1100 D.A. The 69th Year of the Reign of Albekizan
METRON, THE HIGHBiologian, descended the dark stone spiral that led to the deepest tombs of the library. His carried a lantern but kept it shuttered. He didn’t need his vision to walk this familiar path. He’d spent over a century within the library. He was the guardian of all the wide-ranging and ancient knowledge contained within the walls. No dragon alive had read more books than Metron; no dragon was more in love with their musty smell or their yellowed pages. This made his present descent into darkness all the more troubling. Today Metron’s mission was to destroy the collection’s most sacred books.
He’d been drinking wine all evening, with three bottles drained and a fourth, nearly empty, clutched in his gnarled talons. His courage, he knew, would never be greater. If he didn’t destroy the books now he never would.
At last he arrived in the basement. He paused before the display case that held one of the dragons’ most cherished artifacts. It was a slab of white stone, etched with the feathered fossil of a creature long since vanished from the earth. Half bird, half reptile, the winged beast looked for all the world like the smaller, more primitive ancestor of the winged dragon. A copper plate beneath the case bore the word “Archaeopteryx.” Replicas of this stone hung in the halls of sun-dragons and in the towers of biologians throughout the kingdom, in testament to the dragon’s long and rightful dominance of the earth.
Metron knew it had not been a dragon who long ago exhumed this fossil and engraved the letters into the copper.
“Guardian of the secrets,” Metron muttered, his speech slurred. “Guardian of lies is more like it.”
With no reverence at all for the artifact before him, Metron leaned his shoulder into the case and used the full weight of his body to push it aside. He paused, taking another drink from the flask, studying the iron door revealed behind the display, its hinges caked with rust.
Beyond the door was the forbidden collection, to be seen only by the High Biologian. Metron wished he had never read the terrible truths held in the books behind this barrier. He hung his lantern on the wooden peg near the door and placed the tarnished key into the deep lock. With a strain that hurt his aged wrist, he twisted the key until the lock clanged open. Clenching his teeth, he grasped the ring that opened the door and dug his feet into the cracks in the floor stones. Needles pierced his heart as he strained and struggled against the weight, but at last, with a shudder, the door creaked open.
Light seeped from the growing crack. Metron frowned, unable to comprehend what could cause the brightness from within. He looked inside. The wine bottle slipped from his clutch, crashing to the stone floor.
Blasphet, the Murder God, waited for him, resting on all fours before an immense wooden table strewn with dozens of books and glowing candles. The chamber, which always seemed so vast to Metron, looked cramped when occupied by a sun-dragon, even one as thin and withered as Blasphet. The rear of the chamber was gone; the stone wall had been carted away, revealing a dungeon chamber beyond.
Metron swallowed, his throat suddenly very dry. He wished he had more wine. “How did you-”
“In my years in the dungeons, I grew quite sensitive to sounds,” Blasphet said. “I knew there were other chambers dug into the bedrock of the castle. I used to fantasize about what I might discover were I to have access to an army of earth-dragons armed with sledgehammers.”
“I see,” Metron said. “So much effort, only to discover a chamber full of lies.”
“Lies?” Blasphet said, holding up a small, leather-bound volume entitled Origins of the Species. “Most of what I’ve read parallels your own teachings… though with one significant twist. Still, while this is an interesting discovery, it’s not what I’m looking for. I’m disappointed. I was certain this sealed chamber would hide something worth knowing.”
“Nothing in here is worth knowing,” Metron said. “It’s why these books aren’t kept with the others. You’ll find only fables and heresies here.”
“I’m rather fond of heresies,” Blasphet said.
“No doubt,” said Metron. “Still, I insist you leave. No one is allowed into this room save for myself. It’s the law.”
“Dear me, another law broken,” Blasphet said, his eyes brightening.
“The books here can be of no value to you,” Metron said. “Half are written in lost tongues. You waste your time.”
“I’m a quick study,” Blasphet said. “I’m also the best judge of what interests me.”
“The only thing that interests you is death,” Metron said.
“Ah, but you’re mistaken, Metron.” Blasphet sat the book back on the table. “Life is what fascinates me. Life and the lies we are told about it. For instance, how many times have I been witness to a funeral pyre and listened to the legend of Asrafel? We are taught that life is flame.”
“So it is written,” Metron said.
Blasphet shook his head. “My experiments tell me otherwise. If life is flame, why is it that when I burn my subjects in a pit of fire, they die? Shouldn’t they, in fact, prosper? In the legend of Asrafel, we are asked to believe that breathing smoke reconnects us to our ancestors. I have tested this. I have placed my subjects in airtight rooms and filled the atmosphere with smoke. They cough. They die. There seems to be no spiritual connection at all.”
“Just because our mortal minds are unable to comprehend the paradox of flame is no reason to dispute the holy truth,” Metron said.
“‘Holy’ is a word used to conceal a great deal of nonsense,” Blasphet said. “If we disregard the evidence of our senses, won’t that lead to madness?”
“Perhaps our senses are limited while confined to flesh,” said Metron. “And you are already mad.”
“No. Not mad. I merely trust the senses I possess. My eyes tell me that flame is not beneficial to life, despite your ‘holy’ teachings.” Blasphet raised himself from all fours to place his weight on his hind claws in the more common posture of the sun-dragons. His shoulders scraped the stone ceiling of the chamber. “Unlike my fellow dragons, I have the intellectual honesty to reject an idea simply because it’s labeled ‘holy.’ I’ve pondered the mystery of life for many decades. I thought perhaps it’s not flame but heat that gives us the vital force. I’ve slit open many a dragon. The core of a dragon is undeniably hot-much hotter than the air around it. Perhaps heat is the key. However, when I place subjects in a steel box and heat it to a cherry-red glow, again they expire. Save for a brief bust of activity from the subject early on, heat has no invigorating effect at all.”
Metron rubbed his chin. Perhaps the wine mellowed him. He knew Blasphet was confessing to disturbing crimes, but he still found the observations intriguing. He often thought of heat as invigorating. Standing beside the fireplace in the morning did wonders for his old bones. Blasphet must be overlooking something obvious in his experiments.
“Life also requires air,” Metron said, latching onto the missing element. “Perhaps the heat drives out the air, extinguishing life.”
“Air may be a key,” Blasphet admitted. “My subjects do die in its absence. Yet fish are undeniably alive and they live without air. This showed that water might be the key-obviously, we expire if long deprived of it. But when I place subjects beneath the water, they do not live long.”
“Then there must be a mix,” said Metron. “Life isn’t one thing. It’s a mix of fire, of heat, of air, of water. All these things combine to animate our base matter.”
“If this is true, I believe there must be some perfect mixture of the elements. Some ratio of flame and water that gives birth to unquenchable life.” Blasphet sounded excited to be discussing this issue with someone who could follow his reasoning. Blasphet snaked his head closer to Metron, bringing his yellow teeth near the biologian’s ear. He said, his voice soft, yet quivering with anticipation, “Tell me, Metron, do you believe in immortality?”
“In truth?” Metron asked, summoning the courage to look into the Murder God’s blood-rimmed eyes. “No. It’s idle fantasy.”
“I believe,” said Blasphet. “When I lost the contest to my brother, I was castrated; the normal path to continuing one’s bloodline is simple procreation. With that route closed to me, I began to contemplate the alternative. It was in these very libraries that I gained the first knowledge of substances that could hasten death; by simple symmetry, isn’t it likely there are also compounds or formulas that can extend life? I believe our bodies can be perfected. I believe it’s possible to live forever.”
Metron sighed. “I’m old, Blasphet. When I was younger I occasionally entertained the thought of life without end. Alas, the years roll by. The body breaks and bends. The mind fogs day by day. Eternal life may not be a blessing.”
“I refuse to accept that,” Blasphet said. “The life force is a mystery, yes, but one I will solve. I will not go willingly into the final darkness. I will find the key to life and unlock eternity.”
Metron nodded. Perhaps it was possible. Blasphet certainly seemed convinced. Then the biologian’s stomach grumbled and knotted. This was Blasphet who spoke. This was a butcher before him, not a philosopher.
“This is fine talk,” Metron said. “But I believe not a word of it. I think you kill because it gives you some deep gratification that I will never comprehend. I think all this talk of the mystery of life is meant to mask your vile actions. If you truly believe yourself engaged in some noble quest, you are only deluding yourself.”
“You think me deluded? Hypocrite! You are the one who knows the truth yet lives a lie. The time I’ve spent here convinces me these books aren’t forgeries. You know the truth about the origins of dragons.”
Metron frowned. How much had Blasphet read? How many of the ancient languages did he know? “Don’t believe everything you read here, Blasphet. You are making a common intellectual mistake that confounds many an otherwise brilliant student. You assume that just because information is old, it must be true.”
“You are in a poor position to speak to me of intellectual mistakes,” Blasphet said, his voice mocking. “You’ve counseled three generations of kings, telling them it is natural to kill the humans, as nature has decreed we are the superior race. How can you live with yourself?”
“You are hardly in a position to make me feel guilty,” Metron growled. “I nourish the myths that allow dragon culture to flourish. You’re the one with blood on his claws.”
“Yes. Blood. And poison.” Blasphet drew his fore-claw close to Metron’s eyes. He flexed his bony talon, displaying the black, tarry substance caked beneath the nails. “Or perhaps you are speaking metaphorically? Implying I should feel remorse? Your own teachings contain the doctrine that organisms do what they must to survive. I devote my life to this central principle. If I must strip the planet of all life to learn how to ensure my own survival, so be it. I’ll never shed a tear.”
“Have care, Blasphet. Push too far and Albekizan will recognize your true evil. You’ll find yourself in chains once more,” Metron said.
“Evil? What a quaint idea, unworthy of a scholar such as yourself. For the true intellectual, good and evil are mere hobgoblins. All that matters is the quest for truth. Perhaps your century of scholarship can end my quest. What is the animating force? What is the source of life?”
“What I know, I have told you,” Metron said, looking at the floor, away from Blasphet’s intense gaze. “Life is flame.”
“Still you insist on that lie?” Blasphet grabbed Metron’s cheeks, turning his eyes once more to meet his own. “If you truly do not know, admit it. You may not be the most intelligent dragon who lives, but you are, perhaps, the most educated. Give me the answer or I’ll sink a single claw into your neck, putting an end to your miserable life.”
“Kill me if you must,” Metron said, not daring to blink. “I do not know the answer you seek.”
Blasphet released him. Metron staggered backward. Blasphet sounded more frustrated than angry as he said, “There is not a book in this library you haven’t studied. If you were to join me in my quest for truth, I know I could find the answer more rapidly.”
Metron paused, considering the words of the Murder God. Metron truly had no special insight into the secret of immortality. Nevertheless, as long as Blasphet thought he might, perhaps he held some advantage over the wicked dragon.
“I don’t have the information you seek,” said Metron. “But that doesn’t mean I cannot discover it.”
“Then you will research the answer? This is not the only library on the planet; the College of Spires has a collection that rivals your own. I know you biologians have a network of contacts. Will you not help me search?”
Metron rubbed his cheek where Blasphet’s claws had rested. His scales crawled where he’d been touched. “Am I to believe that if you found the secret of eternal life, you would give up your murderous ways?”
“You can believe whatever helps you sleep at night,” Blasphet said.
“I believe that even if you were to change your ways, it would matter little in the grand scheme of things. Albekizan will continue to execute the humans with or without your help.”
“Hmm.” Blasphet studied Metron’s face. “It bothers you, the genocide. Interesting. I hadn’t guessed most dragons would object. However, if it’s any comfort, when I gain the secret of immortality, I won’t be sharing it with my brother. Albekizan won’t live forever. I’ll see to that when the time is right.”
“Your words hint at treason.”
“Tsk. Tsk.Those pesky laws.”
Metron found himself in curious admiration of the monster before him. It occurred to him that a being unconstrained by laws or morality might prove useful. He said, “I do not lightly enter into treason. Give me time to consider your words.”
“Of course,” Blasphet said, his eyes glittering with the light of victory. “But I already know how you will answer.”
DESPITE HER EXHAUSTION, Jandra couldn’t sleep. Kanst had marched them nonstop through the day with no break for food or water. Any who stumbled or fell behind had been quickly motivated with whips to keep up the pace. When night fell Kanst had allowed them to drop, too weary to fight or protest, beside a small, muddy pond in the middle of a pasture. For dinner, the dragons passed around sacks of half rotten seed potatoes they’d scavenged from the village. The dragons slaughtered the cows they found in the pasture and the smell of charred meat hung in the air. The humans would get no taste of this.
The dragons set up tents for themselves, but no shelter, not even blankets, had been provided for the humans. The villagers all huddled together for warmth. Jandra wrapped her arm around Zeeky who was now sound asleep. The child hadn’t complained once during their long march.
Jandra studied the stars, trying to make some sense of Kanst’s reasons for the forced march. What did this talk of a “Free City” mean? Why hadn’t Kanst simply slaughtered the villagers where he found them?
A sky-dragon circled high overhead, a dark blot against the night sky.
Vendevorex?
No. Most likely it was one of the aerial guard, flying on routine duty. If Vendevorex had followed, he would certainly be invisible. It was foolish to think he would follow. Never mind that he’d been too weak to even stand when she left him; he’d proven by word and deed that he was too cowardly to fight. Jandra pushed back thoughts of her former mentor. This was the problem with being raised by someone who knew how to become invisible: every time she looked over her shoulder to see nothing, it only fueled her suspicions that he was there. Perhaps in time she would stop seeing him in any small flicker of shadow. She had to accept the reality that she would be better off never seeing Vendevorex again.
She couldn’t believe how good the dragons’ meals smelled. The aroma taunted her.
Carefully Jandra slid from Zeeky’s embrace. She spread her cloak over the child then, glancing around to make sure no one watched her, she tossed a handful of silver dust into the air.
Jandra moved invisibly among the sleeping humans, toward a small circle of five guards gathered around a fire for warmth. They were gnawing on charred bones.
“Can’t be him. Seeing what they want to see,” one of the guards said.
“He’s supposed to be a ghost,” another said. “How can chains hold a ghost?”
The third grunted. “Who cares if it’s him or not? If Kanst and Albekizan are satisfied by killing him, our lives will be easier.”
“It must be him,” said another. “He had the arrows.”
“Should’ve killed him where he stood,” said the fifth dragon, tossing a gnawed thighbone over his shoulder. “I can’t believe Kanst is actually sharing a tent with the monster.”
Jandra grabbed the bone from the dirt. There was still quite a bit of meat on it. Earth-dragons were sloppy eaters. She shoved the meat into a pocket in her cloak and moved on.
She went in search of Kanst’s tent. That task proved simple enough-his was the largest and surrounded by the most guards. Unfortunately, some of the guards held ox-dogs on chain leashes. Invisibility wouldn’t fool an ox-dog. Still, the guards and dogs looked as worn out and ready for sleep as the villagers were. Indeed, one of the dogs was already snoring. She held her breath and tiptoed between them.
She moved toward the tent flap. As she reached for it, the flap took on a life of its own, pushing outward. She jumped back as Kanst emerged from the tent. Jandra scrambled to move out of his way. Invisible or not, it wasn’t difficult to be discovered if a creature with a forty-foot wingspan brushed up against you. Kanst’s whiplike tail swung toward her and she skipped over it like a rope.
“Make sure no one gets in,” Kanst said to the guards. “I go to consult Zanzeroth.”
Kanst lumbered off into the night. Once the general was safely out of earshot, one of the guards muttered to another, “Going to consult that keg of goom in the hunter’s tent is more like it.”
Jandra slid between the gap in the tent flaps.
In the dim light she could barely see Pet lying prone on Kanst’s huge battle chest. Manacles held his arms and legs to the four corners of the lid, and a steel collar was fastened around his neck.
He lay still as death. Her heart sank.
But why would they bother to chain a dead man?
She moved closer until she could hear his breathing. She had expected to find him bruised and bloodied but he looked unharmed. Kanst apparently wanted his prize delivered in good health.
Becoming visible, she carefully placed her hand over his mouth as he slept. He stirred to wakefulness.
“It’s me,” she said. “Don’t be scared.”
“Jandra,” Pet whispered as she removed her hand. “What are you doing here? And what on earth have you done to your hair?”
“I’m not here to discuss grooming. I’ve come to rescue you.”
“Don’t,” Pet said. “I’ve made my choice.”
“Pretending you’re Bitterwood isn’t going to solve things. You saved the hostages for the moment but Albekizan’s death warrant on all humans is still in place. I need every ally I can muster. I want you free and fighting.”
“I’m no warrior,” Pet said. “We both know that. I’m only an actor, a pretender. I told you, if I could help people by acting, I would. Who knew I’d get my chance so soon? When they take me before Albekizan, I know he’ll kill me. Perhaps my death will assuage his anger. He might call off his order of genocide.”
“Or maybe you’ll have died in vain.”
“Your words of encouragement are a great comfort to me,” Pet said.
“Sorry. But you don’t have to die. I’m working on a plan to stop Albekizan.”
“How?”
“The first step is to rescue you. Then…” Jandra hoped for inspiration. It didn’t come. “To be honest, I’m still fleshing out the rest of the plan.”
“If you’re here, Vendevorex must have come to your way of thinking,” Pet said. “What help can I be compared to him?”
“Ven isn’t with me,” Jandra said.
“Oh. He didn’t pull through?”
“I’d rather not discuss it.”
“But, if Vendevorex-”
“Stop,” Jandra said, raising her hand. “I’m not here to discuss Vendevorex. I’m here to save you so you can help me in my fight to save mankind.”
“As an army of two?” Pet said. “I think I currently have the better plan.”
“When did you get so brave? I think I liked you better when you were-”
“Cowardly?” Pet interjected.
Jandra shrugged. “More protective of your self interests.”
“I didn’t do this for you. I told you, the villagers weren’t strangers to me. I’ve done what I could over the years to help them. And they… Well, some of them… some of the young women… have, um, been grateful.”
“What are you saying?”
“Chakthalla would never have allowed me to select a permanent mate from among the villagers but she couldn’t know everything I was up to. If I had allowed Kanst to slaughter the village children he might have been killing my offspring.”
Jandra’s heart sank. Of course, she should have known that he’d use his privileges and talents to seduce the village girls. He’d tried to bed her after ten minutes of conversation. She was shocked to find an icy vein of jealousy running through her body. Why? She didn’t have any romantic feelings for him, did she?
Pet seemed to sense her disappointment. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been a saint. Maybe what I’m doing will make up a little for the self-centered way I’ve lived. Don’t worry about me. This is just another performance, one last moment on the stage. You know I love being the center of attention.”
Jandra nodded. Her eyes blurred with tears. “You do what you have to,” she said, her voice wavering.
“Don’t cry.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“It’s okay,” Pet said. “But you need to go. Kanst could return at any time.”
“Good-bye,” Jandra said, leaning down and placing a kiss on Pet’s cheek.
“Good luck with your plan,” Pet said.
PET WATCHED JANDRA step away. A swirl of tiny stars engulfed her in the darkness, and when they fell away, she had vanished. Turning his eyes toward the door, he saw at last the flap sway aside before falling back. Only then did he let tears fill his own eyes. He’d done well playing brave before her. He prayed he could repeat the performance when he finally faced Albekizan.
JANDRA KNELT BESIDE the sleeping form of the real Bitterwood. He’d been silent all day, marching sullenly, looking as if he’d lost all will to live. First Pet decided to become a hero, then Bitterwood lost his will to fight. Were all human males this prone to mood swings? Ven had his faults but at least he was predictable.
Bitterwood lay so still she wondered for a second if he was dead. She could see the slightest movement of his chest, rising and falling beneath his threadbare clothing. His shirt was a mass of patches, stitches, and stains; it looked as if it hadn’t been laundered in months. Not even the humans that lived in the hovels around Albekizan’s palace had worn such rags. Furthermore, Bitterwood stank; he smelled of sweat, road dust, and dried blood. Holding her breath she reached out her hand to wake the sleeping dragonslayer. When her hand was still an inch from his shoulder he said, quietly, “I’m awake.”
“Good,” she whispered. “We need to talk.”
He continued to lay perfectly still, his eyes closed. He sighed, with breath ripened by rotting teeth, then said, “Say what you must.”
“I want to know what’s wrong with you. Twenty-four hours ago you were this cold-blooded dragon-slayer. Now, all day you’ve been shuffling around, blank-eyed, looking half dead. Are you faking this? Are you just waiting for the right moment to strike? Because if you are, I want to help.”
He waited a long moment before answering, “You should get some sleep.”
“In preparation for battle?” she said, hopefully. “You are planning to fight.”
“I’m planning on walking however far the dragons command us to walk tomorrow,” said Bitterwood.
“This isn’t like you,” she said.
He turned toward her voice and opened his eyes. He fixed his gaze upon her.
“You cannot judge me,” he said. “Long ago, I was taught that the greatest thing a man could do was to lay his life down for another. I was taught that if struck, I should turn the other cheek. If anyone harmed me, or trespassed against me, I was commanded to love and forgive them. Love and forgiveness were the greatest virtues. I believed these lies for almost a decade.”
“Why are love and forgiveness lies?” she asked, aware of the irony as she said it. She certainly had no intention of forgiving Vendevorex, or ever loving him again.
“I was taught that there was a god who loved us so much, he gave his own son in sacrifice. Imagine that foolishness… sacrificing your life to redeem others.”
“It sounds noble to me,” she said.
“As it did to me, once. Then I learned that the man who taught me these things wasn’t what I thought he was. I met him when I was young; I almost thought of him as a father. You can’t know how his betrayal wounded me.”
Jandra nodded. “I might have some idea.”
“After his betrayal, I vowed never to be weak again. There would be no love. There would be no forgiveness. I would never turn my cheek if struck. I would match every blow with double the force. I would never show mercy.”
“But you turned yourself in to save the villagers. You still have a good side.”
“I still have a weak side,” Bitterwood said. “I once… I once had children. Two daughters. An infant son. The night before the attack, I met Zeeky. She reminded me of my own long lost daughters. On any other night, Kanst’s gambit would never have caught me. But I couldn’t get Zeeky’s voice out of my head. In the end that lingering trace of compassion destroyed me. I surrendered myself to the dragons to save her.”
“Just as you’d been taught to do,” she said.
He nodded. “Yet my sacrifice was in vain. I was rejected. The dragons would have slain me and slaughtered the villagers.”
“If Pet hadn’t intervened.”
Bitterwood didn’t respond to this. He closed his eyes and turned back on his side.
“He gave himself selflessly,” he whispered. “The villagers were spared. Now I wonder, were the lies of my youth true after all? Can a man love others so much he will surrender his life to save them? Was my sacrifice rejected because I am unclean, corrupted by my hate? I’m guilty; Pet was innocent. Was his sacrifice superior because his heart was pure?”
Jandra said, “Pure isn’t a word I would use to describe Pet. I spoke to Pet a minute ago. He’s intent on getting himself killed. It doesn’t have to end like this. I can get your bow and arrows back. You were magnificent in the castle. Think how much damage you could do with me by your side, keeping you invisible. We’d be the ultimate dragon-slaying team. You can save Pet and everyone here. You’re my only hope.”
Bitterwood lay motionless once more. His breathing was even, as if he had actually fallen asleep. She reached out to nudge him, and once more, he spoke before her fingers reached him.
“Life is more bearable when you live without hope,” he said.
VENDEVOREX WOKE INTO darkness, his eyes straining as dim light began to slowly form shapes around him. For hours he’d pitched and turned, burning with fever. Now his fever had broken. He touched his belly, probing softly. His wounds had vanished. Once he’d set the healing in motion, his unconscious mind had been able to guide the process.
Smoke hung in the air. The smoke had a touch of pine to it. The air was moist and… he could hear water boiling. He sniffed again. Sassafras? Vendevorex looked around. He wasn’t in Chakthalla’s castle anymore. He lay next to a small fire pit and, across from him, basking in the fire’s glow, was a sun-dragon, his face hidden beneath a black velvet hood. Vendevorex had a brief flash of memory. He’d been carried from the throne room by this dragon.
“Where am I?” Vendevorex asked.
“A cavern. I’ve hidden here before,” answered the masked dragon as he stirred the coals beneath a blackened kettle. “You lost consciousness not long after we slipped past Kanst’s army. I brought you here to recover.”
“How long have I been asleep?”
The masked dragon motioned toward a stalactite. A tall, slender glass cylinder etched with lines sat beneath it, catching the water that dripped from its tip. “If my clock is accurate, you’ve been unconscious nearly thirty hours.”
“Where’s Jandra?”
“Don’t you remember? She ran off, angry with you.”
“She didn’t come back?”
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t wait. I know of no way she could find us now. We’ve eluded even the ox-dogs.”
“I see,” Vendevorex said. “Then I should go search for her.”
“Perhaps she doesn’t want to be found,” the masked dragon said.
“I must find her. I had hoped to convince her to avoid Albekizan’s schemes. I see that is no longer an option. But I can’t let her fight single-handedly against your father.”
The masked dragon grew suddenly still. Then, after too long a pause, he asked, bemused, “My father?”
“Come now, Shandrazel. You can’t fool me. I’ve known you for too long. You have nothing to fear. I’m definitely not going to carry out your father’s death order.”
“No,” Shandrazel agreed, grabbing his mask and pulling it from his head. “I suppose you won’t.”
“Nor, I suspect, would Chakthalla. She would have welcomed you to her planned rebellion. Why hide your identity?”
“Because,” Shandrazel answered, “I’ve no desire to be king.” He lifted the kettle from the coals and poured pungent, oily liquid into clay cups. “This drink will help revitalize you. It’s-”
“Sassafras,” Vendevorex said. “I know my medicinal herbs. It’s made from the roots of a tree that grows here in the eastern mountains. It’s similar in odor and taste to the European licorice root.”
“European?” Shandrazel asked, offering the clay cup.
Vendevorex shrugged as he accepted the drink. The rough, unglazed ceramic warmed his talons. “I’m not trying to be obscure, but it really would take a long time to explain. Let’s just say that your father may not have been the best source for you to learn geography.”
“I concur,” Shandrazel said, then stopped to take a drink.
Vendevorex inhaled the steam from his own cup. The vapors were sour, with a fragrant kick that made the deep recesses of his sinuses tingle.
“So,” he said. “What have you been up to besides digging roots and hiding in caves?”
“I also made a clock and sewed a mask,” Shandrazel said. “These haven’t been the most glorious months of my life, to be honest. I probably wouldn’t have made it this long except, after I fled the College of Spires, a student followed me and pledged his loyalty. He visits me from time to time with news and supplies. Through him I learned that Chakthalla was harboring you, and heard the whispers of rebellion. I thought it might be time for me to once more seek the company of sun-dragons.”
“You came to help overthrow your father?”
Shandrazel shook his head. “I came hoping to prevent violence. I believe, despite all that has happened, that it is not too late for cooler heads to prevail. My father ordered my exile during horrible times. Bodiel… Bodiel was his favorite. I know this. But now that father’s had time to grieve, his reason may have returned.”
Vendevorex sighed. “You didn’t know your father at all, did you?”
“Of course I did,” Shandrazel said, sounding offended. “As his son, who could know him better?”
“Precisely because you’re his son, you cannot see him plainly. I’ve advised Albekizan for many years. Trust me when I tell you the king is bull-headed and stonehearted. He’ll not be talked out of his plans. Your exile will only end with your death, or his.”
Shandrazel opened his mouth as if to argue, then shook his head. The wispy white feathers around his nostrils wafted like steam as he sighed. He stared at the flickering coals within the stone circle.
“Killing him would be the same as killing myself,” said Shandrazel.
“A noble sentiment,” Vendevorex said. “If only your father displayed half your compassion.”
“So what now?” asked Shandrazel. “I’d rather not live the rest of my life hiding in caves.”
“Nor I. What's more, I have Jandra to think about. I must save her and, to satisfy her, I must save the entire human race.”
“No small task,” said Shandrazel.
“True,” Vendevorex said, stroking his chin with a fore-talon. “Fortunately, I’m not without resources. I see now that open revolution will only bring further destruction. What’s needed is some candidate for the throne who will assume the duty with a minimum of bloodshed. If you aren’t volunteering, I believe our best hope may be Kanst. I didn’t like that possibility before but we are running out of options. We could play upon his vanity; if I play my cards right, I might even wind up as his most trusted advisor, and help the kingdom see better days.”
“The armies would accept Kanst as king,” Shandrazel agreed. “He certainly possesses ambition. But he’s also known for his ruthlessness. In any case, I fear his loyalty to my father is too great.”
“You may be correct,” Vendevorex said. “Right now, my first duty is to find Jandra. Once we are united with her we can focus our energies on approaching Kanst and stopping Albekizan.”