Bitterwood (13 page)

At the center of the dark circle was a tower of pine logs and, atop a platform at the peak, Bodiel rested, surrounded by flowers. The air was rich with the scent of pine.

 This was the first time Albekizan had seen either of his sons since the previous night. He glanced toward the piled logs that bore Bodiel’s corpse. For a brief instant, he thought he saw his beloved son breathe once more. It was only a trick of the light as the warm evening breeze sent a ripple across Bodiel’s feather-scales.

Shandrazel stood defiantly before Albekizan. The king studied his surviving son. He should have felt pride. Shandrazel had grown into a marvelous specimen. The prince was equal to Albekizan in size; his scales had the richness and luster of rubies, his face bore the sharp, clean lines of his noble heritage. It was only when the king looked into his eyes that he felt his heart sag. Bodiel’s eyes had always been proud. Bodiel’s eyes were windows through which his strength and fire could be seen. Bodiel’s eyes were eyes that watched the world, constantly searching for threat and opportunity. Bodiel had possessed the eyes of a warrior born.

Shandrazel had none of these qualities. He had the eyes of a dragon who looked primarily within himself. There had always been an introspective, contemplative side to Shandrazel that Albekizan recognized as weakness. Shandrazel was a dragon who valued thought over action.

“You disappoint me, Shandrazel,” Albekizan said. “It breaks my heart to reward your cowardly performance in the contest. Only countless generations of tradition lead me to say what I will say next. By default, I decree that you have won the contest with Bodiel. As your reward, you are to be banished. Should we ever lay eyes upon one another again, it must be in mortal combat.”

“If I refuse?” said Shandrazel.

“You will not refuse,” Albekizan growled.

Metron, who stood beside the king, said, “It is the way, Shandrazel. It is written in the Book of Theranzathax that the victor of the contest must flee from his father. Return only when you feel strong enough to defeat him. In this way the kingdom will be assured a mightier king.”

“I didn’t win the contest. I didn’t even chase the human.”

“When one of the contestants is slain, the other wins. It is written,” said Metron.

“I know what’s written. I don’t choose to obey the words of someone who died ten centuries ago. There’s no logic behind them. Father, you boast of having conquered the entirety of the world. Where, precisely, am I to flee?”

“Shandrazel,” Albekizan said, “if you do not flee now, I will slay you where you stand.”

Shandrazel looked into Albekizan’s eyes. Albekizan steeled himself, letting no hint of regret show in his features. In Shandrazel’s eyes, he could see confusion. Shame welled up in Albekizan’s soul. How could his royal bloodline have produced such a weak, unpromising candidate for the throne?

“But—” said Shandrazel.

“Go!” Albekizan cried, lunging forward. If Shandrazel didn’t leave, Albekizan felt sure that he would sink his teeth into his son’s throat, even though it would break all law and tradition.

Shandrazel stepped back, cast one last glance toward his sobbing mother, then turned and opened his wings to the night sky. In minutes he was only a small dark shadow against the stars. Shooting stars began to slip from the heavens like tears.

Albekizan walked back to Tanthia’s side.

“Light the pyre,” Metron said.

The choir of sky-dragons rose in pitch as the heat of the torch touched the kindling. The fire ate hungrily, rising quickly up the stacked wood to lick at the flowers wreathing Bodiel. The smoke soon took on the acrid aroma of burning scales.

Metron opened the ancient leather-bound tome he held. He spoke the words written in the Book of Theranzathax without ever glancing down at the text.

“Asrafel crawled onto a bed of dry branches, and poured oil on his fevered brow, and called for his children.

“And he spoke, ‘In the winter, we breathe steam, for within we are flame. The fever that burns me is the flame of my own life, and no longer shall my skin stand between the world and myself. As long as this flame burns, I am alive, and as smoke I shall mingle among you. You shall breathe me and I will become part of you, and as I touch your eyes you shall cry, not in sorrow, but in joy, for I am with you still.’

“As he spoke the oil upon his brow smoldered, and the flame within him burst free, to blaze in the night. His children took up branches from the flame, and forever nourished these torches, using the light of Asrafel to carve the world from darkness.”

Metron closed the book and approached the bonfire that now howled with life. He placed an unlit torch into the fire and when he pulled it forth it burned with the presence of Bodiel. Metron turned to stand before Tanthia.

“Take this flame and never let it die. May the love of your son blaze hot and bright.”

Tanthia moved her mouth as if speaking, but her words couldn’t be heard over the roar of the bonfire. She accepted the torch, holding it tightly in her grasp.

All the while, Albekizan looked on, watching the sparks rise from the bonfire to mix among the stars. As each tiny red point vanished in the darkness, he experienced the loss of his son once more. He stared again at the bonfire, feeling himself at one with the raging flame. The inferno sizzled and cracked and roared, and the noise was music to Albekizan’s soul. In the religion of flame, heaven comes when all the world is ash.

CHAPTER SEVEN: SCHEMES

SHANDRAZEL ROSE INTO
the starry night, not believing the turn his life had taken. Behind him the chorus sang as the pyre was lit; it broke his heart that he wasn’t even allowed to mourn his brother.

The most difficult thing to swallow was how plainly he’d been warned that this moment would come. Since he’d been a fledging, he’d been taught the ceremony of secession. He’d witnessed the drama unfold over the years as one by one his older brothers vanished, banished from the kingdom, or disappearing in shame into the libraries of the biologians. Why had he never accepted that this would be his fate? Why had he been so certain that he, alone, among countless generations of royalty, could break the chains of superstition and introduce a new age of reason?

By now he was far beyond the river. He was a swift, powerful flyer; miles could pass during a moment lost to thought. It did him no good to fly blind. He needed to pick a destination. There must be some place in the kingdom where he could find shelter.

He looked to his left, searching the heavens for the pole star, But for some reason the stars were blotted out. He startled as he realized that he was in the company of another sun-dragon, dark and hidden in the night.

It was Zanzeroth. He raced toward Shandrazel on an intentional collision course. Shandrazel banked hard, pulling up to avoid the old stalker. His speed and strength gave him the edge; Zanzeroth passed beneath him with a yard to spare. Without warning, something snaked through the air with a
snap
, entangling his leg. Searing pain flashed up his spine as his body whipped to a halt. Suddenly, he was falling, dragged by Zanzeroth’s dead weight as the old dragon folded his wings. Shandrazel stretched to grab as much air as he could to slow their descent. Still they plummeted.

Then, only a few feet above the treetops, Zanzeroth opened his wings once more, catching his own weight. Shandrazel tried to recover from the sudden change in balance, but it was too late. The branches snatched and dragged at him, yanking him into the canopy. He crashed unceremoniously onto the leafy floor of the forest.

Shandrazel lay on his belly, stunned, all breath knocked from his body, until sharp claws wrapped themselves in the fringe of scales along his skull and jerked his head back. A cold sliver of steel pressed against his throat.

“You’re working with the wizard, aren’t you?” hissed Zanzeroth. “You’re up to your eyeballs in this. You could have won the contest fairly… Instead you conspired to have your brother killed.”

“That’s insane,” Shandrazel spat.

“Is it? Who profits more from your brother’s death?”

“I wanted no profit! I publicly defied my father and pleaded to have Bodiel appointed king!”

“A clever cover,” said Zanzeroth. “I confess, I was fooled until I had time to eliminate the false leads. Then I was left with the obvious.”

Shandrazel had heard enough. He jerked his head backward, slamming into the old dragon’s snout. He raised his fore-claw to catch the wrist that held the blade to his throat and twisted, forcing the weapon away. Zanzeroth was a skilled, experienced fighter, but Shandrazel had youth, speed, and strength to spare. He yanked the stalker free from his back, slamming him to the ground. A tall, narrow pine toppled as Zanzeroth’s hips cracked against it. Shandrazel sprang to his feet, bracing for a new attack.

“You senile old idiot,” Shandrazel said, his voice crackling with anger. “Your stunt could have killed us both. All over some baseless theory!”

Zanzeroth’s wings lay limp as blankets on the forest floor. The twitch of his tail revealed him to be conscious, however. The old dragon took a ragged breath, then chuckled.

“If I’d wanted to kill you, the whip would have gone around your neck rather than your leg,” Zanzeroth said.

“And if I wanted to kill you,” said Shandrazel, “I’d snap your old neck in two before you ever saw me move.”

“I believe you could,” said Zanzeroth. “You never lacked ability as a warrior. Only bloodlust. You fight only with your brains, never with your heart.”

“You didn’t chase me down to critique my fighting techniques,” said Shandrazel.

“Didn’t I? I honestly believed you planned Bodiel’s murder. But if you had, would I still be alive? You’d have killed me to silence me. I’m disappointed, not for the first time tonight. I guess you might be innocent after all.”

“You should know I’m no murderer,” said Shandrazel.

“But I had hope,” said Zanzeroth with a sigh. “Hope that you were a schemer, a deceiver, a cheat, and a killer. Hope that you had what it takes after all.”

“What it takes?”

“To come back,” Zanzeroth said. His joints popped as he rolled to his belly, raising himself on all fours, stretching his long neck to limber it. “I hoped you’d do your duty and kill Albekizan.”

“You’re his oldest friend,” said Shandrazel. “How can you wish such a thing?”

“What is the future you envision? A world where your father grows increasingly old and feeble until death claims him in his sleep? This is not an honorable way to die. In his decline, the kingdom would crumble. A loving son would sever his jugular while he still enjoys life.”

“A world where old dragons may die in their sleep doesn’t frighten me,” said Shandrazel.

Keeping his eyes fixed on Shandrazel, Zanzeroth rose. Shandrazel tensed his muscles as Zanzeroth reached for a pouch slung low on his hip. The hunter’s old, dry hide sounded like rustling paper as he moved. He untied the clasp of the leather bag and produced two round, red things the size of melons. He tossed them toward Shandrazel’s feet.

They were severed human heads, their bloodless white faces in sharp contrast with their gore-soaked hair and the brown-crusted stumps of their necks.

“Cron,” said Zanzeroth, “and Tulk.”

Shandrazel supposed it to be true. The faces were too distorted by death to be recognizable.

“Did you think you would spare them last night by not hunting?” Zanzeroth asked.

Shandrazel shrugged. “I hadn’t given their ultimate fates a great deal of thought. But yes, part of me hoped they’d be forgotten in the confusion.”

Zanzeroth cast his gaze down at the severed heads. He stood taller as if drinking in the sight of them gave him strength. “Do you enjoy looking upon dead men, Shandrazel?”

“Of course not,” said Shandrazel. “What kind of question is that?”

“Perhaps not so much a question as a warning. Your father plans to kill all the humans. He will build monuments from their bones. Pyramids of human skulls will rise from the fields. The species will be driven into extinction.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Shandrazel.

“The beauty of truth is that belief plays no part in whether it happens or not.”

“Why would father do this?” said Shandrazel.

“Is it important?” asked Zanzeroth. “From where I stand, the only thing that’s really important is that no one can stop him. Nothing will save the humans… except, perhaps, a new king.”

“You’ve come here to tempt me, then,” said Shandrazel.

“Take my words as you wish,” said Zanzeroth, turning away and limping into the shadows. “I will take my leave.”

SAFELY BEYOND SHANDRAZEL’S
sight, Zanzeroth slumped against a tree. His head throbbed from the blow Shandrazel had dealt; his whole body was bruised and numb. He could barely feel his left leg. There was no doubt about it. If Shandrazel grew a spine, he would be a formidable match for his father. Perhaps the prince’s misguided sense of affection toward humans might save them yet.

Not that Zanzeroth gave a damn about the human race, as a lot. But somewhere among them was the man who stole his eye. With the king’s policy of killing off the whole species, Bitterwood, or the man pretending to be him, might be lost. If the king were to poison the wells of the humans, and his assailant were to die anonymously, just one bloated corpse among millions, Zanzeroth would never find satisfaction. Thus, it was in his best interests to complicate the king’s plans. And if Shandrazel was to be the tool, so be it.

SHANDRAZEL FLEW THROUGH
the night and day, past the point of exhaustion. Tradition held that he had twenty-four hours to escape the kingdom. At nightfall, all subjects of the king were duty bound to kill him. His older brothers were all reported to have flown toward the Ghostlands, the cursed, dead cities that littered the northern wastes. There were rumors of powerful magics within the Ghostlands; Shandrazel had himself been tempted by the promise of exploring the unknown. And yet the day found him heading south, deeper into the lands held by Albekizan rather than to the possible safety of the north. He was determined to reach the one place in the kingdom where he knew he would find kindred spirits: the College of Spires.