by James Maxey
“Some biologians argue that there are no coincidences. They see in chance encounters the guiding claws of an architect of fate. Some days, I wonder if my life is not a testament to this fundamental truth.”
“Why would you seek me out?” Graxen asked, still not convinced that the voice belonged to Metron, but willing to accept it until more information emerged. “I know of your betrayal of Shandrazel and your alliance with Blasphet. You’ll find no favor from me.”
“What leads you into this dark corridor, my son?” asked Metron. “Is there something you seek? Why not ask one of the attendant biologians?”
“What I’m looking for is none of your business,” said Graxen.
“Everything in this library is my business,” said Metron. “I’ve had over half a century to organize this collection. It will take Androkom decades to unravel my system. If there is anything you wish to find, there’s no one better equipped to lead you to it than myself.”
Graxen looked down the long hall of books, back toward the distant light of the main hall. How many books were here? Ten million? More? He could spend years looking at them one by one.
Haste was of the essence. Shandrazel was no doubt wondering why he hadn’t reported back from his pursuit of the valkyries. He also knew he should inform the king of the unprovoked attack by the gleaners he’d encountered near Dragon Forge. Yet, he could do neither of these things until he found the information he needed for Nadala.
“You’ve taken a long time to consider your answer, my son,” said Metron.
“Don’t call me your son,” said Graxen. “I know you mean it in a metaphorical sense, due to your greater age, but I find the word distasteful.”
“That’s most unfortunate,” said Metron. “Because I don’t intend the word in a metaphorical sense. I’ve come here, Graxen, to confess my greatest secret to the one most harmed by it. I’ve carried this terrible burden for many years. I’ve watched you grow, witnessed the cruelties you’ve endured, and I stood in silent cowardice. I’ve betrayed you, Graxen, by never admitting to the world that I am your father.”
“What is the purpose of these lies?” Graxen said, his voice loud enough that, should any attendants be near, they would almost certainly hear him. “Metron was famed for his celibacy.”
“You speak of my public refusal of the invitation to the Nest. I did feel that way, in my early years as high biologian. However, the matriarch and I were the two highest authorities among the sky-dragons. We often had contact on a purely professional basis. There are ceremonies at the Nest that the High Biologian attends. The matriarch and I would sometimes retreat to private chambers to discuss the burdens of our shared duties. Neither of us was young. Both of us were past the sanctioned age of breeding; even if we weren’t, breeding between us was contraindicated by our genetic threads. Yet, despite this knowledge—or perhaps, perversely, because of it—we soon found our attraction overwhelming, and succumbed to mutual passions. We carried out our secret trysts for years—until the matriarch reported she was pregnant. There are poisons that can terminate a pregnancy, but they can be fatal for an older female. When you were born, it was her intention to have you killed. I pleaded with her to spare your life. As you were my only offspring, I couldn’t bear the thought of your death. My rank prevented me from claiming you as my own, but through the years I’ve watched your progress with great interest.”
Graxen wanted to dismiss these words as lies, but found he couldn’t. The greatest mystery of his life was why the matriarch had allowed his survival beyond infancy. Of all the sky-dragons, only the high biologian would have had sufficient sway to ensure his survival. Instinctively, he knew Metron was telling the truth. Still, not everything made sense.
“Why did my survival matter? I was a freak, fated to never breed. If the sole value of a child lies in passing along the parent’s genetic material, I was of no value to you.”
“This is not an easy thing to explain, Graxen.” Metron sighed. There was soft scraping sound on the row behind the niche. Was he moving something? “If my sole desire in this life had been to pass along my genes, I had that opportunity many times over. The threadlines dictated a half-dozen valkyries I could have productively mated with. I refused; my brother Pachythan was selected in my place.”
“Why did you refuse?”
“Intellectual arrogance, I suppose. I’ve witnessed the mating behavior of lower animals. The hardwired desire to rut seems to be the driving force of life; only in the sky-dragon has the intellect advanced sufficiently for reason to take command of those baser instincts. At least, so I thought. In reality, the first moment I felt the matriarch’s cheek against my own, all reason left me, and I surrendered to the same animal lust that drives all other creatures.”
“Truly?”
“Truly. I remember the first time I met the matriarch. I cherished her strength and her humor. I recall the gemlike quality of her eyes, and the way that sunlight danced upon her lustrous scales. Every time I met her, my infatuation deepened. I grew fond of her scent; days spent without hearing the music of her voice were as cold and barren as the depths of winter. When at last I confessed my desires, and found she felt the same, it was the first moment of my life when I was wholly alive. Don’t you see, Graxen? I didn’t mate due to some intellectual scheme to produce the perfect scion. I wanted you to live because you were a testament to the feelings I had for the matriarch. I wanted you to live because you were product of my love.”
“Love?” said Graxen. “All my life I’ve been taught that love is a folly of the lesser races, an unworthy emotion for a sky-dragon.”
“I know. I preached this doctrine. I’ve written books defending it. I’ve been a hypocrite of the highest order. Falling in love with the matriarch changed everything I knew about the world. Publicly, due to the gravity of my office, I couldn’t speak out against the chosen method of propagating our species. But, privately, I fear for the long-term prospects of our race. What does it matter if we become as numerous as ants and as powerful as gods, if we breed away all compassion and love from our species?” As Metron spoke, his voice seemed in motion, beginning in the book-filled niche and ending in the hall behind Graxen. Graxen turned to find the elderly sky-dragon, his wings torn to strips. His wounded limbs weren’t fully healed; he smelled of rot and corruption.
Metron continued: “I fell victim to Blasphet because he flattered my intellect and I ignored my heart, which knew what he wanted was wrong. I believe the underlying amorality of sky-dragons led us to stand silent as Albekizan attempted genocide against the humans. We hold the intellect as the highest virtue while denouncing the value of emotion. We mock as philosophical illusions such concepts as good and evil. We’re following a genetic road to becoming a race of brilliant, attractive, soulless monsters.”
“Your words are hollow to me,” said Graxen. “Where was your defense of love when you held power? You once had the authority to change the world. Now that you’ve lost your rank, you confess to your regret?”
“Yes,” said Metron, lowering his head, looking woeful. “Yes, when I held power, I sought to protect the status quo. I may be the greatest hypocrite in all of history, yet it may not be too late for me to make amends.”
“How?”
“While I’ve lost my rank and power, the matriarch remains in her position. I must speak to her. I must appeal to the last embers of her affection and ask her to end the centuries-old traditions that separate the sexes. I believe it’s time to allow love to again play a role in the pairings of sky-dragons. It may be that she’ll have me slain the moment she sees me. But what if she’s as riddled with regrets as I am? The seeds of my words may fall on fertile soil. It’s a slim chance, but I feel I must try.”
Graxen contemplated the words. The matriarch had shown such hostility toward him. Did that hostility mask a regretful heart? Would she listen to Metron?
“Why do you need me?” he asked.
“As a tatterwing, I cannot simply fly to the Nest. I can’t
make this journey alone, Graxen.”
“I’ve met the matriarch,” said Graxen. “I don’t think my presence will help your case.”
“But—”
“But I didn’t say I wouldn’t help. I can’t condemn you for falling in love. I, too, have recently tasted this emotion. I’ve met a female who I want to be with and, against all odds, she wishes to be with me. It’s why I was searching through this library.”
“You… were going to meet her here?” Metron sounded confused.
Graxen felt embarrassed, but he’d already said enough that he could see no harm in confessing all. “No. I need information. Neither Nadala nor I have been trained in the, um… skills… of biological pairing.”
“Oh?” said Metron, still sounding bewildered. “Oh! You mean you don’t know how to copulate.”
“I chose not to use such crude terminology.”
“Crude terminology is one of the more enjoyable spin-offs of the process. However, it’s understandable that you don’t know what to do. Mating comes quite naturally to lower animals, but for thinking creatures the act can appear slightly absurd and impractical. I assure you, however, with a little practice everything makes sense. It’s mainly a matter of changing the way you look at your body’s plumbing. You see, the organs of reproduction and the organs of waste lie very—”
“Stop,” said Graxen, raising his fore-talon. “I’m uncomfortable discussing this matter with you. Isn’t there a book I could read? Some manual of instruction?”
“Oh,” said Metron. “Why, most assuredly. There’s a book for everything, you know. In fact, you’re in luck. Albekizan’s father was a collector of such manuscripts. The subjects are all sun-dragons, of course, but the biological differences between our species are mostly a matter of scale. The Prime Codex of Pleasure is an excellent reference work, due to the illustrations. Two of the five known copies reside in this library. I drew quite extensively from its pages during my encounters with—.”
“Enough!” said Graxen. Despite his intense interest in the subject, he was disturbed by the thought of learning details of the encounters between his parents. “Show me the book. Then I’ll take you with me to meet Nadala. I suspect she’ll be interested in your mission. Perhaps she’ll know of a way for you to see the matriarch.”
Pet gingerly touched his face. His left eyebrow was a hard, swollen knot. He wasn’t certain he could open the eye beneath it—in the pitch black cell, there was no difference with his eyes opened or closed. He was missing three teeth, two on the top and one on the bottom. His hair was tangled and glued to his face by dried blood. His nose was too painful for him to explore its new contours. He couldn’t breathe through it, which was just as well. He could taste hints of the odors that haunted the cell. He’d barely been awake earlier when the guards fastened the manacles onto his arms and legs. An earth-dragon had sullenly washed the floors by pouring stagnant water from a wooden bucket onto the area where the girl’s corpse had been. The traces of urine and vomit that crossed his tongue were dreadful; he was glad his broken nose spared him the full impact of the stench.
He drifted in and out of wakefulness. He wasn’t certain how much time had passed; though it felt as if he’d been here an eternity, he suspected he hadn’t even endured a day, since the guards hadn’t yet fed him.
In the tomblike silence, Pet’s attention was drawn to a scratching, clicking noise nearby. A rat? No, the scraping was more metallic, like long needles tapping against iron. A moment later, a loud clank echoed through the chamber, the distinctive sound of a padlock opening. The hinges of the iron door groaned as they inched open. Dim light seeped through the ever-widening gap.
Two women squeezed into the doorway, their faces barely visible in the light of a small vial that glowed with a yellow-white phosphorescence like an oversized firefly. The women had shaved heads tattooed with serpentine designs; their bodies were hidden beneath heavy black cloaks. They moved barefoot across the floor toward Pet.
A yard away, they drew to a sudden stop.
“That’s not Deanna,” one said.
“Help me,” Pet whispered, his voice sounding like someone else’s as it passed through his damaged mouth.
“Kill him,” the sister who carried the light said, drawing her dagger.
“Wait,” the sister on the right said. “I’ve seen him before. He’s the one they chained before the crowd in the Free City. His face is messed up now, but I remember his hair.”
“That’s me,” Pet said, summoning the strength to sit up. “I was the one Albekizan tortured. You were in the Free City?”
“Yes,” the girl said bending down to take a closer look at his face. “Is it true? You’re the great dragon-slayer?”
Pet turned his head, ashamed that these girls were staring at his damaged face. He felt like a monster. “I’m not a great anything anymore,” he whispered.
“We should free him,” the woman said, kneeling and grabbing his chains.
“Are you crazy?” the other one hissed. “This isn’t the mission.”
“Missions change,” the woman answered as she started working her lockpicks within the manacle that bound Pet. With a snick, the band loosened. He rubbed his free arm. It felt cold as ice.
“Were you here to save the other girl?” said Pet.
“We heard that Deanna was captured,” the girl said as she worked on the lock binding his ankle. “Blasphet wanted us to make certain she was finally able to complete her suicide mission.”
“Shandrazel completed it for you,” Pet said. “He killed her trying to make her reveal Blasphet’s location.”
“Did she?”
“No.”
The girl holding the light-vial grumbled. “We were going to kill one of our own, but we’re rescuing some stranger now? This is going to be difficult to explain.”
The first girl finished working on the manacle. She stood up as it clattered to the floor. “My name is Shanna,” she said. “My companion is Lin. She wasn’t at the Free City or she wouldn’t question why I’m doing this.”
Pet tried to stand, but his feet were numb, and he wound up flat on his back. He sighed, and said, “I was there, and I’m not sure why you’re doing this.”
“All survivors of the Free City will forever be connected by our shared hatred,” said Shanna. “If you go from this dungeon and kill even one more dragon, you will be fulfilling your life’s most sacred purpose.”
Pet started to point out that Sisters of the Serpent worshipped the very dragon who’d designed the Free City, but decided that this was a bad time and place to launch an argument.
Pet again tried to stand. By bracing himself against the slimy wall, he was able to once more find his footing. His head felt heavier than it should be, swollen and throbbing. He was a foot taller than either woman. Shanna looked up at him with a curious emotion in her eyes. Admiration? Pet was used to seeing attraction in the eyes of young women, but admiration was something new. Lin didn’t seem so impressed. She scowled at him with an expression that told him he would need to watch his back.
“If Deanna is dead, we’re finished here,” said Shanna. “We’ll take you back to the leader. He can no doubt find a good use for the hero of the Free City.”
Pet found the idea of being to put to good use by Blasphet a rather ominous one.
Lin, the scowling girl, said, “He can’t be Bitterwood. He’s too young.”
“Anyone can be Bitterwood,” said Shanna. “He’s not so much a man as a spirit. Anyone can open their hearts to him and become the Death of All Dragons, the Ghost Who Kills.”
“Are you Bitterwood?” Lin asked Pet.
Pet tried to smile, to make some charming quip, but couldn’t. His torn lips reminded him of what he’d lost. His whole life, he’d been little more than a doll, a living plaything valued for his pretty face. And now, he was broken. He wanted to lie, and tell these women what they wanted to hear, but couldn’t summon up his old talents.
So, in
the dim, chill dungeon, with the stench of death still tainting the damp air, the truth spilled out of him: “My name is Petar Gondwell,” he said. “I’m the man everyone rallied around at the Free City, though I’ve never killed a dragon. But, as you say, I’m young… and I’m eager to learn.”
Chapter Eighteen:
Big Problem
Jandra and Hex waited on the shore of the island while Bitterwood and Adam rode Trisky down the steep, rocky path from the high ledge to the lake. As Jandra looked around the cavern, she easily picked out what was real and what was illusion now that she knew to look for it. The restored sky was fake, but the sands they stood upon were real enough, despite their exotic appearance. The sands were made of fine black gravel mixed with sparkling flecks of gold. Jandra surmised the gold was iron sulfide. The waters of the lake should have been highly acidic given the volume of sulfur leaching into them, but the sulfur had been bound with iron to create enough fool’s gold to build an island out of, apparently. The effect of the gold as it glittered under the water line was quite stirring. A person less knowledgeable in chemistry would no doubt think the goddess lived in unimaginable wealth.
The waters of the saline lake were full of strange fishes. Albino, eyeless minnows no longer than her pinky swam in the shallow waters near the shore, but further out dark gray-green creatures as long as sharks knifed through the water. Yet they weren’t sharks, despite their prominent fins. The creatures surfaced from time to time to breathe through a long mouth full of teeth. They were covered with scales that seemed more reptilian than fishlike. Some sort of water-dragon? Jandra had never heard of such a thing, but she’d never heard of the long-wyrms either, and by now Trisky was striding confidently across the surface of the water toward her. She could see the water beneath the long-wyrm solidifying into a thick sheet of ice as the beast loped forward. It was the same sort of phase transition she was able to invoke in water. Was the long-wyrm responsible, or was the goddess doing it remotely?
