“Okay,” she said. “Fewer guards in the palace makes it easier for us,” Jandra said. “We might get the information you want before whatever is happening in the Free City unfolds. Are you ready?”
“Yes,” Bitterwood said.
Jandra rose and once more cast the circle of invisibility around them. They headed toward the castle where she had lived a lie for so long.
Jandra had no problem leading Bitterwood past the handful of guards remaining in the castle and up the steps to the king’s hall. From here they could descend through the High Biologian’s door into the library.
“Look there,” Bitterwood whispered as they passed near the throne pedestal.
Following his outstretched arm, she could see a quiver of arrows and a bow hanging on the wall high above the throne. A few red feathers caught the pale moonlight.
“That’s the bow Pet took from the armory,” Bitterwood said. “But those three arrows are mine. Where did he get them?”
“I don’t know,” Jandra said.
Bitterwood looked lost in thought. At last, he said, “When the sky-dragon tackled me in the window at Chakthalla’s castle, I lost several shafts. He must have found them. Perhaps this convinced Zanzeroth that Pet was me.”
“Pet’s bought you a second chance,” Jandra said. “When this is done, you’ll help rescue him, won’t you?”
Bitterwood looked at her, his brow furrowed. His voice gave no clue to his feelings as he said, “Let’s move on.”
Jandra nodded. They moved toward the library door. She wondered if it was locked. The point was rendered moot as the door swung open at her approach. Whispered voices met them.
“It’s time,” one said. “The dark will hide us.”
“Lead on,” said another.
Drawing the cloak of invisibility as tightly around them as possible, Jandra took Bitterwood by the arm and rushed forward past the three figures who entered the corridor. Even in the dark she could recognize Metron… and Shandrazel? Why was he here? She had never seen the third dragon. She and Bitterwood slipped into the library seconds before Metron closed the door. Quickly, they made their way to the rooms where the slave records were kept. Her heart sank as she stepped inside. So many rows of files. So many slaves.
“It could take all night to search,” she said.
“A night or a year, you’ve done your part,” Bitterwood said. “I’ll search alone if need be.”
“No,” she said. She had made a promise and intended to keep it. “Let’s get started.”
“Are you sure this is wise?” Androkom asked, slowing to allow Metron to catch up.
“Positive,” Metron said, his voice strained with the effort of climbing the stairs. “Blasphet may be mad but I understand the source of his madness. He holds no grudge against us.”
“Still,” Androkom said, “do you know how many dragons this monster has killed? It’s not like he’s ashamed of it. He calls himself the Murder God. This would argue against an alliance, I think.”
“Monster or not, Blasphet is currently the king’s closest advisor,” Metron answered testily. “It’s not too late to turn back if you’re afraid.”
“We’re not frightened,” Shandrazel said. “While I question the usefulness of this visit, my uncle is no match for me, physically, should he attempt to betray us.”
At last they reached the main floor and the star chamber. Metron entered without bothering to knock.
Blasphet awaited them, standing before a dying fire in the room’s lone fireplace. He stirred the orange coals with a long iron poker, then placed a heavy copper caldron onto the hook above the coals before turning to greet his guests.
“Welcome, fellow conspirators,” Blasphet said, and bowed ceremoniously. “Especially you, dear nephew. My, you’ve grown in the years since last I saw you.”
“Do not refer to me as a conspirator,” Shandrazel said. “I take this path out of love for my father and the kingdom.”
“Ah! Nobility. I’m glad to see Albekizan’s bloodline has produced a scion that possesses a touch of my own idealism,” said Blasphet in a sincere tone. “You fill me with hope for the world, Shandrazel.”
“I take it you received the note I sent you?” Metron asked.
“Yes,” Blasphet said as he walked to the balcony doors. He closed them, sealing the room. “Now we can be assured of privacy.”
“Is it true?” Androkom asked. “You have a poison that can temporarily paralyze a foe, but otherwise does no harm?”
“Indeed,” Blasphet said. “Such a poison would be a perfect way to assure you of a captive audience from my brother, wouldn’t it?”
“It’s not my preferred approach,” said Shandrazel. “But Metron insists it’s the only way to speak to my father without him immediately going for my throat.”
Blasphet stared at Shandrazel, studying his eyes. Shandrazel didn’t turn away from the stare and met his gaze. Shandrazel noticed a family resemblance in the sharp, well-bred lines of his uncle’s face, despite Blasphet’s discolored hide and bloodshot eyes. It was like looking at some dark reflection of his father.
Blasphet asked, “You still think you can use reason to persuade him?”
“I hope so,” Shandrazel answered.
“Truly, your idealism exceeds my own,” Blasphet said.
“How is this poison delivered?” Androkom asked. “Via drink?”
Blasphet shook his head.
“The blood, then?” Androkom asked. “An… an injunction. Injection, rather.” The young biologian’s speech was slightly slurred.
Metron swayed on his feet. He mumbled, “Blasphet, I… I…” The elder biologian raised his talon to rub his brow.
“Yes?”
“I feel… light-headed. The exertion… of the stairs-”
“No,” Shandrazel said, noticing his own breathing growing shallow. “I feel it too.”
Suddenly the High Biologian’s eyes rolled beneath his lids and he toppled sideways. Shandrazel moved quickly, reaching out to catch the aged dragon in his arms before he hit the stone floor.
“The air…” Androkom said, leaning against a wall to steady himself.
“Is it too warm in here?” Blasphet asked. “I would open a window but that would let the poison out.”
“Betrayer!” Shandrazel shouted, letting Metron slide to the floor. He leapt toward his uncle, his claws outstretched. But the air seemed too thick, slowing him, as if he were moving through water. The room swayed and where Blasphet should have stood he found only a wall. Shandrazel collided face-first with solid stone.
“Feeling a little disoriented, nephew?”
Shandrazel turned around, his legs trembling.
Androkom now sprawled across the floor, as unconscious as Metron. Blasphet had moved back to the fireplace, once more stirring the coals with the poker.
Shandrazel rushed forward, fighting the fog in his mind to focus on the target of his uncle’s throat. He opened his jaws wide.
Blasphet suddenly possessed supernatural speed. He drew the poker above his head, then chopped it down between Shandrazel’s eyes in a blur.
There was a flash of light, a crash of drums, then darkness. The darkness broke with pale red light as Shandrazel opened his eyes once more. He was on the floor, looking across toward Metron’s slumped body. The High Biologian’s silver-tinted scales seemed surrounded by tiny halos. Why was Metron on the floor? Shandrazel’s head throbbed with distant pain. He braced himself with his claws and slowly rose. The floor was spinning as if on a giant turntable. He could vaguely hear someone saying, “You’re as hard-headed as your father.”
Another crash and the floor raced up to meet him. Everything grew silent and still.
“Wake up,” the voice said.
No. Shandrazel ached too much to open his eyes. He pulled the blanket of sleep more tightly around his mind.
“Wake up!” the voice repeated, and this time the demand was met by a strong poke in Shandrazel’s gut. Shandrazel tried to twist away from the pain but couldn’t move. The rattling of chains provoked his curiosity more than the voice did. Then he remembered. Blasphet! His eyes jerked open.