“We owe nothing to humanity,” said Metron. “I’ve studied the manuscripts they left behind. When they ruled this world, they poisoned it with their own filth. They were like yeast in a corked bottle, growing until they choked in toxins of their own making.”
“So you support my father’s genocide?” Shandrazel asked.
Metron felt the anger drain out of him at this question. His whole body sagged. “No,” he said softly. “No matter their past sins, I want to avoid the coming slaughter. In my studies, I’ve learned much of human ways. In their time of dominance, humans callously drove uncountable species into extinction. I would like to think that we dragons are above this.”
“As would I,” said Shandrazel.
“And I,” said Androkom. “So, it seems we have some common ground to build upon.”
“Yes,” said Metron. “Still, you should not have shared our secrets, Androkom.”
“I find your hypocrisy on this most intriguing,” said Androkom. “You would withhold the truth from Shandrazel, who’s known for his integrity. Yet you share our secrets with Blasphet, the Murder God?”
Metron scowled. “Blasphet has learned many of our secrets against my will. Showing him tomes written by humans will tell him nothing he hasn’t already deduced.”
Shandrazel said, “What Blasphet knows or doesn’t know isn’t important, in the end. Our course is clear. We must tell my father the truth about the origins of dragons. In light of the new information, he’ll halt the genocide and imprison my uncle once more.”
Metron felt his jaw hanging open. “You… you really believe that?” he asked incredulously.
“My father may be stubborn and stern, but he’s bound to listen to reason.”
Metron shook his head. “My prince, you are too idealistic. The biologians at the College of Spires did their best to craft you into a being that respects truth and fairness, in hopes of shaping a future king. But I fear they’ve left you ignorant of the way the world actually works.”
“No. Not ignorant. Educated. Once my father learns the truth, he will see the folly of his war on the humans and rescind the death orders. We dragons pride ourselves on being the highest product of the laws of nature, the rightful rulers of the earth, while the humans follow religions that tell them that they are separate from nature, and were created independently of it. All along, the opposite was true.”
“He’ll never believe you,” Metron said. “Furthermore, you’ll never have a chance to make your argument. He’ll kill you on sight. He’ll throttle the life from you while you’re standing there like an idiot trying to appeal to his reason.”
“That’s why we need a plan,” Androkom said. “And why we need your help.”
Metron inhaled slowly, contemplating his next words. They wanted his help. Shandrazel, at least, was foolish enough to trust the king. Did he have the same faith in Metron’s own honesty and fairness? If so, Metron might still have a chance. Androkom’s books and equipment were sitting on the table. Blasphet would find these very useful.
“We were thinking you could request a private conference with the king,” Androkom said. “Such is your right. Then-”
“No,” Metron said, raising his claw, unable to believe his luck. “I know a better way.”
“We’re listening,” Shandrazel said.
The sun hung red and low in the sky when Jandra woke. From her resting place on the hill she could see the king’s castle casting a long, sinister shadow across the land.
Bitterwood sat against a nearby tree, though it took her a moment to spot him. He sat so still that with his drab clothing and tanned skin he blended in against the tree trunk.
She asked, “How long did I nap?”
“Not long,” he said. “Perhaps an hour.”
“I only meant to rest my eyes for a minute,” she said.
“I don’t begrudge you the sleep. I know how hard it is to keep going with a head injury.”
Jandra noticed that her head no longer hurt. She pressed the bandage that covered her wound with her finger and felt no pain. She pulled the bandage free.
“It’s healed isn’t it?” she asked, reaching for her pouch of dust.
“Yes,” Bitterwood said. “In less than a day. Yet you say you aren’t a witch.”
“Even if I were, I couldn’t do this,” she said. She used the dust from her fingers to create a small mirror. For half a second she wondered who she was looking at in the mirror. She’d almost forgotten that she’d changed her hair color to black. Once past the mild shock of seeing a stranger’s hair, she pushed the hair back and studied her brow. She lifted her tiara slightly. There was no bruise. The skin that had been beneath the bandage was pale white compared to the tan she’d developed with all the time she’d spent outdoors. Aside from this there was no sign she’d ever been injured.
“Healing is a skill I’ve yet to master,” she said. “I can do superficial stuff, things I can see and concentrate on, but internal injuries, especially head wounds, are more than I can handle. One misrouted artery can cause a stroke. This is Vendevorex’s work.”
“He seems to genuinely want your forgiveness,” Bitterwood said.
“He won’t get it.” She let the mirror crack and crumble back into dust. “At first, the lie hurt most of all, the idea that he had raised me while keeping such a secret. But more and more I find myself dreaming of the life I might have known. All my life, I’ve been an outcast. I lived among dragons but could never be accepted by them. When I go among people, I find that I don’t fit in either. Vendevorex robbed me of a normal life. I could have had a loving mother and father. Instead I was raised by a cold-hearted killer. He can never set things right between us.”
“I understand,” Bitterwood said. “It’s good that you hate him.”
Jandra wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly. Telling her that it was good to hate was so contrary to everything Vendevorex had ever tried to teach her.
Bitterwood continued: “People will tell you that hate eats you from the inside. They tell you to let go of old pains, not to carry a grudge. Don’t listen to them. Hate’s all a person needs to get out of bed in the morning. Hold onto it. Hate is the hammer that lets you knock down the walls of this world. You see what happened to me when I let it go. I lost my way when I allowed my hate to wane.”
“But now you’ve got something better than hate,” Jandra said. “You’ve got hope.”
“Like you, I’m haunted by the life I might have had. Even if my family is alive, I’ve lost twenty years. There can be no forgiveness. If my family is alive then I regret only that I haven’t fought harder and killed more dragons to make a better world for them.”
Jandra contemplated his words. All her life Vendevorex had given her cold and analytical advice. He normally advised her to set aside her emotions, especially the darker ones. How strange to be told to embrace them.
Bitterwood nodded toward the castle which stood like a dark stony mountain in the sunset, casting a long shadow over the surrounding fields. “I’ve noticed a steady stream of dragons leaving the castle. The palace guards are heading for the Free City.”
“Do you think we should go back?” Jandra asked. “If something’s about to happen we should try to save Zeeky and Pet.”
“You’re free to go. My family must come first,” Bitterwood said.
Jandra looked toward the Free City then back toward the castle. Lanterns and torches were being lit in the windows and balconies. She suddenly felt perversely homesick. Oddly, she didn’t feel as worried about the residents of the Free City as she thought she should. Deep in her heart she took comfort from a single fact: Vendevorex was inside the Free City and he was here to stop the genocide. Vendevorex wouldn’t be there without a plan.