by James Maxey
“Go,” Pet said, giving Graxen a gentle push on the back. The sky-dragon tilted forward, looking for half a second like he would plummet into the courtyard, until he spread his gray wings and shot toward the distant balcony as if pulled by some powerful, unseen spring.
Pet decided at that moment he wouldn’t flee the castle. For one thing, he was curious as to how this meeting would work out for Graxen. Secondly, he hoped that, sooner rather than later, Jandra would return. He didn’t want to miss the chance to see her again. He grinned as he dreamily watched the distant dragons talking. He drifted into a fantasy that began with the offer of a cup of warm cider on a cool evening, then moved to a vision of Jandra’s gown and his pants tangled together at the foot of a bed. Some small, quiet voice inside him warned that he might be skipping some steps in this scenario, but he’d honed to a wonderful degree the ability to ignore such small, quiet voices. He closed his eyes and let his body grow warm in the embrace of Jandra’s invisible arms.
Nadala remained rigidly at attention as Graxen landed on a rainspout above her. Only the slightest tilt of her head revealed her awareness of his arrival.
“It’s, uh, chilly tonight,” he said. His tongue felt stiff in his mouth as he spoke. His voice seemed to belong to someone else.
She whispered her answer, so softly he had to strain to hear it. “It’s not so cold. I’ve stood watches in snow. Tonight is almost balmy.”
“Oh,” said Graxen. “Then, can I get you some warm cider?” He cringed as the words came out of him. She’d just said she wasn’t cold!
“We’re not allowed to drink on duty,” she whispered. She kept her eyes focused on the horizon, as if watching for the approach of invading armies.
“It’s… it’s quite a difficult job, I imagine, being a valkyrie. I-I want you to know I… uh… appreciate your hard work.” He grimaced at the prattle falling off his tongue. Why had he listened to the human?
“Thank you,” Nadala whispered.
Graxen found himself with nothing further to say. He’d thought he’d be flying off for cider about now. His heart pounded out the long seconds as neither of them spoke.
Nadala cast a brief glance upward, as if to assure herself he was still there. Her body quickly resumed the stance of an alert sentry as she whispered, “It’s kind of you to offer. Under different circumstances, I would take the cup.”
“You’re going to be here at the palace for a few days, at least,” said Graxen. “Perhaps we could meet—”
“I don’t think that’s wise, Graxen the Gray.”
“Oh,” he said.
“I wish the world were more fair,” she sighed.
“I know,” he said.
“Zorasta won’t allow this conference to succeed,” Nadala said, sounding bitter. “The matriarch has commanded that we cannot risk the existing world order. I wish she were open to the possibility that the world could be improved.”
Graxen felt his heart flutter as the implications of her words took hold.
“Then, you aren’t happy with the world as it is? You dream of changing the old ways?”
“A valkyrie is devoid of dreams,” Nadala said, her voice firm and, somehow, not her own. It was as if she were speaking the words from rote. “A valkyrie has no will of her own, no desire, save to serve the matriarch. We live and die for the greater good.”
Graxen dropped from the rainspout down to the balcony rail, twirling to face her, landing as silently as a leaf. With his voice at its softest, he said, “We both know that isn’t true. You treated me kindly when your sisters turned me away. You’re an individual as well as a valkyrie.”
“In the heat of battle, there can be no individuality,” Nadala said. She no longer sounded as if she were repeating slogans. She believed these words. “A valkyrie must be a part of a greater unit. In unity, we will never know defeat.”
“But life isn’t always a battle,” said Graxen. “Shandrazel wants to bring an era of peace to the world.”
“There will never be lasting peace,” said Nadala. “Especially not in this time of upheaval, following the death of a king. I know with the certainty that night follows day, I’ll be called to battle soon. My subservience to the unit must be complete.”
Nadala sounded resigned as she spoke. Her eyes looked past Graxen, into the distance, as if seeing that future battle.
Graxen nodded, accepting the wisdom of her words.
“You’re right,” he said. “Mine was a foolish dream.”
Her eyes suddenly met his. She whispered, “Tell me of your dreams, Graxen the Gray.”
“I’d only lower myself in your eyes to speak of such fantasies,” he said.
“No,” she said. “I’m fascinated by dreams. I envy your freedom to dream them.”
Graxen wanted to leap from the balcony and flee rather than confess his thoughts. Yet, for so long, he’d wanted to talk to someone about his most cherished hopes. He’d never been asked before; he couldn’t run away now. “Before I visited the matriarch I dreamed… I dreamed I would be allowed to mate. It’s utterly foolish. I know that centuries of careful planning aren’t going to be set aside to accommodate the hopes of an aberration. Yet… still I dreamed, and still I hope.”
“I admire that you can hold on to your dreams,” she said. “It’s been many years since true hope burned in my heart.”
“But, certainly you’ll be allowed to mate,” he said. “You must be highly respected, to be chosen as a guard for Zorasta. I know from experience you’re a formidable warrior.”
Nadala lowered her eyes as he spoke, as if embarrassed to discuss the matter. Despite her discomfort, she said, “I find the possibility that I’ll be selected as breed stock as dreadful as I do hopeful. I won’t be allowed to choose my mate; he’ll be assigned to me. The matriarch selects biologians who excel in intellectual arts, yet frequently these biologians lack even the most basic sense of decency. They spend their lives being lauded for their greatness, and they approach the mating as just another award they’ve earned.”
“I’ve heard the boasts of the chosen ones,” Graxen admitted. “They do seem to relish in describing how they, um, dominated the female. I think they overcompensate. Many biologians fear the power of valkyries; they become overly aggressive when confronted with a creature they secretly believe to be their superior.”
“We don’t wish to be your superiors,” said Nadala. “Only your equals.”
“Those are the sorts of words that Shandrazel is hoping to hear. It’s a shame you aren’t the ambassador.”
“And it’s a shame that the matriarch is blind to your virtues. It was kind of you to come speak to me tonight, Graxen. I fear for the future of our race, should the last traces of kindness be bred out of it.”
There was a noise in the chamber beyond the balcony, a soft mumble, like someone speaking in their sleep.
Nadala whispered softer than ever. “If Zorasta wakes, it will be difficult to explain why I haven’t gutted you.”
“Understood,” said Graxen. “It’s been worth the risk of gutting to speak to you. I feel… I feel less alone after hearing your thoughts. I wish we could continue our conversation.”
Nadala shook her head. “You mustn’t take further risks. Leave, knowing that you’re less alone in the world, yet also knowing we cannot speak again.”
Graxen swallowed hard. Could this really be the end? Ten minutes of conversation was so inadequate for the lifetime of words he’d stored up inside him. He could hear in her voice that she was also full of such words. She was simply too disciplined to risk speaking them. She had so much more to lose than he did. He should go and be satisfied. Still, some desperate part of him wanted more.
“I could write you,” he said.
She cocked her head at the suggestion, intrigued.
There was a further mumble in the chamber beyond.
“I know where you could leave the letters,” she said, her voice rushed. “On my patrol, midway between the nest and
Dragon Forge, there’s a crumbling tower, long abandoned. It’s easy to find if you follow the river. Atop its walls stands a single gargoyle; there’s a hollow in its mouth big enough to hold a scroll. You could leave letters for me there, if you wish. Perhaps I’ll answer them.”
“I’d like that,” said Graxen.
In the room beyond, there was a sudden snort, the sound of a dragon jerking awake.
“Fly!” Nadala whispered, raising her fore-talon and stroking Graxen’s cheek. He tilted his cheek against her touch, feeling the smoothness of her scales, and the fine, firm strength of her talons.
Graxen tilted backward, then kicked into space, corkscrewing until he caught the air. He flew out beneath the stars, lighter than air, a song rising in his heart.
La-la-la!
Na-da-la!
He shuddered as he realized it was the same tune as “Yo ho ho, the slow must go!” Would he never get that accursed song out of his head?
After the success of his will-deadening paste, Blasphet felt, paradoxically, a sense of dissatisfaction. This was something he’d learned about himself over the years; his setbacks usually stirred his spirit and prodded him to meet new challenges. His successes frequently left him feeling hollow and analytical, wondering if his achievement had come because he’d lowered his standards. With the paste, he should have been celebrating the results of years of research and testing. Instead, he found himself wondering why a gaseous or even liquid version of the poison had proved so elusive. The results of the paste pleased him, but the thought of force-feeding a gallon to his planned victims offended his aesthetic sensibilities. It simply lacked grace.
A lack of grace was also an attribute of the current demonstration of the taxidermy arts of the Sisters of the Serpents. Their earlier disguises of themselves as earth-dragons showed their talent at the art. Now, they were attempting to bring a stuffed sky-dragon back to some semblance of life.
Anatomical difference prevented the sisters from assembling a wearable sky-dragon costume. At first glance, it seemed as if a sky-dragon’s knees bent backwards, something a sister in a suit couldn’t duplicate. Of course, Blasphet knew that, at the level of skeletons, all mammals, lizards, and birds were built from the same archetype. All shared the same basic structure of four limbs, a torso with a rib cage and hips, a spine, and a skull. The bones of a sky-dragon’s legs were similar in size to a human’s bones, but of different proportions. The thighs were nearly the same length, bending forward from the hips. Then, the shins bent backward at the knees. However, human shins were long. Sky dragon shins were short, and the bones that formed the human ankle became a backward bending knee. The bones of a human foot were stretched into a long lower leg for the sky-dragon. Where humans had short stubby toes, the same bones in sky-dragons splayed out as talons.
Before his arrival, the sisters had tried to make a sky-dragon costume work by chopping off the shins of one of their order and teaching her to walk on stilts that resembled sky-dragon legs. The experiment hadn’t gone well, and the sister had died of infection. Blasphet suspected that if he had a human baby to work with, he could devise a device that would confine the shins. He could lengthen the feet as the child grew by the use of screws and clamps. If any of the sisters became pregnant, he would give the matter further thought.
This evening, the sisters were demonstrating a mummified sky-dragon turned into a puppet. The black silk threads that held the preserved corpse were invisible in the candlelit room. A team of sisters in the rafters tugged and tweaked the beast’s limbs. Curiously, the fine details proved effective—the sky-dragon’s eyes blinked in a realistic fashion and its fore-talons were manipulated with enough dexterity that the puppet could pick up a quill. Alas, it was the larger movements that seemed exaggerated. The beast’s stride was off. Even the way the corpse’s head bobbed upon its neck felt false. Blasphet doubted the illusion would fool a real sky-dragon. Their eyes were the sharpest of the dragon species. You could never make a puppet string so fine it wouldn’t stand out like thick rope to them, even in candlelight.
“I’ve seen enough,” Blasphet said, shaking his head. “Leave me to my thoughts.”
The sisters looked disappointed as they carried the puppet away. Only Colobi remained in the room. Rather than retreating, she walked toward him and knelt, placing her head against his left fore-talon.
“They meant well, my Lord,” she said softly.
“I know,” Blasphet said.
He gently stroked her cheek. Colobi was proving to be his favorite of the hundred clever girls willing to die for him. His responsibility for their lives was sobering. He’d wasted five of them in the castle due to a momentary whim. Eventually he’d send the rest to their deaths as well. But for what cause? Revenge against Shandrazel seemed petty now that he was free. The unfinished genocide of the human race still sat in his belly like an undigested meal. Would his plan have worked if Albekizan hadn’t ruined things?
He was certain he could have succeeded. But did he want to? Humans were among the creatures he hated least. Time and again they’d proven useful. Humans treated him with deference and respect. Humans had proven to be clever and quick-witted. An army of a hundred, guided by a mind as powerful as his own, could do astonishing things. Genocide was still a challenge that seemed worthy of his unique talents. But perhaps he had chosen the wrong species as his target?
A sliding door rumbled open on the far side. A cross-current swept across the cavernous room; the winter air was a welcome relief from the fumes of the tannery. The night outside was blustery. The wind whistled through a thousand tiny gaps in the building’s decaying walls.
Three sisters came through the door, leading a bound and blindfolded sky-dragon. Blasphet recognized the frail creature immediately. The sisters tugged at the ropes that held the dragon, guiding him to stand before the Murder God.
Colobi rose and angrily demanded, “Why do you interrupt our Lord’s solitude?”
The leader of the trio gave Colobi a hateful stare. Blasphet had noticed that the other sisters were becoming aware of her status as his favorite.
The woman said, “We captured this unworthy one on the road leading to the College of Spires. He claims to be the former high biologian, Metron. He says he has served the Murder God loyally in the past.”
“Remove his blindfold,” said Blasphet. “Cut his bonds. He speaks the truth.”
The three produced knives hidden in folds in their garments and thrust them expertly at the old, trembling dragon, slicing away his ropes in violent strokes, yet never so much as scratching him.
Freed, Metron shook his limbs. His wings had been slashed to ribbons, the fate of all criminal sky-dragons. He lifted his ragged limbs to remove his blindfold. He squinted as if the candlelight caused him pain. His nose wrinkled as tears welled up in his eyes.
“What is that stench?” he gasped.
“Oh, did you notice the tannery?” said Blasphet with a chuckle. “You grow used to it.”
Metron looked around, visibly disoriented by the black walls and the candlelight. He stared down at the hide he stood upon, a fellow sky-dragon, and trembled.
“Where are we?” Metron asked
“My temple,” said Blasphet. “Modest, perhaps, but roomier than the dungeons.”
Metron shook his head. “So you’ve found more humans to believe your lies of godhoo—”
Before Metron could complete the thought, Colobi sprang forward and delivered a powerful kick to his gut, her black leather robes spreading wide like the tail feathers of an enormous raven. The old dragon folded over, collapsing, struggling to breathe.
“Give me a knife that I may cut out his blasphemous tongue!” Colobi snarled. Her hood had slipped backward in the attack, revealing a face twisted into naked rage.
“Not just yet,” Blasphet said. “I’m curious as to what he was doing traveling toward the College of Spires.”
“I-I’ve been banished for assisting you,” Metron said, his voice faint as
he rocked in pain from Colobi’s blow. “I’m no longer high biologian. Other biologians will kill me if they discover me.”
“I know,” Blasphet said. “Which makes your destination baffling. Half the biologians in the kingdom dwell at the College of Spires. It’s not a healthy place for you to be.”
“I’m old,” Metron said, still lying limp at Blasphet’s feet. “This may be the last winter I see on this earth. I’ve little time left to tell certain truths to… interested parties.”
“To your bastard son, you mean,” Blasphet said.
“H-how did you—?”
“I’m a god,” said Blasphet. “I know things. The whole time that you assisted me in the palace I knew of your little secret. I have a network of spies that provide useful fodder for blackmail. You always gave in so easily it was never required. You proved exquisitely corruptible.”
Blasphet motioned to the trio who had brought Metron before him. “Help him rise. Give him shelter and food. We must help this poor lost soul find his son.”
“Why, Lord?” Colobi asked, sounding hurt. “Why do you spare this blasphemer?”
“Even a Murder God may know his moments of mercy,” said Blasphet. “This pathetic creature has done me no harm. He was useful to me once; you must know I can be kind to those who are kind to me.”
Colobi’s face softened. Her cheeks blushed pink in response to his words.
“Metron,” said Blasphet. “Your journey to the College of Spires would have been in vain. The dragon you seek resides there no longer; he now serves Shandrazel in the palace.”
“Truly?” said Metron as he stood, assisted by the women. He winced as he rose; the tatters of his wings were covered with scabs. A dragon’s wings were sensitive; Blasphet suspected Metron was in constant agony.
“I know you can enter the palace anytime you wish,” said Blasphet. “You may know more of its secret passages than even I. Indeed, your son owes his existence to your knowledge of secret passages, does he not?”
Metron lowered his gaze. “I don’t wish to discuss the matter.”
