'I've seen enough,' Blasphet said, shaking his head. 'Leave me to my thoughts.'
The sisters looked disappointed as they carried the puppet away. Only Colobi remained in the room. Rather than retreating, she walked toward him and knelt, placing her head against his left fore-talon.
'They meant well, my Lord,' she said softly.
'I know,' Blasphet said.
He gently stroked her cheek. Colobi was proving to be his favorite of the hundred clever girls willing to die for him. His responsibility for their lives was sobering. He'd wasted five of them in the castle due to a momentary whim. Eventually he'd send the rest to their deaths as well. But for what cause? Revenge against Shandrazel seemed petty now that he was free. The unfinished genocide of the human race still sat in his belly like an undigested meal. Would his plan have worked if Albekizan hadn't ruined things?
He was certain he could have succeeded. But did he want to? Humans were among the creatures he hated least. Time and again they'd proven useful. Humans treated him with deference and respect. Humans had proven to be clever and quick-witted. An army of a hundred, guided by a mind as powerful as his own, could do astonishing things. Genocide was still a challenge that seemed worthy of his unique talents. But perhaps he had chosen the wrong species as his target?
A sliding door rumbled open on the far side. A cross-current swept across the cavernous room; the winter air was a welcome relief from the fumes of the tannery. The night outside was blustery. The wind whistled through a thousand tiny gaps in the building's decaying walls.
Three sisters came through the door, leading a bound and blindfolded sky-dragon. Blasphet recognized the frail creature immediately. The sisters tugged at the ropes that held the dragon, guiding him to stand before the Murder God.
Colobi rose and angrily demanded, 'Why do you interrupt our Lord's solitude?'
The leader of the trio gave Colobi a hateful stare. Blasphet had noticed that the other sisters were becoming aware of her status as his favorite.
The woman said, 'We captured this unworthy one on the road leading to the College of Spires. He claims to be the former high biologian, Metron. He says he has served the Murder God loyally in the past.'
'Remove his blindfold,' said Blasphet. 'Cut his bonds. He speaks the truth.'
The three produced knives hidden in folds in their garments and thrust them expertly at the old, trembling dragon, slicing away his ropes in violent strokes, yet never so much as scratching him.
Freed, Metron shook his limbs. His wings had been slashed to ribbons, the fate of all criminal sky-dragons. He lifted his ragged limbs to remove his blindfold. He squinted as if the candlelight caused him pain. His nose wrinkled as tears welled up in his eyes.
'What is that stench?' he gasped.
'Oh, did you notice the tannery?' said Blasphet with a chuckle. 'You grow used to it.'
Metron looked around, visibly disoriented by the black walls and the candlelight. He stared down at the hide he stood upon, a fellow sky-dragon, and trembled.
'Where are we?' Metron asked
'My temple,' said Blasphet. 'Modest, perhaps, but roomier than the dungeons.'
Metron shook his head. 'So you've found more humans to believe your lies of godhoo-'
Before Metron could complete the thought, Colobi sprang forward and delivered a powerful kick to his gut, her black leather robes spreading wide like the tail feathers of an enormous raven. The old dragon folded over, collapsing, struggling to breathe.
'Give me a knife that I may cut out his blasphemous tongue!' Colobi snarled. Her hood had slipped backward in the attack, revealing a face twisted into naked rage.
'Not just yet,' Blasphet said. 'I'm curious as to what he was doing traveling toward the College of Spires.'
'I-I've been banished for assisting you,' Metron said, his voice faint as he rocked in pain from Colobi's blow. 'I'm no longer high biologian. Other biologians will kill me if they discover me.'
'I know,' Blasphet said. 'Which makes your destination baffling. Half the biologians in the kingdom dwell at the College of Spires. It's not a healthy place for you to be.'
'I'm old,' Metron said, still lying limp at Blasphet's feet. 'This may be the last winter I see on this earth. I've little time left to tell certain truths to… interested parties.'
'To your bastard son, you mean,' Blasphet said.
'H-how did you-?'
'I'm a god,' said Blasphet. 'I know things. The whole time that you assisted me in the palace I knew of your little secret. I have a network of spies that provide useful fodder for blackmail. You always gave in so easily it was never required. You proved exquisitely corruptible.'
Blasphet motioned to the trio who had brought Metron before him. 'Help him rise. Give him shelter and food. We must help this poor lost soul find his son.'
'Why, Lord?' Colobi asked, sounding hurt. 'Why do you spare this blasphemer?'
'Even a Murder God may know his moments of mercy,' said Blasphet. 'This pathetic creature has done me no harm. He was useful to me once; you must know I can be kind to those who are kind to me.'
Colobi's face softened. Her cheeks blushed pink in response to his words.
'Metron,' said Blasphet. 'Your journey to the College of Spires would have been in vain. The dragon you seek resides there no longer; he now serves Shandrazel in the palace.'
'Truly?' said Metron as he stood, assisted by the women. He winced as he rose; the tatters of his wings were covered with scabs. A dragon's wings were sensitive; Blasphet suspected Metron was in constant agony.
'I know you can enter the palace anytime you wish,' said Blasphet. 'You may know more of its secret passages than even I. Indeed, your son owes his existence to your knowledge of secret passages, does he not?'
Metron lowered his gaze. 'I don't wish to discuss the matter.'
'I do,' said Blasphet. 'And we both know you'll eventually do whatever I wish. So, have a seat, Metron. You look weary. The sisters will bring you food and drink and a blanket to help fight the chill. Then, you can tell me your story. I've heard the rumors. But only you can tell me the true origins of Graxen the Gray.'
Chapter Thirteen:
Unseen Mouths Whisper
Burke the Machinist stood on a hill overlooking Dragon Forge. The continuous pollution of the foundries had rendered much of the surrounding countryside barren; the red clay soil lay naked, cut through with gullies. Here and there a few particularly tough and ancient trees rose above the landscape, gnarled and defiant. In the low areas sat the camps of the gleaners, shanty towns built around small mountains of scrap metal and refuge. Burke studied the workings of the town at the heart of this desolation, using one of his inventions, the spy-owl. The spy-owl was a copper version of the night bird with large glass eyes, standing almost three feet tall. The big round lenses on its face directed light into a series of carefully crafted mirrors. Burke rested the heavy device upon a tripod. Looking into twin lenses at the back of the spy-owl allowed him to see the goings-on in the town below as clearly as if he were standing in the center square. He studied the doorway of the central foundry, counting the earth-dragons who came and went. Knowing how many dragons it took to keep the foundry in operation was crucial information.
He hadn't created the spy-owl to prepare for war. He'd built it to discover the truth behind the stories of life on the moon. The stories were true; the moon was teaming with cities and lakes and forests beneath the glint of crystal domes miles across. Yet, learning the truth had left him wishing he'd never built the spy-owl. What did the knowledge gain him? The discovery of a world he could never reach filled him with a hunger that could never be slaked.
He looked up from the owl, stretching his back. His daughter, Anza, climbed the hill toward him. Dressed in buckskin dyed black, her dark hair in a tight braid, Anza looked quite formidable. She was a walking armory, with a longsword slung over her shoulder, a dagger strapped to her shin, an array of throwing knives on small scabbards lining each bicep, and two steel tomahawks at her belt. Of course, even without all this weaponry, Anza was woman who'd earned the fearful respect of men back at the tavern. She could silence anyone with a glance.
Burke didn't know why Anza had never spoken; she wasn't deaf. She had a keen mind. She could work calculations in her head that took him two sheets of paper to solve. She read voraciously, yet she'd never taken up a pen to write. She spoke to him with a few dozen hand signals that she'd devised while still in diapers. Everything
