The Shadow Dragons

by James A. Owen

  “What if he’s just faded into dust?” suggested Jack. “That’s what happened to his predecessor, isn’t it?”

  “Charles Darnay had fulfilled his calling and was therefore released,” said Dickens. “Do you really think Magwich has fulfilled anything?”

  “You make a good point,” said Jack. “He did prove helpful once, uh, in his own fashion. I don’t know that I’d say he could be trusted, but I’d begun to think better of him.”

  “Extending trust to those who have already proven themselves untrustworthy,” Twain remarked, “is a bit like cutting off the end of a rope and sewing it to the other end to make it longer.”

  John explained briefly the circumstances that had resulted in their arrival in the Nameless Isles, omitting only their suspicion of Kipling as an ally of their still unknown adversary.

  “So Quixote is here?” Spenser said with a joyous expression. “My old partner! I would love to see him!”

  “I’ll pass, if it’s all the same to you,” Tycho Brahe muttered. “I’m sure he feels the same.”

  “It’s all right,” said Cervantes. “The past is the past—I’m sure he’s forgiven you by now.”

  “I would hope so,” said Brahe. “If you can’t get some leniency after you’ve died, when can you get it?”

  “Hank told us what had happened,” said Twain, “and Ransom filled in the holes after. So we knew that seven years hence, you’d try to make your way here.”

  “That was the plan,” said John. “It was a risk to use Ransom’s Trump, but we felt that once we had removed Rose from danger and had moved past Verne’s zero points, we’d have a better chance of preventing the war.”

  “Prevent the war?” a quiet voice said. It was Franz Schubert— and it was the first words he had spoken all evening. “Prevent? I’m sure I misunderstand you, young man. You cannot prevent something that has already begun.”

  “Already begun!” John exclaimed. “You can’t be serious!”

  One look at Bert’s face confirmed that it was true. “The war in the Summer Country has been raging for four years now,” the old traveler said, “exactly the same length of time we’ve been preparing for it here, although they may have fared the worse for it, since our war in the Archipelago has not yet begun.”

  “But I thought taking Rose away from danger was supposed to stop the war from happening!”

  “Stop? No,” said Chaucer. “Protecting the Grail Child was of the highest priority, and we are all grateful for your wisdom and diligence in doing so. But her survival was never meant to stop the wars—our adversary was going to see those begun regardless of the safeguards we put into place.

  “Her survival was important, because it was the only way to ensure that the wars would end.”

  Chaucer signaled to one of the ravens, who flew across the room and removed a book from a nearby bookcase. The raven laid it on the table and snuck a grape from one of the platters before it flew off again.

  The book was roughly the size and shape of one of the Histories. The covers and binding were steel gray leather, and the pages themselves were so white as to appear cold. For leather and parchment to be so bereft of color, the book had to be ancient. More ancient than anything else the Caretakers had ever seen.

  In contrast to the Geographica, which bore the Greek letter alpha on the cover, this book was embossed with an omega—the same letter Bert used as his personal emblem.

  “This is the only book more dangerous than the Imaginarium Geographica,” he said, his voice heavy with responsibility. “It is filled with notations, and formulas, and stories, and even maps. But it is also as close a record as a book can be to a History of the Dragons. It has notes on the first time any dragon has ever appeared in any land, and it lists every one of their True Names. But even more importantly, it contains the prophecies that may yet save the Archipelago.

  “In the past, it has been called the Telos Biblos, according to the Greek. We simply refer to it as the Last Book. It is one of a set of books—we don’t know how many. It was obtained only through great sacrifice, and it is the reason why we have come together today.”

  “It was taken from the library of the first Caretaker to go rogue,” Chaucer continued. “John Dee. Very little is known about him save for rumors and whisperings, but we know that he recorded the True Names of the dragons—and he also planted the seeds for the Imperial Cartological Society, which blossomed under Burton.

  “Because of this book, we know many of our enemies who were once friends. Milton. Kit Marlowe. De Bergerac. William Blake. Coleridge. Lord Byron.”

  “I almost took him out of the game,” Percy Shelley commented, “if Mary hadn’t thrown the portrait into the tide pool to put out the flames.”

  “What separates us from them is our belief in order,” Bert said sternly. “George Gordon, Lord Byron, was a Caretaker, and his portrait still hangs here, albeit turned over. He’ll never participate in a Gatherum, but he’ll not aid the enemy, either.”

  “I knew Kit Marlowe,” put in Shakespeare. “He was quite a fair writer—for a traitor, that is.”

  “The Last Book has remained here in the care of the Prime Caretaker for many years,” said Chaucer, “and through it we have learned many things about time, and space, and our own Histories. We also know that our adversaries have gleaned enough knowledge from this, and other books like it, to develop their own methods of moving in time and space, and that makes them more dangerous than ever.

  “Because of this book, we know that there is going to be one last great conflict with the Winter King, but not what guise he will take. It may be his Shadow in disguise again, or Mordred himself risen from the endless deep, or both. We know that the three current Caretakers are the key to defeating him. And we know that he has acquired a terrible weapon with which to defeat us.”

  “How does Rose figure into this?” asked John. “Why was she so important that she was to be killed? And how does her being here now help our cause?”

  “Verne can answer you more fully as to the destiny we suspect is ahead of the girl,” Edmund Spenser said, leaning over the table to better be heard. “But what little we do know also comes from the Prophecy.”

  Chaucer turned to a page near the front of the Last Book and scanned it until he found the passage he wanted. “It said that in the final conflict with the King of Shadows, three scholars from the Summer Country will stand united against him. An ageless knight will deliver to them the means to defeat the Shadow King, which will be wielded by a daughter of the Houses of Troy and Aramathea. Rose Dyson, the Grail Child, is the only person in all of history who has that specific heritage. And we believe that she is the key to his final defeat.”

  “Dear God,” said Charles.

  “It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?” asked Twain.

  “That’s why we’ve taken the steps we have,” said Bert. “We needed to make sure you were here, now, under the right circumstances, to see that Prophecy fulfilled.”

  “I think I need a drink,” said Jack. “Or five.”

  “We should adjourn for brandy and a bit of air,” suggested Irving. “We’ve been at this so long it might be a good time for a break.” He looked at his watch and frowned. “Drat. I think my watch is running a bit fast. What time do you have, Rudyard?”

  Kipling blanched. “I’m not sure,” he said, craning his neck. “Do we have a clock in here, Bert?”

  “Just check your watch,” said Irving. “You do have a watch, don’t you?”

  Kipling went pale. “I, uh, I seem to have left it elsewhere,” he said with a weak laugh. “Sorry—no watch.”

  The room went still.

  “A Caretaker is never without his watch,” Spenser said coolly. “Where is yours, Kipling?”

  In response, Kipling turned out his pockets like a circus clown and grinned sheepishly—then shoved Irving off his chair and leaped onto the table.

  “Hell’s bells!” Twain exclaimed. “What the devil are you doing, R
udyard?”

  Kipling ignored the question and the shouts of the others and instead threw over the candles on the table. Then, amidst the confusion, he bolted from the room.

  “Someone stop him!” Irving shouted. “He’s heading for the gallery!”

  Jack was closest to the doors, and the most able-bodied of the Caretakers—or so he thought. He had exited the room and was racing after Kipling when Jakob Grimm passed him by.

  Kipling wheeled about and pushed open the doors to the gallery anteroom, then threw them shut just as Jakob caught up to him. Jakob was struggling with the doors as Jack and then the rest of the Caretakers ran down the corridor.

  “He’s locked it!” Jakob exclaimed. “I can’t get it open!”

  “Stand back,” said Hawthorne. He took the measure of the doors, and then smashed into them with a powerful, well-placed kick. They didn’t budge.

  “You thought one kick would do it?” asked Jack.

  “Well, I am Nathaniel Hawthorne,” he answered, gesturing to the others. “All together now!”

  Hawthorne, Jack, Irving, and Jakob threw themselves against the doors, which cracked open in a shower of splintered wood.

  “There!” said Jack. “He’s going back inside the painting!”

  At first glance, that seemed to be precisely what Kipling was doing—until the Caretakers rushed forward to capture their colleague and suddenly realized that the portrait of Kipling . . .

  . . . was shrinking.

  “What kind of enchantment is this?” Irving declared.

  Whatever was happening, it was too late to catch the Caretakergone-wild. The image was the size of a playing card now, and there was no way to reverse or halt the process. In seconds the image would disappear completely.

  “Be seeing you,” Kipling said with a wink. And then he was gone.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Master

  “It wasn’t a portrait at all!” John exclaimed. “It was a Trump, just like the ones Hank and Ransom use!”

  “You’re right, young man,” Twain said, examining the painting. “A rather ingenious ploy—creating a Trump that opens on top of a painting of the same image.”

  “He must have used a similar one to come into the gallery,” said Jamie, “and merely pretended he was being summoned from his portrait as the rest of us were.”

  Bert moved over to the painting and tapped on it lightly with his fingertips. “No,” he said. “This was an actual portrait done with Pygmalion resins, as all the rest have been. He only needed a means of escape that we couldn’t easily duplicate.”

  “Can we follow him?” asked John. “Through the painting?”

  Bert grimaced and shook his head. “They’re meant to be one way, and they don’t actually go to a place,” he said resignedly. “When the Caretakers go back, they aren’t somewhere—they’re just in a painting.”

  “He’s going to report to his masters,” Jakob cried. “We’ve got to do something! He must be stopped!”

  “I left the doors to the gallery unlocked,” said Bert. “How was it that Kipling locked them so quickly, since I have the only three keys, and one of those is imaginary?”

  “The place you’re seeking . . . isn’t there.”

  “I don’t know,” Jakob said. “He closed them behind him, and as I caught up, I found I couldn’t get them open. But believe me, I was pushing as hard as I could.”

  Defoe stood behind Jakob and closed his hands into fists. “Perhaps we have another turncoat in our midst,” he said with obvious menace in his tone. “Where’s your watch, Jakob?”

  With a few fumbles born of fear and haste, Jakob rummaged around in his pockets and finally, with a great sigh of relief, produced his watch.

  “You’re good, then,” Defoe said. “I’m sorry I doubted you, Brother Grimm.”

  “Thanks,” said Jakob, still visibly shaken. “I’m sorry about the doors. Wilhelm would have been smart enough to do it the right way.”

  “So Kipling knows all our secrets,” said Defoe.

  “Not all of them,” Bert said in admonishment. “He was only a part of the whole. We have the books, and we have the three Caretakers of Prophecy. They will see this through, regardless of Kipling’s betrayal.”

  “This may be the worst possible time to bring this up,” said John, “but we had already suspected Kipling was a traitor. We just didn’t tell anyone.”

  Quickly he related the rest of the details about their flight from the Inn of the Flying Dragon, and the fact that Jack believed Kipling had been leading their pursuers.

  “Why didn’t you tell us this before?” asked Hawthorne. “We might have found him out all the sooner.”

  “He didn’t tell,” Twain said, lighting up a fresh cigar, “because he is not an ass, and neither are his two compatriots. They came here today and have listened to a great many impossible things without blinking. But they also saw us turning on our own like a pack of hungry dogs.

  “We questioned Charles Dickens’ loyalty because two of those he trained turned out to be traitors themselves—never mind the fact that he also trained our Prime Caretaker. We questioned Alexandre Dumas, not for what he chose to do, but because of the choices of his son. And we were one minute away from lynching poor Jakob because we know his brother to be allied with Burton, and he couldn’t produce his watch quickly enough.

  “No,” Twain said with finality. “Young John did exactly the right thing. He watched, and waited, and when it was time to act, he used his best judgment. And that’s all anyone can ask of a Caretaker.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Clemens,” said John.

  “You don’t have to thank me, boy,” said Twain as he stepped out into the corridor, puffing on his cigar. “I’m deceased, remember? At this point, I’m just here for the entertainment.”

  “I am sorry,” Jakob said again. “Not just for myself, but for . . . for my brother.”

  “He made his own choices,” said Bert, “but of the two of you, we got the better man. Come,” he called to the others, gesturing broadly. “Let us retire to the conservatory for drinks and more discussion. Our schedule has just taken an unexpected leap forward.”

  The conservatory was in the very center of Tamerlane House, and the ceiling inside the room rose to an impossible height. It had to be ten stories high and was capped by a glittering, translucent dome.

  Windows rose along two sides, above a second-floor landing and stairway, with massive tapestries hanging in between. Below were a walk-in fireplace and several shelves lined with busts and sculptures amid a number of chairs, which surrounded a long table much like the one in the dining room. As before, John noted that none of the Caretakers took the seat at the head of the table.

  “There’s nothing outside that’s this tall,” John said wonderingly as he looked up at the dome. “Have we gone down somehow, below ground?”

  “Oh, no,” said Bert. “The earth here is impossibly hard. Just putting in a basement was a trial and a tribulation. This room was built specifically to house the tapestries”—he pointed at the explosions of color that were draped on the walls—“but Marco Polo had underestimated their size when we acquired them from him, and we had a dilemma. So we installed a tesseract, and that’s made all the difference. Isn’t the dome lovely?”

  “Nice, very nice,” said Charles. “Egyptian?”

  “Hittite,” said Bert. “But you were close.”

  Once drinks were poured and all of them had again settled down from the commotion Kipling had caused, Bert called for silence, and Chaucer stood to address them.

  “It has been many years since one of our number has turned,” he began, “but we must press forward. Kipling’s betrayal changes nothing.”

  “Perhaps he should be flogged,” put in Shakespeare.

  “Changes nothing?” Hawthorne exclaimed. “He knows about the girl!”

  “They already knew about Rose,” Twain corrected. “What they didn’t know was that there were other players in the g
ame. They didn’t know that John, Jack, and Charles are to play a key role in the final defeat of the Winter King. And they didn’t know that Quixote would deliver the weapon of his downfall. So in my opinion, our mission has not changed—we must protect the girl. She is the endgame.”

  “They may not have known all those things,” said Charles, “but we’ve given them something else: We’ve confirmed that we know who our adversary is. The Prophecy itself has confirmed it. In some form, we will be facing the Winter King.”

  “And now that they know we know,” said Jack, “he will be making his move.”

  “I concur,” said John. “The war in the Archipelago begins right now.”

  “I think, given this turn of events,” Chaucer said, “we should bring in the Grail Child and her guardian. We need to have all the players on the board, and we all need to know what everyone else knows.”

  Bert signaled to the ravens, and they flew out of the conservatory, returning a few minutes later with Rose, Quixote, and Archimedes in tow.

  It took most of an hour to make introductions. Rose was unusually timid, but polite. Quixote was typically formal in his greetings, except when he got to Edmund Spenser. The two men gripped each other’s forearms and laughed. It was a reunion of true friends and colleagues.

  “It has been far too long, you old Riddle Master,” said Spenser. “How are you?”

  “Riddle Master?” answered Quixote. “Pish-tosh. Without your detective skills, the Sphinx would have defeated me.”

  “Hello, Quixote,” said Cervantes.

  “Miguel!” Quixote said, shaking his hand. “How goes the new book?”

  “I’m almost finished,” Cervantes told him.

  “Which new book is that?” John whispered to Bert.

  “It doesn’t really matter,” Bert replied. “He always says he’s almost finished.”

  When Quixote came to Tycho Brahe, the best they could manage were polite, if curt, nods at each other. Room was made for Quixote to sit next to Spenser, and Rose went to sit between Jack and Charles. A raven flew in and placed a glass of milk in front of her.