"No," said Burke.
"No?" said Blasphet.
"No?" said Anza. She walked toward him, kneeling to look into his eyes. "Fadder, he can fex yuh leg." Her words were more difficult to follow when she tried to speak quickly.
"I believe he can," said Burke. "But I lost my leg due to a tactical error; I didn't use sufficient armor on my war machine. And, these scars… I've had these scars on my cheek since the battle of Conyers. Every time I've looked into a mirror for the last twenty years, I'm reminded of all the men who died because they believed I could lead them to victory."
Anza shook her head as she listened to her father's words.
"I don't regret my bad memories," he said, taking her hand. "I can't claim they've left me wiser, but they define me. These scars, Anza, they aren't flaws. They're part of me. Erasing my scars is like erasing my life."
Anza nodded, her dark eyes full of understanding. She helped her father rise again on his one good leg. Vance handed Burke his crutch.
Blasphet turned toward Bitterwood.
"The boy at your feet is dying from yellow-mouth," he said. "With your permission, I shall heal him."
Bitterwood clenched his fists as he turned away, unable to look at Blasphet. He gazed at the candles guttering among the rafters, and at the thin rays of a declining sun that poked through the gaps in the barn wall. He saw dust dancing in that light, gleaming like tiny flecks of snow. Jandra had said that all her magic came from dust. Hezekiah had taught him that man came from dust, and returned to it. His shoulders sagged. There were mysteries in this world far beyond his grasp.
"Save him," he whispered, walking toward the door they'd entered.
He didn't know if he was doing the right thing, despite Zeeky's reassurance. He needed to step outside and get some fresh air to clear his thoughts. When he pushed open the door, he stepped onto a broad avenue where men and dragons were crowded together, all looking toward the western sky. He shielded his eyes as he, too, looked toward the sunset and discovered an angel. A winged human was plainly visible as a silhouette against the red sky. The entity drifted down toward the Free City. Bitterwood tensed. Was this another of the goddess's machines, like Gabriel? What was its connection to Blasphet?
He reached for an arrow. The flying figure altered his descent slightly, now plainly heading for the ground where Bitterwood stood.
A voice called out, "Bitterwood! I didn't expect to find you here!"
Bitterwood squinted. "Shay?"
Shay flapped his wings and he slowed to a halt a few yards before Bitterwood, hovering several inches above the ground. The wind stirred the folds of Bitterwood's cloak. "I'm here to find Hex. I didn't expect to find you. And who are all these people?"
"Worshippers of Blasphet," said Bitterwood.
"The Murder God?" Shay asked, looking around at the crowd that gathered to gawk at him. "I expected his followers to look more… sinister."
"He's renounced the title of Murder God," said Bitterwood.
"Can you do that?" Shay sounded perplexed. "Just decide one day you're no longer a god?"
Bitterwood shrugged. "Who makes the rules?"
"Is Hex here?"
"He's inside with Burke and the others," said Bitterwood. "We all arrived together."
"Burke?" Shay ran his fingers through hair. His orange locks were disheveled and tangled to an absurd degree, as if he'd spent time inside a tornado. "I can't believe it! I was told he was dead."
"Death is apparently not as permanent as it used to be," said Bitterwood.
"This is good fortune. I needed some luck after the last few days. Did Hex tell you about Jandra?"
"Some," said Bitterwood. "We haven't been together long. He failed to mention you'd sprouted wings."
Shay glanced back at his silvery appendages, as if he was almost surprised to find them there. He stretched them out and gave them a gentle shake. The metallic feathers chimed softly. "You like them? You're in luck. I have more of these in Hex's bag."
Just then, Burke limped out the door, supported by Anza. They both stopped in their tracks as they followed the gaze of the crowd upward.
"Hallo, Sheh," said Anza.
Shay's eyes widened. "You can talk?"
Burke said, dryly, "I think the more surprising development here is that you can fly."
Shay grinned; then just as swiftly, his grin vanished.
"Burke, Dragon Forge is in trouble. There's an outbreak of yellow-mouth. Or, at least, there's fear of an outbreak. The foundry has come to a standstill. The walls were barely manned."
Burke shook his head. "I'm sorry to hear that. But it's not my problem anymore."
Shay's eyes flashed with the same rage Bitterwood had witnessed when he'd announced he'd set fire to the library. "Not your problem?" Shay shouted. "Dragon Forge promised the rebirth of the Human Age. The revolution was the light of a new human dawn, the hope of the slave! You were the brains that made it possible!"
"I may have been the brains, but Ragnar was the heart. And that heart was corrupted. The two of us never trusted each other. We were doomed from the start."
"You have to become the heart as well as the brains," said Shay. "You know you have the dream to make men free once more!"
Burke sighed. "I've already caused too many people to die."
Shay made several exasperated grunts as he tried to find the words to respond to this. "Wha… but… it's not your fault people have died fighting to take Dragon Forge! You're not a king, pressing slaves into service. Those men at Dragon Forge were volunteers. Everyone who died, died for a cause. Giving up now means they'll have died in vain."
Anza nodded. "Lissen ta hem."
Burke raised an eyebrow. "You agree? I thought you were a pacifist now that you were worshipping Blasphet."
Anza cast off her white robe, revealing the weapon-studded buckskin beneath. She drew her sword and said, "Ah ahm a waryor. Ah belif in de cause."
"You're a warrior because I robbed you of a normal life," said Burke. "I had no right to turn you into a weapon. All those years, Blasphet gathered young women around him and taught them to kill. They called him a monster. How much more of a monster am I to do the same thing to my own daughter?"
"Father," she said, slowly, carefully. "I… don't… want… a normal… life. Ah am… not a muh-sheen. Ah am your daughter. Ah love… my life."
"You should hate me," Burke whispered.
Anza pressed her lips into a thin, straight line. The muscles in her jaws flinched as worked out the next movements of her mouth in her head.
"You can use your hand signals to talk if it's easier," said Burke.
She frowned. It was obvious, from her expression, that she was determined to make the muscle of her tongue obey her will with the same precision that the commanded all her other muscles.
"I love you, Father," she said, slowly and deliberately. "I'm happy… to fight… because I fight for you."
"Thank you," he whispered.
Anza returned his gaze with intense seriousness. "We must fight… for Drak-on Forge."
Burke nodded. He straightened his shoulders. He looked toward Bitterwood. "How quickly can Skitter carry us back to Dragon Forge?"
Shay said, "Not as fast as wings will carry us. I've got more of these in Hex's bag."
Burke nodded, then jerked his head up, as if he suddenly remembered the reason he came out to the street in the first place. "Bant, Jeremiah's awake."
Bitterwood stepped out of the crowded street back into the candlelit barn, leaving Shay to fill in Burke on what he'd discovered at Dragon Forge. Jeremiah was sitting up now. The corpse-like pall that had gripped him was gone; his cheeks had color again. Zeeky sat beside him, her arms wrapped around him, hugging him tightly. Poocher was next to him also; Jeremiah had one hand on the pig's neck and was scratching him behind the ears. The big pig looked content.