Fun fact about Drezard: in original drafts, rather than being Zarakharn’s conniving regent, he was the palace cook. Sartigar enjoyed tormenting him and Zarakharn found their antagonistic relationship amusing.
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Zarakharn may be on the move, but danger still awaits in Khriza for the protagonists should they reach it alive.
Drezard sat in the regent’s seat, which was carved into the foot of the towering dais where the imperial throne stood tall. He almost spent more time in his chair than Zarakharn did in his, and yet somehow Zarakharn remained no one’s puppet. This fact frustrated Drezard to no end.
Someone had to attend to the empire’s affairs while Zarakharn was away, and Drezard didn’t get nearly enough credit for it. For days, sometimes months on end, Drezard would address the petitions of the common dragons. Zarakharn was a mere figurehead at this point, who was only in power because of a few well-appointed subordinates to which nearly every duty was delegated. Drezard had seen Zarakharn was ambitious enough to rule and guarded his throne jealousy, but his ambitions seemed turned away from ruling, as though it were a thought he would return to when he had completed a more important goal.
Arrogant worm, Drezard thought.
The steward flew in, carrying a rolled parchment. “Your wisdom!” he cried. “There is a wildfire in the forests of Hegkar! The city’s game has been all but destroyed!”
Drezard frowned. “Someone must give aid!”
“What would you have us do, your wisdom?” asked the steward.
Drezard stroked his snout thoughtfully and flicked his wings. “Prepare the horses.”
The steward was taken aback. “What?”
“Prepare the horses.” Drezard waved. “At once.”
“But your wisdom, won’t you--“
“Do as I command!” Drezard clapped. “I can have you executed by the emperor.”
“No you can’t,” muttered the steward as he flew from the room. Technically that wasn’t true, but everyone knew how little patience Drezard had for the process of approving an execution. Drezard didn’t dare execute anyone without permission lest Zarakharn notice their absence or be approached by their family demanding recompense.
Drezard sighed. Another dragon had flown in as the steward had left.
“Your wisdom!” cried the messenger. “There has been a report that the crystal stone has been found!”
Drezard’s neck shot forward. “Found?” he gasped. “By whom?”
“Stakar Arash of Rakata,” said the steward.
Drezard lunged from his chair. “When will he arrive?” he asked.
“He’s waiting for you in the petitioners’ chamber at this very moment with the stone in hand!”
Drezard crowed, all his spines splayed with triumph. “Send him in!” he bellowed with an air of grandeur and pomp, resuming his seat beneath the throne.
Stakar Arash was brought into the audience chamber. In his hands was a stone, pointed on each end, its blue-white facets shining as the sunlight hit it through the stained-glass mural of the Khrizan-Kadreshian war.
The messenger stood at Drezard’s right hand. “Stakar Arash of Rakata.”
Drezard adopted a haughty demeanor. “Stakar Arash, you have come on a matter of greatest importance, I am told.”
Stakar bowed. “Your. . . wisdom?” He glanced at the messenger out of the corner of his eye. The messenger nodded. “I have traveled halfway across Khriza to return the stone to the emperor. I am told he is not present.”
“Zarakharn travels often on. . . undisclosed personal business,” Drezard replied after searching for the right term and not quite finding it. “When he returns, rest assured you will be rewarded handsomely.”
“With all due respect, your wisdom,” said Stakar, “I would like to be paid now.”
Drezard leaned toward the messenger and whispered to him. The messenger grew solemn and launched from his position out of the room.
“I’m afraid the emperor has strict orders that he must oversee the transaction personally,” said Drezard. “You’ll have to wait, because he’s going to be gone for some time.”
“Is there nothing you can do?” asked Stakar, tail twitching with agitation.
“No,” said Drezard, “but I will happily prepare a room in the dungeon for you to await your execution.”
Stakar gasped and burst for the door. The guards tackled him out of the air, clamping a metal fire gag over his snout.
“This stone is false,” Drezard spat. “How dare you try to defraud the emperor.”
“I swear, it was a mistake!” Stakar cried, voice muffled through his clenched teeth. He writhed as the guards tied his wings and arms.
“It certainly was,” said Drezard grimly. “Execute him immediately.”
“You can’t do that!” Stakar yelled as the guards lifted him thrashing from the room. “Only the emperor can do that! The stone is real, you lying treacherous--“
Drezard sighed as the doors closed. He sighed and resumed his seat. He lifted the stone to his gaze. “The emperor needn’t know about this,” he whispered conspiratorially to the stone. “It will be our little--“
His brow furrowed. There was a flaw in the core of the stone. Zarakharn’s had none. The stone was as false as Drezard had pretended.
He growled. “Well, at least the emperor won’t punish me for keeping this.” He was almost as relieved that the dragon he’d condemned to death had been guilty after all.
The doors opened again, admitting a servant with a great covered bowl in his hands. “Your wisdom,” the servant said, removing the lid from the dish. Inside was ground horsemeat, tossed in goat’s blood, elk’s milk, and buck-and-barley ale.
“Excellent!” Drezard brightened immediately. He seized the bowl and plunged snout first into the dish. A well-deserved reward for my hard work, he thought. Running an empire is exhausting.
