Dragon Secrets

by Christopher Golden

  Leander stepped out of the carriage and glanced up at the Xerxis. The four corners of the tower were formed by stone beams that began to curve halfway up, twisting in upon themselves so that the tower grew narrower and narrower, ending in a solid, rounded stone cap far, far above the ground. It always gave him perspective, staring up at that structure. The Xerxis had been there thousands of years before he was born, and it would likely remain thousands of years after, and it represented to him the very best that magic could accomplish, the best that could be found in the hearts of mages. For the legends of the wisdom and leadership of Xerxes were an example to them all.

  It was an honor for him every time he set foot inside. Even today, with all the stress weighing upon him, he took a moment to acknowledge that honor. He paused, then turned to look to Caiaphas, up on the high seat of the carriage.

  “I’ve no idea how long this will be. Be at ease. Find refreshment. I will summon you when I am ready to depart,” Leander said.

  “Certainly, Master Maddox,” the navigation mage replied.

  Then the sky carriage was sliding away into the air.

  The tall doors of the Xerxis opened for Leander as he approached. Sentries eyed him warily, in case any of the defensive wards and spells that protected the Xerxis should identify him as an intruder or an impostor. At the interior doors he identified himself to the final sentry, though the woman knew him on sight. She touched two fingers to her forehead, then to her chest, and executed a courteous half bow.

  “Grandmaster Maddox. Kind thoughts on this day,” the sentry said.

  Leander smiled and repeated the woman’s gesture. This was a traditional greeting dating back, or so it was said, to the days of Xerxes himself.

  “On this and all days,” he said, it being the traditional reply.

  She stood aside and let him pass, and Leander hurried down a long corridor. He passed several aides as he rushed toward the massive parliamentary chamber, and noticed two men whisper to each other when they saw him. A frown creased his forehead. Gossip did not bode well, and now his curiosity about the nature of this urgent summons took on an ominous bent.

  There were four sentries at the ornate double doors of the chamber, two on either side. They opened the door as he approached, and the corridor was suddenly flooded with the noise of dozens of voices speaking at once—the buzz of conversation on the chamber floor.

  “Professor Maddox,” one of the sentries said in greeting as he passed.

  Leander was already inside the chamber when it struck him. Professor. The sentry had called him Professor, rather than Grandmaster.

  The circular chamber was vast, with twenty rows of seats ringed about a bare floor where anyone wishing to speak would stand to address the Parliament. The room was the heart of the Xerxis, and its walls went all the way up to the apex of the tower itself. There were no openings on the lower walls, no windows save for one, at the very tip of the tower, where a single broad pane of spell-glass allowed a view of the sky. Unless it was midday, however, daylight did not reach down onto the floor of the parliamentary chamber, and so ghostfire lanterns flickered from wall sconces and from posts at the end of each aisle.

  At the moment the only mage on the speaker’s floor was Alethea Borgia, a silver-haired woman of advanced age who was both Grandmaster of the Order of Tantrus and the Voice of Parliament. As the Voice, it was her place to conduct all of the parliamentary meetings, to make certain procedures were followed, and to oversee the various committees established. She was, for all intents and purposes, the most powerful mage on Terra.

  When Leander entered the chamber, all conversation instantly ceased. All eyes were upon him.

  Alethea had been a friend to Argus Cade. There had been some who had suggested that the two—who had known each other before many members of Parliament had been born—were more than friends. But Alethea’s first loyalty would always be to Parliament.

  “Grandmaster Maddox,” the Voice said. “Thank you for coming so quickly. There is an urgent matter that must be…”

  She continued speaking, but though he held her in very high regard, Leander was no longer listening to her. His eyes had gone, only naturally, to his own seat in Parliament, the first row on the second aisle to the left of the entrance. As he was standing, his seat ought to have been empty.

  It was not.

  In the place that had for over a century belonged to each successive grandmaster of the Order of Alhazred, there was a beautiful girl, only a few years older than Timothy. Her long hair was a rich red and it gleamed in the ghostfire light, giving her an almost ethereal aspect. She wore robes of gold. Stitched in emerald green on the front of her robe was the sleeping dragon, the symbol of the Order of Alhazred.

  Alethea Borgia had at last noticed that he was not paying any attention to her. She cleared her throat. “Grandmaster Maddox.”

  The red-haired girl crossed her arms and shot a withering glance at the Voice. “I do wish you wouldn’t call him that.”

  “You will be silent for the moment,” Alethea instructed her. “I have the floor.”

  Leander stared at the girl, then at the Voice. “What is the meaning of this, Alethea?” he asked, breaking protocol by using the familiarity of her first name.

  The girl leaned forward, studying them both, and her fiery hair spilled across her features, hiding her eyes from him.

  “Professor Maddox,” Alethea replied. “Your appointment as Grandmaster of the Order of Alhazred has been challenged by the granddaughter of the previous Grandmaster, who claims the right of ascendancy.”

  “Granddaughter?” Leander repeated, mystified. He stared at the girl, even as the Voice continued.

  “Yes. His granddaughter indeed. Leander Maddox, may I introduce you to Cassandra Nicodemus.”

  Timothy had a workshop in the lower levels of SkyHaven. There, just offshore from Arcanum, it was far easier for him to get materials for his inventions than it was on the Island of Patience. Yet in the time he had spent back on the island, he had realized he still preferred that isolated workshop to this one. Leander might be able to remove all of the bad elements from the Order of Alhazred, but Timothy would never be able to eliminate the bad memories from his time as a guest here, when Nicodemus was still in charge.

  He hoped there would come a time when things quieted down enough so that he could move back into his father’s house—into his house. But for now he knew he and his friends were safer at SkyHaven. Or, at least, most of them were. It seemed Verlis wasn’t safe anywhere in the world of mages.

  “I should be doing something!” he snapped as he paced through the workshop. Ivar, Sheridan, and Edgar were there, and he was glad to have his friends about. Leander had arranged for Caiaphas to go to Timothy’s father’s house and use the door to Patience, to retrieve them and bring them here. If the boy wasn’t going back to the island anytime soon, he wanted his friends with him.

  “Caw! What can you do?” Edgar asked. The rook perched on one of Timothy’s worktables, head tilted to one side, regarding him with black eyes. “Parliament has made its ruling. Your father used to say Parliament was created so that there would be one place in the world where mages fought with words, not magic. It’s civilized.”

  Timothy spun and glared at him. “Civilized? They’ve locked Verlis in a prison underwater, just because he’s different from them! Is that civilized?”

  The bird ruffled his feathers, but said nothing.

  A hiss of steam came from the valve on Sheridan’s head, and the mechanical man took several steps forward. He had been working on a new gadget for the arsenal that was stored inside his metal torso, an extendable arm that, when deployed, would give off a friction shock. Now his eyes glowed a pale red as he gazed at Timothy.

  “No. It is not civilized. But it is not entirely unexpected. Your father used to bring books to Patience. There were history books among them. We both read them, Timothy. Mages have always defined living creatures by their differences, and conflic
t has often resulted.”

  Timothy sighed. “I know. But that doesn’t make it right.” He strode across the room to the large window and stood looking down at the churning ocean beneath. The sun shone brightly upon the waves. It was a beautiful day, but the plight of his friend left him unable to enjoy it.

  He heard the ruffle of feathers and then the flap of wings, and Edgar settled down on the windowsill beside him. “Not right. Of course it’s not right. But until the Parliament understands that…”

  The rook did not finish his thought.

  Timothy shook his head.

  “And what if they never understand?”

  The boy glanced up. He had just thought this very thing, but the words had not come from him. In a shadowed corner of the workshop, Ivar sat in a crouch, whittling a piece of wood into a startlingly realistic image of Verlis, wings and all. Timothy had nearly forgotten that the warrior was there, for Ivar had used his ability to alter the hue of his skin to blend into the shadows.

  The warrior’s face was grim. “Verlis is a prisoner because of what he is. Sheridan is correct about history. Mages have no love for the Asura. They exterminated my tribe before they attempted to do the same with the Wurm. If they do this to Verlis, can the day be far away when they will come for me, as well?”

  Timothy stared at him. His heart ached with the sadness in Ivar’s voice, and his face burned with anger at the injustice of it all.

  “That’s it!” he snapped. “That is it! I’m going to tell Leander to ask the Parliament if—no. No, no. I’m going to tell him that—as a friend of Verlis—that I demand the right to defend him, that I demand an audience. My father did it, and I’ll do the same. One way or another, they’re going to let him go, and let me get him back to his own world.”

  Chapter Four

  Timothy stood before the mirror in his bedroom gazing at his reflection. He tugged on the bottom of the fancy dinner jacket and stepped back to scrutinize his attire. The high-collared shirt was tight against his neck, and he pushed a finger between the starched material and his throat, trying to loosen it. He briefly regretted his decision to dress formally for dinner with Leander, but tonight he wanted to express how serious he was about taking Verlis’s plight to Parliament, and Timothy felt that these uncomfortable clothes would lend credence to his views.

  He had never bothered to wear any of the myriad outfits Nicodemus had provided him upon his arrival at SkyHaven, choosing instead to wear the more practical and more comfortable clothes he had brought from Patience. Tonight was a different story, however. Timothy had to prove to Leander Maddox how important this was to him.

  A knock on the door interrupted the boy’s thoughts. “Come in,” he called out, tugging on the sleeves of his rich brown jacket, catching the reflections of his friends as they entered through the door behind him.

  “Caw! Caw! Look at you,” Edgar said from his perch atop Sheridan’s head.

  “What do you think?” Timothy asked nervously, looking down at the heavy black trousers and ankle-high boots. “Do you think Leander will take me seriously?”

  A short burst of steam hissed from the valve on the side of Sheridan’s head. “I think you look very serious,” the mechanical man said politely. “As a matter of fact, I’m not certain I have ever seen anybody look more serious. What do you think, Edgar?”

  The rook ruffled his feathers, looking the boy over once again. “If Leander can’t see how serious you are, he isn’t really looking.”

  Timothy caught movement out of the corner of his eye, a distortion in the air, moving across the room. “Hey, Ivar,” he called. “What do you think?”

  The warrior appeared as if by magic, his skin turning its natural pale coloring as he leaned against the windowsill. “I think you are wearing too much,” he said with a scowl. He circled around Timothy, reaching out to feel the fabric of the clothing. “How is it even possible to breathe—never mind do battle?”

  “But this is the way people dress here—when they want to impress someone—and I don’t think I’ll be fighting with anybody tonight. At least, I hope not.”

  Ivar shook his head sadly. “I mean no disrespect, Timothy Cade, but I am not impressed.”

  Timothy chuckled, checking his image one more time in the mirror before making his way toward the door. “And no disrespect to you, either, but the only person I have to impress tonight is Leander. Wish me luck,” he said to them as he went out the door with a wave.

  The Grandmaster’s dining room was in the west wing of the floating citadel. Timothy made his way through the winding corridors of SkyHaven and only took the wrong turn twice before he managed to reach the room. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly to calm himself. The doors had been left open, and he strolled in, hoping he exuded an air of maturity, of seriousness. Leander was seated at his usual place at the head of the table, his back to the door, but there were other people around the table as well. When he saw the red-haired girl at the table, he froze and his eyes went wide.

  She was the same mysterious girl who had aided him on the day he and his friends had attacked SkyHaven to stop Nicodemus. She had pointed out an entrance that had led him swiftly to the evil Grandmaster. And then she had, seemingly, disappeared. Yet here she was, sitting down for dinner.

  “It’s you!” he said, far louder than he had intended.

  “Ah, Timothy,” Leander said, rising from his chair and turning to face him. He looked the boy up and down and smiled, obviously taking note of his attire, then placed a friendly arm around his shoulder. “As you can see, we have some special guests tonight, and I’m pleased that you dressed appropriately.”

  “Leander, it’s her,” Timothy said in a shocked whisper, looking from his friend to the mysterious girl sitting across the table. “She’s the one I was telling you about. She wasn’t a figment of my imagination at all.”

  The mage arched an eyebrow. “No, she is very real indeed. Allow me to introduce to you Cassandra Nicodemus and her aides, Nadda and Cybil,” he said as he extended his arm toward the young woman and the others at the table.

  The aides bowed their heads politely, but the girl did not. Cassandra Nicodemus stared at him, her emerald eyes holding Timothy’s, as if daring him to look away first.

  “Cassandra,” he found himself repeating as he swam in the intensity of her stare. “Nicodemus?” He broke the gaze and looked up at his mentor.

  Leander nodded his large, shaggy head. “She is the granddaughter of the former master of our guild.”

  “And you must be the renowned Timothy Cade,” Cassandra said. “The un-magician, as they call you.”

  Timothy looked back at the girl, suddenly self-conscious, her scrutiny making him feel as though he’d been placed beneath a magnifying lens. The uncomfortable clothing made his skin begin to prickle and itch.

  “I—I never knew—Nicodemus—”Timothy stammered, suddenly finding it difficult to stand still.

  “That the former Grandmaster had a family?” Cassandra interrupted. “I arrived at SkyHaven two weeks before you. My parents were killed in an accident with their sky carriage, and my grandfather thought it best for me to be brought here to recover.”

  Though her words were plain enough, Timothy sensed pain beneath them, a kind of hurt immediately recognizable to one who shared a similar loss. “I’m sorry,” he said, attempting to let her know that he understood, that she was not alone in her sadness.

  For a moment he sensed a connection between them, a mutual understanding, but then it was gone, and she recoiled from his words as if slapped.

  “And what on Terra could you be sorry for?” she asked, a frown marring her pretty features.

  “I—I recently lost my father,” he began, feeling even more foolish. “It’s just that I know how it feels to lose somebody close.”

  “My grief is very personal, Timothy Cade,” Cassandra stated coldly, precisely adjusting the place setting before her. “I do not wish to discuss it with strangers.”

>   The tension in the room was almost palpable, and Cassandra’s two female aides looked supremely uncomfortable.

  Timothy frowned. “I didn’t mean to—”

  Always the diplomat, Leander stepped in. “Of course you didn’t.” He directed the boy to a chair on the opposite end of the table and gestured for him to sit. “I am certain that our guest took no offense. But perhaps we ought to turn the conversation to less intimate matters.”

  Timothy sat as Leander returned to his own seat.

  “Now that the introductions are out of the way, we shall enjoy a nice dinner, hmm?” Leander asked, a warm smile on his face. The mage raised his hand, tracing a symbol of magic in the air, and the gentle peal of a tiny bell was heard. Within moments, the room was filled with waiters bringing their meals.

  For a while they ate in silence. Timothy was anxious to discuss Verlis’s predicament, but he knew this was not the time. Instead he focused on the magnificent food on his plate. The razorboar meat was delicious, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever had vegetables prepared quite as tastily as these. The chefs of SkyHaven have outdone themselves tonight, he thought, cutting another slice of the tender meat and popping it into his mouth.

  “How does it feel?” someone suddenly asked, and Timothy looked up from his plate to see Cassandra staring at him.

  “Excuse me?” he asked, dabbing at his mouth with a cloth napkin, swallowing the last of his bite.

  The girl studied him closely. Her aides seemed uncomfortable again. “How does it feel to be not connected to the magic around you?”

  Timothy thought for a moment. “It really doesn’t feel like anything to me,” he said with a shrug.

  Cassandra picked up her crystal water goblet and sipped daintily. Her eyes were wide and curious and a little sad. “It must be very lonely, to be the only one like you.”