Blasphet felt contrary, wanting instinctively to hold back any information that Albekizan might consider useful. However, a second part of him was curious. What did Albekizan have in mind? “By my count, there are six hundred earth-dragons. Fifty sky-dragon officers. What are you planning to do with them?”
“There is a square at the center of the city? Large enough to hold a crowd of eight thousand?”
“Not comfortably,” Blasphet said.
“Order the guards to gather the humans in the square tomorrow morning. During the night, Kanst’s army will join with the city’s guards, bringing the force of dragons to two thousand. This should be more than enough.”
“Enough?” Blasphet asked. “For what? To keep order?”
“You’ll find out tomorrow,” said Albekizan.
“You are no good at being coy,” Blasphet said. “There’s only one reason you could want to herd the humans together. You plan Bitterwood’s public execution.”
“A public execution, yes,” the king answered. “You’re right; I shouldn’t be coy. A public execution is precisely what I desire. Order the guards to cooperate with Kanst’s troops.”
“Of course,” Blasphet said, disturbed by Albekizan’s intrusion into his affairs, but feeling it unwise to press the issue now. Most likely, upon Bitterwood’s death, his brother’s interest in the Free City would wane. He said, in his most sincere tone, “I live but to serve you.”
“You live to torment me,” Albekizan said, turning away and spreading his wings. “But you live because I allow it. Remember that.”
“Have no fear about my memory,” Blasphet said as his brother leapt into the air. The king’s long tail whipped around, knocking over another flowerpot. Blasphet looked down at the shattered terra-cotta and crushed blossoms that marked his brother’s visit. He glanced back up at Albekizan’s retreating form. He said, softly, “I remember everything.”
THE BLACK CURTAINS that shrouded Jandra’s mind parted. She opened her eyes with a start, expecting to find Hezekiah towering over her, preparing to kill her with a final strike in the middle of the dusty street. Instead, she found herself alone in a darkened room on a scratchy wool blanket. Her head throbbed as she sat up. She raised her hand to discover bandages around her brow. In the next room, she could hear a muffled but familiar voice.
“Ven,” she whispered.
She rose on wobbly feet and tiptoed toward the door. She paused, listening to her former mentor speaking with someone else. A human’s voice. Bitterwood?
Feeling unready to face Vendevorex, she steadied herself with her palms against the wall and peeked through a small crack in the door. She could see Hezekiah propped against the far wall, his body rigid, his eyes unblinking. Vendevorex walked into view holding a small metal sphere in his claws.
From beyond her view, Bitterwood said, “Hezekiah hasn’t aged a day in all the years I’ve known him.”
“Understandable,” Vendevorex said, pulling free a yellow wire from the clump he had fused earlier. “He isn’t really alive. He’s a simulacrum.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Long ago, people were able to make copies of themselves, or anyone, really.” Vendevorex pried open the left eye of the paralyzed prophet and examined it closely. “The artificial bodies were practically indestructible, could mimic the human form perfectly, and were designed in such a manner that the maker of the simulacrum could feel and see and hear anything his double did. More, actually.” He let the eye close. “This one sees into the infrared and ultraviolet, I think.” He turned back to face Bitterwood. “Humans once used these doubles for sport. Normally, the simulacrum only did what its maker told it to do, but a few were fitted with the ability to think and act on their own. That’s where this comes in,” Vendevorex said, raising the sphere. “The homunculus. The soul of the machine.”
“This is a soul?” Bitterwood asked. “I’ve cut open many dragons and never seen this organ. Are dragons truly soulless?”
“You won’t find these in people, either. ‘Soul’ is merely an analogy.” Vendevorex turned back to the black- garbed prophet and picked up one of the three wires draped over its shoulder, a yellow one. He said, “It’s more accurate, perhaps, to say that this is Hezekiah’s mind. It’s the source of his intelligence and what passes for free will. For us,” Vendevorex said, touching the yellow wire to the sphere, “it’s the source of answers.”
“Online. Testing,” Hezekiah said, though his lips didn’t move and his body remained motionless.
“Skip diagnostics,” Vendevorex said.
“Diagnostics aborted. Activating personality core. Activated.”
Vendevorex spoke toward the orb he held. “What is your mission?”
“To spread the word of the Lord,” answered Hezekiah’s seemingly disembodied voice.
“Who gave you this mission?”
“I was programmed by Jasmine Danielle Robertson.”
“When?”
“In the year of our Lord 2077.”
Vendevorex glanced toward Bitterwood. “He means A.D. The numbering system of years that preceded the Dragon Age.” Then addressing the sphere once more: “Hezekiah, do you know why Robertson gave you this mission?”
“The world was falling into chaos and decadence. Few people remembered the word, and my maker believed it likely that the world would be cleansed once more, just as the Lord had cleansed it in the days of the flood. I was created to survive the coming cataclysm, and to spread the word among the survivors.”
“I see,” said Vendevorex. “Somehow this mission involves chopping off people’s heads?”
“I am designed to remove any obstacles to the success of my mission.”
“Excellent,” said Vendevorex. “As long as you’re programmed for violence, I think you should put that programming to good use. Only your mission will change when I let you go’
“Let him go?” Bitterwood said. “You can’t mean to release him from this spell you have on him.”
“I can,” Vendevorex said. “Don’t be afraid. He’ll be no threat to you when I’m done with him.”
“No threat?” Bitterwood said, moving forward into Jandra’s line of sight at last. His fists were clenched. “Hezekiah’s not human!”
Vendevorex looked impatient. “That’s been established. However, being inhuman doesn’t make one a threat to humans. I’m proof of that. Hezekiah is too useful a tool to discard. As a fighter, he’s nearly unstoppable. He’ll be the perfect weapon if things turn ugly with Albekizan.”
Hearing this, Jandra decided the time had come for her to make her presence known. She pushed open the door and said, “So. Now you plan to fight.”
“Jandra,” Vendevorex said, looking startled. It gave her a slight tinge of satisfaction to realize that he wasn’t ready to speak to her yet. “I apologize for not keeping our voices down,” he said. “We shouldn’t have disturbed your rest. You’ve suffered serious trauma. Even with the treatment I’ve given, I recommend allowing several hours to heal completely.”
“It’s funny how you pretend to care,” Jandra said. “Why did you come here, Ven? Not to apologize, I hope.”
“Yes,” he said, sounding sad. “I am here to apologize, whether or not you’ll accept. I’ve made horrible mistakes, Jandra. I’d be foolish to think that things can go back to the way they were.”
“That would be foolish,” she agreed.
“I’m hoping that the last fifteen years of my life count for something. I’ve tried to be the family you never had.”
She crossed her arms. “You did a poor job.”
“Yes. I can’t deny it. But if I can’t win your favor with my past deeds, I still hope I may influence your opinion with what I’m doing now. I’ve decided to fulfill your wishes and go to war against Albekizan.”
“Don’t do it because you want to earn my forgiveness. You won’t receive it,” she said. She was surprised to realize how deeply she meant it. She had practiced the words often enough in her mind in recent days. Now that she’d said them, the truth sank in. She would never forgive him.
“For what it’s worth, it’s not only your forgiveness that has led to my reassessment of my actions. I’ve gained new information since we parted which makes me believe a revolution can now be successful.”
“Oh?”
“I saw little hope in revolution before. If Albekizan fell, the candidates for the throne were unattractive. Now, Shandrazel has returned. He’s perfect for the job. I feel that placing him on the throne will return peace and stability
