glances toward him with suspicious eyes. Graxen felt a sense of shame. Did the dismissive attitude he felt toward humans mirror the feelings the biologians had about him? Too different to ever be worth the effort of knowing? No biologian ever studied his face for his identifying features. He was forever marked as 'other.' Something deep in the brains of sky-dragons would never accept him as a fellow member of the species.
In the final corner of the room sat Shandrazel, resting upon a throne pedestal topped with a large golden pillow. The young king looked quite noble: his red scales freshly groomed, golden rings decorating the edges of his wings. Before him stood Androkom, the high biologian. Androkom wasn't much older than Graxen. It was odd to see a dragon of his youth wearing the green sashes that denoted such important rank. Androkom's most notable feature, however, was his lack of a tail; he'd lost most of the appendage after an encounter with Blasphet. Normally, sky-dragons placed great emphasis on physical perfection; the worst punishment any sky-dragon could face was to become a tatterwing. Graxen wondered if having an amputee dragon holding such high rank might lead to greater acceptance of deformities among sky-dragons.
Graxen approached as Shandrazel and Androkom quietly conferred. The king glanced up as he neared.
'Welcome, Graxen,' Shandrazel said. 'Thank you for your work in summoning everyone. They day is still young, but already many of the guests have arrived. However, I won't need your services today. You've worked hard these past weeks. You should take today to rest. Tomorrow as well.'
'History will unfold here today,' Graxen said. 'I can think of no other place I'd rather be.'
'Understood,' said Androkom, sounding impatient. 'However, you can't stay here. The talks must remain closed. Everyone who isn't a representative of their race must leave the chamber.'
Graxen looked toward Shandrazel. The sun-dragon looked apologetic as he said, 'He's right, I'm afraid. You can remain while the guests arrive, but I must request that you leave when the discussions begin.'
Graxen nodded. He could see the logic of having the talks be private, but there was still something condescending about Androkom's emphasis on the words 'representative of their race.' Graxen looked around the room. If he couldn't remain, he still might play one small role in helping the talks succeed. The historic tapestries on the wall may have been effectively invisible to Shandrazel; no doubt he'd seen them his whole life, and paid little attention to their contents.
'Before I leave, may I assist in removing the tapestries?' he offered.
'Why?' asked Shadrazel.
Graxen motioned with his gaze to a tapestry behind Shandrazel's left shoulder. It showed a young Albekizan with a human body crushed in his jaws and a severed human head hanging in his left fore-talon. The glorified dragon stood upon a mountain of dead men.
'It hardly seems fair to the humans to negotiate a new government under such a reminder of the power of dragons,' Graxen said.
'I understand your concerns,' Shandrazel said, contemplating the image. 'However, I value truth above all other virtues. My father was known for his blind spots. He acted as if Hex had never been born. He claimed that the map inlaid on the floor showed the entirety of the world when it actually only shows the narrow sliver he conquered. My father erased history as it suited his needs; I prefer to let the evidence of the past stand. Perhaps these glorifications of violence will inspire us to greater fairness.'
Graxen thought this highly unlikely. He said, 'But what if the humans-'
'The tapestries will stay, Graxen,' Shandrazel said. 'There's no point in arguing with me. You know that during my time at the College of Spires, I never lost a debate.'
Graxen himself had witnessed many of these debates. Did Shandrazel truly believe he'd always won due to his superior intellect? Was he blind to the fact that he owed his victories to being Albekizan's son more than to any special gift for logic?
'Of course, sire,' said Graxen.
He glanced once more at the growing crowd of humans, wondering what their thoughts on the matter were. He took note of a tall young man with long blonde hair dressed in silk finery-he'd seen this human before, often in the company of Shandrazel. It was the one Albekizan had labeled as Bitterwood. Perhaps Shandrazel was right about Albekizan's blindness to truth. The man was obviously too young to be the source of the original Bitterwood legend.
The young Bitterwood was leaning in close to talk to a shorter man. The second man was bald save for a few whispery gray hairs, and sported a long braided mustache. In contrast to the robust form of Bitterwood, the man was stooped and thin, supporting himself with the help of a gnarled stave. Watching the two whisper to each other, Graxen was struck by a possibility. What if the older man were the original Bitterwood?
'I'm glad to see you again,' Pet said, keeping his voice low as he leaned in to confer with Kamon. Kamon was a prophet from the town of Winding Rock. His people had been among the first brought to the Free City. Kamon was well known throughout the kingdom; for decades he had preached a philosophy of subservience to dragons, telling men they must not take up arms until the arrival of a nameless 'savior.' Kamonism was a popular philosophy. It promised better days coming, without requiring any immediate action on the parts of his followers.
Kamon nodded. 'It was my duty to answer this call. For over half a century I've preached of the day when men would be free. I'm glad I lived long enough to see this day.'
'You certainly had a loyal following in the Free City,' said Pet. 'Speaking of loyal followings, any idea where Ragnar is?'
Ragnar and his men had been the most ferocious fighters in the battle of the Free City. Pet owed his survival to Kamon and Ragnar. Both were genuine leaders, while Pet knew, deep down, he was a fraud. People believed him to be a fearsome dragon-slayer. In truth, even during the heavy fighting of the Free City, he'd never so much as scratched a dragon.
Kamon lowered his eyes at the mention of Ragnar. His lips trembled as if he was about to speak, but after several long seconds the old prophet merely shook his head.
'You don't know?' Pet asked.
'The most accurate answer is, yes, I don't know,' Kamon said.
'What's a less accurate answer?'
'All I've heard are rumors. It may amount to nothing.'
'I've always listened to rumors,' said Pet. 'What's going on?'
Kamon's voice fell to a whisper that Pet strained to hear. Kamon's breath smelled like sour milk as Pet leaned closer. 'After the fall of the Free City, many of the captives returned to their homes. But I've heard that some of the men have formed a small army led by Ragnar.'
'Small army? How small?'
'A few hundred. Perhaps a thousand at most.'
Pet silently contemplated the news. Maybe this wasn't so bad. One right that was going to be discussed was the right for humans to assemble militias to defend themselves. Just because Ragnar had an army didn't mean he planned to go out and kill a bunch of dragons.
'According to rumor,' Kamon said, so close now his mustache touched Pet's cheek, 'Ragnar plans to capture the Dragon Forge and kill all the dragons within it.'
'I see,' Pet said neutrally. He kept his face impassive as various scenarios boiled in his mind. Ragnar would launch a war and lose, showing humans to be both hostile and weak. Or, Ragnar would win, showing humans to be hostile and dangerous. Neither was a good position for negotiating peace. Pet thought of informing Shandrazel of the rumor and possibly halting Ragnar's army before it did real harm. Yet, on a gut level, this felt wrong. He'd be dead if not for Ragnar. He couldn't just betray him. Where was Jandra when he needed her? She was the one with the brains. Not to mention an actual sense of right and wrong. Pet's moral compass normally steered him toward the path of least resistance. He wasn't entirely without his limits; having been the victim of torture, he'd had no trouble standing up to Androkom when he'd suggested torturing the captured assassin. Right now, however, he didn't know what to do, so he decided to do nothing.
Before he could confer further with Kamon, the doors of the Peace Hall swung open and six earth-dragons marched in, clanking and clunking as they advanced toward Shandrazel. Most earth-dragon soldiers wore light armor, but these were arrayed head to tail in elaborate steel exoskeletons, the individual pieces polished to a mirror finish that reflected the room's vivid colors. The earth-dragons snapped to a halt before Shandrazel. They saluted crisply and, in unison, removed their helmets.
Pet couldn't help but stare at the one in the center. The dragon's face was horribly disfigured, with a crack in
