"All right," said Jeremiah. "I know I ain't going to talk you out of it. Just promise you'll be careful."
Zeeky nodded but didn't actually say the words, so it didn't count.
It was daylight when Zeeky lit out for Dead Skunk Hole. She soon arrived at the sturdy wooden ramp that led up to the entrance. Fog hid everything more than thirty feet away. She held the rail for balance on the slippery wood, as Poocher crept along beside her, looking wary.
"Guess this is it," she said to Poocher as they reached the entrance of the mine. The gaping hole in the mountainside looked like a giant mouth looming in the mist. It had a faint wet skunk atmosphere drifting out of it. She gave Poocher a scratch under his bristly chin as she knelt to gaze into his dark eyes. "Not too late to turn back if you want. I'll understand."
Poocher snorted and twitched his snout, indicating he wouldn't abandon her.
She stepped into the mine and looked around. The entrance was huge, big enough for an entire army of dragons to take shelter. All around were carts and picks and lanterns, equipment the miners used in their daily chores. The mines had been worked for centuries. Her Papa used to say that the mountain was almost hollow now. Yet, each time a vein of coal would play out, a new vein would be discovered, a little deeper down, a little further in. The men complained it took a full day to walk to the current vein they worked. The miners labored in five day shifts. Zeeky couldn't imagine spending so long away from the sun. No wonder all the men always looked so tired and haunted.
Zeeky lit the oil lamp closest at hand. It wasn't as heavy as it looked. Long, jagged shadows stretched out against walls blackened by centuries of lantern smoke. She stepped further into the mine, away from the pale, fog-filtered daylight. Poocher stayed close by her heel. She walked several hundred yards down the main shaft when she reached her first obstacle. The shaft split into five different tunnels. A wooden elevator, designed to be powered by a team of mules, sat in a shaft that hinted at even more tunnels beneath. She wished the mules weren't gone. She could have asked for help.
"Any ideas, Poocher?"
Poocher roamed over the floor, sniffing. He spent several minutes at the entrance of each tunnel before letting out a grunt.
"Good job," she said.
Poocher snorted a thank you and trotted ahead. She followed, her eyes straining at the shadows. The white patches of Poocher's hide grew increasingly gray. Was Poocher getting dirtier, or was the lantern getting dimmer? She tried to adjust the wick. The light brightened briefly, but as she fiddled with the lantern she could hear a sloshing of what could only be a few teaspoons of oil. She suddenly realized why the lantern had felt so light. It was her first time using a lantern. She'd watched her father use them, and was pretty sure she knew how to refill it. Her father said there were oil barrels all through the mine. Had she passed one yet? Had there been one back near the elevator?
She turned around.
The lantern flickered, the glass darkening with sooty smoke. She started to run.
Everything went black.
Brown gunk covered the marble floor of the grand hall of Chakthalla's castle. Here and there in the muck, bright shards of the broken stained-glass windows that had once lined the hall glinted in the firelight. This room was vivid in Jandra's nightmares-it was the room where her throat had been slit. Some of the nastiness on the floor might be her own decayed blood, mixed with rain and rotting leaves that had blown into the abandoned room. Here, she'd watched the sun-dragon Zanzeroth gut Vendevorex and leave him for dead. This was the room where she'd learned the truth behind the biggest secret of her life-that it had been Vendevorex who'd killed her parents, for no other reason than to prove himself to Albekizan.
Despite her terrible memories of the place, she'd known the castle held rooms large enough to shelter Hex. They'd been only a few miles away when the weather became too dangerous to continue their journey by air. Once the fogs rolled in, flight was a foolish risk.
Hex was curled up near the fireplace at the rear of the room, slumbering. His belly gurgled as it digested the young buck he'd swooped down upon and killed earlier. He'd eaten most of the buck raw, hooves and all, but had saved Jandra some meat from a haunch. She'd roasted it over the fire and had her fill. Jandra would have joined Hex in sleep, but, oddly, despite her full belly and the fact she'd barely slept in days, she wasn't even mildly tired. Vendevorex had seldom slept. He'd needed no more than a few hours each week to remain alert. Was this another side effect of the helmet?
Jandra passed the time by reweaving and altering her clothes, doodling with the physical qualities of the fibers. She'd altered the color of the fabric, changing it from black to a red shade resembling Hex's hide. She'd adjusted the fit of her loose mourning clothes until they clung to her like a second skin, though not too immodestly. From just beneath her chin down to her toes, there was no hint of exposed flesh save for her fingers and palms-even the backs of her hands were hidden by a red, feathery, scale-patterned lace she'd created. Her breasts were modestly concealed by a leather vest she'd crafted by replicating the molecules of leather in her shoes. She was sufficiently occupied with her newfound talent as a mental seamstress that the ghosts of the room didn't haunt her.
Unfortunately, the same wasn't true of Hex. His sleep grew fitful. His jaws clenched with rapid snaps, as if he was biting at some unseen foe in his dreams. His claws flexed and twitched. Suddenly, he jerked his head up, his eyes open wide, as he shouted, "No!"
Jandra reached out and placed a hand upon his hind-talon.
"It's okay, Hex. Just a bad dream."
Hex stared at her, confusion in his eyes. He shuddered, and released a long breath. "I was dreaming of the contest of succession," he said.
"Oh," said Jandra. The contest of succession had pitted two of Albekizan's sons against one another in a ritual hunt of human slaves. The victor had had a chance to challenge Albekizan in combat for the throne. The loser had been castrated, and sent into a life of servitude to the biologians. Jandra could see how such an event could lead to unpleasant dreams, even thirty years later.
Hex rose to his hind-talons, stretching his wings, shaking off the effects of sleep.
"Everyone expected me to win," said Hex. "But the slave I hunted drowned while swimming the river. It took three days for his body to be discovered. The human my brother hunted broke his leg falling from a tree within sight of the palace. His howls of anguish made him easy to find. Dacorn tried to console me with talk of destiny. He said that fate required someone else to wear the crown."
"Perhaps there's truth to it," said Jandra. "No one expected Shandrazel to become king. And now, he may be the king that brings an end to kings."
"Destiny played no part in this," Hex said. Now that his limbs were awake once more, he crouched down near the fire, his legs beneath him, his wings folded against his body. In this posture, with his long serpentine neck, he resembled a giant, scaly, blood-red swan. "Life is essentially random. Shandrazel is king by chance alone. Bitterwood killed Bodiel, then my father. No guiding power put him on the throne."
"These things aren't random," said Jandra. "Bitterwood wanted revenge against your father because your father took his family. Things happen for reasons. Our lives are entangled with the lives of those around us."
"Just because our lives are tied together doesn't make us puppets. We're free to cut our strings."
"There's a poet inside you," Jandra said.
"Nonsense," said Hex. "Poets seldom have any meat on them. I'd have to be starving to eat one. "