Fortunately, Graxen wasn't a student any more. He was Shandrazel's messenger, and as such had permission to travel anywhere in the kingdom. What's more, by tradition, copies of the keys to all libraries were given to the king, and as messenger Graxen had access to them. The ceremonial key was a work of art, a rod of iron over a foot long with a head shaped like a dragon's skull, the teeth plated with silver. Silver letters were scrolled along the black shaft, spelling out a quote from the Ballad of Belpantheron. The string of syllables was interpreted by some scholars as reading, "My lord is wise according to the wisdom of an angel, to know all things that are in the earth." The words were meant to remind kings that the battle between dragons and angels wasn't won by brute force. Dragons had once fought only with tooth and claw, while angels fought with swords and spears. Victory came, according to the poem, when dragons stole the knowledge of angels, and learned to forge metals and create their own weapons and armor.

Graxen wasn't certain the key would actually work, or if it was merely for decoration. To his relief, the key slipped into the lock easily. The lock clicked open. The ma.s.sive door then swung away from Graxen with only the slightest push, its balance a testament to the engineering prowess of the biologians.

As he stepped within, Graxen froze at the magnificent vision before him. The Grand Library was nearly a hundred yards across, a vast open tower filled with all the knowledge of the dragon races. The roof high overhead was a giant dome intricately crafted of steel and gla.s.s, allowing the pink rays of sunset to spill into the chamber. Iron staircases twisted in elaborate intertwining helixes giving access to rings of walkways lined with tall bookcases. Looking up at the tomes that lined the room, it seemed impossible that the world was old enough that so much could have been written down. All the books he had dusted in the College of Spires might possibly have filled this central chamber, but dozens of hallways opened from each floor leading to more book-filled rooms. Graxen felt a sense of vertigo as he tried to take in the sheer scope of the information before him. Certainly, the knowledge he desired would be somewhere in this library.

Besides the books, the library featured an impressive collection of fossils and sculptures that showed the ancestry of the dragons. An enormous skeleton of a tyrannosaurus rex dominated the center of the room, its huge jaws dwarfing even those of sun-dragons. High above, sculpted recreations of pteranodons hung from chains, seemingly frozen in mid-flight among the stacks. He'd long heard the argument that the winged dragons were descendents of pteranodons, but it was a claim he found dubious. While the torsos and wing limbs held an undeniable similarity, he found their stubby hindlegs almost comic, and had always felt the primitive beasts must have been horribly clumsy in the air with no tail to serve as a rudder. Of course, bats flew gracefully without significant tails, so he knew intellectually it wasn't barrier to flight. Still, when he was in the air, his tail was as important to the fine tuning of his maneuvers as his wings. On a gut level, it didn't make sense that these ancient reptiles led in a direct path to him.

Graxen moved across the smooth floor, pa.s.sing through the shadows cast by the replica reptiles above him. As much as the sheer scope of the library stirred his hopes, it also filled him with a sense of despair. No two libraries were ever organized the same. Centuries ago, clans of biologians had engaged in armed conflict to impose a standard system for categorizing information. The War of Words had ended with hundreds dead and left libraries throughout the kingdom vandalized, with countless books stolen and restolen by marauding colleges. In the aftermath, all hope of a standardized system was lost. Each library was organized via secret and unshared systems that helped protect the knowledge within them from predation, theft, or destruction by competing scholars. Unfortunately, it meant that Graxen would now need to find one of the few dozen biologians who directly served Androkom to act as his guide, or he would have to figure out the organizing princ.i.p.al of the library on his own, wasting hours, perhaps even days, in his search.

Still, he wasn't quite willing to walk up to a stranger and announce, "I seek a manual that will instruct me in the art of procreation." There was the chance that, if Androkom learned of his presence, so would Shandrazel. While Graxen was deeply in Shandrazel's debt, he couldn't afford the distraction of checking in with his employer and risking a new a.s.signment. So, trusting to luck, he ventured down a nearby hall. He chose his path it because it was the most poorly lit of all the halls leading from the main room, and he guessed that forbidden knowledge would be entrusted to the parts of the library most enshrouded by shadows.

Using this guiding logic, when the hall he traveled forked, he chose the darker of the two paths, and then repeated this again at his next choice. Now, however, the futility of this search method became clear. Randomly lifting a book off the shelf, he found the lighting too poor to discern the t.i.tle. Perhaps he would need to find a guide after all. The biologians who knew these stacks could no doubt maneuver through them in total darkness. It was said that the former high bioligian, Metron, was able to navigate through the maze of books with his eyes closed and unerringly lay his claws upon any tome he desired.

"Ah, Metron," Graxen sighed. "I wish you were here now."

"Truly?"

Graxen spun around, searching for the source of the voice. It seemed to have come from a narrow gap between two shelves. It was difficult to tell, though, if there was a chamber beyond, or if the shadow merely gave the illusion of such. He crept forward.

"Who's there?" he said, keeping his voice low.

"Metron. The one you seek," the voice said. Graxen found that the gap between the shelves was filled with a tall stack of books. The chamber stank of dust and aged paper.

"You don't fool me, stranger," Graxen said, listening for any further noise. There was a sc.r.a.pe on stone. Behind the shelf? Or on the same row he was on, in the darkness at the end? The long tall rows of books baffled sound, and confused his senses. "Metron was banished. Who are you truly?"

"I am Metron," the voice said. "And, I am banished, a tatterwing cast out into the wilds."

"These aren't the wilds," said Graxen.

"True," the voice said. "Fate has led me back to my long time home. No one knows the hidden chambers of this library better than myself. I could elude detection for the remainder of my days. Yet, this is not why I've returned. I've come seeking an individual dragon."

"Who?" asked Graxen. Then the answer seemed obvious. "Androkom?"

"No. Androkom and I didn't part on good terms. The dragon I seek, as difficult as this may be to believe, is you, Graxen the Gray. I've returned to the palace to speak with you, since I've learned you now reside here in service to Shandrazel. I entered through a pa.s.sage that only I know of. I didn't expect to find you in the library, however."

"This does give me reason to be skeptical of your claims," Graxen said, straining his neck to try to see over the top of the stack of books. Only dim shadows lay beyond.

"Some biologians argue that there are no coincidences. They see in chance encounters the guiding claws of an architect of fate. Some days, I wonder if my life is not a testament to this fundamental truth."

"Why would you seek me out?" Graxen asked, still not convinced that the voice belonged to Metron, but willing to accept it until more information emerged. "I know of your betrayal of Shandrazel and your alliance with Blasphet. You'll find no favor from me."

"What leads you into this dark corridor, my son?" asked Metron. "Is there something you seek? Why not ask one of the attendant biologians?"

"What I'm looking for is none of your business," said Graxen.

"Everything in this library is my business," said Metron. "I've had over half a century to organize this collection. It will take Androkom decades to unravel my system. If there is anything you wish to find, there's no one better equipped to lead you to it than myself."

Graxen looked down the long hall of books, back toward the distant light of the main hall. How many books were here? Ten million? More? He could spend years looking at them one by one.

Haste was of the essence. Shandrazel was no doubt wondering why he hadn't reported back from his pursuit of the valkyries. He also knew he should inform the king of the unprovoked attack by the gleaners he'd encountered near Dragon Forge. Yet, he could do neither of these things until he found the information he needed for Nadala.

"You've taken a long time to consider your answer, my son," said Metron.

"Don't call me your son," said Graxen. "I know you mean it in a metaphorical sense, due to your greater age, but I find the word distasteful."

"That's most unfortunate," said Metron. "Because I don't intend the word in a metaphorical sense. I've come here, Graxen, to confess my greatest secret to the one most harmed by it. I've carried this terrible burden for many years. I've watched you grow, witnessed the cruelties you've endured, and I stood in silent cowardice. I've betrayed you, Graxen, by never admitting to the world that I am your father."

"What is the purpose of these lies?" Graxen said, his voice loud enough that, should any attendants be near, they would almost certainly hear him. "Metron was famed for his celibacy."

"You speak of my public refusal of the invitation to the Nest. I did feel that way, in my early years as high biologian. However, the matriarch and I were the two highest authorities among the sky-dragons. We often had contact on a purely professional basis. There are ceremonies at the Nest that the High Biologian attends. The matriarch and I would sometimes retreat to private chambers to discuss the burdens of our shared duties. Neither of us was young. Both of us were past the sanctioned age of breeding; even if we weren't, breeding between us was contraindicated by our genetic threads. Yet, despite this knowledge-or perhaps, perversely, because of it-we soon found our attraction overwhelming, and succ.u.mbed to mutual pa.s.sions. We carried out our secret trysts for years-until the matriarch reported she was pregnant. There are poisons that can terminate a pregnancy, but they can be fatal for an older female. When you were born, it was her intention to have you killed. I pleaded with her to spare your life. As you were my only offspring, I couldn't bear the thought of your death. My rank prevented me from claiming you as my own, but through the years I've watched your progress with great interest."

Graxen wanted to dismiss these words as lies, but found he couldn't. The greatest mystery of his life was why the matriarch had allowed his survival beyond infancy. Of all the sky-dragons, only the high biologian would have had sufficient sway to ensure his survival. Instinctively, he knew Metron was telling the truth. Still, not everything made sense.

"Why did my survival matter? I was a freak, fated to never breed. If the sole value of a child lies in pa.s.sing along the parent's genetic material, I was of no value to you."

"This is not an easy thing to explain, Graxen." Metron sighed. There was soft sc.r.a.ping sound on the row behind the niche. Was he moving something? "If my sole desire in this life had been to pa.s.s along my genes, I had that opportunity many times over. The threadlines dictated a half-dozen valkyries I could have productively mated with. I refused; my brother Pachythan was selected in my place."

"Why did you refuse?"

"Intellectual arrogance, I suppose. I've witnessed the mating behavior of lower animals. The hardwired desire to rut seems to be the driving force of life; only in the sky-dragon has the intellect advanced sufficiently for reason to take command of those baser instincts. At least, so I thought. In reality, the first moment I felt the matriarch's cheek against my own, all reason left me, and I surrendered to the same animal l.u.s.t that drives all other creatures."

"Truly?"

"Truly. I remember the first time I met the matriarch. I cherished her strength and her humor. I recall the gemlike quality of her eyes, and the way that sunlight danced upon her l.u.s.trous scales. Every time I met her, my infatuation deepened. I grew fond of her scent; days spent without hearing the music of her voice were as cold and barren as the depths of winter. When at last I confessed my desires, and found she felt the same, it was the first moment of my life when I was wholly alive. Don't you see, Graxen? I didn't mate due to some intellectual scheme to produce the perfect scion. I wanted you to live because you were a testament to the feelings I had for the matriarch. I wanted you to live because you were product of my love."

"Love?" said Graxen. "All my life I've been taught that love is a folly of the lesser races, an unworthy emotion for a sky-dragon."

"I know. I preached this doctrine. I've written books defending it. I've been a hypocrite of the highest order. Falling in love with the matriarch changed everything I knew about the world. Publicly, due to the gravity of my office, I couldn't speak out against the chosen method of propagating our species. But, privately, I fear for the long-term prospects of our race. What does it matter if we become as numerous as ants and as powerful as G.o.ds, if we breed away all compa.s.sion and love from our species?" As Metron spoke, his voice seemed in motion, beginning in the book-filled niche and ending in the hall behind Graxen. Graxen turned to find the elderly sky-dragon, his wings torn to strips. His wounded limbs weren't fully healed; he smelled of rot and corruption.

Metron continued: "I fell victim to Blasphet because he flattered my intellect and I ignored my heart, which knew what he wanted was wrong. I believe the underlying amorality of sky-dragons led us to stand silent as Albekizan attempted genocide against the humans. We hold the intellect as the highest virtue while denouncing the value of emotion. We mock as philosophical illusions such concepts as good and evil. We're following a genetic road to becoming a race of brilliant, attractive, soulless monsters."

"Your words are hollow to me," said Graxen. "Where was your defense of love when you held power? You once had the authority to change the world. Now that you've lost your rank, you confess to your regret?"

"Yes," said Metron, lowering his head, looking woeful. "Yes, when I held power, I sought to protect the status quo. I may be the greatest hypocrite in all of history, yet it may not be too late for me to make amends."

"How?"

"While I've lost my rank and power, the matriarch remains in her position. I must speak to her. I must appeal to the last embers of her affection and ask her to end the centuries-old traditions that separate the s.e.xes. I believe it's time to allow love to again play a role in the pairings of sky-dragons. It may be that she'll have me slain the moment she sees me. But what if she's as riddled with regrets as I am? The seeds of my words may fall on fertile soil. It's a slim chance, but I feel I must try."

Graxen contemplated the words. The matriarch had shown such hostility toward him. Did that hostility mask a regretful heart? Would she listen to Metron?

"Why do you need me?" he asked.

"As a tatterwing, I cannot simply fly to the Nest. I can't make this journey alone, Graxen."

"I've met the matriarch," said Graxen. "I don't think my presence will help your case."

"But-"

"But I didn't say I wouldn't help. I can't condemn you for falling in love. I, too, have recently tasted this emotion. I've met a female who I want to be with and, against all odds, she wishes to be with me. It's why I was searching through this library."

"You... were going to meet her here?" Metron sounded confused.

Graxen felt embarra.s.sed, but he'd already said enough that he could see no harm in confessing all. "No. I need information. Neither Nadala nor I have been trained in the, um... skills... of biological pairing."

"Oh?" said Metron, still sounding bewildered. "Oh! You mean you don't know how to copulate."

"I chose not to use such crude terminology."

"Crude terminology is one of the more enjoyable spin-offs of the process. However, it's understandable that you don't know what to do. Mating comes quite naturally to lower animals, but for thinking creatures the act can appear slightly absurd and impractical. I a.s.sure you, however, with a little practice everything makes sense. It's mainly a matter of changing the way you look at your body's plumbing. You see, the organs of reproduction and the organs of waste lie very-"

"Stop," said Graxen, raising his fore-talon. "I'm uncomfortable discussing this matter with you. Isn't there a book I could read? Some manual of instruction?"

"Oh," said Metron. "Why, most a.s.suredly. There's a book for everything, you know. In fact, you're in luck. Albekizan's father was a collector of such ma.n.u.scripts. The subjects are all sun-dragons, of course, but the biological differences between our species are mostly a matter of scale. The Prime Codex of Pleasure is an excellent reference work, due to the ill.u.s.trations. Two of the five known copies reside in this library. I drew quite extensively from its pages during my encounters with-."

"Enough!" said Graxen. Despite his intense interest in the subject, he was disturbed by the thought of learning details of the encounters between his parents. "Show me the book. Then I'll take you with me to meet Nadala. I suspect she'll be interested in your mission. Perhaps she'll know of a way for you to see the matriarch."

Pet gingerly touched his face. His left eyebrow was a hard, swollen knot. He wasn't certain he could open the eye beneath it-in the pitch black cell, there was no difference with his eyes opened or closed. He was missing three teeth, two on the top and one on the bottom. His hair was tangled and glued to his face by dried blood. His nose was too painful for him to explore its new contours. He couldn't breathe through it, which was just as well. He could taste hints of the odors that haunted the cell. He'd barely been awake earlier when the guards fastened the manacles onto his arms and legs. An earth-dragon had sullenly washed the floors by pouring stagnant water from a wooden bucket onto the area where the girl's corpse had been. The traces of urine and vomit that crossed his tongue were dreadful; he was glad his broken nose spared him the full impact of the stench. his face. His left eyebrow was a hard, swollen knot. He wasn't certain he could open the eye beneath it-in the pitch black cell, there was no difference with his eyes opened or closed. He was missing three teeth, two on the top and one on the bottom. His hair was tangled and glued to his face by dried blood. His nose was too painful for him to explore its new contours. He couldn't breathe through it, which was just as well. He could taste hints of the odors that haunted the cell. He'd barely been awake earlier when the guards fastened the manacles onto his arms and legs. An earth-dragon had sullenly washed the floors by pouring stagnant water from a wooden bucket onto the area where the girl's corpse had been. The traces of urine and vomit that crossed his tongue were dreadful; he was glad his broken nose spared him the full impact of the stench.

He drifted in and out of wakefulness. He wasn't certain how much time had pa.s.sed; though it felt as if he'd been here an eternity, he suspected he hadn't even endured a day, since the guards hadn't yet fed him.

In the tomblike silence, Pet's attention was drawn to a scratching, clicking noise nearby. A rat? No, the sc.r.a.ping was more metallic, like long needles tapping against iron. A moment later, a loud clank echoed through the chamber, the distinctive sound of a padlock opening. The hinges of the iron door groaned as they inched open. Dim light seeped through the ever-widening gap.

Two women squeezed into the doorway, their faces barely visible in the light of a small vial that glowed with a yellow-white phosph.o.r.escence like an oversized firefly. The women had shaved heads tattooed with serpentine designs; their bodies were hidden beneath heavy black cloaks. They moved barefoot across the floor toward Pet.

A yard away, they drew to a sudden stop.

"That's not Deanna," one said.

"Help me," Pet whispered, his voice sounding like someone else's as it pa.s.sed through his damaged mouth.

"Kill him," the sister who carried the light said, drawing her dagger.

"Wait," the sister on the right said. "I've seen him before. He's the one they chained before the crowd in the Free City. His face is messed up now, but I remember his hair."

"That's me," Pet said, summoning the strength to sit up. "I was the one Albekizan tortured. You were in the Free City?"

"Yes," the girl said bending down to take a closer look at his face. "Is it true? You're the great dragon-slayer?"

Pet turned his head, ashamed that these girls were staring at his damaged face. He felt like a monster. "I'm not a great anything anymore," he whispered.

"We should free him," the woman said, kneeling and grabbing his chains.

"Are you crazy?" the other one hissed. "This isn't the mission."

"Missions change," the woman answered as she started working her lockpicks within the manacle that bound Pet. With a snick, the band loosened. He rubbed his free arm. It felt cold as ice.

"Were you here to save the other girl?" said Pet.

"We heard that Deanna was captured," the girl said as she worked on the lock binding his ankle. "Blasphet wanted us to make certain she was finally able to complete her suicide mission."

"Shandrazel completed it for you," Pet said. "He killed her trying to make her reveal Blasphet's location."

"Did she?"

"No."

The girl holding the light-vial grumbled. "We were going to kill one of our own, but we're rescuing some stranger now? This is going to be difficult to explain."

The first girl finished working on the manacle. She stood up as it clattered to the floor. "My name is Shanna," she said. "My companion is Lin. She wasn't at the Free City or she wouldn't question why I'm doing this."

Pet tried to stand, but his feet were numb, and he wound up flat on his back. He sighed, and said, "I was there, and I'm not sure why you're doing this."

"All survivors of the Free City will forever be connected by our shared hatred," said Shanna. "If you go from this dungeon and kill even one more dragon, you will be fulfilling your life's most sacred purpose."

Pet started to point out that Sisters of the Serpent worshipped the very dragon who'd designed the Free City, but decided that this was a bad time and place to launch an argument.

Pet again tried to stand. By bracing himself against the slimy wall, he was able to once more find his footing. His head felt heavier than it should be, swollen and throbbing. He was a foot taller than either woman. Shanna looked up at him with a curious emotion in her eyes. Admiration? Pet was used to seeing attraction in the eyes of young women, but admiration was something new. Lin didn't seem so impressed. She scowled at him with an expression that told him he would need to watch his back.

"If Deanna is dead, we're finished here," said Shanna. "We'll take you back to the leader. He can no doubt find a good use for the hero of the Free City."

Pet found the idea of being to put to good use by Blasphet a rather ominous one.

Lin, the scowling girl, said, "He can't be Bitterwood. He's too young."

"Anyone can be Bitterwood," said Shanna. "He's not so much a man as a spirit. Anyone can open their hearts to him and become the Death of All Dragons, the Ghost Who Kills."

"Are you Bitterwood?" Lin asked Pet.

Pet tried to smile, to make some charming quip, but couldn't. His torn lips reminded him of what he'd lost. His whole life, he'd been little more than a doll, a living plaything valued for his pretty face. And now, he was broken. He wanted to lie, and tell these women what they wanted to hear, but couldn't summon up his old talents.

So, in the dim, chill dungeon, with the stench of death still tainting the damp air, the truth spilled out of him: "My name is Petar Gondwell," he said. "I'm the man everyone rallied around at the Free City, though I've never killed a dragon. But, as you say, I'm young... and I'm eager to learn."

Chapter Eighteen:.

Big Problem