by James Maxey
“Sire,” Kanst said, his voice deep, strong, and vibrating with anticipation. “I apologize for calling this assembly at such short notice. I’ve returned from my mission earlier than planned to bring you a gift.”
“A gift?” Tanthia said, with barely concealed anger. “You come to report the death of my sister-in-law, do you not? What possible motivation could you have had to perpetrate such an outrage?”
“My queen, I regret the loss of Chakthalla, but she was harboring the fugitive, Vendevorex. There was no time to send for further orders. We had to launch a daring assault, relying on surprise to best a superior—”
“Kanst,” Albekizan interrupted, raising his bejeweled claws dismissively. “I know this. The news traveled more swiftly than your army. Save your battle tales for the amusement of others. I am only interested in the heart of the rumors. Did you capture Bitterwood?”
“Sire,” Kanst said, “honor requires me to speak of the role the cunning hunter Zanz—”
“Pay attention,” Albekizan said, again cutting the general short. “Your answer requires only one word. Is Bitterwood your prisoner?”
“Yes,” Kanst answered. He turned toward one of the side halls leading from the throne room and shouted, “Bring forth the prisoner!”
Pertalon, a sky-dragon Metron recognized as a victor from the martial games, marched into the room, his sinister teeth flashing in the torchlight as he barked, “Faster, worm!”
The command was a cruel one, for its target was a human who had little choice in his speed. His long, powerful legs were manacled, with barely enough chain to let him hobble along. His well-muscled arms were shackled behind him with chains as thick as those used on ox-dogs. Pertalon controlled the prisoner by means of a long pole capped with a metal ring which was in turn connected to an identical ring on a steel collar locked around the captive’s neck. Aside from the metal that bound him, the prisoner was unclothed. Human faces were often deeply lined with emotions—fear, anger, shame—that Metron could read as simply as he read the written word on a piece of parchment. This man was different, his lips and eyes locked into utter blankness. What else would he expect from the legendary Bitterwood?
“Bow to your superiors, dog!” Pertalon said, swinging his tail around to smack his captive behind the knees before pushing him forward with the neck pole until he was prostrate.
Metron looked again at the king, expecting to see the lightning return to his visage. However, Albekizan still appeared lethargic, and if he received any pleasure at all at seeing his enemy humiliated, his face failed to show it.
“This is him?” Albekizan asked, sounding bored.
“Yes, Sire,” Zanzeroth said. “I’m the one who bested him.”
“So I see,” Albekizan said. “It’s obvious by the numerous wounds you bear, and the absence of wounds upon him.”
“I defeated him with wits, Sire,” Zanzeroth said.
“No wonder he’s unbruised,” Albekizan said.
Tanthia suddenly rose, tears now plainly visible in her eyes. “Lies!” she cried. “This is not the murderer of my son!”
“But, my queen,” protested Zanzeroth, “I witnessed this man as he took my eye. I struggled with him in mortal combat in the throne room of Chakthalla’s castle. No dragon alive can speak more authoritatively as to the identity of this prisoner. I tell you, this is the man.”
Tanthia looked as if she might charge across the room and strike Zanzeroth in her anger. She shouted, “You fool! This is Chakthalla’s personal slave. She calls him ‘Pet.’ I’ve seen him before, many times. You recognize him, don’t you?” she said, addressing Albekizan.
“I pay little attention to slaves. Perhaps he does look familiar.”
“As I should!” the human said.
“Silence!” Pertalon shouted, twisting the pole to choke his prisoner.
Albekizan shifted on his pedestal. “Let him speak.”
“It’s true I disguised myself as Chakthalla’s slave,” Pet said, rising to his knees. “How better to infiltrate your castles? Chakthalla was present at the ceremonial competition between Bodiel and Shandrazel. I was to wait in her quarters during the ceremony. Instead I slipped out to perform the murder!”
“For one who’s spent long years hiding in shadows, you seem eager to confess,” Albekizan said.
“I’ve nothing to be ashamed of,” Pet said, throwing back his muscular shoulders. “I’m proud to have killed Bodiel. Set me loose and give me my bow, and I’ll kill you all where you stand!”
Metron held his breath, expecting Albekizan’s rage to at last ignite. Instead the king asked only, “Why?”
Metron noted a crack in Pet’s demeanor, a look of confusion as if he hadn’t expected to be asked the question. Then the cool mask again claimed his features as he answered, “Because I hate you. I hate how humans are made slaves. I seek to kill dragons until such time as men live free.”
“How noble,” Albekizan said. “Fighting for your fellow men.”
“I do what I must,” Pet answered. “I would fight you now, at this moment, if I were free.”
“I believe you,” Albekizan said.
“Sire,” Zanzeroth said, “I crave to be this man’s executioner. With your word, I will end his life.”
“I shall consider the request,” Albekizan said. “Now, all of you, go. Take Bitterwood to the dungeons and secure him while I consider his fate.”
“Yes, Sire,” Zanzeroth said. As he turned, Metron felt sure he witnessed a look of sly satisfaction in the hunter’s good eye.
Pertalon dragged Pet away.
Tanthia grumbled. “This is an outrage, Kanst. You’ve murdered my sister-in-law and abused her property. That man is too young to be Bitterwood. You’ve lost your senses.”
“He was caught with incriminating evidence,” Kanst said, holding forward a bundle wrapped in silk. Albekizan took the bundle and unwrapped it. It held a bow and three arrows, fletched with the crimson wing-scales of a sun-dragon. Bodiel's?
“This is damning evidence,” Albekizan said, flatly. “Well done, Kanst. Now go. I’ve much to consider.”
Kanst and Zanzeroth left, soon followed by Tanthia. Metron wondered at the king’s somber mood. Could it be that the anger that had burned so brightly within the king had at last burned itself to ash? He had to know.
“Sire,” he said.
“What is it, Metron?”
Metron glanced back toward the shadows. Blasphet remained there, silent and still as a statue. “May I speak with you in private, Sire?”
“We shall speak at another time,” Albekizan said.
“But—”
“Metron, your ancient office is owed a great amount of respect, even by a king. But don’t presume to question my orders. I told you to leave. Your request for an audience is noted. I will summon you when I’m ready.”
“Yes, Sire,” Metron said, turning away. But you’d do well to speak to me soon, he thought.Before I’m forced to rely on my alliance with your brother.
ALBEKIZAN WATCHED THE High Biologian shuffle slowly from the hall, wondering why he’d been so easy on the old fool. He allowed his advisors to be too familiar with him. The accursed Vendevorex was to blame, no doubt. He should have snapped the wizard’s slender neck a decade ago. It would have spared him much grief.
The door closed behind Metron, leaving Albekizan with the torches that blazed throughout the hall, the life-flames of his ancestors, now joined by the flame of a descendent. Albekizan looked at the torch that had been his son burning beside the throne, and wondered if Bodiel had been witness to Bitterwood’s presence in the room. He wondered if his son retained the full senses he had possessed in life, and suddenly he wished that Metron were still here, for it was his job to know the answer to such a question.
“I’ve seen this look upon your face before. Something troubles you, Brother.”
Albekizan looked away from the torch into the shadows. His eyes adjusted to make out Blasphet’s dark form.
“I told you to leave,” Albekizan said.
“So you did. Yet, I remain.”
“I was just thinking how useful it might be to throttle one of my advisors. It would keep the others in line. You tempt fate by taunting me.”
“You’ll not find my neck so easy to throttle, I fear,” said Blasphet. “Today I have coated my claws with a most efficient poison. One scratch and you’d be dead within a heartbeat.”
“You threaten me?”
“No. When I decide it is time for you to die, you will die, but today is not that day. Not if you give me the correct answer to a most urgent question.”
“I know your question,” Albekizan said. “Bitterwood’s capture changes nothing. You may continue your work in the Free City.”
“It feels hollow, doesn’t it?” Blasphet asked, approaching.
“What do you mean?”
“It looks as if you haven’t eaten or slept in days. I deduce you lost both your appetite and your restfulness when you learned he’d been captured.”
“I care nothing for your speculations,” Albekizan said.
“I will make them anyway. I believe you are feeling a disappointment I’m long familiar with: the hollowness of death. How can you hurt Bitterwood now that you have him? Death will only take him from your grasp. You want him dead, and you want him to suffer, and the two are mutually incompatible.” Blasphet shook his head as if saddened by the poor options. “What shall it be, Brother? Torment or dissolution? The ache of knowing he still lives, or the frustration of knowing he no longer suffers?”
“You… may be right,” Albekizan said. “You surprise me with your wisdom. So, tell me, what is the answer? How do I hurt him even beyond death?”
“I don’t know,” Blasphet said. “Even if I did, why would I choose to end your agony? One reason you still live is that I enjoy your suffering.”
Albekizan felt, not for the first time, an admiration for the cold, twisted mind of his sibling. Suffering or death: he framed the problem so eloquently. If only there were some way to have both…
Albekizan chuckled. Suddenly, the solution was obvious.
“Have I amused you?” Blasphet asked.
“You’ve inspired me, my brother,” Albekizan said feeling fire return to his limbs. “You’ve inspired me indeed.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: REFLECTIONS
JANDRA HADN’T KNOWN what to expect from the Free City, but she certainly didn’t expected this. Thousands of freshly built houses in neat, orderly rows, were furnished sparsely but adequately. The homes were modest by the standards of the dwellings she’d lived in among the dragons, but they were far better than the hovels that used to surround the palace. The city also smelled better than any human dwelling she’d ever visited; Richmond always stank of fish guts and dung. The Free City had the pleasant aroma of sawdust and new paint. There were even freshly planted flowers blooming in window boxes.
Jandra had anticipated cruel guards and chains for everyone inside. She expected at least more of the starvation and thirst of the long march here. Instead, there were banquet halls, where meals were served three times a day in heaps of roasted meats and fresh vegetables, and gallon upon gallon of fresh, clean water. At first she’d worried that the food was poisoned… but after seeing other people digging in, her hunger had overcome her caution.
Perhaps the most disturbing thing about the Free City was that Jandra felt very much at home. She’d lived her life in a castle built to accommodate sun-dragons. She was used to tables twice her height. At mealtimes, she was often confronted with dinner platters as long as she was. A dragon’s cup was a bucket to her. In the libraries, she sometimes encountered books so large and heavy she couldn’t lift them from the shelves. She had simply never fit into the dragons’ world. The Free City was being built by humans for humans. There was something cozy about being able to climb a flight of stairs simply by stepping up, rather than actually climbing.
The nearly empty streets of the Free City, with no guards in sight, offered a surprising refuge for Jandra. She could wander among the alleyways for hours, trying to make sense of the events of the recent days, attempting to divine some truth from them that would give her guidance.
Foremost in her mind was Vendevorex and his lie. She wasn’t surprised that he’d been able to keep the truth hidden all these years. Other dragons feared Vendevorex. Who among them would have cared enough about her to tell her the truth at the risk of the wizard’s wrath? She could see him more clearly now that she was distant from him. He was a cold, cruel manipulator who acted only to increase his power and wealth, never for any noble purpose.
Even his seeming kindness toward her had a selfish origin; Vendevorex wanted to assuage his own guilt. Caring for her had been his path to a clean conscience.
So why did she miss him so? Why, the more her mind argued all the reasons she should hate him, did she feel only longing? Had she made a mistake by leaving him?
No, she thought. He killed my parents. This is the central fact. He admitted it. I will hate him until I die.
Her longing for her mentor’s company was amplified by her lack of human companionship. In the midst of the thousands of humans already at the Free City, she found no kindred spirits. Bitterwood was closed to her. He wasn’t hostile, but he was distant, as if he were still struggling with his own internal demons. Zeeky was too young to truly be called a friend, though she spent more time with her than with anyone else. And the villagers… the villagers were incomprehensible. They seemed completely in the thrall of the prophet Kamon who had convinced them that their passage to the Free City was foretold by his visions.
Jandra knew the Free City was meant to kill them, but doubted she could convince anyone of this. She’d never persuade people the dragons were the enemy while all the residents of the Free City slept with full stomachs on clean linens. The humans were more a threat to themselves than the dragons were, as the only violence she had seen since arriving in the city was a brawl between the followers of the prophet Kamon and the followers of a rival prophet named Ragnar, whom she had yet to meet.
At last, she had walked the streets until she was weary enough to sleep, no matter how troubled her thoughts. With a sigh she returned to the small house she shared with Zeeky. Perhaps in the morning her mind would be clearer.
ANDROKOM WEARILY GLANCED over his shoulder once more. No one followed, though the spiky fringe of scales on his neck still tingled with the sensation that he was being watched. The sky was crystal clear; if anyone was behind him, he would certainly have seen him.
“You’re paranoid,” he said to himself.
Maybe, he thought. But I still think I’m being followed.
At length, thirst crept into his awareness, overpowering his caution. He was only hours away from Albekizan’s palace but could go no further. He needed water, a good meal, and a long nap.
In the distance a fat river gleamed like a band of silver. He spied a small, tree-covered island in the middle of the waters and knew this would be the perfect spot to rest. No one could sneak up on him there. Besides, who would want to? Only Metron and his fellow biologians knew of his journey. Certainly none of them would have set pursuers after him, would they?
If only Metron hadn’t uttered that cursed name: Blasphet, the Murder God. What could the High Biologian be thinking in dealing with such a disturbed mind? Moreover, was he a fool for helping? Could this be some elaborate scheme by Blasphet to lead the biologians to their deaths?
“You’re paranoid. Only an idiot could dream up such concerns,” he said. He often talked to himself on long journeys. He wished, if he must talk to himself, that he wouldn’t be so insulting.
Androkom swooped down, gliding along the moist air above the river, watching fish dart and scurry beneath the ripples. His blue hide was reflected in the surface of the water. He tilted his wings up to slow himself, then swung his legs forward to land on the island’s sandy shore. The small beach faced north, shaded from the
sun, and the sand was cool and soothing beneath his talons. The damp sand carried an aroma that reminded Androkom of the Isle of Horses, where he’d trained with the biologian Dacorn. Androkom unstrapped the pack he carried on his chest and set it gently on the sand, careful not to jar the equipment he carried. He walked to the water’s edge and knelt, craning his long neck forward until his chin touched the water. With one last glance over his shoulder to confirm he was alone, he stuck out his tongue and lapped up the cool, fresh water.
The water was exceptionally still in the little cove, so still his own face looked back at him as he drank, distorted only by the small wavelets his tongue created. Again, he felt the strange sensation that he wasn’t alone and looked behind him. Shrugging it off, he lowered his head to the water once more. Suddenly, he began to choke as his reflection was joined by two others, a sky-dragon and a sun-dragon, standing on the beach next to him.
Androkom jumped forward into the knee-deep water and spun around. To his dismay, he recognized one of the intruders.
“Shandrazel!” he shouted. He’d heard about the reception the banished prince had received at the College of Spires and feared that Shandrazel might not feel warmly toward biologians.
“Don’t panic, Androkom,” Shandrazel said. “You’ve nothing to fear from us.”
Androkom straightened himself, raising his wings for balance. “You remember me, Prince? I’m flattered.” He’d met Shandrazel almost five years ago, while the prince was still under the tutelage of Dacorn.
“Of course,” Shandrazel said. “I was impressed by your argument that books often contain falsehoods and contradictions. So many of the biologians seem fixed on the notion that if it’s written, it must be true. It helped guide me to the view that the form of government we dragons have chosen might not be the wisest one.”
“A surprisingly enlightened view for a prince of the realm,” Androkom said. He cast a glance at the sky-dragon beside Shandrazel. A biologian? Why didn’t he recognize him? Unless… could it be? “Who, may I ask, is your companion?”
