Whisper of Venom

In other words, Jhesrhi thought, the priests of Amaunator, Aoth, and me. Curse you, woman. Curse and rend your jealous, lying soul.

Jhesrhi didn’t want to let the slander pass unchallenged. Yet at the same time she didn’t want to acknowledge that she recognized to whom it referred, lest that give it a kind of credence in Tchazzar’s mind. So she simply heaved a sigh.

Tchazzar turned on his campstool. “What is it?” he asked.

“I’m no diviner,” Jhesrhi answered. “It’s not one of my talents. But while in Thay, I read a treatise on the Four and Forty Tiles by Yaphyll herself.” She gave a Halonya a smile. “You recognize the name, I’m sure. The only oracle to foresee Mystra’s murder and the coming of the Blue Fire.”

Halonya scowled. “What about her?”

“She says that one tile can only influence at most two others. Which means the mask can’t possibly veil the sun, the spear, and the leper. Especially when there are other pieces-like the ox and the river-that fell as close or closer to it. Or is there some subtlety I’m missing?”

The former street preacher hesitated. “Maybe not. It was a long journey up from Luthcheq with the troops. I’m tired.”

Jhesrhi felt herself relax, because her statements had been as much a bluff as Halonya’s performance. She had no idea whether the late Zulkir of Divination had ever written about the Four and Forty Tiles. If so, Jhesrhi had certainly never read the results. But Halonya feared to contend with her in a contest of erudition, and Tchazzar was evidently no expert on that particular form of prophecy either.

“Maybe I can try again later,” Halonya continued. She shifted her gaze to Tchazzar. “If it’s just the two of us, it might help me concentrate.”

“Maybe,” said Tchazzar. He rose and lifted her to her feet-a tacit reassurance of his continuing favor-and she set about readjusting her layers of silk and velvet and dangling, clinking golden chains and amulets. “Or maybe you’d do better with a different style of prophecy! One that reflects my aspect as a god of fire!”

He picked up the bottle of Sembian red from its folding table and, careless in one of his sudden excitements, splashed more wine into the golden goblets his guests had set aside. “Imagine,” he continued, “a man-or an orc, a kobold, or whatever-burning alive. He’ll cry out. His limbs will twist and his skin will char. Smoke will rise. But the precise way it all happens will vary from case to case. And surely you, the chief priestess of a greater deity, will read meaning in the patterns.”

Halonya turned white and swallowed. “I … I’ll try if you want me to, Your Majesty.”

Tchazzar laughed loud and long. Jhesrhi couldn’t tell whether it was because he’d been joking about the whole idea of the immolations or simply because he found Halonya’s squeamishness amusing.

Finally, blinking tears from his eyes, he said, “I do love you, daughter, and I was wise to call you to my side. Important as it is, my temple can wait. I need both my truest friends to bring my luck.”

“I never want to be anywhere else,” Halonya said.

After that, for a heartbeat, no one spoke. Then Tchazzar fixed his gaze on Jhesrhi. “And you?” he asked, a coolness lurking in his tone.

Caught by surprise, Jhesrhi stammered, “Majesty?”

“Surely you understand my plans for you,” Tchazzar replied. “I want you to stay in the land of your birth. You’ll look after your fellow wizards. Protect them and help them find their proper roles. And as you get that sorted out, you’ll assume additional offices and honors. In the days to come, you and Halonya will be the two greatest ladies in all the East. Surely that will please you.”

Jhesrhi supposed it would. After all, it was vindication, a lofty purpose, luxury, and power all bundled up together.

Whereas the Brotherhood was home. But Khouryn had already gone, and given the countless chances and perils attendant on the sellsword’s way of life, there was no guarantee he’d ever come back. And no matter how often she and Gaedy

Still …

Suddenly she noticed the way Tchazzar was frowning at her hesitation, and the excitement gleaming in Halonya’s eyes. She didn’t want to believe the dragon was mad-at least not severely and permanently so-but sane or otherwise, he was certainly prideful enough to resent a refusal. And Halonya would do everything in her power to keep the wound rubbed raw.

Was he petty and shortsighted enough to answer a rebuff by turning against the Brotherhood? Or stripping Chessenta’s mages of their newly granted legal protections? Jhesrhi didn’t want to believe that either. But she also didn’t want to assume better of him and be wrong.

She swallowed away the dryness in her mouth. “Thank you, Majesty. Of course I’ll stay if you’ll have me.”

Halonya scowled, then struggled to twist the expression into a smile before Tchazzar noticed. It gave Jhesrhi another moment of spiteful amusement.

But no matter how exuberant the dragon seemed at her acquiescence, and no matter how she tried to respond in kind, that was the last bit of genuine enjoyment that came her way. Nor did she feel any gladder as, unable to sleep, she prowled through the camp later on.

Could she truly acquit herself well as a courtier? She, who felt ill at ease around nearly everyone?

Even if she could, did she have the right to abandon her comrades? Especially with Khouryn already absent?

The more she weighed her choices, the more intolerable each of them seemed. But finally she saw a glimmer of hope. If she was staying, maybe the entire Brotherhood could too.

She didn’t know whether Aoth would agree. But he might. Even if he didn’t, if she persuaded Tchazzar to ask, then neither the war-mage nor Gaedy

It was late. Selune and her trail of glittering tears had nearly set in the west. But Jhesrhi was too energized to care. She strode through the moist night air with the snores of sleeping men snorting and buzzing around her and the butt of her staff thumping the ground.

When she got close enough, she smiled, because spots of light still shined inside Tchazzar’s spacious tent. She wouldn’t even have to wake him. She started forward, and then a sentry stepped into her path. In her eagerness, she hadn’t noticed him before.

He wore a scaly chasuble, part vestment and part armor, and carried a pick in his hands. One of the wyrmkeepers, then, who’d resumed wearing their customary regalia after Tchazzar proclaimed they could legitimately serve as clergy in his own church. Jhesrhi felt a twinge of distaste.

“The god,” he said, “is not to be disturbed.”

“He’ll see me,” Jhesrhi said.

“Perhaps in the morning,” he replied.

“I’m one of Aoth Fezim’s lieutenants, which means I’m a high-ranking officer in this army. I’m also the protector of all Chessenta’s wizards. His Majesty appointed me to that office earlier tonight.”

“Be that as it may, the god is not to be disturbed.”

Jhesrhi clenched herself against the urge to knock the fool out of her way with magic. Then she noticed details that made impatience give way to puzzlement.

She might have expected to encounter a sentry within a few paces of his commander’s tent. Instead, the wyrmkeeper had stationed himself a stone’s throw away, as though to make absolutely certain that he himself couldn’t intrude on Tchazzar’s privacy. There were other guards too, shadows blocking every approach to the pavilion, each of them standing just as far away.

But more interesting still was the roiling of mystical power that she suddenly discerned. She half felt it as a crawling on her skin, half saw it as sickly foxfire on the fabric of the tent. Tchazzar wanted privacy because he was conducting some sort of arcane ritual.