Still, there was an atmosphere of optimism about the palace. The red and gold flags that served as the banner of Albekizan fluttered everywhere. Earth-dragon guards in crimson uniforms stood at each door, and above the towers of the palace the brilliant blue figures of the aerial guard could be seen. The aerial guard were those rare male sky-dragons who had chosen lives of combat over scholarship. Graxen himself had wished to join the guard when he was younger. He'd trained his body to endure the hardship of combat, and his childhood as an outcast had toughened him for a life of constant vigilance. Yet, his letters of application to the commander of the guard had never been returned. No matter. As messenger of the king, his life at last had purpose.
The one dark spot on the landscape of this historic day was a literal one-the Burning Grounds, the blackened funeral field still smoking with the pyres of the previous night. Many noble dragons who had valiantly given all in the battle of the Free City still awaited the ceremonial cremations. All winged dragons were due this honor; it would be a long time before any hint of grass returned to that charred field.
Beyond the Burning Grounds, almost hidden by the long shadow of the palace, stood the Free City itself, the cause of much of the recent trouble. This city had been built as a trap for humankind. Albekizan had promised a life of luxury and ease to its chosen residents, a reward, it was said, for their faithful service. In truth, the city had been designed by Albekizan's demented brother, Blasphet, to serve as an abattoir. Albekizan had authorized the genocide in order to produce a definitive end to the legendary dragon-hunter Bitterwood. Of course, in the end, Albekizan had underestimated the humans; on the day the residents were to be massacred, a rebellion had spread. What was to be a day of human slaughter turned into a day of human victory.
The Free City was empty now. Graxen wondered what would become of it. It seemed pointless to tear down the structure after so much wealth and effort had been expended to construct it. The Free City could house thousands of people. Perhaps humans would one day settle there peacefully, if they could overlook its sinister origins.
Graxen's reverie ended as he passed over the palace walls. He tilted his body toward a balcony, angling his wings to slow his descent. He gracefully lit on the balcony then walked into the marble-tiled hall beyond. The murmur of voices told him many of Shandrazel's guests had already arrived.
This was the Peace Hall. Albekizan had always referred to it as the war room, but Shandrazel had renamed the chamber as a sign of his intentions. Yet, despite the room's new name, its history still hung on the walls. Tapestries depicted a dozen scenes of Albekizan's conquests. Even the floor of the room was inlaid with a map fifty feet long showing the entirety of Albekizan's kingdom, laid out in precious metals and polished stones of exotic colors.
Groups had gathered in the four corners of the chamber. Four enormous sun-dragons leaned in closely with one another in conference in the corner nearest the balcony. Graxen knew them all as dragons he'd personally summoned. In the opposite corner, a crowd of humans stood. Graxen recognized a few: the mayor of Richmond was noteworthy for being unusually squat and round, and the mayor of Bilge he remembered due to the fact he only had one arm. Few of the other humans looked familiar. Graxen prided himself on his eye for details and his excellent memory, but he still had difficulty telling one human from another. It wasn't that they all looked alike, rather, there was too much variance. It was impossible to catalogue all the countless configurations of the human form. Adult sky-dragons varied little in color and size; adult human came in hundreds of shades of tan, and could vary in height by several feet and weight by hundreds of pounds. Their faces were an equally exasperating mish-mash-some hairy, some hairless, some with hair on their scalp and none on their cheeks and jaw, some with the pattern reversed. And that hair could come in an array of colors: white, black, gray, orange, brown, and gold, each in dozens of shades and mixtures.
With a fellow dragon, there were only a few simple identifying cues: the bumps of the snout; the curve of the jaw; subtle variations in the shape of the eyes; the way that no two sky-dragons scale patterns were ever exactly alike. A sky-dragon face instantly triggered recognition as the mind filtered through the logical system of organizing who was who by these differences. With humans, most identities were drowned out by the cacophony of possible features.
As he mused on identity, Graxen cast a glance toward a third cluster of gathered guests-sky-dragons like himself, all male-the biologians, the scholar-priests that guided the intellectual life of the kingdom. A few cast glances toward him with suspicious eyes. Graxen felt a sense of shame. Did the dismissive attitude he felt toward humans mirror the feelings the biologians had about him? Too different to ever be worth the effort of knowing? No biologian ever studied his face for his identifying features. He was forever marked as "other." Something deep in the brains of sky-dragons would never accept him as a fellow member of the species.
In the final corner of the room sat Shandrazel, resting upon a throne pedestal topped with a large golden pillow. The young king looked quite noble: his red scales freshly groomed, golden rings decorating the edges of his wings. Before him stood Androkom, the high biologian. Androkom wasn't much older than Graxen. It was odd to see a dragon of his youth wearing the green sashes that denoted such important rank. Androkom's most notable feature, however, was his lack of a tail; he'd lost most of the appendage after an encounter with Blasphet. Normally, sky-dragons placed great emphasis on physical perfection; the worst punishment any sky-dragon could face was to become a tatterwing. Graxen wondered if having an amputee dragon holding such high rank might lead to greater acceptance of deformities among sky-dragons.
Graxen approached as Shandrazel and Androkom quietly conferred. The king glanced up as he neared.
"Welcome, Graxen," Shandrazel said. "Thank you for your work in summoning everyone. They day is still young, but already many of the guests have arrived. However, I won't need your services today. You've worked hard these past weeks. You should take today to rest. Tomorrow as well."
"History will unfold here today," Graxen said. "I can think of no other place I'd rather be."
"Understood," said Androkom, sounding impatient. "However, you can't stay here. The talks must remain closed. Everyone who isn't a representative of their race must leave the chamber."
Graxen looked toward Shandrazel. The sun-dragon looked apologetic as he said, "He's right, I'm afraid. You can remain while the guests arrive, but I must request that you leave when the discussions begin."
Graxen nodded. He could see the logic of having the talks be private, but there was still something condescending about Androkom's emphasis on the words "representative of their race." Graxen looked around the room. If he couldn't remain, he still might play one small role in helping the talks succeed. The historic tapestries on the wall may have been effectively invisible to Shandrazel; no doubt he'd seen them his whole life, and paid little attention to their contents.
"Before I leave, may I assist in removing the tapestries?" he offered.
"Why?" asked Shadrazel.
Graxen motioned with his gaze to a tapestry behind Shandrazel's left shoulder. It showed a young Albekizan with a human body crushed in his jaws and a severed human head hanging in his left fore-talon. The glorified dragon stood upon a mountain of dead men.
"It hardly seems fair to the humans to negotiate a new government under such a reminder of the power of dragons," Graxen said.
"I understand your concerns," Shandrazel said, contemplating the image. "However, I value truth above all other virtues. My father was known for his blind spots. He acted as if Hex had never been born. He claimed that the map inlaid on the floor showed the entirety of the world when it actually only shows the narrow sliver he conquered. My father erased history as it suited his needs; I prefer to let the evidence of the past stand. Perhaps these glorifications of violence will inspire us to greater fairness."