over some baseless theory!”
Zanzeroth’s wings lay limp as blankets on the forest floor. The twitch of his tail revealed him to be conscious, however. The old dragon took a ragged breath, then chuckled.
“If I’d wanted to kill you, the whip would have gone around your neck rather than your leg,” Zanzeroth said.
“And if I wanted to kill you,” said Shandrazel, “I’d snap your old neck in two before you ever saw me move.”
“I believe you could,” said Zanzeroth. “You never lacked ability as a warrior. Only bloodlust. You fight only with your brains, never with your heart.”
“You didn’t chase me down to critique my fighting techniques,” said Shandrazel.
“Didn’t I? I honestly believed you planned Bodiel’s murder. But if you had, would I still be alive? You’d have killed me to silence me. I’m disappointed, not for the first time tonight. I guess you might be innocent after all.”
“You should know I’m no murderer,” said Shandrazel.
“But I had hope,” said Zanzeroth with a sigh. “Hope that you were a schemer, a deceiver, a cheat, and a killer. Hope that you had what it takes after all.”
“What it takes?”
“To come back,” Zanzeroth said. His joints popped as he rolled to his belly, raising himself on all fours, stretching his long neck to limber it. “I hoped you’d do your duty and kill Albekizan.”
“You’re his oldest friend,” said Shandrazel. “How can you wish such a thing?”
“What is the future you envision? A world where your father grows increasingly old and feeble until death claims him in his sleep? This is not an honorable way to die. In his decline, the kingdom would crumble. A loving son would sever his jugular while he still enjoys life.”
“A world where old dragons may die in their sleep doesn’t frighten me,” said Shandrazel.
Keeping his eyes fixed on Shandrazel, Zanzeroth rose. Shandrazel tensed his muscles as Zanzeroth reached for a pouch slung low on his hip. The hunter’s old, dry hide sounded like rustling paper as he moved. He untied the clasp of the leather bag and produced two round, red things the size of melons. He tossed them toward Shandrazel’s feet.
They were severed human heads, their bloodless white faces in sharp contrast with their gore-soaked hair and the brown-crusted stumps of their necks.
“Cron,” said Zanzeroth, “and Tulk.”
Shandrazel supposed it to be true. The faces were too distorted by death to be recognizable.
“Did you think you would spare them last night by not hunting?” Zanzeroth asked.
Shandrazel shrugged. “I hadn’t given their ultimate fates a great deal of thought. But yes, part of me hoped they’d be forgotten in the confusion.”
Zanzeroth cast his gaze down at the severed heads. He stood taller as if drinking in the sight of them gave him strength. “Do you enjoy looking upon dead men, Shandrazel?”
“Of course not,” said Shandrazel. “What kind of question is that?”
“Perhaps not so much a question as a warning. Your father plans to kill all the humans. He will build monuments from their bones. Pyramids of human skulls will rise from the fields. The species will be driven into extinction.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Shandrazel.
“The beauty of truth is that belief plays no part in whether it happens or not.”
“Why would father do this?” said Shandrazel.
“Is it important?” asked Zanzeroth. “From where I stand, the only thing that’s really important is that no one can stop him. Nothing will save the humans… except, perhaps, a new king.”
“You’ve come here to tempt me, then,” said Shandrazel.
“Take my words as you wish,” said Zanzeroth, turning away and limping into the shadows. “I will take my leave.”
SAFELY BEYOND SHANDRAZEL’S sight, Zanzeroth slumped against a tree. His head throbbed from the blow Shandrazel had dealt; his whole body was bruised and numb. He could barely feel his left leg. There was no doubt about it. If Shandrazel grew a spine, he would be a formidable match for his father. Perhaps the prince’s misguided sense of affection toward humans might save them yet.
Not that Zanzeroth gave a damn about the human race, as a lot. But somewhere among them was the man who stole his eye. With the king’s policy of killing off the whole species, Bitterwood, or the man pretending to be him, might be lost. If the king were to poison the wells of the humans, and his assailant were to die anonymously, just one bloated corpse among millions, Zanzeroth would never find satisfaction. Thus, it was in his best interests to complicate the king’s plans. And if Shandrazel was to be the tool, so be it.
SHANDRAZEL FLEW THROUGH the night and day, past the point of exhaustion. Tradition held that he had twenty-four hours to escape the kingdom. At nightfall, all subjects of the king were duty bound to kill him. His older brothers were all reported to have flown toward the Ghostlands, the cursed, dead cities that littered the northern wastes. There were rumors of powerful magics within the Ghostlands; Shandrazel had himself been tempted by the promise of exploring the unknown. And yet the day found him heading south, deeper into the lands held by Albekizan rather than to the possible safety of the north. He was determined to reach the one place in the kingdom where he knew he would find kindred spirits: the College of Spires.
Evening was evident in the blood-touched tint of the clouds. His target was finally in sight. From the seemingly endless canopy of emerald trees that blanketed this rolling land, the hundred gleaming copper spires of the college emerged. This was a city built long ago by biologians as a place for the finest minds of the kingdom to gather and study the great mysteries of life. And more so than his father’s castle, this was the place Shandrazel truly thought of as home. He’d been educated here, spending years studying the collections of tomes and scrolls and leather- bound journals housed in the libraries. More importantly, he’d been challenged here; the Biologian Chapelion, Master of the University, had taken him under his wing (though, not literally, given that Shandrazel was twice his size) and mentored him. Through endless hours of arguments, he’d taught Shandrazel the art of discerning truth from fiction. Some called Chapelion the ultimate cynic, a skeptic who believed in nothing. But Shandrazel knew, in fact, that Chapelion was the ultimate romantic-so deeply in love with truth he would never be seduced by convenient or comfortable falsehoods.
Shandrazel could credit Chapelion for his own stance against the ancient mythologies that shackled the races of dragons. If there was one place on earth that was certain to provide sanctuary, it was here.
The dense forest canopy gave way to green rolling hills dotted with tall oaks. Sky-dragons on the gravel paths below pointed toward the sky. Some rose to join him, shouting out his name. Soon, he traveled with a score of young sky-dragons. From the nearby spires, bells chimed a welcome.
Shandrazel spotted a good landing site. He angled his wings to slow himself, drifting gently down toward a white fountain that sat in the center of the college. A trio of marble sun-dragons craned their necks toward the sky from the center of the fountain, water bubbling from their open mouths and spilling into a pool below, green with water lilies. Shandrazel came to rest on the edge of the fountain, his talons grasping the familiar stone. The scent here was well remembered; the lively, humid air of the fountain square brought back recollections of debates stretching through long, warm nights. For the first time in two days, he felt safe. The sky-dragons that shadowed him landed as well, joining a growing crowd. In the moment it took Shandrazel to regain his breath after such a prolonged flight, he was surrounded by a sea of blue faces, all eyes fixed upon him. His name was spoken a hundred times in tones ranging from curious and excited to worried as the crowd speculated on the reason for his presence. From the cacophony of voices speaking his name, his ears found a welcome voice.
“Shandrazel!” It was Chapelion. The Master Biologian emerged from the crowd, draped in the green silk scarves that denoted his rank among the scholars. “You’ve come back!”
“An interesting assertion,” said Shandrazel, falling back into the ongoing joke he shared with his former mentor. “I admit there’s anecdotal testimony to support your claim, but do you have any physical evidence?”
In response, Chapelion punched him in the thigh.
“Ow,” said Shandrazel.
“Ow, indeed,” said Chapelion. “Why have you come here? Where is your mind? How can you be so thoughtless?”
