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.”
