"He tasted better than his mount, at least," said Hex, wiping blood from his jaws onto his wing. "Why didn't you simply melt his dagger, Jandra?"

Jandra didn't look back at Hex as she pulled on her helmet.

"I need my helmet to..." her voice trailed off, as if she thought better of completing her sentence. "It's not important."

Her eyes caught Bitterwood's. Bitterwood could tell that this was the first time she'd ever seen a dragon devour a man. Perhaps now she could understand his hatred of the beasts. She turned away, looking ill.

Hex remained oblivious to the unspoken communication between the humans. His eyes were fixed on the back of the shaft.

"There's one more," he said.

Bitterwood looked into the gloom. A single long-wyrm slithered forward. At first, he thought it might be the one he wounded, but he soon saw that this one was unscathed, as was the rider upon its saddle. The rider's outfit was slightly modified from that of his brethren, with a large red star above his left breast. Like the others, he wore a silver visor. Unlike the others, whose hair had been cropped short, this new rider's locks hung to his shoulders. His skin was the same pale tint, but his hair was a dark chestnut, a shade that reminded Bitterwood of his now dead wife, Recanna. He carried a crossbow, but it wasn't loaded. Bitterwood had learned to read bodies well over the years; whoever this was, he wasn't planning to attack.

"What a waste," the new rider said, looking over the corpses of his brethren. "This combat wasn't authorized. They betrayed the G.o.ddess by coming here on a mission of petty revenge. They've paid the ultimate price for their folly."

"You'll not try to avenge them, then?" asked Hex.

"No," the rider said. "Through our visors, we may send messages to one another. They signaled that they were entering combat; I ordered them to stand down and they disobeyed my orders. I watched the battle as if through their eyes. They struck first. You fought in self defense. There is nothing to avenge."

"Perhaps you have nothing to avenge," said Bitterwood. "But there's a town below that was destroyed by your riders. Why?"

"The G.o.ddess decreed it was a time of harvest," the rider said in a matter-of-fact tone as his long-wyrm carried him to within a few yards. To be coming into the presence of a sun-dragon, the rider and his long-wyrm looked strangely unworried. "The G.o.ddess planted them. She may reap them."

"Planted them?" Jandra said. "They weren't stalks of corn."

"Are they still alive?" Hex asked.

"The fate of the villagers should not concern you," the rider said.

"The fate of one villager is of great concern to me," said Bitterwood. "Her name is Zeeky."

The wyrm-rider smiled. "The girl with the pig. Quite resourceful, that one. The G.o.ddess has taken special notice of her."

"We want to meet this G.o.ddess," said Hex.

"Her temple is a long journey from here," said the rider. "You must travel underground for several days. It isn't a journey to be taken lightly; men have gone mad contemplating the weight of the earth above them."

"Perhaps men do go mad," said Hex. "I believe I'm made of sterner stuff."

"I'm not afraid," said Jandra. "Take us."

Bitterwood didn't answer. It didn't seem, from his posture, that the rider was planning to lead them into a trap. Still, if the temple was many days away, had Zeeky arrived there yet? He wasn't certain how many days he'd lost to the fever.

"Before we go, introductions are in order," Hex said, apparently impatient with Bitterwood's silence. "I am Hexilizan; my friends call me Hex. The woman is named Jandra. I fear I haven't been introduced to the gentleman yet."

Bitterwood thought carefully of what to say. Jandra apparently had kept his true ident.i.ty secret. A wise move, perhaps, but now that he had a sword in his hand he didn't care what Hex knew about him.

"My name is Bant Bitterwood," he said. He saw the muscles beneath Hex's hide go instantly tense. More curiously, the rider also stiffened in his saddle. The man's mouth opened, but he seemed unable to speak.

Shaking off his shocked expression, the rider dismounted. He took off his visor and stepped toward Bitterwood. The look on his face was an expression half of disbelief, half of reverence.

"Do you..." he asked, his voice soft. "Can you truly be Bant Bitterwood?"

"Is my name known so well in the underworld?" Bitterwood asked.

The rider drew closer. Despite the pallor of the man's skin, Bitterwood noted the rider's features in many ways echoed his own, from the sharp angle of the nose to the firm line of the brow. Yet while Bitterwood's face was leathery and wrinkled, the rider's visage had a baby-skin smoothness that no doubt came from avoiding the sun. The man was taller than Bitterwood, better muscled and much younger, at most a few years older than Jandra.

"I worried you were dead," the rider said.

"I've done little to discourage that belief," Bitterwood said.

"Your legend has preceded you," the rider said. "As I grew up, I took pride in your exploits whenever Gabriel reported back news from the world of men. I feel as if I've known you my whole life, though I have no true memories of you."

"No memor... who are you?" Bitterwood asked, his voice trailing to near silence as he realized why this man might resemble him.

The rider nodded, as if recognizing that Bitterwood had figured out the puzzle. "Yes," he said. "I'm Adam Bitterwood."

Chapter Eleven:.

Unhealthy Philosophies

The brilliant morning sun was a welcome change from the gloom and rain Graxen had flown through the last few days. The palace of Shandrazel stood in the distance, a small mountain of granite. The frost that covered this ancestral seat of power sparkled like jewels. Since Shandrazel had taken the throne, Graxen had spent little time at the palace. He'd traveled to the far reaches of the kingdom to summon guests to Shandrazel's conference. Today, sun-dragons would arrive, lords of the various territories that swore alliance to the king. Humans would attend as well, represented by the mayors of the larger towns, like Richmond, Hampton, Chickenburg, and Bilge. The earth-dragons would be underrepresented. Save for Dragon Forge, they claimed no territory as their own. They lived primarily in the service of sun-dragons, and depended upon these superior beasts for leadership. Male sky-dragons from all nine of the Colleges would be in attendance, but the female sky-dragons would only have one voice-the representative from the Nest. Graxen wondered how Shandrazel could hope to bring equality to races of such uneven power and resources; he couldn't even bring equal numbers of representatives to the discussions. sun was a welcome change from the gloom and rain Graxen had flown through the last few days. The palace of Shandrazel stood in the distance, a small mountain of granite. The frost that covered this ancestral seat of power sparkled like jewels. Since Shandrazel had taken the throne, Graxen had spent little time at the palace. He'd traveled to the far reaches of the kingdom to summon guests to Shandrazel's conference. Today, sun-dragons would arrive, lords of the various territories that swore alliance to the king. Humans would attend as well, represented by the mayors of the larger towns, like Richmond, Hampton, Chickenburg, and Bilge. The earth-dragons would be underrepresented. Save for Dragon Forge, they claimed no territory as their own. They lived primarily in the service of sun-dragons, and depended upon these superior beasts for leadership. Male sky-dragons from all nine of the Colleges would be in attendance, but the female sky-dragons would only have one voice-the representative from the Nest. Graxen wondered how Shandrazel could hope to bring equality to races of such uneven power and resources; he couldn't even bring equal numbers of representatives to the discussions.

Still, there was an atmosphere of optimism about the palace. The red and gold flags that served as the banner of Albekizan fluttered everywhere. Earth-dragon guards in crimson uniforms stood at each door, and above the towers of the palace the brilliant blue figures of the aerial guard could be seen. The aerial guard were those rare male sky-dragons who had chosen lives of combat over scholarship. Graxen himself had wished to join the guard when he was younger. He'd trained his body to endure the hardship of combat, and his childhood as an outcast had toughened him for a life of constant vigilance. Yet, his letters of application to the commander of the guard had never been returned. No matter. As messenger of the king, his life at last had purpose.

The one dark spot on the landscape of this historic day was a literal one-the Burning Grounds, the blackened funeral field still smoking with the pyres of the previous night. Many n.o.ble dragons who had valiantly given all in the battle of the Free City still awaited the ceremonial cremations. All winged dragons were due this honor; it would be a long time before any hint of gra.s.s returned to that charred field.

Beyond the Burning Grounds, almost hidden by the long shadow of the palace, stood the Free City itself, the cause of much of the recent trouble. This city had been built as a trap for humankind. Albekizan had promised a life of luxury and ease to its chosen residents, a reward, it was said, for their faithful service. In truth, the city had been designed by Albekizan's demented brother, Blasphet, to serve as an abattoir. Albekizan had authorized the genocide in order to produce a definitive end to the legendary dragon-hunter Bitterwood. Of course, in the end, Albekizan had underestimated the humans; on the day the residents were to be ma.s.sacred, a rebellion had spread. What was to be a day of human slaughter turned into a day of human victory.

The Free City was empty now. Graxen wondered what would become of it. It seemed pointless to tear down the structure after so much wealth and effort had been expended to construct it. The Free City could house thousands of people. Perhaps humans would one day settle there peacefully, if they could overlook its sinister origins.

Graxen's reverie ended as he pa.s.sed over the palace walls. He tilted his body toward a balcony, angling his wings to slow his descent. He gracefully lit on the balcony then walked into the marble-tiled hall beyond. The murmur of voices told him many of Shandrazel's guests had already arrived.

This was the Peace Hall. Albekizan had always referred to it as the war room, but Shandrazel had renamed the chamber as a sign of his intentions. Yet, despite the room's new name, its history still hung on the walls. Tapestries depicted a dozen scenes of Albekizan's conquests. Even the floor of the room was inlaid with a map fifty feet long showing the entirety of Albekizan's kingdom, laid out in precious metals and polished stones of exotic colors.

Groups had gathered in the four corners of the chamber. Four enormous sun-dragons leaned in closely with one another in conference in the corner nearest the balcony. Graxen knew them all as dragons he'd personally summoned. In the opposite corner, a crowd of humans stood. Graxen recognized a few: the mayor of Richmond was noteworthy for being unusually squat and round, and the mayor of Bilge he remembered due to the fact he only had one arm. Few of the other humans looked familiar. Graxen prided himself on his eye for details and his excellent memory, but he still had difficulty telling one human from another. It wasn't that they all looked alike, rather, there was too much variance. It was impossible to catalogue all the countless configurations of the human form. Adult sky-dragons varied little in color and size; adult human came in hundreds of shades of tan, and could vary in height by several feet and weight by hundreds of pounds. Their faces were an equally exasperating mish-mash-some hairy, some hairless, some with hair on their scalp and none on their cheeks and jaw, some with the pattern reversed. And that hair could come in an array of colors: white, black, gray, orange, brown, and gold, each in dozens of shades and mixtures.

With a fellow dragon, there were only a few simple identifying cues: the b.u.mps of the snout; the curve of the jaw; subtle variations in the shape of the eyes; the way that no two sky-dragons scale patterns were ever exactly alike. A sky-dragon face instantly triggered recognition as the mind filtered through the logical system of organizing who was who by these differences. With humans, most ident.i.ties were drowned out by the cacophony of possible features.

As he mused on ident.i.ty, Graxen cast a glance toward a third cl.u.s.ter of gathered guests-sky-dragons like himself, all male-the biologians, the scholar-priests that guided the intellectual life of the kingdom. A few cast glances toward him with suspicious eyes. Graxen felt a sense of shame. Did the dismissive att.i.tude he felt toward humans mirror the feelings the biologians had about him? Too different to ever be worth the effort of knowing? No biologian ever studied his face for his identifying features. He was forever marked as "other." Something deep in the brains of sky-dragons would never accept him as a fellow member of the species.

In the final corner of the room sat Shandrazel, resting upon a throne pedestal topped with a large golden pillow. The young king looked quite n.o.ble: his red scales freshly groomed, golden rings decorating the edges of his wings. Before him stood Androkom, the high biologian. Androkom wasn't much older than Graxen. It was odd to see a dragon of his youth wearing the green sashes that denoted such important rank. Androkom's most notable feature, however, was his lack of a tail; he'd lost most of the appendage after an encounter with Blasphet. Normally, sky-dragons placed great emphasis on physical perfection; the worst punishment any sky-dragon could face was to become a tatterwing. Graxen wondered if having an amputee dragon holding such high rank might lead to greater acceptance of deformities among sky-dragons.

Graxen approached as Shandrazel and Androkom quietly conferred. The king glanced up as he neared.

"Welcome, Graxen," Shandrazel said. "Thank you for your work in summoning everyone. They day is still young, but already many of the guests have arrived. However, I won't need your services today. You've worked hard these past weeks. You should take today to rest. Tomorrow as well."

"History will unfold here today," Graxen said. "I can think of no other place I'd rather be."

"Understood," said Androkom, sounding impatient. "However, you can't stay here. The talks must remain closed. Everyone who isn't a representative of their race must leave the chamber."

Graxen looked toward Shandrazel. The sun-dragon looked apologetic as he said, "He's right, I'm afraid. You can remain while the guests arrive, but I must request that you leave when the discussions begin."

Graxen nodded. He could see the logic of having the talks be private, but there was still something condescending about Androkom's emphasis on the words "representative of their race." Graxen looked around the room. If he couldn't remain, he still might play one small role in helping the talks succeed. The historic tapestries on the wall may have been effectively invisible to Shandrazel; no doubt he'd seen them his whole life, and paid little attention to their contents.

"Before I leave, may I a.s.sist in removing the tapestries?" he offered.

"Why?" asked Shadrazel.

Graxen motioned with his gaze to a tapestry behind Shandrazel's left shoulder. It showed a young Albekizan with a human body crushed in his jaws and a severed human head hanging in his left fore-talon. The glorified dragon stood upon a mountain of dead men.

"It hardly seems fair to the humans to negotiate a new government under such a reminder of the power of dragons," Graxen said.

"I understand your concerns," Shandrazel said, contemplating the image. "However, I value truth above all other virtues. My father was known for his blind spots. He acted as if Hex had never been born. He claimed that the map inlaid on the floor showed the entirety of the world when it actually only shows the narrow sliver he conquered. My father erased history as it suited his needs; I prefer to let the evidence of the past stand. Perhaps these glorifications of violence will inspire us to greater fairness."

Graxen thought this highly unlikely. He said, "But what if the humans-"

"The tapestries will stay, Graxen," Shandrazel said. "There's no point in arguing with me. You know that during my time at the College of Spires, I never lost a debate."

Graxen himself had witnessed many of these debates. Did Shandrazel truly believe he'd always won due to his superior intellect? Was he blind to the fact that he owed his victories to being Albekizan's son more than to any special gift for logic?

"Of course, sire," said Graxen.

He glanced once more at the growing crowd of humans, wondering what their thoughts on the matter were. He took note of a tall young man with long blonde hair dressed in silk finery-he'd seen this human before, often in the company of Shandrazel. It was the one Albekizan had labeled as Bitterwood. Perhaps Shandrazel was right about Albekizan's blindness to truth. The man was obviously too young to be the source of the original Bitterwood legend.

The young Bitterwood was leaning in close to talk to a shorter man. The second man was bald save for a few whispery gray hairs, and sported a long braided mustache. In contrast to the robust form of Bitterwood, the man was stooped and thin, supporting himself with the help of a gnarled stave. Watching the two whisper to each other, Graxen was struck by a possibility. What if the older man were the original Bitterwood?

"I'm glad to see you again," Pet said, keeping his voice low as he leaned in to confer with Kamon. Kamon was a prophet from the town of Winding Rock. His people had been among the first brought to the Free City. Kamon was well known throughout the kingdom; for decades he had preached a philosophy of subservience to dragons, telling men they must not take up arms until the arrival of a nameless "savior." Kamonism was a popular philosophy. It promised better days coming, without requiring any immediate action on the parts of his followers. see you again," Pet said, keeping his voice low as he leaned in to confer with Kamon. Kamon was a prophet from the town of Winding Rock. His people had been among the first brought to the Free City. Kamon was well known throughout the kingdom; for decades he had preached a philosophy of subservience to dragons, telling men they must not take up arms until the arrival of a nameless "savior." Kamonism was a popular philosophy. It promised better days coming, without requiring any immediate action on the parts of his followers.

Kamon nodded. "It was my duty to answer this call. For over half a century I've preached of the day when men would be free. I'm glad I lived long enough to see this day."

"You certainly had a loyal following in the Free City," said Pet. "Speaking of loyal followings, any idea where Ragnar is?"

Ragnar and his men had been the most ferocious fighters in the battle of the Free City. Pet owed his survival to Kamon and Ragnar. Both were genuine leaders, while Pet knew, deep down, he was a fraud. People believed him to be a fearsome dragon-slayer. In truth, even during the heavy fighting of the Free City, he'd never so much as scratched a dragon.

Kamon lowered his eyes at the mention of Ragnar. His lips trembled as if he was about to speak, but after several long seconds the old prophet merely shook his head.

"You don't know?" Pet asked.

"The most accurate answer is, yes, I don't know," Kamon said.

"What's a less accurate answer?"

"All I've heard are rumors. It may amount to nothing."

"I've always listened to rumors," said Pet. "What's going on?"

Kamon's voice fell to a whisper that Pet strained to hear. Kamon's breath smelled like sour milk as Pet leaned closer. "After the fall of the Free City, many of the captives returned to their homes. But I've heard that some of the men have formed a small army led by Ragnar."

"Small army? How small?"

"A few hundred. Perhaps a thousand at most."

Pet silently contemplated the news. Maybe this wasn't so bad. One right that was going to be discussed was the right for humans to a.s.semble militias to defend themselves. Just because Ragnar had an army didn't mean he planned to go out and kill a bunch of dragons.

"According to rumor," Kamon said, so close now his mustache touched Pet's cheek, "Ragnar plans to capture the Dragon Forge and kill all the dragons within it."

"I see," Pet said neutrally. He kept his face impa.s.sive as various scenarios boiled in his mind. Ragnar would launch a war and lose, showing humans to be both hostile and weak. Or, Ragnar would win, showing humans to be hostile and dangerous. Neither was a good position for negotiating peace. Pet thought of informing Shandrazel of the rumor and possibly halting Ragnar's army before it did real harm. Yet, on a gut level, this felt wrong. He'd be dead if not for Ragnar. He couldn't just betray him. Where was Jandra when he needed her? She was the one with the brains. Not to mention an actual sense of right and wrong. Pet's moral compa.s.s normally steered him toward the path of least resistance. He wasn't entirely without his limits; having been the victim of torture, he'd had no trouble standing up to Androkom when he'd suggested torturing the captured a.s.sa.s.sin. Right now, however, he didn't know what to do, so he decided to do nothing.

Before he could confer further with Kamon, the doors of the Peace Hall swung open and six earth-dragons marched in, clanking and clunking as they advanced toward Shandrazel. Most earth-dragon soldiers wore light armor, but these were arrayed head to tail in elaborate steel exoskeletons, the individual pieces polished to a mirror finish that reflected the room's vivid colors. The earth-dragons snapped to a halt before Shandrazel. They saluted crisply and, in unison, removed their helmets.

Pet couldn't help but stare at the one in the center. The dragon's face was horribly disfigured, with a crack in his beak large enough that Pet could see his tongue even with his mouth closed. All that remained of the eye above this gash was a horrible tumor of scars.

"My lord Shandrazel," the earth-dragon said, his voice deep and authoritative, with a slightly wet whistling noise from his injured beak. "I am Charkon, commander of the Dragon Forge, a loyal servant of your father for sixty years. I've received your summons and am here to serve you."

"Thank you, esteemed guest," Shandrazel said. "Though, it is not your service I seek today, but your wisdom and counsel."

"Sire," Charkon said, "my wisdom comes from my service. For an earth-dragon, there is no greater purpose than to devote his life to the will of his superiors."

"I do not like the word 'superiors,'" said Shandrazel. "It implies that your race is an inferior one; these talks are to promote the equality of all races."

"Yes, sire. So I've heard. Let me be blunt: We earth-dragons aren't the equals of sun-dragons. You winged dragons see the world from up high. You're dreamers and planners and leaders because of your elevated view. We earth-dragons are simple creatures. We think of little in life beyond what we will eat next. We seldom ponder the world outside our immediate grasp. Our greatest joy comes from hitting things. We make fine soldiers and blacksmiths; we have no gift for politics."

"The eloquence of your words argues differently, n.o.ble Charkon," said Shandrazel.

Charkon started to answer, but his voice was drowned out by a flapping of wings. Pet looked toward the balcony to find a small army of sky-dragons alighting on the marble rail. Pet instantly recognized them as valkyries. He'd never actually been in the presence of these fabled female warriors, but as a performer he knew the ballads that sung their praises, and the valkyries had been popular subjects of the painting and sculptures at Chakthalla's castle.

The valkyries quickly fell into formation behind the tallest of the sky-dragons. Their armor and spears glinted in the warm morning light. The tallest valkyrie was unarmed and unarmored, but something about her eyes told Pet she was the most dangerous of the group. Her claws seemed especially sharp as they clacked upon the marble on her march across the room.

"Sire," she said, in a short, clipped syllable. Unlike the deferential Charkon, this valkrye showed no hint of submissiveness or even respect as she stared into Shandrazel's face. "I am Zorasta, commander of the valkyrie legion, the matriarch's appointed representative for these so-called 'talks.'"

"So-called?" asked Shandrazel, sounding somewhat taken aback by Zorasta's forcefulness. "I a.s.sure you these talks are genuine. I hope that all of us working together will be able to form a more perfect union."

"Sire, you're still quite young," Zorasta said in a condescending tone. "You've led a sheltered life. The biologians who educated you have failed you, filling your mind with unhealthy philosophies. I've been sent to bring you back to the sane and rational path."