Pet stirred from sleep. He wasn’t alone. He opened his eyes and found Zanzeroth looming over him. Pet glanced to the door of the tent. The guards were gone.
Zanzeroth bent his face close to Pet’s. His wounds were terrible. Stained gauze was stuffed into the gaping hole in the center of the aged dragon’'s snout. Black blood caked between his teeth. His eye patch was gone, revealing a scarred, ragged hole where his right eye should have been. His left eye was fixed on Pet’s face. The old dragon’s breath reeked of gore and goom.
In his claw, Zanzeroth held one of the arrows that had been pulled from his body. He raised it to his bloodied face. His tongue flickered out, licking the notched end of the arrow where the fingers would hold it against the string.
Then Zanzeroth moved his head to Pet’s chained hands. Pet squirmed as the hunter’s raspy tongue danced along his fingertips for a long moment.
The aged hunter then sat back, contemplating Pet in the darkness. He reached out a claw and, one by one, undid the buttons of Pet’s silk shirt. He pushed the cloth open, exposing Pet’s bare chest.
“Not a scar on you,” Zanzeroth whispered. He pulled Pet’s shirt closed. He leaned down and said, so softly that Pet wasn’t sure of the words, “I wanted to make certain.”
Zanzeroth turned and moved back toward the tent flap, half limping and swaying like a drunkard. He cast one last glance back as he pushed open the tent flap. Pet could see the body of a guard sprawled in the mud outside. Zanzeroth nodded.
“Sleep tight,” he said before the tent flaps closed behind him, leaving Pet alone.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: SATISFACTION
A week after his visit with Blasphet, Metron restlessly flipped the pages of an illuminated tome, waiting for sunset. Earlier, he’d watched Kanst returning, leading a band of captured humans to the Free City. Little time was left to avert the impending atrocities. Fortunately, his fellow biologians had pledged their assistance in researching Blasphet’s question. Today held the appointed hour for their responses.
As the last rays of daylight faded, Metron closed the tome before him. He straightened the green sashes that hung across his chest, then descended from his private chambers into the main body of the library. Here the long, high bookshelves were arranged in twisting rows, forming a maze in which even experienced biologians might find themselves lost. The narrow passageways between the shelves barely allowed room for sky-dragons to creep between them; sun-dragons never ventured into this area of the library. Metron often wondered if this was by accident or design.
Metron navigated the rows with a speed born of experience. He entered into a side chamber that was filled with crates of uncataloged books and looked around to make certain no one was watching. Then he pushed aside the crates along the far side of the room, revealing a smooth stone wall. The illusion of solid rock would have fooled Vendevorex himself. The builders of this place had access to many secret arts. Metron stepped forward, the wall rippling as it swallowed him.
Beyond the false wall, Metron’s scales bristled. The air here was thick and electric, ice-water cold yet smelling of heated iron. From all directions came a buzz of angry bees. Most unnerving off all, the room had no floor, no walls, no ceiling. All around him was a uniform, blank whiteness. It had been seven decades since he first stepped foot in this strange space, and still the sensation of toppling into an unending void threatened to overwhelm him. Despite the information his eyes gave him, he knew his feet rested on a solid surface. He tapped his staff against the unseen floor to assure himself.
This was the Snow Room, the secret meeting chamber of the biologians. There were thirty such chambers throughout the kingdom, and all predated the libraries that surrounded them. From this point, it was possible to see all who stood in those distant chambers, though hundreds of miles separated them. As he stared into the nothingness, he soon began to see the image of another biologian, materializing beside him like a traveler emerging from a fog.
It was Daknagol, the only biologian older than himself. Daknagol had initiated him in the secret of the Snow Room all those long years ago.
“Cursed place,” Daknagol grumbled. The fine scales around his eyes crinkled into a mask of disgust. “How this chamber filled me with wonder in my youth. Now, following every visit, I’m seized with prodigious vomiting. The humans who built this place must have been wicked indeed.”
“Hold your tongue, honorable Daknagol,” Metron said.
As he spoke, a second dragon emerged from the mist. It was Androkom, the youngest of the initiated biologians and, some said, the most brilliant. Despite his rank, Androkom still had the air of a student. This was due in part by his youth and the brightness of his feathers, but also because of the deep ink stains that covered his claws; scribe work was usually left to the novice biologians.
“Why would you have him hold his tongue?” Androkom asked. “Everyone present knows the truth. We live in a world of lost wonders. We scavenge among the miracles of a vanished human civilization. The pathetic, ignorant beasts we use to tend our fields once strode this world like gods.”
“Yes,” said Metron. “And they destroyed themselves with their own dangerous technology. Let me remind you, we aren’t here to debate the ancient past. We are here to discuss a more urgent question: what is life?”
By now, ten or more dragons had appeared. The question set them all talking at once. Metron banged his staff on the floor, regaining order. All fell silent save for Androkom.
“Exalted brothers,” Androkom said, raising his inky talons, “I have the answer that eludes the High Biologian. I know the secret source of life!”
Metron wasn’t surprised by this response. Androkom was famed for his intelligence-and his arrogance.
“Speak,” said Metron.
“Nothing contradicts the Book of Theranzathax. Life is flame.” Androkom held his head high as if to dare any of his fellow biologians to challenge him.
A cacophony of voices arose instantly, shouting in protest.
“Brothers,” Metron urged, banging his staff. “Restrain yourselves.”
When the assembly regained order, Metron said, “Androkom, why insist on the validity of the Book of Theranzathax? All here know that the book is a fabrication, composed not in ancient times but mere centuries ago.”
“I am aware that the biologian Zeldizar created the book,” Androkom said. “He wrote in the belief that dragons would only be truly liberated when they lost the knowledge of their lowly origins and embraced his new mythology. However, my studies lead me to believe that Zeldizar didn’t simply fabricate these myths. Rather, he disguised truth with metaphor and parable. His assertion that life is a flame is based on his knowledge of chemistry, for life and flame are analogous chemical processes.”
“Blasphet won’t be content with such a broad answer,” Metron said. “Many processes are chemical.”
“Acknowledged,” said Androkom. “The full details of my answer are not easily grasped, but I can provide evidence of their truthfulness.”
Metron nodded, then addressed the assembly as a whole. “Brothers, have any others among you found another answer?”
Daknagol was next to speak. “I, too, arrived at the answer that life is a chemical process. It is described in many ancient texts. But the writings are arcane and complex. Though we have insights into the true answer, understanding will no doubt forever elude us, despite young Androkom’s boasts.”