Glancing around the table, I draw a long breath that can’t begin to push aside my fears about this plan. Surath, Xendus and Saxon all nod their agreement, but Treacher turns toward Ersot and then back to the rest of us.
“Ersot and I have discussed this,” he says. “We will remain here. Along with the other riders and dragons we trust?—”
“All the dragons can be trusted,” Ersot interjects.
Treacher’s jaw twitches, but he nods. “With help from our allies, Ersot and I will continue to free the rest of the dragon-shifters. We’ll also maintain order at camp and ensure the klericks remain captive.”
“That is a good plan,” Zogar says. “Thank you.”
Saxon turns toward Zogar. “Tell me more about these creatures you call manticores.”
“Manticores were always rare,” Zogar tells him. “They are extinct but were superi creatures with few powers. Their main use was enhancing the power of others, which is why they were hunted to extinction.”
“That’s terrible,” I say softly.
Zogar nods. “In appearance, manticores had the face of a human, the body of a lion and the tail of a scorpion. Also, vestigial wings…”
“Vestigial?” I ask.
“Not functional,” he clarifies. “Useless.”
“That does match thedepictionsof Othrix,” I say. “The images on the shrines and statues.” I glance toward Saxon and Treacher, who both nod.
Zogar has described manticores for me before, but I still find it hard to accept that the deity we’ve been worshiping, for all of recorded history, might not be a god at all.
“How large were these manticores?” Saxon asks.
“Like any creature, their sizes can vary,” Zogar replies. “But none was larger than a panther or perhaps a young lion.”
Saxon frowns. “Othrix is much larger than that,” he says. “Othrix is a formidable creature, who most certainly wields magic.”
Everyone turns toward him in surprise.
“How are you so certain?” I ask.
Saxon’s broad shoulders settle. “Because I was once brought before Othrix.” He looks around the table.
I gasp. “When? Why?”
Everyone in the room is now fully focussed on Saxon and my heart races.
“I grew up in Catha,” Saxon tells us. “Once a year, on the Feast of Othrix, there was a public audience. Before I had eight years, I attended one of these feasts with my parents.” He stares down at the table, clearly processing memories, and I reach for his hand to squeeze it.
He shoots me a slight smile of thanks, then continues. “That was the day I was accused of having Darkness. The klericks stole me away from my family and took me to the seminary.”
Raising his hand, I press my lips against his knuckles. “I’m so sorry.”
Zogar clears his throat, and I drop Saxon’s hand.
“That sounds sad, and all,” Surath cuts in. “But we need to hear more about what you saw that day. Tell us all you remember.”
Saxon nods. “I was very young, but I’ll never forget the spectacle of it. In an explosion of light and smoke and fire, Othrix appeared out of nowhere. As did the Prime Klerick. Both were massive.”
“You were very small,” Zogar interjects.
“That’s true,” Saxon says. “My memories may have exaggerated their sizes, somewhat, but Othrix was the height of at least ten men, and his lethal tail was long enough to lash forward toward the audience.” His body tenses. “I saw his tail slay a grown man.”
Saxon’s shoulders hitch as if he’s put himself back in that place. “Othrix was huge, and the Prime Klerick was a least ten hand spans tall. I know he was that tall, because other klericks stood before him.”
