you.'
'Shandrazel has sent me to-'
'I know,' said Charkon. 'He wants me at the palace. I'll set out tomorrow. The dragons of the Forge have served sun-dragons for centuries. It will be an honor to confer with Shandrazel.'
'Oh,' said Graxen, leaning in closer so he could better hear over the deafening singing. 'I was hardly needed here at all, was I?'
'I've stayed alive this long by listening to the right voices,' said Charkon. 'Don't feel bad. Gleaners constantly bring me rumors. I have a good instinct at picking which ones are right.'
'I see,' Graxen shouted back. He cast an eye toward the red clay mound, which was now positively trembling. 'What's happening here?'
'It's hatching day!' said Charkon. 'I'd take to the sky if I were you. Now!'
Though he didn't understand what was going on, Graxen recognized wise advice when he heard it. He leapt skyward, climbing into the air with sharp, rapid strokes. Below he heard a cracking sound, and the crowd roared: 'The slow must go!'
He looked down to see the mound disintegrate in a cloud of red dust. Tens of thousands of mouse-sized earth- dragons spilled out of the crumbling clay. Though they looked like turtles, the hatchlings hopped and darted with the speed of rabbits, dashing off in every direction at once. Instantly, the crowd of earth-dragons surged forward, falling to their hands and knees, slapping at the hopping creatures, cramming those they caught into their beaks.
Charkon's beefy fingers reached out and snatched three of the infant beasts, then tilted back his head and opened his disfigured beak wide. He dangled the tiny dragons above his maw, their stubby tails trapped between his digits, before dropping the critters down his gullet one by one.
Despite the crush of bodies, or perhaps because of it, many of the hatchlings escaped between the legs of the assembled dragons, or leapt over the crowd, from head to head, before vanishing into gaps in the walls of nearby buildings, or burrowing into the bins of coal that sat next to the foundry.
Graxen wasn't completely ignorant of earth-dragon biology. He knew that, unlike the winged dragon races, they were egg-layers, and they hatched their young in community mounds. He'd also heard they were unsentimental in winnowing out the weaker members of the hatch. He just hadn't expected them to be so enthusiastic about the process.
Graxen rose up through the foundry smoke and soon found his bearings, locating the Forge Road, which he would follow back to Shandrazel's castle. He flapped away from Dragon Forge, eager to leave behind the foul air and brutish inhabitants, and especially eager to get beyond the range of that damned song. Still, this was twice today he'd delivered a message and not been offered food, drink, or shelter. Messenger of the king was proving to be an unrewarding job.
Once he was out of range of the smoky air and had cleared the barren hillsides where the gleaners lived, Graxen alighted in the upper branches of a tall tree. He was weary from his flight. As he landed, the shifting weight of his satchel reminded him once more of its mysterious contents. He opened it.
Within was a loaf of dark-crusted bread and a ceramic flask of water, sealed with a cork. Four dried trout were wrapped in a sheet of oily parchment, and beneath them sat two apples, red as rose petals.
Graxen drank half the jug, the cool liquid feeling like life as it flowed into his body. He bit into one of the trout and found the flavor smoky and salty. It was a fine meal, fueling his spirit and his body, giving him the strength to fly further. Yet he didn't move from the tree branch for many hours. Instead he looked back in the direction of the Nest, watching the sky, contemplating the restorative power of unexpected kindness.
Chapter Three:
Mad in the Timeless Dark
The Burning Grounds lay in the shadow of Shandrazel's palace. Winged dragons honored their dead by cremation, releasing the spiritual flames that remained trapped within the body. In the aftermath of the battle of the Free City, the pyres of the Burning Grounds had burned every night from dusk to dawn. Tonight, Vendevorex, the sky-dragon who had served as Albekizan's wizard for fifteen years, would be placed upon the flames.
A choir of sky-dragons sang, their eerily high voices echoing the ephemeral nature of flame. Jandra stood stoically at the base of the pedestal of logs on which the wizard would be burned. A human female sixteen years of age, Jandra had been raised by Vendevorex almost as a daughter. He had trained her in his arts. She alone knew the secrets of his powers, although there were many more secrets he had carried with him into death.
Beside her stood Pet, a human male nearly ten years older. Jandra didn't welcome his company. Though Pet was hailed by other humans as the leader of the rebellion in the Free City, Jandra knew that the true Pet was a shallow opportunist. Even now, standing next to her, he was living a lie. Everyone believed Pet to be the legendary dragon-slayer Bitterwood. Pet looked the part of a hero: tall, broad-shouldered, square-jawed, with long golden locks and pale blue eyes. He'd been trained in the theatrical arts, and could deliver inspirational speeches at a moment's notice, summoning grand words from among the countless plays and poems he'd memorized. But behind those lovely words, Pet was, she knew, a coward and a scoundrel.
Pet placed an arm around her shoulders and pulled her near as a band of earth-dragons carried the coffin that held Vendevorex's remains to the Burning Grounds. It was a gesture of tenderness that surprised her. She would have preferred to watch the cremation alone, but, as he gently rubbed her shoulder with his strong hand, she found herself welcoming the consoling touch. Perhaps he was capable of compassion and empathy after all.
'I can only imagine the grief you feel,' he whispered.
'I feel numb, mostly,' she whispered back. 'Everything in my life turned upside-down so fast.'
'I know,' he said. 'Hopefully things will turn again, for the better. Shandrazel genuinely wants to improve the lives of humans. You and I are well positioned to be granted considerable power in his new world order.'
Jandra stiffened. 'I'd rather not be discussing politics now,' she said.
'I understand. Sorry.' He gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
The earth-dragons walked up the wooden ramp toward the top of the piled logs.
'I don't want power,' she said. 'I just want Vendevorex back. I miss him. I wish I hadn't been so mean to him in the weeks before his death.'
'I don't think you were mean,' said Pet. 'Just confused. He gave you good reason to be angry.'
'I know,' she said. 'But I've barely slept since he's been gone. I just keep running the words I should have said over and over in my head. I keep imagining the things he still had left to tell me.'
The earth-dragons lowered the coffin onto the pine logs. The new high biologian, Androkom, climbed onto the platform to deliver his eulogy. Androkom was a young sky-dragon, still in his twenties, the youngest dragon ever to hold the post of high biologian. He looked weary. Since the fall of the Free City, multiple funerals had been held each night, and all required his presence.
Pet took Jandra's hand as the earth-dragons pried open the lid of the coffin. Many days had passed since Vendevorex had fallen. He'd been placed in the coffin as his body began to decay, but it was customary for a dragon to be cremated with his body exposed to the open sky.
'You know,' Pet whispered, leaning closer, 'perhaps you shouldn't sleep alone tonight. You could stay with me.'
Jandra rolled her eyes. 'Are you trying to seduce me at a funeral? Have you no self control at all?'
'I assure you, my self control is legendary,' he said, with the hint of a grin. 'I was merely trying to comfort you. The fact that you interpreted this as seduction perhaps reveals something about your unspoken desires?'
She would have slapped him, but it wasn't the appropriate setting. At least one human at this ceremony should possess a sense of decorum.
She looked back to the platform. Androkom was staring down into the coffin, looking confused. The earth- dragon pall-bearers were all shrugging, looking equally bewildered.
Jandra ran to the platform, up the rough-hewn logs that served as a makeshift ramp.
'Jandra,' Androkom said, looking spooked as she approached. 'I'm sure there's some logical explanation-'
'What?' she asked, drawing near the coffin. She looked down into the long wooden box, expecting to find the worst.
Save for a few blood-encrusted feather-scales, their sky-blue hue shining amid the shadows, the coffin was empty.
Pet chased Jandra as she bounded up the stairs to the tower. She proved remarkably swift for someone
