Authors: James Maxey
“‘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.”