazzar continued. He looked down at the front of the throng, where a profusion of scarlet standards and red cloaks cut to resemble scalloped dragon wings revealed the presence of many adherents of the Church of Tchazzar. “Who is your prophet?”
For a moment it looked like whoever it was, he or she was too shy to say so. Then a skinny adolescent girl stepped forward. She had crimson symbols painted on her starveling, acne-pitted face and wore a fine vermilion cloak-a gift from a follower, perhaps-over the grimy rags underneath.
“I am, Majesty,” she quavered. “My name is Halonya.”
“From this day forward,” Tchazzar said, “you’re a lady of the realm. Your rank is the same as that of any of the patriarchs who stand behind me, and the church you lead is equal in dignity and importance to any of theirs. Others will heed my call and offer themselves to serve as priests and priestesses under your direction. Together, you will build the grandest temple in Luthcheq. My deputy”-he gestured in Shala’s direction-“will assist you with everything you need.”
Halonya started weeping and dropped back onto her knees. “Thank you, Majesty! I love you! I won’t let you down!”
“I know,” Tchazzar said. “Now, I wish to acknowledge someone else who has done me great service. Jhesrhi Coldcreek, come forward.”
Tchazzar hadn’t warned Jhesrhi he meant to do that. She suddenly felt intensely awkward, and Gaedynn’s sardonic smile made the sensation worse. Somehow she managed to walk the several paces to the war hero’s side without tripping or otherwise disgracing herself.
“As some of you know,” Tchazzar said, “this woman is a wizard. And after she … used her magic to my benefit, I offered her a boon. She could have asked for a title, wealth, and land, but she didn’t. She asked me to correct a long-standing injustice, and so I shall.
“I hereby rescind all laws that apply only to folk possessed of arcane abilities. Henceforth, sorcerers need not have their palms tattooed. They can live where they like, assemble as they like, and practice their arts as they like, provided they do no harm. Priests and scholars are forbidden to teach the false and pernicious belief that all arcane magic derives from the lower worlds, and those who seek to persecute warlocks and wizards will face severe reprisals.”
