Aoth snarled words of power. A line of floating, whirling blades abruptly materialized in front of the wyrm. The reptile’s own momentum carried it into the magical weapons, and they sheared gory wounds into various portions of its body.

Oraxes crooned a rhyme in a demonic tongue. Some of the flesh on the dragon’s shoulder melted and flowed like wax.

An arrow, one of the poisonous black ones Gaedynn had brought back from the Shadowfell, punctured the reptile’s left eye.

And then at last it fell, crashing down on a house that partially collapsed beneath the impact. Aoth studied it until he was sure it wasn’t going to get up again.

Oraxes let out a whoop.

Aoth grinned. “I take it you enjoyed that.”

The adolescent hesitated, and when he spoke again, it was in his customary sullen tone. “It was all right.”

Today, Tchazzar seemed content for Jhesrhi to wear her usual functional, comfortable clothing, and thank the gods for that. She told herself that if she never had to wear ridiculous court attire again, she’d count herself blessed.

But if she didn’t relish fancy dress, Halonya plainly did. The prophetess still didn’t look especially clean, but she’d donned layer upon floppy, trailing layer of bejeweled and embroidered garments, all in various shades of red. Apparently the ensemble represented her notion of the regalia appropriate to a high priestess.

At the moment, a parade of architects was regaling her and the rest of those assembled in the audience chamber with concepts for the new temple. Halonya listened with rapt attention, although Jhesrhi suspected the girl didn’t understand more than half.

Tchazzar looked just as interested, but as time passed, his frown made it clear that he was dissatisfied as well. Finally he turned to Jhesrhi and said, “What do you think, my friend?”

Caught off guard, she fumbled for an answer. “Uh, the second one? With the fountain of flame?”

“The design has possibilities,” the transformed dragon said. “But it isn’t grand enough. None of them are.” He gave the architects an indulgent smile. “How could they be, when Halonya herded you into my presence when you’d scarcely had time to think? Return in a tenday, and we’ll see who deserves the commission.”

As one, the builders bobbed their hands and professed their eagerness to obey.

“One thing to bear in mind,” Tchazzar continued, “is that we’re going to build on the opposite side of the city from the War College. We’ll have all Luthcheq cradled between the two poles of power, the temporal and the divine. A neat conception, don’t you think?”

Shala Karanok cleared her throat.

The former war hero had relinquished her crown, but she still wore mannish garments trimmed with bits of steel that suggested armor. Apparently they weren’t part of the monarch’s formal regalia. She stood before a marble statue of a crouching, snarling warrior with a broken sword in his right hand and an axe in his left, one of the many martial decorations scattered throughout the chamber.

“Majesty,” she said, “may I speak?”

Tchazzar turned his grin on her. “Of course, High Lady, of course.”

“I can find room for your temple on the mall in the religious quarter,” she said.

“I’m glad you’re thinking,” Tchazzar replied, “but I like my notion better. It wouldn’t be very friendly of me to crowd my brother and sister deities.”

“I wouldn’t know about that, Majesty. But if I understand you correctly, the spot where you intend to build is quite built up already. That will add considerably to the expense.”

“Oh, I know you’ll find the coin somewhere. The important thing is that we finish the temple before the end of the year.”

Shala hesitated, and Jhesrhi had the feeling she was choosing her next words carefully. “Majesty, with all respect, that too will add to the expense if it can even be done at all. Chessenta has a war to fight and pay for.”

“You see, there’s your answer,” Tchazzar said. “The plunder we seize will subsidize the temple.”

“All the more reason then to take to the field as quickly as possible.”

“Soon,” Tchazzar said. “As soon as I set the government to rights.”

“Then may I have your permission to head north immediately? One of us should be there.”

Tchazzar’s smile disappeared. He studied Shala for several heartbeats, then said, “No. I need you here. Don’t worry, we have plenty of brave soldiers and shrewd captains to hold the line for now.”

Shala gave a stiff half bow of acquiescence. “As Your Majesty commands.”

“Now, everyone leave me,” the dragon said. “I need a time of contemplation.”

Jhesrhi bowed with the rest.

“Oh, not you,” Tchazzar said, “nor you either, Halonya. The two of you must help me ponder.”

So Jhesrhi and the newly minted high priestess remained.

“That woman,” Tchazzar said, once everyone else was gone. “That Shala. Do you think she resents me?”

“Well, I wouldn’t trust her,” Halonya said.

“I would,” said Jhesrhi. “I do. She’s just giving you the best advice she knows how to give.”

“Hm,” said Tchazzar, gazing at the doorway through which Shala had exited. “We’ll see.”

Aoth hastily unbuckled himself from Jet’s saddle. Leaving Oraxes to fumble with his own straps, he moved to inspect the end of Jet’s wounded wing. The griffon still held the member partly extended, and through their psychic link Aoth could tell that it would ache worse if he folded it up against his back as usual. Blood pattered steadily onto the ground.

“I told you,” said Jet, “it’s all right.”

“Not if I want to ride you tomorrow, it isn’t.” Aoth turned to survey the courtyard of Hasos Thora’s smallish castle in the center of Soolabax. Various retainers stood gaping at the griffon riders still setting down in the space.

“Get me a healer!” Aoth shouted. “Fast!”

In time, a plump, gray-bearded fellow scurried from the keep with a satchel tucked under his arm. Aoth was glad to see he wore the yellow robe of a priest of Amaunator. As far as he was concerned, a cleric of Kossuth would have been better still, but at least he was one of Cera’s subordinates. Maybe, knowing she was fond of him, he was willing to believe Aoth might be a decent fellow even if he was a mage, a sellsword, and a Thayan.

Although the sunlord balked when he saw the blood and realized whom he was supposed to treat. But that was probably because-huge, crimson-eyed, and otherwise deepnight-black from his beak to the lashing tip of his leonine tail-Jet looked every bit as dangerous as he was, and a lot less tractable.

“Come on!” Aoth called. “He won’t hurt you.”

“Not unless you hurt me,” said the familiar.

Aoth shot him an annoyed look. “You’re not helping.”

The sun priest approached rather gingerly, inspected the wing, stanched the flow of blood with a healing prayer, rubbed a pungent amber salve into the wound, and finally stitched it shut. Jet stiffened once or twice, and Aoth felt the jabs of pain that made him do it. But the griffon resisted the temptation to spin around and rend the healer limb from limb.

When it was done, Aoth scratched Jet’s neck, ruffling the feathers, stooped to uncinch his saddle, and then saw Hasos glowering at him. The tall, long-nosed baron looked petulant, but there was nothing new about that.

“I should go talk to him,” said Aoth.

“Yes, go,” said Jet, a trace of humor in his rasp of a voice. “I know you’ve been looking forward to it.”

As Aoth crossed the muddy courtyard, Hasos said, “I would have appreciated it if you’d come and conferred with me right away. Someone else could have seen to your steed.”

My “steed,” thought Aoth, is a lot more useful and important to me than you’ll ever be.

“Please excuse me, milord,” he said aloud. “But I thought the situation deserved my personal attention. Now, I have something for you.” He opened the pouch on his belt, brought out a rolled parchment, and held it out to the nobleman.