'You're insane!' Bitterwood said.
'No he's not,' said Vance, stepping up. 'I ate the dragonseed and it cured me. Let Blasphet help Jeremiah.'
Bitterwood furrowed his brow. This was, in a way, such an obvious thing to try. Why had his first approach to this problem been to kill Blasphet and take the tiara? Would there ever be a problem in his life he wouldn't attempt to fix by killing something? He shook his head, disgusted that he was having these doubts, especially here, in the Free City. Blasphet was a monster. Was he the only sane person in the room?
Before he could decide on a course of action, Thorny walked toward the huge black dragon, holding his gnarled hands before him. 'If you've done right by Anza, I'll trust you. Can you fix my hands?'
'Of course,' said Blasphet. He raked his fore-talon along his chest. His feathery scales were bunched into small polyps. He plucked one free, and held it toward Thorny.
'The seeds grow from your body?' Burke asked.
'Yes,' said Blasphet. 'They are full of the same tiny machines that swam in Vendevorex's blood. They now thrive within me. When you ingest the seed, the microscopic engines will spread through your body, seeking out damage and repairing it.'
Bitterwood felt nauseated as Thorny bent his head down to Blasphet's talon and took the seed between his lips. Thorny swallowed as he stood up. He looked down at his hands as he asked, 'How long will it take to work?'
'Unguided, the machines need several hours to analyze your body for flaws,' said Blasphet. 'I can guide them more quickly. My… familiarity… with corpses has left me well prepared as a healer. I know what all the bones in a healthy human hand should look like. I know how thick the cartilage between them should be, and where the tendons should attach. If you choose to have me guide the process, there will be a certain level of pain involved.'
'I've not had a moment free of pain in thirty years,' said Thorny. 'Do it.'
'As you wish,' said Blasphet. He fixed his gaze upon Thorny's hands. Thorny suddenly drew a sharp breath and dropped to his knees, leaning against the canvas-covered platform.
Around the room, the white-robed disciples began to sing as Thorny cried out in incoherent, babbling agony. His fingers twitched and writhed. Even Anza's gaze was drawn to the sight of Thorny's useless, knotted claws changing into something that looked like healthy hands.
Bitterwood knew this was the moment. He reached over his shoulder, his fingers brushing against the leafy end of a fresh arrow. Before he could pluck it from the quiver, a small hand touched him on the hip. He looked down and found Zeeky looking up at him.
Beneath the din of the singing and Thorny's screams, she said, 'Let him help Jeremiah.'
Bitterwood drew the arrow.
'If Jeremiah dies, you'll never forgive yourself,' said Zeeky.
Bitterwood clenched his jaw. Every instinct wanted to place the arrow against his bowstring. However, just as Burke trusted Anza, Bitterwood trusted Zeeky. He'd been friendless for twenty years. This mysterious little girl had liked and trusted him from the moment they'd met. He wanted her approval more than he wanted Blasphet's death. With a sigh, he returned the arrow to his quiver.
The song of the disciples fell off and Thorny stopped screaming. The old man breathed heavily, his face dripping tears. He stared at his restored hands, opening and closing them slowly.
He wiped his cheeks. He pursed his lips tightly and took a long, calming breath through his nose. He grabbed the edge of the platform and supported his weight on his hands as he stood. He looked up at Blasphet.
'Thank you,' he whispered, his voice raspy from screaming.
'You're welcome,' said Blasphet. 'The dragonseed will continue to work, slowly restoring further infirmities. Soon, you'll eat your meals with a full set of teeth once more. And your overall health will improve as the damage that alcohol has done to your liver is reversed.'
'Will I be young again?' asked Thorny.
'No,' said Blasphet. 'Age is not a disease. You will, however, be strong and healthy. A well-maintained human body should last nearly a century. See to it that you are careful in your habits, and you will at least feel young.'
As Thorny nodded and walked away, Blasphet looked at Hex. 'How about you, nephew? I see that you've suffered trauma to your brain. Will you allow me to restore you?'
Hex scowled. 'Uncle, if you attempt to alter my brain with your invisible machines, I'll alter your brain with my jaws.'
'So be it. I understand the reason for your scorn.' He then looked to Burke. 'You, human, have seen the good I've done for your daughter. Will you let me make you whole? Life has left you with many scars.'
Burke stared down at his missing leg. He lifted his hand and traced the three scars that marred his cheek. Bitterwood could tell from the way the machinist held his body that the blisters beneath his arm were still a source of pain. When Burke inhaled to answer, Bitterwood knew Burke, too, would accept Blasphet's help.
'No,' said Burke.
'No?' said Blasphet.
'No?' said Anza. She walked toward him, kneeling to look into his eyes. 'Fadder, he can fex yuh leg.' Her words were more difficult to follow when she tried to speak quickly.
'I believe he can,' said Burke. 'But I lost my leg due to a tactical error; I didn't use sufficient armor on my war machine. And, these scars… I've had these scars on my cheek since the battle of Conyers. Every time I've looked into a mirror for the last twenty years, I'm reminded of all the men who died because they believed I could lead them to victory.'
Anza shook her head as she listened to her father's words.
'I don't regret my bad memories,' he said, taking her hand. 'I can't claim they've left me wiser, but they define me. These scars, Anza, they aren't flaws. They're part of me. Erasing my scars is like erasing my life.'
Anza nodded, her dark eyes full of understanding. She helped her father rise again on his one good leg. Vance handed Burke his crutch.
Blasphet turned toward Bitterwood.
'The boy at your feet is dying from yellow-mouth,' he said. 'With your permission, I shall heal him.'
Bitterwood clenched his fists as he turned away, unable to look at Blasphet. He gazed at the candles guttering among the rafters, and at the thin rays of a declining sun that poked through the gaps in the barn wall. He saw dust dancing in that light, gleaming like tiny flecks of snow. Jandra had said that all her magic came from dust. Hezekiah had taught him that man came from dust, and returned to it. His shoulders sagged. There were mysteries in this world far beyond his grasp.
'Save him,' he whispered, walking toward the door they'd entered.
He didn't know if he was doing the right thing, despite Zeeky's reassurance. He needed to step outside and get some fresh air to clear his thoughts. When he pushed open the door, he stepped onto a broad avenue where men and dragons were crowded together, all looking toward the western sky. He shielded his eyes as he, too, looked toward the sunset and discovered an angel. A winged human was plainly visible as a silhouette against the red sky. The entity drifted down toward the Free City. Bitterwood tensed. Was this another of the goddess's machines, like Gabriel? What was its connection to Blasphet?
He reached for an arrow. The flying figure altered his descent slightly, now plainly heading for the ground where Bitterwood stood.
A voice called out, 'Bitterwood! I didn't expect to find you here!'
Bitterwood squinted. 'Shay?'
Shay flapped his wings and he slowed to a halt a few yards before Bitterwood, hovering several inches above the ground. The wind stirred the folds of Bitterwood's cloak. 'I'm here to find Hex. I didn't expect to find you. And who are all these people?'
'Worshippers of Blasphet,' said Bitterwood.
'The Murder God?' Shay asked, looking around at the crowd that gathered to gawk at him. 'I expected his followers to look more… sinister.'
'He's renounced the title of Murder God,' said Bitterwood.
'Can you do that?' Shay sounded perplexed. 'Just decide one day you're no longer a god?'
Bitterwood shrugged. 'Who makes the rules?'
'Is Hex here?'
