“Don’t cry.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“It’s okay,” Pet said. “But you need to go. Kanst could return at any time.”
“Good-bye,” Jandra said, leaning down and placing a kiss on Pet’s cheek.
“Good luck with your plan,” Pet said.
Pet watched Jandra step away. A swirl of tiny stars engulfed her in the darkness, and when they fell away, she had vanished. Turning his eyes toward the door, he saw at last the flap sway aside before falling back. Only then did he let tears fill his own eyes. He’d done well playing brave before her. He prayed he could repeat the performance when he finally faced Albekizan.
Jandra knelt beside the sleeping form of the real Bitterwood. He’d been silent all day, marching sullenly, looking as if he’d lost all will to live. First Pet decided to become a hero, then Bitterwood lost his will to fight. Were all human males this prone to mood swings? Ven had his faults but at least he was predictable.
Bitterwood lay so still she wondered for a second if he was dead. She could see the slightest movement of his chest, rising and falling beneath his threadbare clothing. His shirt was a mass of patches, stitches, and stains; it looked as if it hadn’t been laundered in months. Not even the humans that lived in the hovels around Albekizan’s palace had worn such rags. Furthermore, Bitterwood stank; he smelled of sweat, road dust, and dried blood. Holding her breath she reached out her hand to wake the sleeping dragonslayer. When her hand was still an inch from his shoulder he said, quietly, “I’m awake.”
“Good,” she whispered. “We need to talk.”
He continued to lay perfectly still, his eyes closed. He sighed, with breath ripened by rotting teeth, then said, “Say what you must.”
“I want to know what’s wrong with you. Twenty-four hours ago you were this cold-blooded dragon-slayer. Now, all day you’ve been shuffling around, blank-eyed, looking half dead. Are you faking this? Are you just waiting for the right moment to strike? Because if you are, I want to help.”
He waited a long moment before answering, “You should get some sleep.”
“In preparation for battle?” she said, hopefully. “You are planning to fight.”
“I’m planning on walking however far the dragons command us to walk tomorrow,” said Bitterwood.
“This isn’t like you,” she said.
He turned toward her voice and opened his eyes. He fixed his gaze upon her.
“You cannot judge me,” he said. “Long ago, I was taught that the greatest thing a man could do was to lay his life down for another. I was taught that if struck, I should turn the other cheek. If anyone harmed me, or trespassed against me, I was commanded to love and forgive them. Love and forgiveness were the greatest virtues. I believed these lies for almost a decade.”
“Why are love and forgiveness lies?” she asked, aware of the irony as she said it. She certainly had no intention of forgiving Vendevorex, or ever loving him again.
“I was taught that there was a god who loved us so much, he gave his own son in sacrifice. Imagine that foolishness… sacrificing your life to redeem others.”
“It sounds noble to me,” she said.
“As it did to me, once. Then I learned that the man who taught me these things wasn’t what I thought he was. I met him when I was young; I almost thought of him as a father. You can’t know how his betrayal wounded me.”
Jandra nodded. “I might have some idea.”
“After his betrayal, I vowed never to be weak again. There would be no love. There would be no forgiveness. I would never turn my cheek if struck. I would match every blow with double the force. I would never show mercy.”
“But you turned yourself in to save the villagers. You still have a good side.”
“I still have a weak side,” Bitterwood said. “I once… I once had children. Two daughters. An infant son. The night before the attack, I met Zeeky. She reminded me of my own long lost daughters. On any other night, Kanst’s gambit would never have caught me. But I couldn’t get Zeeky’s voice out of my head. In the end that lingering trace of compassion destroyed me. I surrendered myself to the dragons to save her.”
“Just as you’d been taught to do,” she said.
He nodded. “Yet my sacrifice was in vain. I was rejected. The dragons would have slain me and slaughtered the villagers.”
“If Pet hadn’t intervened.”
Bitterwood didn’t respond to this. He closed his eyes and turned back on his side.
“He gave himself selflessly,” he whispered. “The villagers were spared. Now I wonder, were the lies of my youth true after all? Can a man love others so much he will surrender his life to save them? Was my sacrifice rejected because I am unclean, corrupted by my hate? I’m guilty; Pet was innocent. Was his sacrifice superior because his heart was pure?”
Jandra said, “Pure isn’t a word I would use to describe Pet. I spoke to Pet a minute ago. He’s intent on getting himself killed. It doesn’t have to end like this. I can get your bow and arrows back. You were magnificent in the castle. Think how much damage you could do with me by your side, keeping you invisible. We’d be the ultimate dragon-slaying team. You can save Pet and everyone here. You’re my only hope.”
Bitterwood lay motionless once more. His breathing was even, as if he had actually fallen asleep. She reached out to nudge him, and once more, he spoke before her fingers reached him.
“Life is more bearable when you live without hope,” he said.
Vendevorex woke into darkness, his eyes straining as dim light began to slowly form shapes around him. For hours he’d pitched and turned, burning with fever. Now his fever had broken. He touched his belly, probing softly. His wounds had vanished. Once he’d set the healing in motion, his unconscious mind had been able to guide the process.
Smoke hung in the air. The smoke had a touch of pine to it. The air was moist and… he could hear water boiling. He sniffed again. Sassafras? Vendevorex looked around. He wasn’t in Chakthalla’s castle anymore. He lay next to a small fire pit and, across from him, basking in the fire’s glow, was a sun-dragon, his face hidden beneath a black velvet hood. Vendevorex had a brief flash of memory. He’d been carried from the throne room by this dragon.
“Where am I?” Vendevorex asked.
“A cavern. I’ve hidden here before,” answered the masked dragon as he stirred the coals beneath a blackened kettle. “You lost consciousness not long after we slipped past Kanst’s army. I brought you here to recover.”
“How long have I been asleep?”
The masked dragon motioned toward a stalactite. A tall, slender glass cylinder etched with lines sat beneath it, catching the water that dripped from its tip. “If my clock is accurate, you’ve been unconscious nearly thirty hours.”
“Where’s Jandra?”
“Don’t you remember? She ran off, angry with you.”
“She didn’t come back?”
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t wait. I know of no way she could find us now. We’ve eluded even the ox-dogs.”
“I see,” Vendevorex said. “Then I should go search for her.”
“Perhaps she doesn’t want to be found,” the masked dragon said.
“I must find her. I had hoped to convince her to avoid Albekizan’s schemes. I see that is no longer an option. But I can’t let her fight single-handedly against your father.”
The masked dragon grew suddenly still. Then, after too long a pause, he asked, bemused, “My father?”
“Come now, Shandrazel. You can’t fool me. I’ve known you for too long. You have nothing to fear. I’m definitely not going to carry out your father’s death order.”
“No,” Shandrazel agreed, grabbing his mask and pulling it from his head. “I suppose you won’t.”
“Nor, I suspect, would Chakthalla. She would have welcomed you to her planned rebellion. Why hide your identity?”
“Because,” Shandrazel answered, “I’ve no desire to be king.” He lifted the kettle from the coals and poured pungent, oily liquid into clay cups. “This drink will help revitalize you. It’s-”