Bitterwood nodded, as if the boy's words made sense. Then he closed his eyes and slipped back into dream.

The first dragon Bitterwood had ever killed had been a sky-dragon. The beast had been flying overhead, little higher than the tree tops. Bitterwood had been practicing with a bow since the fall of Christdale, never wanting to again be unprepared to defend himself. Bitterwood hadn't needed to defend himself from this dragon. The sky-dragon never even glanced down as it pa.s.sed. Bitterwood had been, quite literally, beneath its notice. Bitterwood could have ignored it and continued his training. Instead, he'd made a lucky guess as to how far ahead of the beast he needed to aim and loosed the shot. The beast had yelped a single word-"What?"-when the arrow caught in its breast, then spiraled through the air as its damaged chest muscles tried to maintain its flight. It crashed at neck-snapping speed. Bitterwood had ever killed had been a sky-dragon. The beast had been flying overhead, little higher than the tree tops. Bitterwood had been practicing with a bow since the fall of Christdale, never wanting to again be unprepared to defend himself. Bitterwood hadn't needed to defend himself from this dragon. The sky-dragon never even glanced down as it pa.s.sed. Bitterwood had been, quite literally, beneath its notice. Bitterwood could have ignored it and continued his training. Instead, he'd made a lucky guess as to how far ahead of the beast he needed to aim and loosed the shot. The beast had yelped a single word-"What?"-when the arrow caught in its breast, then spiraled through the air as its damaged chest muscles tried to maintain its flight. It crashed at neck-snapping speed.

Bitterwood had stood over the dead dragon a long time, trying to feel something. Guilt, perhaps, for killing a creature that had nothing to do with the deaths of his family. Or, satisfaction, at least some small flicker, that his shot had found its target and the population of dragons was now reduced by one.

He'd felt nothing. Intellectually, he was aware he'd just killed a fellow intelligent being, capable of thought and speech. Until this moment, the only large thing he'd ever killed had been a deer when he'd hunted with his brother Jomath. He'd felt some small twinge of remorse looking down at the deer, though that emotion had changed to satisfaction when he'd later dined upon a steak cut from his kill.

Remembering that meal, he'd cut the dragon's thigh free from the body and left the rest to be picked over by buzzards. That evening, he'd roasted the thigh over a fire. He could still smell the aroma of dragon fat as it dripped from the leg and sizzled on the coals below. He remembered the way the tough, chewy meat played upon his tongue, the gushes of smoky grease. He could still be warmed by the glow that filled him after that meal as he stretched out under the stars, his belly full.

To this day, there was no sound more satisfying to his ears than a startled dragon yelping, "What?"

Deep inside his dream, Bitterwood was aware of his nostrils twitching. He was keenly tuned to the smell of dragons, the way their hides stank of fish, the way their breath smelled of dead things. His nose served as an extra eye, alerting him when dragons waited in the dark, unseen. His lids cracked open the barest sliver.

A dark red shape loomed at the mouth of the cave. Then it was blotted out by a second shape, scaly like a dragon, but shaped like a woman. The woman's face drew closer. Did he know her?

"Recanna?" he mumbled before his eyes closed again.

"He's burning up," the woman said, pulling the blanket and taking away a fair number of scabs with it. The smell of rotting meat wafted through the air. The woman audibly gagged. "By the bones," she said softly, strange words from a human's lips. It was normally an expression of dragons.

"That's a lot of pus," said a deep voice. Bitterwood recognized the timbre of the sound, the ba.s.s formed by a belly wide enough to digest a man. A sun-dragon. Was he still dreaming?

He opened his eyes once more. A sun-dragon peered into the small cave, his eyes glowing green in the firelight. Bitterwood was certain that he was looking at a ghost: Albekizan, coming to claim his revenge. Yet, despite the similarity, this dragon was younger than the king. Bodiel? No, Albekizan's youngest son was dead too. Who was this?

This dragon didn't seem to be watching him. His eyes were focused above Bitterwood. Bitterwood tilted his head to find the woman he'd glimpsed kneeling over him. He flinched as her fingers probed his wounds. Yellow fluid oozed beneath her fingertips as she applied pressure. She closed her eyes. Bant struggled to recall where he'd seen her before. Her helmet was familiar... it looked like the one the wizard-dragon Vendevorex had worn.

"J-Jandra?" he asked. It had to be her. She looked different since their time together in the Free City. Older, somehow, though only weeks had pa.s.sed.

"I'm here," she said. "What the h.e.l.l did this to you, Bant?"

"Dragon," he mumbled. "N-never seen one like it."

"I can't believe you're still alive." Her voice sounded distant and distracted. Her eyes were closed, flickering back and forth under the lids. "I've never seen so much infection."

"I-I've felt w-worse," he said.

"You'd lose your left leg if I weren't here," Jandra said. "Still might. This is going to take some work."

She said something else a moment later, but her voice seemed far away, lost beneath some hiss, like the fall of a hard rain. Was it raining? He couldn't see anything beyond the veil of black mist that slid across his vision, blotting out Jandra, the dragon, and the fire beside him.

All pain left his body as he slipped into cold, unending darkness.

He woke sitting in the peach orchard of his youth. It was springtime. Everything was blooming, the world was pink and fresh. Recanna was lying at his side, her head in his lap. It was a warm day, and the only sound in the world was the faint hum of bees working through the blossoms overhead.

He was young again, eighteen perhaps. His hands were calloused from labor, but unscarred by battle. He looked at them, wondering why he'd expected them to be any different.

He nudged Recanna. She stirred, sitting up, brushing her long dark hair from her face.

"Did I fall asleep?" she asked.

Bant started to say yes. He stopped as he remembered why his hands should be scarred.

"You died," he said. "Dragons killed you. Dragons killed you because of what I'd done."

She nodded, looking as if she, too, were searching her memories. "Yes," she said. "I remember now."

The breeze that washed over them was warm and scented by the clover of the nearby fields. Bitterwood swallowed hard. Nothing hurt inside him for the first time in memory. "Is this... is this heaven?" he asked, softly.

"Do you believe in heaven?" she asked.

"No," he whispered. "I haven't believed in anything for a long time."

"Then where will you find me?"

"I don't... I don't know."

He raised his hands to wipe the tear that trickled down his cheek. As the back of his hand touched his face, he woke.

"Recanna?" he said, sitting up, looking across the dark room toward the female form that sat near the fire.

"It's me," the woman answered. "Jandra. Can you see me?"

He rubbed his eyes, then blinked several times. Suddenly, Jandra popped into focus. "I see you," he said.

"Good," she said. "I was worried your fever might have damaged your vision. I tried to repair some of the fine blood vessel damage I found there, but I'm still new at this. I worried I might do more harm than good. But I thought I was doing it right because I discovered something strange about you."

"What?" he asked.

"You already had nanites inside you. They were dormant, like they were left over from repairing you before, but they already contained programming for restoring tissue. I just had to reactivate them. Did Vendevorex ever heal you?"

"No," said Bitterwood. "I don't know what a nanite is."

"And no one has ever cured your injuries before?"

"I didn't say that," Bitterwood said. "A long time ago, after the fall of Conyers, I was healed by a green-skinned woman. She caused my hands to grow back after they'd been bitten off by a dragon. To this day, I don't know if she was an angel or a devil. Since she worked her magic, I've been faster and stronger. My vision is as sharp as a sky-dragon's."

"Hmm," Jandra said.

Bitterwood stared at his hands. They were wrinkled, calloused, and scarred. Yet, they felt whole. The decaying purple sausages that had sat at the end of his arm were wriggling fingers again. It wasn't just his hands that felt restored. He tossed aside the blanket, which was now clean. Beneath, he was naked. All the wounds inflicted by the long-wyrm were healed. His body was covered by a hundred smooth crisscrossing scars, but he felt fine. All traces of the fever and weakness were gone.

"I'm sorry about the scars," Jandra said. "Once I got rid of the infection and repaired the deep structure damage, I simply accelerated your body's own healing systems."

Jandra wasn't looking directly at him as she spoke, averting her eyes from his nudity. Bitterwood grabbed the blanket and pulled it back over his lap to hide himself.

"You must command the same magic Vendevorex used," Bitterwood said. "He healed himself after being gutted. He should have died."

"He did die, later, in the Free City. I'm not sure how much you know about what's happened since I left you."

"Not much," Bitterwood said. "I've been traveling with Zeeky... Zeeky! Where is she?"

"Missing," said Jandra. "Her brother said she went into the mines."

"That fool girl," he grumbled. "She'll get herself eaten. Why didn't you go after her?"

"I've been saving your life," she said, looking hurt by his scolding tone.

Bitterwood looked around for his clothes. If Zeeky had gone into the mines, he'd have to go after her. "Where did you put my-?"

"Here," Jandra said, lifting a folded bundle of leather and linen. "I took these off because I didn't want to get the fibers entangled in your wounds. I repaired them as best I could. Nothing fancy. There wasn't much to work with."

She tossed the bundle to Bitterwood. He caught the familiar fabric, recognizing at once the linen shirt and buckskin pants he'd worn for so many years. He couldn't recall the last time they'd been so completely free of blood stains. The tattered blanket he'd worn on his journey had been fashioned into an actual cloak, complete with a drawstring hood.

"I didn't know you were a seamstress as well as a witch," he said. He took a sidelong glance at her. "You've changed your hair again." Her long brown locks hung freely past her shoulders from beneath the silver skullcap. In the Free City, her hair had been black, and barely shoulder length. Her clothes also caught his attention, as it looked like dragon hide. The material clung to her body in a way that seemed part of her. Elaborate flourishes of feathery lace around the cuff and collar seemed more appropriate for a palace than for a cave in the wilderness. "Your clothes look like something that peac.o.c.k you consorted with might have worn. What was his name? Pet?"

Jandra frowned. "Pet wasn't my consort. I don't appreciate being judged simply because I want to wear something nicer than rags."

As she spoke, Bitterwood sniffed the air. "It's not my imagination. There was a sun-dragon here."

"Hexilizan," said Jandra. "He likes to be called Hex."

"Ah. The disgraced first-born."

"You've heard of him? I lived in the castle all my life and didn't know who he was." She turned her back to him. "Put your clothes on so we can go see the others."

"I know Albekizan's family well," said Bitterwood, unfolding the bundle. "He had six sons and four daughters. Only two of the sons survive-Hexilizan and Shandrazel. Lancerimel followed the Dragon Road beyond the Cursed Mountains and never returned. The other three I killed... though only Bodiel's body was discovered."

"Don't brag about that to Hex," she said. "In fact, before we go further, I want to lay down some rules. Back at Chakthalla's, you gave me your word not to kill Vendevorex, and you kept it. Now, I want your word that you won't kill Hex. He's my friend, and I won't have him become another notch on your bow."

"I don't carve notches in my bow," said Bitterwood, struggling to pull his pants over his thighs. The buckskin had tightened. "It would weaken the wood."

"You know what I mean. At Chakthalla's castle, you didn't take sides. If it had scales, you put an arrow into it. But all dragons aren't alike. Hex has done nothing to hurt you."

"You know nothing of the real world, girl," Bitterwood answered, finally getting the pants up to his waist. Despite the snugness of the buckskin, Bitterwood could tell he'd lost weight during his time of fever. The skin of his belly lay tight against the muscles beneath, all hint of fat eaten away in an effort to keep him alive. "As Albekizan's son, Hex trained in the art of hunting humans. Your so-called friend has feasted on the meat of slaves he's brought down. No dragon is innocent."

"Sun-dragons' reputation for eating humans is vastly exaggerated," Jandra said. "Most of them eat the same stuff people do-fish, beef, bread-just a whole lot more of it."

"Foods produced by human labors, which the dragons steal. You don't know that because you've led a sheltered life, protected by a dragon who treated you as affectionately as some men treat their dogs."

"I'm not naive," said Jandra. "I've killed dragons. I've killed humans. Nothing about my life is sheltered anymore."

Bitterwood silently pulled his shirt on, weighing her words as he laced the front closed. Jandra was forever corrupted by having been raised by a dragon. However, he knew he wouldn't be alive without her. She would also be helpful in finding Zeeky. Despite being a witch, she seemed to have a kind heart. Finally, he sighed. "What is it that you want of me?"

"Don't kill Hex. Or Shandrazel, should you meet him. We're at the dawn of an age when dragons and humans can finally live in peace. I don't want you destroying that with your blind hatred."

"My hatred is far from blind, girl," Bitterwood said. "It's clear-eyed hatred, seeing the world that is, not the world you wish it to be. Still, I will honor your request... for now."

Jandra looked relieved. She moved toward the edge of the cave and leapt onto a rock below. "Come on," she said, motioning for him to follow.

They were several hundred feet above the ruins of Big Lick. The mountain here was a series of rocky shelves and overhangs, some quite deep. Jandra navigated the narrow path that led between the ledges with the sureness of a mountain goat. Bitterwood sensed that the change in her since last they'd met was more than just a change of wardrobe. He strained to keep up with her. She definitely hadn't been this strong or fast when they'd first met. Then, she'd been little more than a child in a young woman's body. She'd been brave, yes, but also irrational and overly emotional. She seemed more in control now. When she'd told him not to kill Hex, she hadn't been pleading or bargaining. She'd simply been telling him the rules he would live by in her presence.

He wondered if she'd laid down the same sort of rules with Hex.

They walked up a wooden ramp toward the great gaping mouth of the mountain. Judging from the picks and shovels laying around, this was the entrance to a mine. Inside the shelter of the mine a fire burned, and beside this fire sat Killer and the boy. Killer looked healthier, though the ox-dog's hide was now as scarred as his own. a wooden ramp toward the great gaping mouth of the mountain. Judging from the picks and shovels laying around, this was the entrance to a mine. Inside the shelter of the mine a fire burned, and beside this fire sat Killer and the boy. Killer looked healthier, though the ox-dog's hide was now as scarred as his own.

"Did you heal the dog before you healed me?" he asked.

"His wounds were mostly superficial," Jandra said. "After he was better, I had Hex bring him and the boy here. The first cave was too small for Hex, and I wanted us to have a little privacy after you woke."

It was getting dark outside, and the roof of the cave was so black with the soot of centuries it looked like a formless void.

"Where's Hex?" Jandra asked.

"I don't know," the boy said. "He smelled something strange. Said he'd be right back. He only left a minute ago."

"Where's Zeeky?" Bitterwood asked.

"We found her footprints," the boy said, pointing toward the rear of the shaft. "She's looking for our folks."

"You're related to her?" As he asked this, Bitterwood saw that the family resemblance was undeniable. The same cornsilk-blond hair, the same evening-blue eyes. The boy's face was a bit more angular, however, his nose sharper, his chin more prominent. Bitterwood guessed the boy to be about twelve. He had the same wiry limbs that Zeeky possessed, a body shaped by poverty and the physical demands of climbing over this harsh landscape.

"Ezekia's my sister," he said. "I'm Jeremiah."

"You're older than your sister," said Bitterwood. "Why did you let her go?"

"Ain't n.o.body can stop Zeeky when she sets her mind to do something."

Bitterwood nodded. He knew this from experience. "Jeremiah and Ezekia... these are names from the Bible."

"Yes sir," the boy said. "My great grandfather was converted by a prophet named Hezekiah. He came to these mountains as a missionary."

"I see," said Bitterwood. "People in this area are usually devotees of the G.o.ddess Ashera. I saw her temple in the town of Winding Rock."

"If you know the Bible enough to know our names, are you a follower of the Lord, mister?"

Bitterwood felt anger stir inside him at the question. He knew the boy meant no harm in asking; no doubt he was merely looking for common ground with a stranger. The boy couldn't know that the only thing Bitterwood hated more than dragons were the words of the so called prophet Hezekiah.

Apparently, the boy sensed Bitterwood's anger, because he turned his face toward the floor and grew quiet, as if he was afraid.