He didn’t perceive Torm’s presence all at once. It wasn’t that the god was being coy, but rather that Medrash’s exertions were gradually heightening his awareness. And even when he became entirely cognizant and executed the last three actions of the dance for the final time, he didn’t truly see the deity. But he had a sense of the Loyal Fury as a dragonborn warlord taller than the tallest giant and made of golden light, looming over the ship with a greatsword canted casually over his shoulder.
Even as he caught his breath, Medrash recognized another presence too. A silvery, wedge-shaped head at the top of a serpentine neck towered even higher than Torm, the better, perhaps, to see past him.
Medrash wasn’t altogether surprised. The Loyal Fury, who’d rescued a weak, timid child from misery and humiliation, would always be his patron deity. But as poor Patrin had tried to teach him, Torm and Bahamut were comrades, and the latter, too, had occasionally helped Medrash in what he now understood to be his struggle against Tiamat, the Platinum Dragon’s archenemy, and her minions.
And he evidently meant to help now. It made sense, for one of Bahamut’s titles was Lord of the North Wind.
Medrash raised his sword in a salute and opened himself to whatever gift the dragon god might choose to give. Nostrils flaring, Bahamut sucked in a breath. His jaws snapped open, and he spewed it forth again.
Intense cold and a sense of relentless pressure stabbed into the core of Medrash’s body, or perhaps his soul. He cried out, staggered, and grabbed a sheet to keep from falling but not because the sensation was painful. Somehow it wasn’t. It was simply overwhelming.
Balasar and Khouryn came scurrying. Medrash raised his hand to signal that he was all right. He looked up again, but as his instincts had already told him, Torm and Bahamut had vanished as soon as they finished bestowing their blessing.
Since they were no longer present to receive his thanks, he strode to Biri. Though it still wasn’t painful, the power pent up inside him turned, tumbled, pushed, swelled, and generally sought release. He felt as if he’d swallowed a tornado or a beehive.
Though intent on her magic, Biri spotted him coming from the corner of her eye. She recited a tercet, bobbed the wand of cloudstuff on the rhyming word at the end of each line as though she counting three of something, and that apparently brought her to a point where she could safely take a break. Breathing heavily, she turned and gave him an inquiring look.
“I think I can make your magic stronger,” he said. “I’ve received a gift of power to pass along.”
“Divine power?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, “but the gods know who you are and what you do. I think that when it transfers to you, it will come in a form you can use.”
“I’m game,” she said. “What do we do?”
“You face the sails just like before, and I’ll rest my hands on your shoulders.” He grinned. “Although it may make Balasar jealous.”
“Really?” she asked, and for that moment she sounded like a hopeful, love-struck maiden, not a battle-seasoned adept in the midst of an arduous task.
“Really,” he said. He waved toward the masts. “Shall we?”
The hard part was letting the power flow a bit at a time. It wanted to blast and scream out like a winter gale, but Medrash suspected that Biri wouldn’t be able to handle it if it came to her all at once. As it was, she cried out as he had, and her knees buckled. He shifted his grip to her forearms so he could hold her up.
Until she planted her feet underneath her and said, “It’s all right. No, better than all right.”
When she resumed her chant, her high, melodious voice was the same as before, yet different. It had an undertone to it that at various moments reminded Medrash of the whistle of the wind or a dragon’s roar. He suspected that he was hearing it less with the ears of the flesh than with those of the spirit.
The sails bellied as a stronger, steadier wind filled them. Sailors called out to one another and scrambled to make the most of it.
Lost in a sort of half trance, Medrash couldn’t tell how long it took him to drain away Bahamut’s gift completely. But when he had, he looked around. The Chessentan warships were so far to the northwest that he could barely even make them out.
Exhausted, he slumped down where he stood. Biri did the same and flopped back against him. Her head lolled and after a moment she snored a tiny gurgling snore.
Halonya’s heart pounded as she and her escort-a quintet of warriors oath bound to the church-headed for the imposing, gilded double doors at the end of the corridor. Maybe that was foolish, for the god had summoned her many times before, and sometimes every bit as late. But on those occasions, it had always been to attend him in some throne room or counsel chamber, not his private apartments.
She would have liked to stop and make sure her miter, vestments, and necklaces were straight, maybe even pinch a dash of extra color into her cheeks. But of course, she couldn’t. Not in front of her escort and the royal guards bracketing the golden doors. When in public, the high priestess of the god of gods had to comport herself with stately dignity. She couldn’t primp like some empty-headed wench.
One of the two sentries opened the gilded doors for her. “The wyrmlady is here, Your Majesty,” he said.
“Send her in,” said Tchazzar’s voice. The rich, deep tones sent a thrill singing through her, perhaps even more than usual.
“Stay here,” she told her guards. She entered the outermost chamber, a spacious room where she and five or ten other guests had sometimes shared a supper or a bard’s performance with their lord, then gasped. For an instant, she felt light-headed.
That was because it was apparent that Tchazzar was wearing a robe of crimson silk and nothing else. He hadn’t even bothered to close it well or knot the sash particularly tightly.
By Lady Firehair’s sweet, stinging lash, was it really happening? Halonya had told herself she didn’t even want it. That their sacred bond as god and priestess was more wonderful than any fleeting carnal connection could ever be. That she in no way resented the endless parade of sluts he took to his bed. But still, was it?
“I apologize for calling for you so late,” said Tchazzar, seemingly oblivious to her emotional agitation. “Would you care for some wine?”
She swallowed. “Yes, Majesty.”
He moved to one of the tables and filled a pair of golden goblets from the carafe. “And would you like to talk on the terrace? It’s nice on these summer nights.”
She was sure it would be, in the dark, with the lights of the city below them and the moon and stars above. It would be the kind of place where a man took a woman when he wanted to court her-not that Halonya had any experience with such matters. Looking back, she could see how even from her youngest days, destiny had set her steps on a higher path.
“That would be fine,” she said.
Tchazzar smiled, handed her one of the cups, opened the casement, and led her out onto the balcony. He seated her across from him at a table, and they pledged one another. The wine was an Aglarondan red of which he was fond, tart at the instant it touched the tongue but then somehow flowering into sweetness.
“I want to talk to you about Jhesrhi,” he said.
For a heartbeat Halonya could make no sense of what he’d said, or perhaps, she imagined, she hadn’t heard him correctly. Then a jolt of disappointment made her body clench.
She reminded herself again that she was the head of Tchazzar’s clergy, and that was not only enough; it was more than any other mortal could ever possess. She took a breath, let it out, and said, “What about Lady Jhesrhi, Majesty? I’ve been trying to treat her like my friend and your loyal deputy, just as you told me to do.”