"Lies!" he shouted, rushing forward, pounding his blistered fists against Hezekiah's stone-hard chest. "Every word from your lips is a lie!"
"You are distressed," Hezekiah said, showing no pain from the blows.
"God damn you!" Bant cried, falling to his knees. It felt as if his fingers were broken. "God damn you."
"Watch your tongue," said the prophet. "Blasphemy risks your mortal soul."
"Go to hell!"
"Bant Bitterwood, I have walked this world for over ten centuries. I am capable of patience. This morning you were a true servant of God. You cannot renounce your faith so quickly. I will attribute your blasphemy to your distress, and spare you, for now. I will go and leave you to your grieving."
The black-robed prophet turned away, becoming a dark shadow against a dark sky. His voice seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere as he said, "I shall return in three days. Prepare yourself. If you have sought the forgiveness of the Lord at this time, I, too, shall forgive you. We shall never speak again of your shameful behavior. But be warned: If you continue down the sinner's path, or if you fail to meet me here on the appointed day, I will slay you when next we meet."
"Kill me now," Bant said, his head hung low. His broken hands lay useless on the ground before him. "Everything I loved is gone. Everything I believed has been a lie."
"I have given you my judgment. I go now to rest. My maker built me well, but it will take time to repair the damage done. Three days, Bant Bitterwood."
The prophet's shadow dissolved into the night. Bant couldn't stop weeping. He crawled over the broken ground toward the ash that had once been his home.
Was it all a lie? Hezekiah's promise of a Lord watching over him, of a heavenly reward? Had he devoted his life to some absurd fiction? Could he believe in anything now?
In the dim light Bant could just make out the footprints of the dragons that had stood before the door. Seeing the truth of what the beasts had done didn't require even a mustard seed of faith.
His most fundamental beliefs were shattered.
All that he cherished, lost.
He no longer wanted to live in this barren world.
In the absence of love and faith, a single realization filled him as he stared at the dragon's footprint, pouring into his body in a hot wave like strong drink. He turned his face toward the starry sky and cursed till his voice trailed off in laughter. He still knew how to hate. And hate, he knew, could change the world.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: BLASPHET.
1100 D.A. The 69th Year of the Reign of Albekizan Year of the Reign of Albekizan
METRON, THE HIGHBiologian, descended the dark stone spiral that led to the deepest tombs of the library. His carried a lantern but kept it shuttered. He didn't need his vision to walk this familiar path. He'd spent over a century within the library. He was the guardian of all the wide-ranging and ancient knowledge contained within the walls. No dragon alive had read more books than Metron; no dragon was more in love with their musty smell or their yellowed pages. This made his present descent into darkness all the more troubling. Today Metron's mission was to destroy the collection's most sacred books.
He'd been drinking wine all evening, with three bottles drained and a fourth, nearly empty, clutched in his gnarled talons. His courage, he knew, would never be greater. If he didn't destroy the books now he never would.
At last he arrived in the basement. He paused before the display case that held one of the dragons' most cherished artifacts. It was a slab of white stone, etched with the feathered fossil of a creature long since vanished from the earth. Half bird, half reptile, the winged beast looked for all the world like the smaller, more primitive ancestor of the winged dragon. A copper plate beneath the case bore the word "Archaeopteryx." Replicas of this stone hung in the halls of sun-dragons and in the towers of biologians throughout the kingdom, in testament to the dragon's long and rightful dominance of the earth.
Metron knew it had not been a dragon who long ago exhumed this fossil and engraved the letters into the copper.
"Guardian of the secrets," Metron muttered, his speech slurred. "Guardian of lies is more like it."
With no reverence at all for the artifact before him, Metron leaned his shoulder into the case and used the full weight of his body to push it aside. He paused, taking another drink from the flask, studying the iron door revealed behind the display, its hinges caked with rust.
Beyond the door was the forbidden collection, to be seen only by the High Biologian. Metron wished he had never read the terrible truths held in the books behind this barrier. He hung his lantern on the wooden peg near the door and placed the tarnished key into the deep lock. With a strain that hurt his aged wrist, he twisted the key until the lock clanged open. Clenching his teeth, he grasped the ring that opened the door and dug his feet into the cracks in the floor stones. Needles pierced his heart as he strained and struggled against the weight, but at last, with a shudder, the door creaked open.
Light seeped from the growing crack. Metron frowned, unable to comprehend what could cause the brightness from within. He looked inside. The wine bottle slipped from his clutch, crashing to the stone floor.
Blasphet, the Murder God, waited for him, resting on all fours before an immense wooden table strewn with dozens of books and glowing candles. The chamber, which always seemed so vast to Metron, looked cramped when occupied by a sun-dragon, even one as thin and withered as Blasphet. The rear of the chamber was gone; the stone wall had been carted away, revealing a dungeon chamber beyond.
Metron swallowed, his throat suddenly very dry. He wished he had more wine. "How did you-"
"In my years in the dungeons, I grew quite sensitive to sounds," Blasphet said. "I knew there were other chambers dug into the bedrock of the castle. I used to fantasize about what I might discover were I to have access to an army of earth-dragons armed with sledgehammers."
"I see," Metron said. "So much effort, only to discover a chamber full of lies."
"Lies?" Blasphet said, holding up a small, leather-bound volume entitled Origins of the Species Origins of the Species. "Most of what I've read parallels your own teachings... though with one significant twist. Still, while this is an interesting discovery, it's not what I'm looking for. I'm disappointed. I was certain this sealed chamber would hide something worth knowing."
"Nothing in here is worth knowing," Metron said. "It's why these books aren't kept with the others. You'll find only fables and heresies here."
"I'm rather fond of heresies," Blasphet said.
"No doubt," said Metron. "Still, I insist you leave. No one is allowed into this room save for myself. It's the law."
"Dear me, another law broken," Blasphet said, his eyes brightening.
"The books here can be of no value to you," Metron said. "Half are written in lost tongues. You waste your time."
"I'm a quick study," Blasphet said. "I'm also the best judge of what interests me."
"The only thing that interests you is death," Metron said.
"Ah, but you're mistaken, Metron." Blasphet sat the book back on the table. "Life is what fascinates me. Life and the lies we are told about it. For instance, how many times have I been witness to a funeral pyre and listened to the legend of Asrafel? We are taught that life is flame."
"So it is written," Metron said.
Blasphet shook his head. "My experiments tell me otherwise. If life is flame, why is it that when I burn my subjects in a pit of fire, they die? Shouldn't they, in fact, prosper? In the legend of Asrafel, we are asked to believe that breathing smoke reconnects us to our ancestors. I have tested this. I have placed my subjects in airtight rooms and filled the atmosphere with smoke. They cough. They die. There seems to be no spiritual connection at all."
"Just because our mortal minds are unable to comprehend the paradox of flame is no reason to dispute the holy truth," Metron said.
"'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 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. 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.