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to breed had no doubt been heard by all these warriors.
    “I’ll go,” he said.
    “You arrived with great speed,” one of the valkyries growled. “Let your departure match it.”
    Grinding gears vibrated through the stone walls as Graxen climbed the steps from the Thread Room back toward the tower he’d entered. Arriving at the high chamber, he found the iron bars now raised. Valkyries stood in twin rows, forming a living hallway through which he passed. He lowered his eyes as he walked, unable to bear the icy stares of the females.
    As he leapt to the balcony rail and spread his wings, he heard a muttered word from one of the guards behind him: “Freak.”
    He tilted forward, falling toward the spikes below. Rust and moss and damp sand scented the air that rushed across his face. His feather-scales toyed with the air, pulling him out and away from the spikes in a gentle arc, until, an instant before he dashed against the rocky shore, he flapped his wings and shot forward, then up, into a bright winter sun that failed to warm him.
    A moment later he passed over the edge of the dam. The sky in all directions was thick with valkyries. He felt a stir of grim pride that he was sufficiently threatening to justify such a force.
    He followed the river once more, adhering to its twists and turns, lost in thought. What did it matter that he wouldn’t be allowed to breed? There were hundreds of dragons who shared his fate. More, there were male dragons who refused the chance even when offered. Many prominent biologians believed that any mingling of the sexes would muddy the mind; they dared not risk the damage even a single night of passion might cause to their intellect. The fact that Androkom wouldn’t be invited to breed would perhaps not bother him at all. Metron, the former high biologian, had famously refused an invitation to the Nest with the words: “I would rather history judge me by my works rather than the quality of my biological debris.”
    As he flew, Graxen’s musing about breeding slowly gave way to thoughts of food. The king’s messengers traveled light, relying on the hospitality of those they were sent to speak to. Fortunately, his next destination wasn’t far. The town of Dragon Forge was no more than thirty miles distant.
    The terrain changed as Graxen neared the town. The nearly pristine forested mountainsides that surrounded the Nest gave way to rolling hills, many of them stripped of trees. Giant mounds of rusting metal dotted the landscape, and ragged shanty towns sat beside muddy stream banks. Humans in rags trudged along, hauling carts full of rusting scraps. These were gleaners, men who made their living by scouring the landscape in search of relics from a previous age, incomprehensible artifacts crafted from steel that had long ago decayed into rust. Yet, even rust had value—the gleaners sold their wares to the foundries of Dragon Forge, where immense furnaces melted down the scraps of metal, freeing the ores, which were then refined and cast into the armor and weapons used by the armies of the dragons. The humans below were fueling the engines of their own oppression.
    Three plumes of smoke rose in the distance. Graxen's nose wrinkled as the stench of the foundries reached him. He traced a wide arc around the town, looking for a good landing spot. The earth-dragons below looked like small beetles from this height, as they hurried across the packed-earth streets of their town. Nowhere within the fortress was there any hint of vegetation. The surrounding hills were nothing but rust-colored clutter and weeds, with a few bare and scraggly trees here and there. Earth dragons weren’t known for their appreciation of beauty.
    At the far side of his arc, glancing back through the smoke plumes, Graxen caught a glimpse of sparkling light. Continuing in his orbit, he discovered the light was the gleaming helmet of a valkyrie a few miles distant. Was he being pursued this far from the Nest? Or was it