The black-robed prophet turned away, becoming a dark shadow against a dark sky. His voice seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere as he said, “I shall return in three days. Prepare yourself. If you have sought the forgiveness of the Lord at this time, I, too, shall forgive you. We shall never speak again of your shameful behavior. But be warned: If you continue down the sinner’s path, or if you fail to meet me here on the appointed day, I will slay you when next we meet.”
“Kill me now,” Bant said, his head hung low. His broken hands lay useless on the ground before him. “Everything I loved is gone. Everything I believed has been a lie.”
“I have given you my judgment. I go now to rest. My maker built me well, but it will take time to repair the damage done. Three days, Bant Bitterwood.”
The prophet’s shadow dissolved into the night. Bant couldn’t stop weeping. He crawled over the broken ground toward the ash that had once been his home.
Was it all a lie? Hezekiah’s promise of a Lord watching over him, of a heavenly reward? Had he devoted his life to some absurd fiction? Could he believe in anything now?
In the dim light Bant could just make out the footprints of the dragons that had stood before the door. Seeing the truth of what the beasts had done didn’t require even a mustard seed of faith.
His most fundamental beliefs were shattered.
All that he cherished, lost.
He no longer wanted to live in this barren world.
In the absence of love and faith, a single realization filled him as he stared at the dragon’s footprint, pouring into his body in a hot wave like strong drink. He turned his face toward the starry sky and cursed till his voice trailed off in laughter. He still knew how to hate. And hate, he knew, could change the world.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: BLASPHET
Metron, the High Biologian, descended the dark stone spiral that led to the deepest tombs of the library. His carried a lantern but kept it shuttered. He didn’t need his vision to walk this familiar path. He’d spent over a century within the library. He was the guardian of all the wide-ranging and ancient knowledge contained within the walls. No dragon alive had read more books than Metron; no dragon was more in love with their musty smell or their yellowed pages. This made his present descent into darkness all the more troubling. Today Metron’s mission was to destroy the collection’s most sacred books.
He’d been drinking wine all evening, with three bottles drained and a fourth, nearly empty, clutched in his gnarled talons. His courage, he knew, would never be greater. If he didn’t destroy the books now he never would.
At last he arrived in the basement. He paused before the display case that held one of the dragons’ most cherished artifacts. It was a slab of white stone, etched with the feathered fossil of a creature long since vanished from the earth. Half bird, half reptile, the winged beast looked for all the world like the smaller, more primitive ancestor of the winged dragon. A copper plate beneath the case bore the word “Archaeopteryx.” Replicas of this stone hung in the halls of sun-dragons and in the towers of biologians throughout the kingdom, in testament to the dragon’s long and rightful dominance of the earth.
Metron knew it had not been a dragon who long ago exhumed this fossil and engraved the letters into the copper.
“Guardian of the secrets,” Metron muttered, his speech slurred. “Guardian of lies is more like it.”
With no reverence at all for the artifact before him, Metron leaned his shoulder into the case and used the full weight of his body to push it aside. He paused, taking another drink from the flask, studying the iron door revealed behind the display, its hinges caked with rust.
Beyond the door was the forbidden collection, to be seen only by the High Biologian. Metron wished he had never read the terrible truths held in the books behind this barrier. He hung his lantern on the wooden peg near the door and placed the tarnished key into the deep lock. With a strain that hurt his aged wrist, he twisted the key until the lock clanged open. Clenching his teeth, he grasped the ring that opened the door and dug his feet into the cracks in the floor stones. Needles pierced his heart as he strained and struggled against the weight, but at last, with a shudder, the door creaked open.
Light seeped from the growing crack. Metron frowned, unable to comprehend what could cause the brightness from within. He looked inside. The wine bottle slipped from his clutch, crashing to the stone floor.
Blasphet, the Murder God, waited for him, resting on all fours before an immense wooden table strewn with dozens of books and glowing candles. The chamber, which always seemed so vast to Metron, looked cramped when occupied by a sun-dragon, even one as thin and withered as Blasphet. The rear of the chamber was gone; the stone wall had been carted away, revealing a dungeon chamber beyond.
Metron swallowed, his throat suddenly very dry. He wished he had more wine. “How did you-”
“In my years in the dungeons, I grew quite sensitive to sounds,” Blasphet said. “I knew there were other chambers dug into the bedrock of the castle. I used to fantasize about what I might discover were I to have access to an army of earth-dragons armed with sledgehammers.”
“I see,” Metron said. “So much effort, only to discover a chamber full of lies.”
“Lies?” Blasphet said, holding up a small, leather-bound volume entitled Origins of the Species. “Most of what I’ve read parallels your own teachings… though with one significant twist. Still, while this is an interesting discovery, it’s not what I’m looking for. I’m disappointed. I was certain this sealed chamber would hide something worth knowing.”
“Nothing in here is worth knowing,” Metron said. “It’s why these books aren’t kept with the others. You’ll find only fables and heresies here.”
“I’m rather fond of heresies,” Blasphet said.
“No doubt,” said Metron. “Still, I insist you leave. No one is allowed into this room save for myself. It’s the law.”
“Dear me, another law broken,” Blasphet said, his eyes brightening.
“The books here can be of no value to you,” Metron said. “Half are written in lost tongues. You waste your time.”
“I’m a quick study,” Blasphet said. “I’m also the best judge of what interests me.”
“The only thing that interests you is death,” Metron said.
“Ah, but you’re mistaken, Metron.” Blasphet sat the book back on the table. “Life is what fascinates me. Life and the lies we are told about it. For instance, how many times have I been witness to a funeral pyre and listened to the legend of Asrafel? We are taught that life is flame.”
“So it is written,” Metron said.
Blasphet shook his head. “My experiments tell me otherwise. If life is flame, why is it that when I burn my subjects in a pit of fire, they die? Shouldn’t they, in fact, prosper? In the legend of Asrafel, we are asked to believe that breathing smoke reconnects us to our ancestors. I have tested this. I have placed my subjects in airtight rooms and filled the atmosphere with smoke. They cough. They die. There seems to be no spiritual connection at all.”
“Just because our mortal minds are unable to comprehend the paradox of flame is no reason to dispute the holy truth,” Metron said.
“‘Holy’ is a word used to conceal a great deal of nonsense,” Blasphet said. “If we disregard the evidence of our senses, won’t that lead to madness?”
“Perhaps our senses are limited while confined to flesh,” said Metron. “And you are already mad.”
“No. Not mad. I merely trust the senses I possess. My eyes tell me that flame is not beneficial to life, despite your ‘holy’ teachings.” Blasphet raised himself from all fours to place his weight on his hind claws in the more common posture of the sun-dragons. His shoulders scraped the stone ceiling of the chamber. “Unlike my fellow dragons, I have the intellectual honesty to reject an idea simply because it’s labeled ‘holy.’ I’ve pondered the mystery of life for many decades. I thought perhaps it’s not flame but heat that gives us the vital force. I’ve slit open many a dragon. The core of a dragon is undeniably hot-much hotter than the air around it. Perhaps heat is the key. However, when I place subjects in a steel box and heat it to a cherry-red glow, again they expire. Save for a brief bust of activity from the subject early on, heat has no invigorating effect at all.”