Chapter Twenty-One:
The Last Easy Kills of the Night
Pet had been allowed to sleep in Ragnar's tent to recover from his grueling ride. He woke as night was falling. Distant shouts had pulled him from sleep, but when he sat up everything was silent. Perhaps he'd dreamed the voices. He hadn't slept well. His bed was a mat of woven reeds over cold, bare red clay. He'd been given a scratchy wool blanket that might have once been white but was now a drab, uneven beige and carried Ragnar's signature unwashed aroma. Despite the stench, Pet pulled the blanket tightly around him as he rose on aching, blistered legs. He stepped out into dying sunlight, teeth chattering. The air was thick with the smell of campfires and countless iron pots full of black beans and salt pork.
The camp was oddly quiet. All around, men stood by their fires, their eyes turned toward Ragnar. He was kneeling over a fallen horse, helping a woman rise. Pet's sleep-clouded mind took a second to recognize her. It was Lin, the Sister of the Serpent who had split away from Shanna and him earlier. She looked as if she hadn't slept in days. Her fallen horse was still alive, but its jaws were foaming; its eyes gazed off in the distance with a dull, unfocused stare. It looked as if the beast had collapsed from exhaustion only seconds before Pet left the tent.
Lin looked up into Ragnar's bearded face. Her eyes were full of reverence as she said, "It's done. The fox entered the henhouse."
Ragnar nodded and looked over his shoulder toward one of his men.
"The hour is nigh," said Ragnar. "Tell Burke we can tarry no longer. The great day of His wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand against us?"
The tunnel Nadala led them through was a tube nearly twenty feet in diameter. They had walked at least a mile, slogging through half a foot of icy water over slimy stone. Their way was lit by a small lantern Nadala carried.
"The humans who once ruled the world built this aqueduct to supply cities hundreds of miles from the lake," Metron said. Though no longer high biologian, he still had a way of talking that made it seem that he was delivering a lecture. "Water once filled this pipe to the ceiling."
"I've always been skeptical of legends that human built the dam," said Nadala. "You biologians approach knowledge on an abstract level only. We valkyries actually get out and touch the world. We've maintained the dam and kept its floodgates and pumps functioning since time immemorial. Scholars think of holding back a thirty-mile-long lake as a math problem. We warriors think of it as merely another aspect of our world that can be managed with muscle, sweat, and iron gears."
Graxen admired this aspect of Nadala. She was right. Biologians seldom solved problems because they never wearied of debating them. Valkyries were more practical-minded.
Soon they arrived at a pump station. Nadala produced a key that led them through a gate of welded steel bars. They passed through a long, tall tunnel with hundreds of pipes running overhead. Water dripped and drizzled from a hundred tiny leaks, producing staccato splashes that echoed through the concrete tunnel like drumbeats. The passage went on for many yards before ending at a platform with cement steps leading up to a set of double iron doors.
"Ah," said Metron. "I remember this well. The Thread Room lies directly above us."
Nadala handed the lantern to Graxen as she walked up the stairs. The twin doors were bound together with a heavy steel chain. The lock was a strange one-there was no slot for a key, only a dial with numbers upon it.
"We'll have to break it," Nadala whispered.
"No," said Metron. "I recall the combination."
His aged talons took the lock and spun the dial in precise turns. Seconds later, the lock clicked open.
"Sarelia didn't change it," he said, sounding relieved. "A good omen."
As the doors creaked open, Graxen thought he heard something behind them, near the leaky tunnel. A splashing sound, like footsteps.
"Did you…?"
"What?" asked Nadala.
"I thought I heard something," Graxen whispered, walking back down to the platform. The singing of the falling water, like countless fountains, was all he heard now.
"Perhaps it was a rat," said Metron.
"It's gone now, whatever it was," said Graxen.
Graxen climbed back up the stairs and pushed his way through a curtain of thick cloth to join Nadala and Metron in the Thread Room. They weren't far from the giant chalkboard, with its dense jotting of notes. Metron moved to better see the board. The room was lit with a series of lanterns. Graxen could read the board clearly from where he stood. His father studied the chalkboard and chuckled when he reached Vendevorex's name surrounded by questions marks.
"What's so funny?" whispered Nadala.
"I knew Vendevorex would vex her," said Metron. "The most famous sky-dragon in the kingdom and his origin an utter mystery. He came to Albekizan's court long after Sarelia and I had stopped speaking. I wrote her a letter concerning my theories about Vendevorex. I never sent it. Though I wrote it in the most professional voice I could manage, I feared she might read between the lines of the subject and find that I still loved her. At the time, it seemed as if it would only cause pain to send that missive."
"Whose pain?" a voice asked from across the room. Graxen looked behind him to discover the hunched form of the matriarch standing before a fluttering tapestry. She walked toward them, her cane clacking on the tiled floor.
"My pain?" the matriarch asked. "You should know the females of our species may endure limitless agony, biologian. If you've not spoken to me for nearly two decades, the weakness lies with you, not me."
"You're correct," Metron said. "You were always the stronger one."
"Not always," said the matriarch, now only a few yards away. "I gave in to your request not to destroy our great mistake." She cast Graxen a baleful gaze. Then she narrowed her eyes at Nadala. "Why are you in the presence of a tatterwing and a freak? Where are your armor and spear, valkyrie?"
Nadala bowed her head respectfully. "Matriarch, I've fallen in love with your son. I've admired him since the day he visited this isle. We've come to ask your permission to…" her voice trailed off. She took a deep breath, then raised her head and looked at the matriarch with bold eyes. "We seek permission to breed."
The matriarch scoffed. "You've gone mad, Nadala. Even if you were allowed to choose your seed-giver, you know you couldn't breed with this discolored freak."
"Of what importance is the color of his hide?" asked Nadala. "Why must all sky-dragons look so much alike?"
"Because physical variability leads to hatred," said the matriarch. "I've studied histories forbidden to you. I know what happens when different colors are allowed to spread within a race of intelligent beings. It leads to strife and warfare. I would spare our race these evils."
"You perpetuate these evils," said Nadala. "Why would we fear difference if we aren't taught to fear it?"
"Enough, valkyrie," the matriarch snapped. "It's not your position to decide the genetic make-up of our species. It's your job to kill intruders-a job you have failed miserably."
"Mother," said Graxen, "Don't speak to Nadala this way. She only wants-"
"Yes!" the matriarch cried, lifting her cane and waving it at Graxen. "She only wants. She is poisoned by desire. Her hormones have addled her mind. I know too well the danger of only wanting."
"You're correct," said Metron. Graxen felt betrayed by the words, but Metron continued. "Our own chemistry can ruin our reason. Fortunately you've had two decades to free yourself from the biology of desire. Tonight, we can have the conversation our bodies prevented us from having so many years before. No dragon alive has studied the question of our genetic destiny more than you. However, as high biologian, I was guardian of the true secret history of our race. I've come to persuade you that the age of guided genetics can now end. Everything the early biologians wanted to accomplish has been accomplished. We've flourished as a species without falling into the many genetic pits that could have doomed us. We needed many generations of careful guidance to avoid inbreeding and allow for the slow rise of mutations to give our shallow gene pool depth. Now, however, that guidance is crushing genetic variability. Graxen does possess visible mutations. Yet, despite his coloration, he has also shown speed and agility that is nearly unmatched in our race. He has excelled in scholarship despite the burden of constant abuse from his peers. Losing Graxen from the gene pool would be a tragedy."