Thigocia spoke the prophet’s name. The oracle echoed his image, showing Enoch as an old man dressed in the style of his pre-flood days, a flowing brown tunic tied at the waist and leather sandals on his feet. He stood in front of complete blackness, without crown, hood, or walking stick.
“He seems to be floating in space,” Thigocia said, shouting once again. “There are no colors or clothing that reveal his location.”
“Exactly. Enoch told me that souls who are not in Heaven, Earth, or Hades would appear in this manner. He dwells in the lower altar inside Heaven’s gate. Since he never died, he is not a resident there and is allowed to visit other realms.” Arramos nodded toward the splashing water. “Speak the name of your mate—my son—and you will see why my search here continues.”
She looked back at him. “Shall I say his dragon name or his human name?”
“Either one. The oracle will know.”
Thigocia took another step closer and said, “Makaidos.”
The banded colors once again painted a portrait, this time of a man who, much like Enoch, stood against a black background. He was dressed in beige slacks and a navy blue sweater, the same clothes he wore the night Devin and Palin destroyed their home and their lives.
“No crown,” Arramos shouted. “No hood or walking stick. He, too, is neither on Earth nor in one of the afterlife destinations, so I believe he must be here in the Bridgelands.”
As the image faded away, Thigocia heaved a deep breath and stepped out of the pool. The two dragons backed away to a quiet bend in the river where they could talk without shouting. “But why was Makaidos left here? If anyone had faith in the Messiah, it was he.”
Arramos draped a wing over her neck. She flinched but stayed in place. “I cannot answer that question fully,” he said. “Makaidos was unique. He died as a dragon but later left Dragons’ Rest, his natural eternal abode. He was then born into the human race as an adult, the only one with faith in the Messiah already established, so he never aged, and qualified to avoid the curse of natural death.” As he pulled his wing back, his eyes sparkled like polished rubies.
Thigocia swished her tail through the water. She wanted to ask about her own destiny, seeing that she was the only dragon resurrected from the circles to remain a dragon, but it was best for now to keep to the task at hand, finding her mate. “But if Makaidos had faith, he should have gone to Heaven.”
“That part is a mystery to me. I have no answer, only my theory that he was given a unique destination when he was murdered. The oracle says that he is neither in Heaven nor in Hades, so on that we must rely. Soon, you will have an opportunity to question Sapphira, the Oracle of Fire. She can verify that Merlin confirmed this, for he, too, has queried the oracle.”
Thigocia bowed her head. “Up until this point, I had thought you a liar, but your story no longer bears the marks of a lie.” She gazed again at the boulders, now veiled by mist in the distance. “And this oracle seems to have no prejudice; it shows neither pessimism nor false hopes.”
“Yet you still have doubts.” Arramos reached his wing toward her again. “Why?”
“You have to ask?” Thigocia ducked under his wing and backed away, scowling. “Your treatment of Karen was cruel coercion. You stabbed us all with fear.”
Arramos whipped his wing back. “It was the only way to convince you, but it was not cruel, for the child was never in danger as long as you were willing to yield to my God-given authority as king of the dragons.” He extended his neck and looked her in the eye. “You must admit that I tried with gentler methods.”
She jerked her head lower, avoiding his stare. “I admit it, but I reserve the right to continue doubting. A position of authority never gives license to cruelty.”
“As you wish. But when the time comes for battle, you must put your doubts aside.”
“Battle?” She looked up at him. “What battle?”
“The danger I told you about. I am sure you remember King Nimrod’s tower and how Roxil and I helped Makaidos knock it down.”
“I remember.”
“Another tower, far more dangerous and cunning, will soon pierce the skies. This one, constructed by Mardon, the son of Nimrod, threatens the very fabric