The Shadow Dragons

by James A. Owen

  “How do we find such a weapon?” said Jack.

  “Summon the Lady,” the apparition said as she began to shimmer and fade. “The Lady of the Lake. Only she can return what was given. . . .”

  Rose leaped forward, but it was too late. Her mother was gone. As the companions watched, the woman in green also faded and vanished, and then, more slowly, the woman in pink, who raised a tentative hand to wave—at Quixote.

  “Do you know her?” Charles asked.

  Quixote didn’t reply for a long moment, then turned to the Caretaker. “It is not yet my time to be here,” he said, his voice heavy with emotion. “I must see through this quest and fulfill the Prophecy. And then, perhaps . . .” He glanced back once more, then quickly turned away. “Perhaps I will have earned the right to join her here. But now is not that time.”

  All around them, the crystal castle had begun to fade, as if it had been a mirage. The globes vanished, then the walls, and finally the doors. All that remained was the lone figure of the gatekeeper, standing in the expansive meadow.

  “Did you find the answers you seek?” he asked the companions as they approached. “Did you speak to her?”

  “The fairy with the turquoise hair?” said Charles. “We spoke, and she told us a few things that might prove useful, yes.”

  “And how did she look?” he asked, trying to mask the eagerness in his voice. “Was she well?”

  “As beautiful as ever,” said John.

  The gatekeeper slumped his shoulders and sighed heavily with relief. “Thank you for that,” he said quietly. “It has been too long since I saw her.”

  “You are Lancelot, aren’t you?” Charles asked.

  The gatekeeper nodded wistfully. “I was. Now I am simply the gatekeeper. Much like your Green Knight, it is my way of doing penance—and part of the agreement is that I may be close, but can never again see her.”

  “That’s awful,” said John.

  “No,” said Quixote, nodding in understanding. “It is the price that must be paid for an unpayable debt. And it is the only choice a noble knight would make.”

  The gatekeeper lowered his head. “Not noble enough, I fear.”

  Quixote reached out and lifted Lancelot’s chin. “The most noble acts,” he said sternly, “are those performed when there is nothing left to be gained. You are not merely a gatekeeper. You are a brother knight. So speaks Don Quixote de la Mancha.”

  The doorway to the cave lay open in front of them. “Farewell, Lancelot,” John said as the companions walked through it.

  “May God go with you,” replied the gatekeeper.

  Rose looked back, just once, in the direction where the green castle had been, as did Quixote.

  “Good-bye, Mother,” she said.

  “Good-bye,” Quixote whispered. “Good-bye, my beloved Dulcinea.”

  And with that last farewell, the door swung closed and was a cave wall once more.

  The sun was just beginning to set as the companions reached the eastern beach. Either a full day—or more—had passed while they were in the castle with Guinevere, or their journey had taken scarcely any time at all.

  “It had to have been a few hours,” John said as he checked on the Geographica in his pack. “I’d swear to it.”

  “I think that grotto, or whatever—wherever—it was that the meadow and castle sit, functions much like Quixote’s room in the keep,” said Charles. “I don’t think time there passes in the same way as it does for us.”

  “You’re probably right,” said Jack. “It’s frozen, or at the least, passes much more slowly. How much worse would it be if we were to emerge and find out the reverse were true? That while we chatted with a long-lost queen for a few hours, centuries were passing by outside?”

  “Brr,” John replied. “That would be a bit much. I’ve already been rather preoccupied with just the idea that we may have lost seven years of our lives by stepping through a drawing.”

  “That’s one reason we should be underway as quickly as possible,” said Jack. “We’ve literally no time to waste.”

  Jack reached into his pocket where he’d kept the bottle and pulled out their ship. With curt nods of approval from his companions, he windmilled his arm and dashed the bottle against the rocks in the shallow tidepools.

  In moments the ship had grown to its full size, much to the companions’ great relief. It was much smaller than every other Dragonship, but it was large enough for the four men, the girl, and the owl to be comfortably seated within.

  “There’s no sail,” Charles pointed out, “nor any oars. How do we move her about?”

  “I think this is one of Ordo Maas’s special ships,” said Jack, stroking the Dragon’s head. “I think we just need to tell her where we want to go, and she’ll get us there. Right, girl?”

  There was no audible response from the masthead, but for a few seconds, the Dragon’s eyes seemed to glow more brightly, and her neck grew warm under Jack’s hand.

  With a crunching sound, the boat pulled itself out of the shallows, then glided swiftly through the water at the edge of the storm clouds of the Frontier. A few hundred yards from the island, she stopped and waited.

  “Well,” John said, standing. “I’d say that’s our signal to start navigating.” He turned to Charles with a broad grin on his face. “All right, Sir Charles. Strip. It’s time to have a look at the map.”

  “Well?” Charles asked, once he was naked to the waist. “Which way do we go first?”

  “First and last,” John said, “we need to go north. Due north. That’s where we’ll find the Nameless Isles.”

  Traveling so directly north, the only islands they passed that were familiar to them were Prydain and a small group of islands called the Capa Blanca. Prydain was one of the greater islands, second only to the capital island of Paralon, but the Caretakers had never actually traveled to the Capa Blanca islands before.

  “I understood from the Histories Bert wrote that they were originally settled by shipwrecked sailors from Spain,” Charles remarked, feeling a chill now that the sun was setting. “The sailors built several very lovely towns and had quite a nice culture developing until some British doctor showed up and taught the animals there how to talk. After that it was all downhill. The animals wanted better working conditions and higher wages. You know how it goes.”

  “Spanish, eh?” said Quixote. “Perhaps we could stop in on our way home. It’s been too long since I heard my native tongue.”

  “Doesn’t Verne speak Spanish?” asked Jack.

  “Dreadfully,” said Quixote. “I made him promise to never again make the attempt.”

  The last island they passed, the easternmost and most northerly island in the Geographica, was a midsize round island called Gondour.

  “They’re quite the democracy, according to Mark Twain’s notes,” said John, “although I never did care for his spelling of the name. Always have to catch myself when I mispronounce it ‘dour’ instead of ‘door.’”

  “Aren’t they assisting Artus with his new republic?” asked Jack.

  “I think so. The one oddity is that they are a republic ruled over by an impeachable caliph. I’d imagine it makes for some very lively debates.”

  After Gondour, there was going to be very little to see for a long while, so the companions made themselves as comfortable as they could in the Scarlet Dragon, and took turns sleeping. Jack and Quixote volunteered for the first watch and took up positions at the fore of the boat.

  “Jack, may I ask you something?” said Quixote.

  “Certainly.”

  “Have you ever known failure?”

  Jack turned to the knight in surprise. “Of course I have. Everyone does, at one time or another.”

  The knight chewed on his lip as he pondered Jack’s reply. “I thought I had failed, once,” he said at length, “but I am wondering if that event was not part of my own destiny, Prophecy or no.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I think I
know why I am here, with you,” said Quixote. “I think I understand, at least in part, my role. I am owed a debt—and my claiming it may be a key to all that we are experiencing.”

  “Who owes you the debt?” asked Jack.

  “The Lady,” Quixote replied. “The Lady of the Lake.”

  He turned away and said no more, and Jack was reluctant to press him. The rest of the night passed without incident.

  In the morning John again instructed Charles to sprawl himself against the masthead so that they could better read the map.

  “This is not very dignified, you know,” Charles pouted. “Can’t you just sketch out a copy in the Geographica, so I can keep my shirt on?”

  “Sorry, old boy,” said John. “Some of the islands have already changed position.”

  It was true—the locations of several of the Nameless Isles had moved during the night. John made some corrections and adjusted the tiller on the Scarlet Dragon to communicate the changes to the boat.

  “If all goes as I hope it shall,” John said, “we ought to be there by nightfall.”

  The course the map took them on led them safely distant from the kingdom of the Trolls, farther to the west—which was for the best, as none of the companions had ever liked Arawn, the former prince who was now king of the Trolls. He had been a rabble-rouser during their first encounter with the Winter King, and later allied with him against them. Arawn had been as ungracious in defeat as Artus had been gracious in his victory, and so the Northlands had been a place to avoid ever since—if they could help it.

  The islands of the Christmas Saint, past the Troll Kingdom, were the absolute northernmost chronicled in the Geographica. All three companions had read the annotations thoroughly, and very early on in their role as Caretakers had conspired to find reasons to correspond with and eventually visit the principal resident. John had even gone so far as to persuade him to write letters to his children, which was one of the great delights of fatherhood. To know beyond a doubt that Father Christmas existed was spectacular enough; to be considered worthy of corresponding with him was a childhood dream made manifest.

  Beyond the isles of Father Christmas, there was nothing. Nothing in the Geographica, and nothing as far as the companions could see. None of the previous Caretakers had ever made the effort to sail so far—they had simply assumed that what had been documented was all there was to see. Of them all, only John’s mentor, Professor Sigurdsson, had ever taken an active liking to the actual adventuring, the discovery of new lands. He had ventured deep into the Southlands on a fabled voyage, and more than once into the deep west—although John had no clue what he could have been searching for, or what else could be discovered that way, since Terminus and the endless waterfall marked the true End of the World as he knew it.

  Charles, when he was not putting on his shirt and taking it off again so the others could check their position, spent his time talking about multiple dimensions with Archimedes, who had proven to be a worthy adversary in a debate.

  Quixote preferred to talk to Rose when he could, asking her about the more mundane aspects of boarding school in Reading, with an occasional digression to tales of Odysseus on Avalon.

  Jack, for his part, spent the better part of an hour scanning the horizon with a spyglass provided to him by Quixote, until he finally realized that there was no actual glass in the spyglass.

  “I never really needed it.” Quixote shrugged. “It doesn’t help if you’re lost, and if you aren’t lost, why do you need to see a place you’ll soon arrive at anyway?”

  Eventually, as the Cartographer had promised, a smudge of land appeared off in the distance, then grew larger at an alarming speed. The Nameless Isles were far closer than they had appeared to be, and had the appearance of a mirage. It took effort to focus on them—a moment of drifting attention found the islands sliding from one’s field of vision.

  At close range the illusion dropped, and the islands came into sharp relief. There were thirteen all told: a massive island to the south and east of the others, which served as a shield of stone; a small cluster of islands to the west; two larger, half-moon islands to the east and north; and directly ahead of them, a broad, dunecolored island that sloped up from a short beach to a flat expanse of sand, black crystals, and short, blocky trees.

  All of the smaller islands had been built up with columns and arches that were all but prehistoric. From their appearance, their construction, and their apparent great age, John surmised that they may have been built in the earliest years of prehistory— contemporary with the first cities, such as Ur and Untapishim. The structures on these outer isles formed a kind of massive arena enclosing the three inner islands. There was no mistaking the purpose: They were defensive, or at least protective, in nature.

  On the center island was the unmistakable shape of a house in the distance—and from all appearances it was immense. Directly ahead was a dock, a small boathouse, and a sight that made the companions cheer in joy and relief.

  The White Dragon, the airship piloted by their mentor Bert, was moored to the north side of the dock, where it floated calmly in the shallows.

  “I suddenly feel much better about the prospects of this trip,” Charles admitted. “Nothing against you fellows, but Bert always seems to know the score.”

  “I’m with you there,” said John. He guided the Scarlet Dragon alongside the larger ship and leaped to the dock to tie a mooring line.

  A large orange cat was sitting just past the dock, idly cleaning itself while keeping a watchful eye on the new arrivals to the island.

  “I expect you must be the Caretakers,” the cat said at length. “Come ashore. You’re expected.”

  “Are you the welcoming committee?” Charles asked as he jumped to the dock and looped the mooring ties to a pylon. “If so, I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “I am what I am,” the cat said, “and if that pleases you, so be it.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Jack.

  “It means,” the cat replied, tipping its head toward Rose, “that I am like her. Here, and not here, all at once.”

  “A riddle?” said John.

  “An enigma,” said Rose.

  “A conundrum,” said the cat, which tilted its head, then began to disappear.

  “My word,” said Charles. “The cat! It’s vanishing!”

  “No,” said the cat, which by now was nothing more than a head, floating in the air. “I’m simply going to a place you aren’t looking.”

  “That makes perfect sense,” said Rose.

  “It’s very confusing,” said Jack.

  “Thank you very much,” said the broad smile that was once a whole cat. “You may call me Grimalkin. Welcome to Tamerlane House.”

  PART THREE

  The League of Poets

  The walls were covered with paintings... large enough to step through.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The House of Tamerlane

  The Magician and the Detective pulled the door out of the ship’s hold and dragged it across the field to where the construction was taking place. There were carpenters and bricklayers and all manner of roustabouts scattered across the worksite who were carrying materials and banging on things and generally trying to look busy. But everything always stopped when they delivered a door.

  Just so, the Magician thought. The rabble should stop and take notice when I’m onstage. It might not be a formal performance as such, but he and the Detective were performing the job that could only be trusted to the betters of these rabble.

  “Are you two idiots going to take all day dragging that door over here?” said a brusque voice.

  At the top of the rise, holding the project blueprints, stood a solid man whose eyes glittered with purpose and whose scarred cheeks testified to his will. Richard Burton was not one to suffer fools or layabouts—not for long, anyway.

  “Bring it up here,” Burton instructed them, pointing to a frame that had been erected on a patch of clover. “Carefully, n
ow. The Chancellor will not be pleased if we lose another one. Nor will I.”

  A few months earlier they had been bringing another door up the rise when some of the workers dropped a wheelbarrow load of bricks from the scaffolding high above. The bricks had struck the door with enough force to shatter it, and splinters were all that was left. Burton had examined them with an Infinite Loupe—a modified set of eyeglasses that could be used to see through time— and proclaimed it to have been linked to the ninth century.

  “And to Persia, unless I miss my guess,” Burton had said. “That could have been useful—but it isn’t a time or place that is wholly unknown to me, so we’ll let it go, for now.”

  Of course, Burton’s idea of “letting it go” meant beheading the workers who had spilled the bricks, but since it was also useful in motivating the rest of the workers to be more careful, he didn’t see it as a complete waste of effort and resources.

  The Detective and the Magician stood the door in place and fitted it to the frame, then stepped back.

  Burton wiped his hands on his leather apron and stepped up to the door. Cautiously he reached for the handle and slowly pulled the door open, careful not to step over the threshold.

  A bright light emanated from within, giving Burton’s harsh features a demonic cast. Baroque-period music could be heard from somewhere deep in whatever place the door had opened to. “Excellent,” he said as he closed the door. “The Chancellor will be very pleased. A few more, and we’ll be able to give the order to move forward. A few more doors . . .

  “. . . and we’ll be able to conquer all of creation.”

  The central island of the Nameless Isles was practically barren of vegetation, save for a number of massive stumps of petrified wood, and the black obsidian crystals that were scattered among the dunes.

  At the end of the dock, a path formed of obsidian pieces wound its way up the slope to the front door of the extraordinary dwelling Grimalkin had called Tamerlane House.