As he spoke, a second dragon emerged from the mist. It was Androkom, the youngest of the initiated biologians and, some said, the most brilliant. Despite his rank, Androkom still had the air of a student. This was due in part by his youth and the brightness of his feathers, but also because of the deep ink stains that covered his claws; scribe work was usually left to the novice biologians.
“Why would you have him hold his tongue?” Androkom asked. “Everyone present knows the truth. We live in a world of lost wonders. We scavenge among the miracles of a vanished human civilization. The pathetic, ignorant beasts we use to tend our fields once strode this world like gods.”
“Yes,” said Metron. “And they destroyed themselves with their own dangerous technology. Let me remind you, we aren’t here to debate the ancient past. We are here to discuss a more urgent question: what is life?”
By now, ten or more dragons had appeared. The question set them all talking at once. Metron banged his staff on the floor, regaining order. All fell silent save for Androkom.
“Exalted brothers,” Androkom said, raising his inky talons, “I have the answer that eludes the High Biologian. I know the secret source of life!”
Metron wasn’t surprised by this response. Androkom was famed for his intelligence-and his arrogance.
“Speak,” said Metron.
“Nothing contradicts the Book of Theranzathax. Life is flame.” Androkom held his head high as if to dare any of his fellow biologians to challenge him.
A cacophony of voices arose instantly, shouting in protest.
“Brothers,” Metron urged, banging his staff. “Restrain yourselves.”
When the assembly regained order, Metron said, “Androkom, why insist on the validity of the Book of Theranzathax? All here know that the book is a fabrication, composed not in ancient times but mere centuries ago.”
“I am aware that the biologian Zeldizar created the book,” Androkom said. “He wrote in the belief that dragons would only be truly liberated when they lost the knowledge of their lowly origins and embraced his new mythology. However, my studies lead me to believe that Zeldizar didn’t simply fabricate these myths. Rather, he disguised truth with metaphor and parable. His assertion that life is a flame is based on his knowledge of chemistry, for life and flame are analogous chemical processes.”
“Blasphet won’t be content with such a broad answer,” Metron said. “Many processes are chemical.”
“Acknowledged,” said Androkom. “The full details of my answer are not easily grasped, but I can provide evidence of their truthfulness.”
Metron nodded, then addressed the assembly as a whole. “Brothers, have any others among you found another answer?”
Daknagol was next to speak. “I, too, arrived at the answer that life is a chemical process. It is described in many ancient texts. But the writings are arcane and complex. Though we have insights into the true answer, understanding will no doubt forever elude us, despite young Androkom’s boasts.”
“I agree,” Metron said. “My own studies tell a similar tale. The words and symbols lie before me on the page, but their context has been lost over the centuries.”
“Not lost,” Androkom interrupted. “Not any more. I understand the context. For too long we biologians placed our faith in books alone, searching them for secrets and wisdom, growing frustrated at the contradictions we’ve discovered. I have moved beyond books and followed the experiments described in the texts. Though I lack much of the equipment available to the ancients, I believe the experiments I’ve conducted to be valid. Let me travel to Albekizan’s palace. I can demonstrate my knowledge to Blasphet. He won’t be able to deny the truth.”
Metron contemplated Androkom’s offer. He envied the young dragon’s confidence, and the fearless way he desired to enter Blasphet’s presence.
“Very well,” Metron said. “Leave your post and travel here at once, my brother. How quickly can you arrive?”
“I anticipated your approval. I have already gathered the texts and materials I need. My flight will take two days, perhaps three, for my load is a heavy one.”
“Bring only what you must,” said Metron. “The Free City begins to fill. Time grows short if we’re to prevent the coming tragedy.”
Metron said farewell to his brother biologians and turned from the white chamber, stepping toward an unseen door. As he emerged into the library, he was greeted by a frightened cry and a flurry of papers thrown into the air. Wentakra, one of his newer assistants, stumbled away from him, looking prepared to run.
“Do not be alarmed,” Metron said. “It is only I.”
“B-but… the wall!” Wentakra said. “You passed through it like… like a-a-”
“Ghost? Yes. Try not to let it haunt you. Tell no one you witnessed this.”
“Y-yes, sir,” Wentakra said. Then his eyes brightened as if remembering something important. “Did Flanchelet find you? He searched for you in this chamber only moments ago.”
“No. I haven’t seen him. What did he want?”
“Albekizan wants to see you at once. Kanst has returned.”
“I know of his return. I witnessed it earlier.”
“They say he’s captured Bodiel’s killer.”
Metron needed half a second to fully grasp the importance of the statement. “Bitterwood?” he asked, his voice betraying his excitement. “They’ve captured Bitterwood?”
“So Flanchelet said.”
Metron turned at once from his subordinate, feeling a glimmer of hope as he hurried back through the maze of books. Perhaps Albekizan might change his mind about the genocide he had ordered once he had his revenge against Bitterwood. With any luck, Blasphet might be back in his cell before Androkom arrived.
BLASPHET DISMISSED THE messenger with a wave and turned back to the balcony overlooking the Free City. The balcony was decorated with pots of a dozen colorful species of plants, most of them poisonous. Normally, he felt something akin to peace standing in his little garden. Now, watching the new arrivals entering the city, peace was replaced with a cold anxiety. Bitterwood captured. Would Albekizan break his word and spare the remaining humans after slaking his thirst for revenge with Bitterwood’s blood? Many influential dragons spoke against the king’s plans. The labor of humans provided the wealth of the kingdom. They tended the fields, toiled in the mines, and harvested the sea. Perhaps in the afterglow of Bitterwood’s death, his brother’s reason would return. Blasphet couldn’t allow this.
Blasphet leapt from the balcony, feeling his feathers catch the wind, and for an instant all his worries vanished in the joy of flight as he slipped between the stars above and the ragged darkness beneath. For long years this pleasure had been denied him as he moldered in the dank recesses of the castle dungeon.
As he thought of the dungeon, the sensual pleasure of the air racing across his wings faded, the memory of the cruelty of cages returning to his mind. The bars of a cell could restrict humans in one plane-the horizontal. For a dragon, the pain was squared, the inability to walk about on the earth being secondary to the denial of flying above it. He added this thought to the list of debts to be repaid to the fellow members of his race once their usefulness to him had been exhausted.
As he turned a wide circle in the moonlight, his eyes caught movement outside the walls of the Free City. A handful of earth-dragons marched away from the gates, herding before them a mixed collection of cattle, sheep, and pigs. Blasphet turned the edges of his wings upwards, slowing himself to descend into their path.
“You there,” he said to the apparent leader of the earth-dragons who flinched at his sudden appearance. “Who are you? What are you doing with this livestock?”
The earth-dragon looked confused. “I’m Wyvernoth, sir. This livestock was taken from a human village. The citizens were taken to the Free City earlier today. We’re taking the spoils back to the barracks to stock the larders.”
“I gave no orders that the humans were to be deprived of their livestock. Take this herd back inside. The humans raised them and shall feast upon them.”
“Begging pardon, sir,” Wyvernoth said. “That don’t make no sense. Blasphet plans to kill all the humans. Why feed them?”
Blasphet realized that Wyvernoth had no idea who he was speaking with, which amused him. He said, “The reasoning is simple, my thick-headed friend. The food supply will remain constant in the Free City. Those now within the walls, and those arriving in the next few weeks, will want for little. As more humans arrive, their shares will
