The cavern narrowed into a tubelike corridor that ran for some distance straight into the mountain, then opened up into a large chamber where Draconas was able to lift his head and release his wings. He shook himself all over, scales clicking, and drew in a breath of air that reeked of bat. The creatures were out with the night, but this was evidently the chamber where they roosted. Despite the stench, Draconas breathed well and deeply. He always felt better when he was in his true form, his dragon body, and he felt better in his natural habitat—a cave.

Though his human form was just illusion—unlike Grald and Maristara and Anora, who had all seized the bodies of real humans—the illusion was so real that Draconas sometimes felt as if he were trapped in that human body, a body that was fragile, soft and unprotected—all part of the magic of the supreme illusion. The Walker had to feel human, as well as look human. He had to come to believe the lie, so to speak, for otherwise he would not be able to understand what it was to be human and so be able to pass for human.

Draconas thought what it would be like to walk inside this cavern as a human—terrified of the bats, for one thing; unable to see in the darkness; blundering into stone walls and falling over unseen obstacles; losing himself in the tangled maze of corridors. And always fearful of puncturing the vulnerable flesh or breaking one of the slender bones, knocking a hole in the skull, or poking out an unprotected eye.

In his dragon form, Draconas was armored in scales that were harder than any steel man had yet created. His eyes could spot a rodent in the pitch darkness fifty feet away. He had a massive tail that could fell a tree with one swipe, razor-sharp claws and sword-sharp teeth, and the fire of magic blazed in his blood. He was invincible to every creature in this world with the exception of his own kind.

Or at least, he had been.

King Edward’s cannons. Not a threat now, but there was one thing to be said for humans—they never stood still. They were always surging forward, bashing their headstrong way through their brief lives, making progress, as they liked to call it. Dragons had watched humans advance from the point where their brutish ancestors were flinging stones to bring down small animals to the firing of cannonballs. He conceded that Anora was right. It was not difficult to predict that the crude iron ball that now flew a few hundred feet to land with a thud in a field of millet would someday be armed with such destructive force that it could blow apart this mountain.