by James Maxey
"What's going on?" he asked as Shanna halted before the tent flaps. "This is Kanst's tent."
"Not since Vendevorex killed Kanst," said Shanna, dismounting. "After the Free City fell, our leader appropriated supply wagons used by Albekizan's armies. They were already packed up neatly outside the gates of the Free City. The Lord himself placed these supplies into our hands."
Pet again glanced around at the city of tents. "I'm surprised that so many humans associate themselves with Blasphet after what he intended to do in the Free City."
"Our association with Blasphet is a matter of strategic importance," said Shanna. "It's all part of our leader's master plan."
Pet felt confused. Shanna was talking about the leader as if he were someone different than Blasphet. "I though Blasphet was your leader."
"So does Blasphet," said Shanna. "But the truth isn't so simple."
"Then Blasphet isn't who we've ridden out here to see? Just who is this leader of yours?"
As he spoke, the flaps of the tent pushed outward. A pleasant smell was released by the movement, an aroma like corncakes frying in bacon grease. Suddenly, a tall, naked, wild-haired man stepped from the tent. Pet recognized him instantly.
"Ragnar!" he said. "What are you doing here?"
"The Lord's work," said Ragnar, eying Pet skeptically. "Do I know you?"
"Yes," said Pet. "I was at the Free City, on the platform. Albekizan accused me of being Bitterwood. You helped free me."
Ragnar studied Pet's face. Slowly, recognition dawned in his eyes. "It looks as if you've fallen on hard times. I take it this is your reward for negotiating with the great serpent?"
Pet swung his legs over the saddle and dropped to the ground. His inner thighs felt blistered and raw as he walked toward the naked prophet. If he never sat on a horse again, it would be fine by him.
"Negotiations can only get you so far," said Pet. He drew up next to the hairy prophet and met his gaze, unflinching. At this distance, the smell of cornbread was no longer the dominant odor in the area. Ragnar hadn't bathed since the Free City, apparently.
Yet it was Ragnar who wrinkled his nose as Pet leaned near him, as if Pet smelled rank. No doubt he did. Between the dried blood, the foulness he'd laid in back in the dungeon, and more than a day of constant horseback riding, he was in no position to judge anyone for their odor.
"If you're building an army to fight Shandrazel," Pet said, "Consider me your newest recruit."
"Kamon reported the talks devolved into chaos from the first hour," said Ragnar. "I'm not surprised by your change of heart."
"Kamon?" said Pet. "He's here?"
"No," said Ragnar. "He remains at the palace. He serves as my eyes and ears there, just as Shanna, Lin, and others serve me within the temple of the Murder God."
"Then the Sisters of the Serpent aren't really devotees of Blasphet? You're the guiding force behind them?"
"No," said Shanna. "The core of the Sisterhood is composed of actual devotees of the Murder God. Colobi, the Serpent of the first order, truly believes the dragon to be a supernatural being."
Ragnar said, "Even before the Free City, however, I'd planted my followers within the ranks of the cult. I'd long planned to free Blasphet."
"What? Why?"
"Blasphet is far more dangerous to dragons than to men. I'd hoped he would rid us of Albekizan if we freed him. Now, it looks as if he will still be of use."
Shanna added, "The Sisters draw their members from among the poorest, most wretched women in the kingdom. Women who have lost all hope. I was recruited from a camp of refugees from the Free City. But my true loyalty will always lie with Ragnar."
"This sounds like a very dangerous game," said Pet. "Blasphet sends his followers on suicide missions. Even if he likes you, associating with him is a good way to die."
"My followers' faith is their shield," said Ragnar. "There is no true danger in this world. Life only begins after you're free of your mortal body."
Pet nodded, though he had no clue what Ragnar was talking about.
"Kamon said you intended to attack Dragon Forge?"
"Soon. We're waiting for the right moment to attack."
"I have some potentially useful information," said Pet. "The boss of Dragon Forge, Charkon, was just appointed general. He seemed worried about the danger to Dragon Forge with Blasphet on the loose. It wouldn't surprise me if he sends reinforcements to the Forge any day now. For all I know, they've already left."
"This is useful to know," said Ragnar. "However, we cannot attack the Forge prematurely." Ragnar lifted the flap of his tent. The smell of breakfast wafted through the air. For the first time since his beating, Pet felt the stirring of appetite.
"Come in," Ragnar said, motioning for Pet and Shanna to follow. "Your arrival is well timed. We've cooked a breakfast fit to welcome a prodigal son."
The flight back to the abandoned tower was a slow and difficult one. Metron obviously could no longer fly alone. Graxen found the option of walking back unacceptable. So, they'd developed a system where Metron would cling to Graxen's back in flight. Few dragons would have been strong enough to carry the weight, or graceful enough to remain balanced with a fidgeting burden pressed against their back. Yet, in many ways, it was as if Graxen had been training his whole life for this flight. The endurance he'd developed serving Shandrazel now gave him the stamina to carry Metron for many miles before requiring rest.
They could have flown even faster if not for the Prime Codex of Pleasure. The leather-bound tome was indeed an illustrated manual of acts of erotic love between sun-dragons. It had been drawn on the scale of sun-dragons as well; the pages were a yard high. The book weighed almost as much as Metron did; Graxen carried it strapped to his chest to balance the weight on his back.
During their rests, Graxen would find a spot of privacy to peruse the tome, his mood alternating between boredom, fascination, and a mild sense of terror. Some of the activity depicted looked as if it must certainly be painful. On an intellectual level, so many of the poses struck him as awkward and uncomfortable. Yet on a gut level, the process simply looked right. He almost felt as if he could have figured it out on his own if he'd been less timid.
Their travel was also slowed by Graxen's choice of flight path. The road leading to Dragon Forge would almost certainly have produced witnesses. Graxen was too easily identified and Metron was too well known to take the chance that they might be sighted. So, they took a path over less-traveled terrain, with Graxen trusting his long study of maps and his innate sense of direction to lead him to his destination.
His faith in his navigation abilities were rewarded when, at last, the vine-covered tower once more loomed from the leafless forest. Graxen swooped down to a landing on the tower wall, near the gargoyle.
Metron dropped from his back.
"Why did you land on such a narrow wall?" Metron grumbled. "The structure looks unsafe."
Graxen sighed. Much of his life, he'd entertained fantasies of what he and his father would discuss should they ever meet. Most of their actual conversations on this journey consisted of Metron complaining of his weariness or discomfort. Graxen had expected that meeting his father would be a joyous event. In reality, his feelings were far more complex. He felt a sense of satisfaction knowing the truth; discovering he was the son of the high biologen was almost like discovering he was a long lost prince. Yet he also felt anger and resentment, thinking of how different his life could have been if Metron had showed more courage. Graxen assumed that Metron's complaints were a manifestation of the guilt that tore at the elderly dragon. During his quiet moments, Metron had the look of a dragon being savaged from the inside by his demons. Rather than being overwhelmed by larger emotions like love or anger, Graxen mainly felt pity for his father, and more than a little annoyance.
"Why couldn't we land on the ground?" Metron asked, staring down at the leaves below.
"You're free to wait on the ground if you wish," said Graxen. "I choose to wait here
for Nadala."
"Ah, yes, your lover," said Metron. "Are you certain we can trust her?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that love can blind a male to the faults of a female. How much do you truly know about her?"
"I confess, we've had precious little time for conversation. But the words we've shared resonate. She wrote a letter that revealed her most private thoughts, and the things she said could have come from my own quill. I trust her with my life."
"I believe you," said Metron. "But, the very act of falling in love with you requires her to be a lawbreaker."
"Who are you to judge anyone for breaking laws?"
"I'm not judging her. I'm merely expressing my concern."
"The passion I feel transcends laws. I can't claim our shared passion is rational. All I know is that when I see her, I feel as if the world is a much more wonderful place than I have ever realized. When we're apart, my thoughts can focus on nothing but her."
Metron looked wistful. "Yes," he said. "Yes, that is how I felt about Sarelia. In truth, that flame still burns within me."
"Sarelia?"
"The matriarch's true name. It's seldom used since the matriarch doesn't enjoy the luxury of individuality. As the guiding force of the sky-dragons, it's imperative that all the individuals who have ever served as matriarch seem to be of one mind and one will. It enhances their authority."
"You and she both possessed great authority," said Graxen. "With a joint decree, you could have made your love lawful. You had the power to change the world. Why didn't you?"
Metron looked forlorn as the evening sun hovered over the hills behind him. He was a small, elderly dragon, shivering in the chill air. His voice trembled as he answered. "You make it seem simple. Can't you see we were chained by the very authority we wielded? Perhaps we simply lacked the courage to overthrow the traditions that gave us our power. Now, I've discovered a certain bravery that comes with knowing my remaining days are few. I've lost everything that was ever important to me. I've nothing to lose in speaking to Sarelia. It may be that future generations have much to gain. I want to try one last attempt at making the world a better place."
Graxen nodded. He could think of a dozen arguments, a hundred questions, and thousand frustrations he wanted to shout at this creature that stood before him. In the end, he knew words simply wouldn't matter. The past was past. Metron now represented a slender hope for a better future.
"The wind on this wall is worse than it would be below," Metron said. "It cuts into me like a knife."
Graxen turned his back to his father.
"Climb on," he said. "I'll take you down."
Once Metron had found a comfortable spot to rest below, sheltered from the wind, Graxen flew back up to the top of the wall. He didn't know when Nadala might show up, and he wanted to be in plain sight when she arrived. He perched next to the gargoyle and unstrapped the enormous book from his chest. He placed it on the gargoyle's back and opened its pages. During his many years as a student, Graxen had been repeatedly drilled in the art of debate; he suspected this training could prove useful. He thought it likely Nadala would react with disbelief when he explained what was involved in the mating process. He would need to carefully present each step as a logical extension of the step that preceded it.
He lost track of the time as he studied the manual. The sun was nearly gone when he turned the page to find himself confronted with a detailed drawing of a male sun-dragon's reproductive organ. The organ was depicted approximately life-sized, stretching diagonally across two pages, and was painted in vivid red and pink watercolors that seemed to glow in the dimming light.
A shadow fell across the book.
"What are you reading?" a female voice asked, full of curiosity.
Graxen spun around. "Nadala!" he yelped. "I didn't hear you approaching!"
"I can land as silently as a dandelion wisp when I wish," she said. "Is that a book behind you?"
Graxen held his wings in such a way that he blocked her sight of the illustration. He didn't know what her reaction might be to the lurid material.
"It's a work of anatomy," he explained. "Of sun-dragons."
"Can I see it?" she asked.
"I worry it might offend you," he said. "It's a matter of chance that…"
"Stand aside," she said, in a soldierly tone, snaking her long neck over his shoulder to get a glance at the concealed material.
She suddenly grew very quiet.
"Goodness," she said, a moment later.
"Please note this is not the organ of a sky-dragon," he said. "I don't want you to experience alarm. Or disappointment."
She took a step back and held out her fore-talons. Instinctively, he placed his own talons in hers. She squeezed them with a gentle pressure as they stared into each other's eyes.
"I find it charming that you're embarrassed," she said.
"I hope you continue to find it charming," said Graxen. "I fear I may embarrass myself repeatedly in the coming days."
"The coming days, the coming weeks, the coming years," said Nadala, squeezing his talons tighter. "I've made my choice, Graxen. I'm leaving the Nest. You and I will carve out a new life together somewhere, even if we have to cross the haunted mountains."
"I'm happy to hear this," said Graxen. "I'm even happier to tell you it may not come to this. There is a chance, however slender, that our love could be sanctioned by the matriarch."
Nadala shook her head. "You're deluded to entertain such fantasies. I know you're her son, but the matriarch will never allow us to be together. And what if she did let us breed? It's not a brief tryst ending in pregnancy that I desire. I want you as my life-mate. Why should only sun-dragons know the pleasure of a life-long love?"
"It's as if you're speaking the words that dwell in my heart," said Graxen. "The matriarch won't listen to me. But there is one she may listen to. Indeed, someone she did listen to, once, or else I wouldn't exist."
"What are you talking about?"
"My father," said Graxen.
"Metron?" she asked.
Graxen felt as if he might topple from the wall. "You… you know that? How can you know that?"
"Everyone at the Nest knows it," said Nadala. "It's whispered in the dead of night, the tale of how even the matriarch once knew love. It's a story that brings shame to some and hope to others."
Graxen trembled. Nadala stroked his fore-talons.
"What's wrong," she asked.
"This has been the central mystery of my life," said Graxen. "I would have paid any price to know who my father was. And now I learn that everyone at the Nest knew the truth? It's difficult to accept that the secret I most longed to discover was common knowledge to fully half our species."
"I didn't know you didn't know," said Nadala, sounding apologetic. "When I told you that Sparrow was sired by Metron's brother, I thought you understood that her aggression toward you was a matter of familial pride. She sees herself as the true inheritor of Metron's bloodline. I promise I never meant to deceive you."
Graxen tried to control his emotions. There was nothing rational about the feelings swirling in his mind. Why should he be angry at Nadala? Why should he suddenly feel such a sense of loss? How would his life be different if she had blurted out the truth when they first met?
"I'm confused," Nadala said, looking concerned. "You obviously know that Metron is your father; I take it you only learned recently. Who told you?"
"I told him," a voice shouted from below.
"A spy!" Nadala shouted, releasing Graxen's claws. She leapt from the ledge, diving into shadows toward the voice.
"Wait!" Graxen shouted, but it was too late. There was a terrible grunt below as Nadala found her target. Graxen leapt down to join Nadala, and found she had pinned Metron roughly to the ground. The old dragon had a look of terror in his eyes.
"It's a tatterwing!" she growled.
"Nadala," said Graxen."That's Metron."
Nadala's eyes widened in sud
den understanding. She released her grip on the elderly biologian.
"My apologies," she said.
"You have nothing to apologize for," said Metron, struggling to stand and failing. "I am nothing but a tatterwing now. I deserve whatever contempt is heaped upon me."
Graxen moved to Metron's side and helped him rise. A moment later, the ancient biologian found his balance on unsteady legs.
"Why is he here?" Nadala asked Graxen. Was there a hint of fear in her voice?
"I want to see the matriarch once more," said Metron. "Graxen has told me about your situation. You two are not the first sky-dragons to find your desires in conflict with the carefully crafted eugenics of our race. There was once a logic to our strict planning. A thousand years ago, the dragon races were birthed from a stock of fewer than thirty individuals. Inbreeding could have doomed our species. Instead, careful planning guided our kind through the dangerous maze of a confined genespace. However, a thousand years have passed. Mutations have arisen, and there's been enough variation that one race became two-for, you see, sun-dragons and sky-dragons have both grown from this small group of common ancestors. Our race has flourished due to its intelligent design; but, in the long term, nature provides a more powerful shaping force through natural selection."
"I thought we were the product of natural selection," said Graxen. "You yourself taught that we're descended from the ancient reptiles called dinosaurs."
"All lies," said Metron. "We were created in a laboratory by humans. The first dragons were designed to be hunted by men for entertainment. A thousand years of history have brought the cycle of predator and prey full circle. I shed no tears during the sun-dragon's ritualistic hunt of humans."
"Humans… created us?" said Nadala. "How?"
"It's difficult to believe, I know," said Metron. "Still, you would have to be blind not to recognize that mankind was once the dominant species on this world. A thousand years ago, they had access to technologies we can only imagine. The brutes who now toil in the fields once strode this world like gods."
