“The sellswords who looked after me said I should stay and loot the bodies with them,” said a soprano voice.

Startled, Oraxes snapped his head around. Meralaine was standing in front of him.

“But I was too tired,” she continued.

He dredged up a sneer. “Besides, it’s wrong to rob your friends.”

She stared at him for a moment. Then she said, “No zombie ever cheated me or threw stones at me just because I had green marks on my hands. There are worse friends than the dead.”

“And I guess that if you can’t find any living ones, that’s good.”

She sighed. “I thought that fighting the immolith together might help us be friends. But maybe not. Is it because you think I want to be the leader of the mages?”

He frowned. “Don’t you? You were certainly kissing Gaedynn’s boots.”

“I was not!” She hesitated. “But if I seemed like it, it was probably just because he and the other Brothers act like they don’t hate arcanists. Why would I care about being in charge of just three other people? Especially knowing how contrary the rest of you are. Especially since this Jhesrhi person will take over the job as soon as she comes back.”

He surprised himself by chuckling. “When you put it like that, it does seem kind of stupid. I just …”

“Was never put in charge of anything or anybody before?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

She sat down beside him. “You should learn necromancy. Then you’d always have dead things to order around.”

Tchazzar kissed his way down Lady Imestra’s body. Like so many Chessentans, she had a taut, athletic frame, and her milky skin was smooth as silk. She was also the wife of one of the city’s principal lords, and that made her even more desirable. It had always been thus, and evidently a century in exile hadn’t changed his proclivities.

At first she squirmed and arched her back in delight. He didn’t notice precisely when that changed. Eventually though, he realized she’d started screaming and struggling, tangling her fingers in his hair and straining in a vain attempt to pull his head up.

When he raised it, he saw reddened, blistered skin. A trace of a red dragon’s fire must have warmed his lips and tongue.

In wyrm form, mating with one of his own kind, he would have deliberately caressed his lover with his flame. He wondered if, addled by passion, he’d made an embarrassing mistake.

But that possibility only troubled him for an instant, and then he perceived the truth. He was a god, and so his divine nature protected him. Imestra couldn’t bear his touch because she was disloyal.

“Traitor,” he said. “Traitorous bitch.” He jumped up, grabbed her arm, and jerked her off the broad canopy bed onto the gleaming marble floor.

“Majesty!” she wailed.

“I know how to deal with traitors.” He dragged her across the floor to the chair where he’d tossed his clothing and the dagger he’d worn along with it.

Then someone knocked on the chamber door. “Majesty!” called the sentry posted outside. “Is everything all right?”

“In a way!” Tchazzar snarled. “My guards are evidently too stupid to keep traitors away from me. But fortunately a deity can protect himself!”

The sentry hesitated, then said, “A lot of people are here waiting to see you, Majesty. Even though it’s late, and we told them you gave orders not to be disturbed. There’s Lady Halonya, Lords Daelric and Nicos, the sellsword captain-”

“You mean Fezim?”

“Yes.”

Even with the insight of a divine being, Tchazzar couldn’t imagine what was going on. But it seemed clear he needed to find out. He started to call the guard in, then hesitated.

He’d proved Imestra’s guilt. But would mere mortals understand that? It might make life simpler if he provided more conventional evidence.

He left her sprawled and sobbing, picked up the dagger, unsheathed it, and tossed it to clank down beside her. Then he told the sentry to come in.

“Arrest her,” Tchazzar said. “Watch out for the knife she smuggled in.”

“Yes, Majesty,” said the guard.

“Arrest her pimp of a husband too. Where did you put all these folk whose problem can’t wait until morning?”

“In the Green Hall.”

“That will do.” Tchazzar momentarily considered dressing properly, then decided that given the hour and the impromptu nature of the assembly, a robe was good enough. He pulled on one sewn of crimson mocado and headed for the door. Behind him, Imestra blubbered.

An escort formed around him as he exited the royal apartments, and they all marched into the Green Hall together. Tapestries depicting Chessentan naval victories adorned the walls. The seas in the woven pictures were the color one would expect. So were the tiles on the floor, and the upholstery on the high-backed, ornately carved chair atop the dais.

As Tchazzar seated himself, he surveyed all the frowning folk awaiting his pleasure. They stood in three clumps.

On his right were Halonya-he really would have to tell the poor child to stop second-guessing her dressmakers, jewelers, and hairdressers-a couple of her subordinate priests, and plump Luthen with his balding head and goatee.

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.”