Jandra found herself intrigued. Her upbringing had left her certain, despite Adam's eye-witness testimony, that they weren't truly being led to a goddess. Jandra couldn't help but wonder: Were they being led to a woman who wielded power similar to her own? Invisibility, command of elements, a healing touch-it wouldn't be too difficult to convince some people that these were the powers of a god.
Vendevorex said he'd stolen the helmet. What if he'd stolen it from her parents? Could it be that this so-called goddess might be related to her? Jandra tried to suppress the thought, knowing it was absurd. And yet… she hadn't simply sprung from dust. She had parents. She had to be related to someone in this world. If she were to ever meet a brother or sister, would she recognize them?
Would she be any less tongue-tied than Bitterwood and Adam?
They walked on in silence once more. Hex slowed his pace slightly. Jandra, astride his shoulders, wondered why he was creating the additional distance between them and the Bitterwoods. Hex twisted his serpentine neck back toward her and said, softly, "I notice you've had little to so say to me since I killed that long-wyrm rider."
She was surprised he'd interpreted her silence so effectively. Vendevorex had never known what to make of her quiet moments; Bitterwood and Pet hadn't displayed much skill at it either.
"I don't think it was the killing that bothered me," she whispered back. "It was the way you swallowed him, and then announced that he tasted good. I know that Albekizan used to hunt humans for sport. Did you?"
"Of course," said Hex. "It was part of my upbringing."
"Did you always eat the men you killed?"
"It would have been wasteful not to," he said.
"When I first met you, you denounced the oppression of the weak by the strong. How can you justify eating humans if you truly believe the things you say?"
"I haven't hunted men for sport in thirty years," said Hex. "I didn't hunt that long-wyrm rider; he attacked you, and I acted in your defense. I wasn't making a political statement by eating him. I had meat in my mouth; I swallowed. Pure instinct. I'm sorry that this disturbed you. I'll be more careful in the future."
Jandra again found herself surprised by his words. Dragging an apology out of any other male she'd ever known had been almost impossible.
"I'm not angry with you," she said, realizing that, in truth, she wasn't. "I suppose I've just been having an identity crisis. I grew up among dragons. I've come to think of dragons as my family. It's always a shock when I'm confronted with the reality that I'm human, and that dragons aren't my family, but are, quite possibly, my mortal enemies."
"I'm not your enemy," he said.
"I know," she sighed.
"As long as we're on the subject of enemies, however," Hex said, "is your friend the true Bitterwood? Is he the man that killed my brother and father?"
"Yes," she said.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I worried you'd kill him when we met him."
"Would he not deserve it?"
"No," said Jandra. "You yourself said your father deserved his fate. Bitterwood has given me his vow he won't harm you. I don't want you seeking revenge against him."
"Unlike my father, I haven't a vengeful bone in my body," said Hex. "Endless cycles of revenge poison all our cultures, both dragon and human. I do, however, have a strong sense of self-preservation. If your friend so much at looks at me with evil intentions, I won't suffer the least remorse when I bite his head off. However, I will promise not to swallow."
Hex's words sounded loud to her in the relative quiet of the mine shaft. By now, Trisky was several hundred feet ahead of them. Could the Bitterwoods hear their conversation?
Bitterwood, astride the long-wyrm behind his long dead son, listened closely to the whispered voices behind him. Were the sun-dragon's words a ruse? Perhaps Hex was attempting to lull him into lowering his defenses. He sensed that this dragon was craftier than others he'd tangled with over the years.
Bitterwood welcomed this threat so near his back. He'd grown used to the life of the hunt. He'd become accustomed to the daily risk; the knowledge that the next dragon he faced might be the one to spot him at the last second and lunge, faster than he could react. What did it mean that he only felt alive when he faced such danger? When he'd killed Bodiel, he could have put an arrow into his brain on the first shot. Instead, he'd targeted his arrows into non-lethal spots, crippling the giant dragon, leaving him struggling in the mud, slowly bleeding to death. He'd taken his time, savoring Bodiel's anguish. Was he courting death by indulging in such sadism? Was he, in truth, as much a monster as his prey?
The close presence of a potentially hostile dragon gave Bitterwood a welcome distraction from the obvious question of why his son was alive, in service of the goddess, and dwelling beneath the earth.
Adam, perhaps growing tired of waiting for questions that never came, began to answer them.
"I was too young to remember, of course, but I'm told I was discovered by Hezekiah. He found me in the well in Christdale and gave me to the angel Gabriel, who brought me here to the goddess."
Bitterwood's guts twisted at the mention of Hezekiah. "Hezekiah disdained the goddess. And Gabriel isn't associated with the goddess myth at all. You've gotten your religions confused. Gabriel is the Biblical angel who informs Zechariah that his son will be John the Baptist."
"The Bible is a false document. Hezekiah is a false prophet. The goddess created him to play the role of deceiver; she said Eden wouldn't be paradise without a serpent."
Bitterwood saw no point in arguing his son's fractured theology. Adam's tone was that of a true believer. Had Adam inherited this gullibility from him? He'd been deceived by Hezekiah. Adam was correct, at least, in calling Hezekiah a false prophet.
Adam continued, "The goddess told me you were still alive. She said that the fabled Bitterwood that dragons feared so greatly was, in truth, my father. I asked permission to find you. She said I wasn't ready. Now I see that she planned to guide you here all along."
"No one guided me here," said Bitterwood. "No supernatural force, at least."
Adam turned around to face his father. "You've been somewhat argumentative since we met. Have I in some way offended you?"
Bitterwood swallowed. It was impossible to look at his son without seeing the echoes of Recanna. He glanced away as he said, "You've committed no offense. All the sin is mine. I'm sorry."
"There's no sin," said Adam. "You've nothing to apologize for. You didn't know I survived."
"No. I didn't search the village. Hezekiah told me if I didn't repent he would kill me. I fled from Christdale in grief and fear. The only emotion that gave me strength was my hatred. A more loving or courageous man would have stayed to search the ruins and bury the dead. I would have found you had I been a better man."
"You couldn't know," said Adam. "And if Hezekiah told you he would kill you, he would have. While he wore the clothes of a human, he was, in truth, an angel like Gabriel. No human could have stood against him."
"Hezekiah was no angel," said Bitterwood. "It took me years to learn the truth, but he was nothing but a machine. I don't understand his workings, but he was no angel."
"Wasn't he?" asked Adam. "Perhaps angels are machines built by a mind beyond the understanding of men?"
Bitterwood could see no way to argue this point. He was distracted, anyway, by a change in the atmosphere. The rotten-egg stench of the mine was slowly giving way to fresher air. He could smell the faint hint of flowers carried by an underlying brine-tainted breeze.
In addition to the change of scent, the tunnel ahead no longer stretched into dark infinity. A bright square showed the tunnel was leading toward a daylit sky. Twenty minutes later, they came to a ledge awash in warm sunlight.