Chapter 68

Mountain, beneath the colossal dragon skeleton, a dark mass of people knelt so low they looked like wheat flattened by the wind.

"I praise Your name, sovereign of dragons and all peoples, master of immortality and madness—Pulansantos!"

The crimson-robed priest raised both arms. "I offer blood and bone, reason and reverence."

"Grant us scales and claws, wings to soar." He spread his arms wide, a living crucifix.

"And fire, and dragon eyes." He murmured the words, then hurled the dragon-bone chalice full of dragon blood into the array carved upon the altar.

The stone glyphs drank the crimson. The blood-pool resting between the skeleton's talons slowly descended.

The worshippers lifted their heads, arms outstretched like the priest's, longing for the bath of dragon blood to scour away their stains and grant them pure power.

The priest swept a cold gaze across the altar. One eye was ordinary grey; the other gleamed with a golden eye. Whoever that golden eye fell upon burst into ecstatic shouts, as though the mere attention of a dragon's gaze were the greatest honor—even though, until recently, they had believed dragons heralded only ruin.

Would the Dragon Gods be angry at them?

No. From the moment every priest and congregant joined the dragon-eaters, they had been taught the creed passed down by their predecessors:

The Dragon Gods know everything, and the Dragon Gods do not care.

"But if the Gods don't care, does that mean They ignore our prayers too?"

So we must kill more dragons, use their blood and bones as offerings, make the Gods care.

"Those bathed in dragon blood will suffer burning cold a hundred days without cease—but that is the omen of your transformation. Endure those hundred days, devour a dragon's heart, and you shall all wield the power of dragons!"

The priest raised his arms and shouted, "No more shall high-and-mighty enforcers call you lowly bloodless scions! No more the extortionate Mist-Tithe paid to ancient bloodlines and their enforcers! No more the ruinous tickets to cross between the Outside and Inside! No more the Law of Oblivion aimed only at the bloodless! All of it—can go to the devil!"

"I ask only to become a dragon." He prayed.

"And immortality..." The last words were whispered, for his ears alone.

Below, every congregant cried in unison, "Become dragons!"

The skeleton collapsed behind him with a thunderous crash. The talon-held blood-pool plummeted, swallowing the priest in a crimson wave.

The mood, the ritual, the hymn—all reached their crescendo.

The moment the pool struck the ground, worshippers flung up their hands, opened mouths and eyes, waiting for dragon blood to wash over them.

The pool shattered into pieces of bluish iron; the red cores of bones, dust, and the chanting rose together like a mighty hymn of joy, soaring a hundred meters into the sky before dissolving into drifting mist.

Yet the most vital part of the ritual was missing—the blood.

Where was the blood?

Every eye turned to the altar. The settling dust felt like gauze. They brushed the haze aside: the altar stood empty. The dragon bones lay heaped like refuse, and beneath them clustered hundreds of dark-patterned eggs—unhatched wyvern eggs seized from slain subspecies.

Silence blanketed the valley altar. Only the faint echo of "Become dragons" lingered from those still unaware.

The priest who had crawled from beneath the skeleton reacted swiftly. Once more he spread his arms. "The God has taken the blood and bones—this means He... has heard our prayer!"

"Praise the Dragon!" he cried.

The congregation responded in unison, "Praise the Dragon!"

"Praise the God!" he added.

Again they answered, "Praise the God."

"Class dismissed—ah, dismissed!"

The congregants exchanged puzzled glances, yet they all raised left hands in claw-shapes and raked from right shoulder to left—the dragon-eaters' unique Dragon-Hunt Salute, symbolizing the rending of their human frailty with a dragon's talon.

Halfway through, they paused; the priest on the altar had performed the gesture backwards.

But no one questioned it. They simply copied, reversing the motion from left to right.

If the priest did it this way, he must have his reasons.

"So I wasn't wrong; they were the ones doing it backwards."

Beneath the priestly robes, Baron wiped cold sweat.

When the salute ended, Baron muttered a few words of comfort and stepped down amid the drifting chant: "Offer blood and bone to the Gods; my heart becomes the dragon."

Perhaps because of his robes, every dragon-eater he passed greeted him respectfully as "Your Lordship."

During this time he learned the organization's structure was simple: beyond the president and vice-president, the highest rank was High Priest. Each High Priest oversaw a branch of roughly a hundred members; under each were two priests leading the weekly "blood-washing" and "bone-feasting."

The hundred-day "heart-taking" and "dragon-eating" were presided over by the High Priest himself.

Baron—here called the Blood Priest—conducted the blood-washing; the other priest, the Bone Priest, led the bone-feasting.

He discovered there were twelve High Priests. Judging by their pupils—seen only at Bronze or Gold rank—Bronze was the only possibility.

A Bronze High Priest... some kind of enforcer. If it came to a fight, he could always run.

If only the Cocoon of Delusion lasted longer; he could use it freely. When the price came due, even Isaac Newton himself would never find him.

Grumbling inwardly, Baron summoned a subordinate to ask if the cult was recruiting.

The cultist hesitated, then answered respectfully: Lord, though the Dragon-Feast has yet to begin, there are no spare "shares of dragon power."

Baron did not care about dragon power; he spoke more plainly: "Any suspicious folk near the church? Rough seas lately—I fear spies from the enforcers."

"There is." Baron's heart leapt, but he kept his expression calm. "Who?"

"In the dungeon. A dwarf claiming to be an alchemist of House Constantine. Talks too much; the High Priest plans to use him as bait for Wax-Dragon Bard once the feast begins."

"Wax-Dragon Bard..."

"A silver wyvern. Years ago its wing-membranes were burned off in a battle with the Red Dragon. A wyvern that cannot fly falls into despair.

"To keep the feeling of flight, Bard supports its ruined wings with perpetual gales. If it ever lands, it will never soar again."

"Like Icarus of Greek myth, wings of wax, flying toward the sun—though the end is a fall."

The cultist continued, "The vice-president says Bard will pass over this valley soon. It is old, nearly too weak to fly. The High Priest will lure its rage with the blood of many wyverns—"

"—and use that rage to destroy it." Baron finished coldly. "Understood. I now suspect you are an enforcer spy. Come with me to the dungeon."

He knocked the cultist unconscious and summoned another to lead the way.

He wished to "personally interrogate this wavering traitor" and asked to be shown the cells.

Thank you.

—

Topmost chamber of the Tower of London.

Isaac Newton sat in an easy chair, thumbing through Basic Applications of Rune Glyphs on his lap. He pinched his fingers and calculated:

"Fault line of Kerry Mountains in the Scottish Highlands... dragon-eaters? The destiny of the Dragon-Knight is formidable; seems about to break Bronze rank..."

With a wave of his hand, quill and paper on the desk began to move.

In a commanding tone he dictated:

"Reply to Prol Court: the Tower of London will not participate in any plan concerning Baron Constantine. Yes, just like that... and do keep it civil—retain some Oxford elegance."

"Right, spread word that Baron Constantine is alive. Say the Tower's disciple divined his location. Anyone wanting the news brings one kilogram of gold, one hour only, no second chances."

The envelopes sealed, split in two, and flew off in opposite directions.

"Master, didn't you say you wouldn't meddle with Baron Constantine?" the little apprentice asked.

Isaac Newton stroked his greying beard. "The fog's about to rise. That gold will serve nicely for the Tower's funds."

"Master, did you take lessons at Westminster? You sound like some sly old fox from a fairy tale," the apprentice teased.

Isaac turned a page. "Copy the Book of the Dead one hundred times."

The apprentice wailed in dismay.