Blasphet continued his tale: "I leaned close to the wizard's body, listening for a breath. I heard nothing. I placed my head on his chest to detect a heartbeat. Not a single sound stirred beneath his azure scales. Yet, as I concentrated, the tiara, which I still wore, began to glow faintly. I slowly grew aware of a multitude of microscopic machines permeating Vendevorex's body. These invisible constructs whispered pleas for my guidance. They had reversed his decay, repairing him from the cellular level up, yet lacked the initiative to restore the spark of life. The more I concentrated, the more clearly I understood the whispers of the machines."
Hex rose on his shaky legs. "So. You owe your new-found abilities to a tiara you admit to stealing and to a corpse you admit you planned to desecrate. I'm a friend of the true owner of the tiara. Jandra was haunted by the mystery of Vendevorex's missing body. If you're truly an honorable being now, you'll give me the tiara."
Blasphet sagged as he shook his head mournfully. "I cannot defend the actions of my previous self. The dragon I was died in the darkness, slain by the hands of the true Murder God. The dragon who limped out of that tunnel, and now stands before you, is a reborn being. Possession of this tiara is my greatest hope for repairing the evil I've done."
"You slew eight hundred valkyries," said Hex. "No amount of good deeds can balance this villainy."
Burke still had his hands on Bitterwood's shirt. He'd been glancing back and forth between Bitterwood and Anza. Increasingly, his eyes were upon his daughter. Finally, he asked, softly, "Are you all right, Anza? Why are you protecting this monster?"
"Fah-der," she said, in slow, halting syllable. "Dis drak-on haz…" She paused, her mouth open, a look of intense concentration in her eyes. She uttered the final words of her thought carefully, in syllables that were more on the mark. "He… healed… me."
Burke's hand went slack and dropped from Bitterwood's collar. "You can talk?"
"Yas," she said, nodding for emphasis.
"Your daughter suffered from a calcified tumor near her vocal chords," said Blasphet. "I removed it, repairing the damaged nerves and reviving atrophied muscles. She is still training her new voice. In time, she will speak as well as any other human."
Anza pursed her lips once more. "He… can heal… you."
Burke's crutch slipped from his fingers. He dropped to the floor in a motion that was half falling, half sitting. He held his hands in his head as he whispered, on the verge of tears, "All my life, I've had dreams that you could talk to me." He let out a long slow breath. "I trust Anza. Let Blasphet heal Jeremiah."
"You're insane!" Bitterwood said.
"No he's not," said Vance, stepping up. "I ate the dragonseed and it cured me. Let Blasphet help Jeremiah."
Bitterwood furrowed his brow. This was, in a way, such an obvious thing to try. Why had his first approach to this problem been to kill Blasphet and take the tiara? Would there ever be a problem in his life he wouldn't attempt to fix by killing something? He shook his head, disgusted that he was having these doubts, especially here, in the Free City. Blasphet was a monster. Was he the only sane person in the room?
Before he could decide on a course of action, Thorny walked toward the huge black dragon, holding his gnarled hands before him. "If you've done right by Anza, I'll trust you. Can you fix my hands?"
"Of course," said Blasphet. He raked his fore-talon along his chest. His feathery scales were bunched into small polyps. He plucked one free, and held it toward Thorny.
"The seeds grow from your body?" Burke asked.
"Yes," said Blasphet. "They are full of the same tiny machines that swam in Vendevorex's blood. They now thrive within me. When you ingest the seed, the microscopic engines will spread through your body, seeking out damage and repairing it."
Bitterwood felt nauseated as Thorny bent his head down to Blasphet's talon and took the seed between his lips. Thorny swallowed as he stood up. He looked down at his hands as he asked, "How long will it take to work?"
"Unguided, the machines need several hours to analyze your body for flaws," said Blasphet. "I can guide them more quickly. My… familiarity… with corpses has left me well prepared as a healer. I know what all the bones in a healthy human hand should look like. I know how thick the cartilage between them should be, and where the tendons should attach. If you choose to have me guide the process, there will be a certain level of pain involved."
"I've not had a moment free of pain in thirty years," said Thorny. "Do it."
"As you wish," said Blasphet. He fixed his gaze upon Thorny's hands. Thorny suddenly drew a sharp breath and dropped to his knees, leaning against the canvas-covered platform.
Around the room, the white-robed disciples began to sing as Thorny cried out in incoherent, babbling agony. His fingers twitched and writhed. Even Anza's gaze was drawn to the sight of Thorny's useless, knotted claws changing into something that looked like healthy hands.
Bitterwood knew this was the moment. He reached over his shoulder, his fingers brushing against the leafy end of a fresh arrow. Before he could pluck it from the quiver, a small hand touched him on the hip. He looked down and found Zeeky looking up at him.
Beneath the din of the singing and Thorny's screams, she said, "Let him help Jeremiah."
Bitterwood drew the arrow.
"If Jeremiah dies, you'll never forgive yourself," said Zeeky.
Bitterwood clenched his jaw. Every instinct wanted to place the arrow against his bowstring. However, just as Burke trusted Anza, Bitterwood trusted Zeeky. He'd been friendless for twenty years. This mysterious little girl had liked and trusted him from the moment they'd met. He wanted her approval more than he wanted Blasphet's death. With a sigh, he returned the arrow to his quiver.
The song of the disciples fell off and Thorny stopped screaming. The old man breathed heavily, his face dripping tears. He stared at his restored hands, opening and closing them slowly.
He wiped his cheeks. He pursed his lips tightly and took a long, calming breath through his nose. He grabbed the edge of the platform and supported his weight on his hands as he stood. He looked up at Blasphet.
"Thank you," he whispered, his voice raspy from screaming.
"You're welcome," said Blasphet. "The dragonseed will continue to work, slowly restoring further infirmities. Soon, you'll eat your meals with a full set of teeth once more. And your overall health will improve as the damage that alcohol has done to your liver is reversed."
"Will I be young again?" asked Thorny.
"No," said Blasphet. "Age is not a disease. You will, however, be strong and healthy. A well-maintained human body should last nearly a century. See to it that you are careful in your habits, and you will at least feel young."
As Thorny nodded and walked away, Blasphet looked at Hex. "How about you, nephew? I see that you've suffered trauma to your brain. Will you allow me to restore you?"
Hex scowled. "Uncle, if you attempt to alter my brain with your invisible machines, I'll alter your brain with my jaws."
"So be it. I understand the reason for your scorn." He then looked to Burke. "You, human, have seen the good I've done for your daughter. Will you let me make you whole? Life has left you with many scars."
Burke stared down at his missing leg. He lifted his hand and traced the three scars that marred his cheek. Bitterwood could tell from the way the machinist held his body that the blisters beneath his arm were still a source of pain. When Burke inhaled to answer, Bitterwood knew Burke, too, would accept Blasphet's help.