Dragon Secrets

by Christopher Golden

  Yet he had always longed for more, to explore not only this world, but that of his birth, and any others that might exist. But he had been safe, and that was as his father wanted.

  Now Argus Cade was dead.

  His father would never visit the shores of Patience again, would never smile and clap him on the shoulder, would never bring him another book, never wrap him in a tender embrace and say those words he had always said upon his departure.

  You will see me soon.

  But Timothy would not see him soon. Not ever again, except perhaps after his own spirit moved on. His own soul. If he even had a soul. The Order of Alhazred—to which his father had belonged—believed that a person’s magical essence was their soul. This was the part of them that lingered after death, that lived again in a realm of spirits. Many of the other guilds that belonged to the Parliament of Mages believed the same.

  If they were correct, then what did that mean for Timothy, who had no magic?

  Now, striding across the ocean bottom, he tried to stop the thoughts from coming, stop the questions that came into his mind. Shafts of sunlight knifed down through the warm water and sparkled like a rainfall of gems in the currents. He narrowed his eyes and searched for any sign of a Bathelusk, the fish he had come searching for today. A large, dark shadow moved beyond the columns of sunlight, and he moved toward it.

  But ugly thoughts snuck back into his mind. Memories both thrilling and unsettling. Things to celebrate, and others to grieve.

  One morning the door had opened on the sand and it had not been his father come to visit, but Argus Cade’s favorite student, a burly, red-bearded mage named Leander Maddox. He not only brought the terrible news that Timothy’s father was dead, but he also brought freedom. Despite Argus’s cautions, Leander had not believed that Timothy would be reviled, that he would be a freak, an outcast in the world. He had convinced the young man to return with him, to enter his father’s house for the first time since birth.

  Timothy and his friends had taken up residence in his ancestral home, and Leander had introduced him to Nicodemus, the Grandmaster of the Order of Alhazred. The boy had allowed himself to hope, to become excited over the prospect of investigating the world of his birth, this realm of magic and mages.

  The tragedy was that Argus Cade had been correct.

  For it was not long after Timothy had left the Island of Patience that the first attempt upon his life had come. Assassins had infiltrated his father’s house and tried to kill him. For his protection, Nicodemus and Leander had suggested he move into SkyHaven, the Grandmaster’s fortress, which floated in the air above the ocean, just offshore from the city of Arcanum.

  Yet even there he was not safe. Other assassins came. Nicodemus explained to him that some of the magical guilds wanted him dead because they felt he was an abomination, a blemish on the face of the world. But others wanted to kill him because they feared what he was capable of. Without magic, the Grandmaster had explained, he could be the perfect spy. The spells they used to defend their homes, to sense intruders, would neither notice Timothy, nor keep him out. And the many guilds in the Parliament of Mages were always suspicious of one another, so the idea that such a person existed did not sit well with them.

  Afraid for his life, frustrated and angry at having become their target, Timothy decided to become what they feared—a spy for the Order of Alhazred. But in so doing he discovered a terrible truth. Nicodemus had the darkest heart imaginable. He was a killer, and worse. The Parliament of Mages had assigned Leander as a special investigator to look into the mysterious disappearances of a number of mages. Nicodemus had killed them all and trapped their spirits as wraiths, as his ghostly slaves.

  As the truth began to reveal itself, Leander had confronted Nicodemus and been captured. Timothy and his friends had attacked SkyHaven to rescue Leander. During their invasion the boy had come face to face with the Grandmaster—who had been leeching the magical life force from his victims to extend his own life—and destroyed him.

  Now the Parliament of Mages was attempting to make sense of it all, and Timothy had retreated to the Island of Patience so that he could center himself, although briefly, before he fulfilled his promise to Verlis.

  And every time he allowed his memory to go back to that fateful day when they had flown across the ocean and stormed SkyHaven’s battlements, one single image lingered: a girl in a long, gauzy green dress with ghostly pale skin and flowing, bright red hair. She had stood atop one of the towers amid that fortress and gestured to him, as if guiding him toward the most strategic, the most vulnerable, place to infiltrate SkyHaven.

  Then she had disappeared.

  Even after Nicodemus was destroyed and the battle was over, even after the Parliament had taken over SkyHaven and begun to discover its secrets, there had been no sign of this mysterious, beautiful girl. Leander had even suggested that Timothy might have imagined her.

  But Timothy knew she was no product of his imagination. He had seen her, and the images of her red hair blowing in the wind, of her graceful form atop that tower, lingered in his mind.

  Even here beneath the waves he could not escape her.

  He sucked air through the mouthpiece of the tube, and with thoughts of the mystery girl in green flitting across his mind, he smiled.

  The sap he had used to glue the mouthpiece in place cracked, and water began to seep in. Timothy’s eyes went wide in alarm and he nearly dropped his speargun. His pulse sped up and he clapped his free hand over the mouthpiece, pressing it into place and pausing to steady his breathing. Time to get back to shore. In his mind he cursed himself for being so foolish. Now he would return to the surface without a single Bathelusk, the fish he had come down here to catch in the first place.

  Frustrated, Timothy turned back toward shore and began trudging along the ocean bottom. He had been careful to avoid touching it before because he did not want his vision obscured, but now his feet kicked up clouds of dirt and sand.

  Then he froze.

  In the brown cloud amid the green water was a pair of fat, yellow fish as big as his head, each of them covered with cruel-looking spikes that would prick anyone foolish enough to try to grab hold.

  Bathelusk.

  Timothy raised his speargun.

  But he did not smile. He prided himself on not making the same mistake twice.

  Timothy was in his workshop, surveying the various tables and shelves for anything that might be useful for his trip to Wurm World, as he had come to think of it. Verlis had found a way to slip between dimensions in search of Argus Cade, to plead for the mage’s help in saving his family from the terrible civil war among the Wurm. Timothy’s father was dead, of course, but the young man had promised to do whatever he could to help Verlis. In return, Verlis had offered to help him defeat Nicodemus.

  Now that Grandmaster of the Order of Alhazred was no more. Verlis had done his part, and it was time for Timothy to do his.

  He scratched his head and looked at a wooden crate he had begun to pack. The speargun was in there, along with a weapon he had built for hunting birds, a crossbow. A smaller box containing two fresh and several dried Bathelusk went in as well. There was a slingshot. Now he stared at his forge and wondered if he would have time to hammer some of the metal in his workshop into armor for his torso, or even a helmet.

  It wouldn’t be a terrible idea.

  More importantly, though, he wanted to make sure that the saltweed cloak he was making would be ready. The garment would be ugly, but it would also be fireproof.

  “Time, time, time,” Timothy whispered to himself, rubbing his mouth where the tree sap was still sticky. “Once all I had was time, and now there isn’t enough of it.”

  On another table was a rack of various herbs and potions in Lemboo tubes he wanted to bring with him. There were healing remedies there, as well as other things, tinctures to darken the skin, mixtures that would start a small fire when exposed to air, and—

  His thoughts were interrupt
ed by a loud clatter at the reed door of the workshop. It swung open and Sheridan—the mechanical man Timothy had built—clanked in, moving backward. Steam whistled from the pressure valve on the side of his head. Together, he and Ivar were carrying a large barrel into the workshop. The Asura warrior frowned as Sheridan bumped the open door.

  Timothy flinched.

  “No, no … please, you two, be careful!”

  He rushed across the workshop. Ivar’s face was stoic as always, the tribal markings on his flesh shifting fluidly, beautifully. The Asura’s skin was covered in pigment that could be changed simply by willing it, so that he could blend into his surroundings and effectively become invisible. Timothy had often been mesmerized by the movements of those marks. Now, though, he was only panicked.

  Ivar raised a fleshy brow.

  Sheridan’s head turned around halfway, but his body remained forward, holding up his end of the barrel.

  “What’s wrong, Timothy?” the mechanical man asked. “We’ve upset you.”

  “No, it’s… Look, you should’ve taken that around the front,” the young man said. Then he shook his head. “Go through the shop and out the front door. But whatever you do, don’t drop it. It might be completely safe … but it might not be.”

  “Not safe?” the Asura warrior asked, one corner of his mouth lifting in amusement. “What will it do? You expect a barrel to attack us?”

  Timothy smiled, but his heart was still pounding. “No. But since the barrel is filled with Hakka powder and coal, I can’t promise you it won’t explode.”

  Sheridan’s eyes lit up, blindingly bright in the gray light of the workshop, and steam hissed from the side of his head. He swiveled around to stare at Ivar. “Be careful.”

  “Oh, yes,” Ivar replied.

  He was kind enough not to mention that it had not been him bumping into doors with a barrel of explosive powder.

  Timothy turned to make sure their path was clear. Even as he did, a black shape flashed through the open front door with a flutter of dark wings and an excited cry. It was Edgar, the rook that had been the familiar of Timothy’s father, and now of the boy himself.

  “Caw, caw!” the bird called. “On the beach! The door. The door has returned!”

  Timothy smiled and would have gone straight out the door, but in that moment Sheridan bumped a workbench and nearly dropped his end of the barrel. Ivar muttered an Asura curse that Timothy had heard him use hundreds of times, but that the warrior had never been willing to translate. With a sigh, the boy waited to make sure his friends managed to get the barrel outside without blowing up the workshop, or themselves.

  Then he took off, sprinting toward the beach.

  He had spent his lifetime with only Sheridan and Ivar for company. Much as he loved them both, in his brief time in the world of his birth he had come to appreciate the companionship of others. Timothy Cade was deeply grateful for the friendship of Leander Maddox, and hoped he would build other friendships as well. Lacking even a single blood relative, he was gathering around himself a different kind of family. One of his own choosing. And in that strange family, Leander Maddox would certainly be counted as his favorite uncle.

  Red sand flew up from beneath his feet as he ran toward the shoreline. The surf rolled up the beach, dampening the sand only inches from an ornate door frame that stood impossibly alone. The door hung open, and in front of it was a massive figure in flowing robes of green and gold, a hood shading his face from the suns. Upon his chest, and upon the crest of his hood, was the insignia of the Order of Alhazred, the sleeping dragon.

  “Leander!” Timothy shouted.

  The man reached up with both hands and slid back his hood so that it cowled about his neck. His shaggy mane of red hair and full bushy beard shone in the sunlight. But that gleam did not reach his expression. His eyes were dark.

  Timothy slowed nearly to a stop, as though the breath had been stolen from his chest. He could not keep himself from remembering, all too clearly, the first time Leander had come through that door with an expression much like this one. On that day, the mage had come to tell him his father was dead.

  “What?” he asked as Leander strode up the beach to meet him. Timothy shuddered and his shoulders slumped. “What is it?”

  Anger passed across the mage’s features like the surf upon the shore, and then receded. Leander collected himself and gazed steadily at Timothy.

  “I have not wanted to burden you with bad tidings,” the mage said. “Not here. Not until you returned to the world, to your father’s… or rather, to your home. But circumstances force my hand.”

  Timothy saw that he was deeply troubled and reached up to lay a small hand upon the thick arm of the burly mage. “What’s happened?”

  “Since the truth about Nicodemus was discovered—and I was made acting Grandmaster of the Order—relations amongst the guilds have only worsened. With their greatest enemy gone, you would think otherwise. Unfortunately, the Parliament of Mages has only grown less trusting of one another, fragmenting further. Suspicion is rampant. Accusations of espionage and treason to the Parliament fly daily. A constable has been appointed.”

  Timothy frowned. “What is a constable?”

  “A peacekeeper. A single mage given far more power than any one person should have and assigned the task of setting things right. A constable is the law.”

  “But that sounds as though it should be a good thing.”

  “It ought to be,” Leander agreed. “But the man they have appointed, Constable Grimshaw, is cruel and arrogant. He has waited for power most of his life, and now he that he has it, he means to use it. When your father feared that there would be those who considered you a monster, a freak, because you have no magic, Grimshaw was precisely the sort of mage he was worried about.”

  Timothy shook his head. “You think he means me harm?”

  “Not directly, no. But he will watch you very closely because he sees you and any being who is not a mage—not a member of one of the guilds—as somehow less than other beings. And also, as a threat.”

  Leander hung his head a moment and took a long breath. His thick hair cast his face in shadow and curtained his features from the sunlight.

  “Wurms, for instance, would be considered quite a threat. Constable Grimshaw has ordered his men to capture Verlis. They have imprisoned him.”

  A dark anger passed through Timothy. His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. Sadness pierced his heart, but he did not try to fight it, for it only made him angrier.

  “Take me to him.”

  Chapter Two

  The elegant sky carriage that bore the family crest of Leander Maddox hovered in the air, beginning its descent from the heights of August Hill, a wealthy neighborhood on the outskirts of the city of Arcanum. August Hill was the highest peak in the area, and many of the homes built near its apex hung suspended in the air by the power of magic, anchored to the hill itself only by a single corner. Among these was the Cade estate.

  Once again Timothy had to leave his father’s house behind. Caiaphas, Leander’s navigation mage, sat up on the high seat on top of the carriage in his night-blue robes and veiled hood, blue magic crackling from his fingers. Timothy sat safely within the craft, arms folded angrily across his chest, as far away from Leander as possible.

  “Timothy, please understand,” Leander pleaded. “There was nothing I could do.”

  The boy refused to make eye contact with the burly mage, choosing instead to gaze out the craft’s window as it soared above the greatest city in the nation of Sunderland, although not even the splendor of Arcanum could raise his spirits this day.

  Upon hearing the news of Verlis’s imprisonment, Timothy had demanded that they depart from Patience at once, leaving Edgar, Sheridan, and Ivar the task of packing up his workshop. He hated the way they had looked at him as he left without explanation, but he didn’t have the heart to tell them what had happened. He was too ashamed.

  “I understand that you’re an
gry with me, but you need to realize that—”

  “I’m more than just angry, Leander,” the boy interrupted, his voice trembling with emotion. “I’m hurt and disappointed. How could you? How could the Grandmaster of the Order of Alhazred allow this to happen?” he demanded. “Verlis is our friend, never mind the fact that he’s done nothing wrong.”

  The great mage sighed, sliding closer to Timothy. “I did all I could to sway the Parliament, but they’re still reeling from the realization of the heinous things Nicodemus was doing right beneath their noses. The Parliament is in chaos, and all too susceptible to the recommendations of Constable Grimshaw.”

  “But you’re a grandmaster,” Timothy complained. “It has to mean something.”

  Leander nodded. “Yes, that’s true. But I am grandmaster of an order whose former leader was responsible for foul deeds. The most treacherous mage in modern history. Needless to say, my words don’t carry much weight these days.”

  Timothy turned to face his friend, pulling his leg up beneath him on the padded bench. “Verlis hasn’t done anything wrong. He came to us—to my father—for help. I don’t care how paranoid they are. What justification do they have for locking him away?”

  Leander closed his eyes, squeezing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “I’m afraid my answer to that question will be just as unsatisfactory, my boy,” the Grandmaster said. “The constable’s reaction is a carryover of mistrust and hate from another age. It is not that Verlis is accused of a crime. Constable Grimshaw has arrested him solely because he is a Wurm, and his species is considered a danger.”