Graxen thought this highly unlikely. He said, "But what if the humans-"
"The tapestries will stay, Graxen," Shandrazel said. "There's no point in arguing with me. You know that during my time at the College of Spires, I never lost a debate."
Graxen himself had witnessed many of these debates. Did Shandrazel truly believe he'd always won due to his superior intellect? Was he blind to the fact that he owed his victories to being Albekizan's son more than to any special gift for logic?
"Of course, sire," said Graxen.
He glanced once more at the growing crowd of humans, wondering what their thoughts on the matter were. He took note of a tall young man with long blonde hair dressed in silk finery-he'd seen this human before, often in the company of Shandrazel. It was the one Albekizan had labeled as Bitterwood. Perhaps Shandrazel was right about Albekizan's blindness to truth. The man was obviously too young to be the source of the original Bitterwood legend.
The young Bitterwood was leaning in close to talk to a shorter man. The second man was bald save for a few whispery gray hairs, and sported a long braided mustache. In contrast to the robust form of Bitterwood, the man was stooped and thin, supporting himself with the help of a gnarled stave. Watching the two whisper to each other, Graxen was struck by a possibility. What if the older man were the original Bitterwood?
"I'm glad to see you again," Pet said, keeping his voice low as he leaned in to confer with Kamon. Kamon was a prophet from the town of Winding Rock. His people had been among the first brought to the Free City. Kamon was well known throughout the kingdom; for decades he had preached a philosophy of subservience to dragons, telling men they must not take up arms until the arrival of a nameless "savior." Kamonism was a popular philosophy. It promised better days coming, without requiring any immediate action on the parts of his followers.
Kamon nodded. "It was my duty to answer this call. For over half a century I've preached of the day when men would be free. I'm glad I lived long enough to see this day."
"You certainly had a loyal following in the Free City," said Pet. "Speaking of loyal followings, any idea where Ragnar is?"
Ragnar and his men had been the most ferocious fighters in the battle of the Free City. Pet owed his survival to Kamon and Ragnar. Both were genuine leaders, while Pet knew, deep down, he was a fraud. People believed him to be a fearsome dragon-slayer. In truth, even during the heavy fighting of the Free City, he'd never so much as scratched a dragon.
Kamon lowered his eyes at the mention of Ragnar. His lips trembled as if he was about to speak, but after several long seconds the old prophet merely shook his head.
"You don't know?" Pet asked.
"The most accurate answer is, yes, I don't know," Kamon said.
"What's a less accurate answer?"
"All I've heard are rumors. It may amount to nothing."
"I've always listened to rumors," said Pet. "What's going on?"
Kamon's voice fell to a whisper that Pet strained to hear. Kamon's breath smelled like sour milk as Pet leaned closer. "After the fall of the Free City, many of the captives returned to their homes. But I've heard that some of the men have formed a small army led by Ragnar."
"Small army? How small?"
"A few hundred. Perhaps a thousand at most."
Pet silently contemplated the news. Maybe this wasn't so bad. One right that was going to be discussed was the right for humans to assemble militias to defend themselves. Just because Ragnar had an army didn't mean he planned to go out and kill a bunch of dragons.
"According to rumor," Kamon said, so close now his mustache touched Pet's cheek, "Ragnar plans to capture the Dragon Forge and kill all the dragons within it."
"I see," Pet said neutrally. He kept his face impassive as various scenarios boiled in his mind. Ragnar would launch a war and lose, showing humans to be both hostile and weak. Or, Ragnar would win, showing humans to be hostile and dangerous. Neither was a good position for negotiating peace. Pet thought of informing Shandrazel of the rumor and possibly halting Ragnar's army before it did real harm. Yet, on a gut level, this felt wrong. He'd be dead if not for Ragnar. He couldn't just betray him. Where was Jandra when he needed her? She was the one with the brains. Not to mention an actual sense of right and wrong. Pet's moral compass normally steered him toward the path of least resistance. He wasn't entirely without his limits; having been the victim of torture, he'd had no trouble standing up to Androkom when he'd suggested torturing the captured assassin. Right now, however, he didn't know what to do, so he decided to do nothing.
Before he could confer further with Kamon, the doors of the Peace Hall swung open and six earth-dragons marched in, clanking and clunking as they advanced toward Shandrazel. Most earth-dragon soldiers wore light armor, but these were arrayed head to tail in elaborate steel exoskeletons, the individual pieces polished to a mirror finish that reflected the room's vivid colors. The earth-dragons snapped to a halt before Shandrazel. They saluted crisply and, in unison, removed their helmets.
Pet couldn't help but stare at the one in the center. The dragon's face was horribly disfigured, with a crack in his beak large enough that Pet could see his tongue even with his mouth closed. All that remained of the eye above this gash was a horrible tumor of scars.
"My lord Shandrazel," the earth-dragon said, his voice deep and authoritative, with a slightly wet whistling noise from his injured beak. "I am Charkon, commander of the Dragon Forge, a loyal servant of your father for sixty years. I've received your summons and am here to serve you."
"Thank you, esteemed guest," Shandrazel said. "Though, it is not your service I seek today, but your wisdom and counsel."
"Sire," Charkon said, "my wisdom comes from my service. For an earth-dragon, there is no greater purpose than to devote his life to the will of his superiors."
"I do not like the word 'superiors,'" said Shandrazel. "It implies that your race is an inferior one; these talks are to promote the equality of all races."
"Yes, sire. So I've heard. Let me be blunt: We earth-dragons aren't the equals of sun-dragons. You winged dragons see the world from up high. You're dreamers and planners and leaders because of your elevated view. We earth-dragons are simple creatures. We think of little in life beyond what we will eat next. We seldom ponder the world outside our immediate grasp. Our greatest joy comes from hitting things. We make fine soldiers and blacksmiths; we have no gift for politics."
"The eloquence of your words argues differently, noble Charkon," said Shandrazel.
Charkon started to answer, but his voice was drowned out by a flapping of wings. Pet looked toward the balcony to find a small army of sky-dragons alighting on the marble rail. Pet instantly recognized them as valkyries. He'd never actually been in the presence of these fabled female warriors, but as a performer he knew the ballads that sung their praises, and the valkyries had been popular subjects of the painting and sculptures at Chakthalla's castle.
The valkyries quickly fell into formation behind the tallest of the sky-dragons. Their armor and spears glinted in the warm morning light. The tallest valkyrie was unarmed and unarmored, but something about her eyes told Pet she was the most dangerous of the group. Her claws seemed especially sharp as they clacked upon the marble on her march across the room.
"Sire," she said, in a short, clipped syllable. Unlike the deferential Charkon, this valkrye showed no hint of submissiveness or even respect as she stared into Shandrazel's face. "I am Zorasta, commander of the valkyrie legion, the matriarch's appointed representative for these so-called 'talks.'"