Dragon Secrets

by Christopher Golden

  “Okay. Here goes,” he said softly.

  His friends were silent, watching as he turned to the window and reached out a hand. It was not real glass that kept the wind and the elements out, but spell-glass. Pure magic. Timothy pressed the back of his hand against it, and even through the fabric of the glove, his proximity to the spell disrupted the magic, and the barrier disappeared. The wind rushed in, rustling his hair.

  At first Timothy had thought that he had to touch a magical object to disrupt its inherent sorcery. But it was in his nature to experiment and he had been doing a great deal of experimenting recently. Though he had said nothing yet to Leander, he had discovered that if he focused his mind enough, the nullification effect he had on magic could be extended beyond him. He wondered if there was some enzyme he exuded, like the Bathelusk, that was the cause. Whatever the explanation, though, he had learned that if he could concentrate enough, his touch was not necessary. At present he needed to be within inches of the spell. But he was still experimenting.

  Timothy took a deep breath and leaned out the window. Outside there was a sheer drop to the ocean far below, and in the darkness he could see the tips of the waves gleaming by the light of several moons.

  He heard Edgar’s wings flutter again, but he ignored the sound. The boy turned and sat on the windowsill, his entire upper body outside of the fortress now. With his right hand he reached up and pressed his palm against the outer wall. The Bathelusk quills slid into the stone as easily as if it were loose sand. A smile spread across Timothy’s face. He glanced back in through the window and saw the glow of Sheridan’s eyes looking at him from the darkened room.

  “Just like home. There’s nothing to it,” he said.

  And, imagining the Yaquis trees back on the Island of Patience, he began to climb.

  The moment Timothy was out the window, Edgar hopped up onto the windowsill to watch him go. And to report to the others. Timothy tried not to look down. Instead he watched the straps that bound the gloves below his wrists. They were impossibly tight, but he had never done a climb so flat and vertical before, and he feared that the strain would tear them, sending him plunging into the ocean below.

  It was something he tried not to think about.

  The wind tugged at him, whistling past his ears. It was chillier than he had expected, and he shivered. His muscles burned with the exertion, and he was grateful he was skilled at climbing with the gloves, and that he and Ivar had kept up their sparring regimen. If he had not had enough upper-body strength, he would have ended up stuck there on the wall, like a skuib trapped in the web of a Sundin spider.

  By the time he had dragged himself hand over hand and passed the window just above his workshop, he was already gritting his teeth. At the next level of the fortress there was a small balcony, and he considered pausing there to rest. His muscles felt as though they were on fire. But he did not dare stop there, for fear he might be seen.

  Once he had passed the balcony, he paused for a rest. With one hand above him, and one below, he hung there, catching his breath. His cheek was pressed against the cold stone, and he debated the wisdom of looking up to see how much farther he had to travel. He decided against it. At this point, becoming discouraged could spell his end.

  After several more minutes of climbing, Timothy did look up. Off to the right, along the curve of the fortress wall, he saw the window he was searching for. As he was moving his right hand to start in that direction, the wind gusted, pushing him away from the wall.

  He swayed, his whole body twisting in the wind, hanging only by the grip of the Bathelusk quills on his left hand. Timothy held his breath. An image of his father, smiling at him as they sat together on the sands of Patience, swam up into his mind. But Timothy was not ready to join Argus Cade in the spirit realm. Not yet.

  Pain lanced through his shoulder. Something popped. The muscles felt as though they were tearing. With supreme effort, Timothy twisted himself back toward the wall, fighting the wind, and slapped his right hand against the stone. The Bathelusk quills sank in deeply, and anchored him there.

  For a long moment he felt paralyzed. Moisture welled in his eyes, but he gnawed at his lip and refused to let the tears come. Then the wind tugged at him again, and a grim determination seized him. He tilted his head back to check his position, then continued on toward his destination.

  Moments later he reached the window that had beckoned him from below.

  And then he paused.

  The truth was that he was not entirely certain this was the right window. He had gauged its location from the internal layout of SkyHaven, for he had never, of course, scaled its walls before. But Timothy had not come all this way to hesitate. And he could not climb back down without giving his muscles a real chance to rest.

  Tentatively he reached up toward the spell-glass of that window, and it disappeared. Bathelusk quills sunk into the window frame as he climbed into the room, as quietly as he could manage.

  “Thank the spirits,” he whispered, and a triumphant smile came to his face. He uttered a soft laugh and shook his head in amazement. Only then did he allow his gaze to survey this extraordinary room his courage had brought him to.

  The Repository, it was called. Leander had shown it to Timothy after the defeat of Nicodemus. On that day it had seemed fascinating, but somehow not as wonderful as he had imagined. Now, though, with only the light of the moons streaming through the window, it was eerie and imposing. Fantastically so. The vast chamber was filled with artifacts and relics, ancient scrolls and magical charms that the Order of Alhazred had collected over the course of centuries. Somewhere in this room were the Rings of Alhazred himself, along with the Eye of Phaestus, and other items that had been salvaged from the wars that had ended the days of the Wizards of Old.

  Moonlight gleamed off strange, ornate boxes, medallions, engraved swords, and a myriad of other objects. Timothy hoped that one day he would be able to explore the Repository to his heart’s content. But this night it was not to be. Tonight he had come here seeking only one object—an object that wasn’t really an object at all.

  “Hello?” he called into the gloom of that chamber, his voice barely above a whisper. “Are you here? It’s me. Timothy Cade.”

  For a long moment he waited, his hopes sparking, and then beginning to fade. “Hello?” he asked again, a bit louder.

  His heart sank.

  And then the reply came.

  “Timothy?”

  He narrowed his gaze, tracking the voice, and then he saw what he had come for. On a shelf beside a strangely distorted skull and a hand that looked as if it had been carved from beeswax, there sat a beautifully carved box: the Box of Vijaya.

  Now that he had found it, a tiny alarm went off in Timothy’s mind. He remembered Ivar guarding the door of the workshop below and tried to calculate how long he had been gone. There was no way to know if the guards would wonder how late he was going to be in the shop, or if they would inquire, but he thought he must hurry, just the same.

  Swiftly he navigated through the Repository, trying not to let his attention waver, though several items he saw tempted him sorely. Now was not the time, however.

  He reached the box and opened it, pushing back the lid, and then stepping away so his presence would not affect the contents.

  The contents. That isn’t very polite, he told himself. Not a nice way at all to refer to someone who has helped you before.

  The Oracle of Vijaya was just a withered head in a box. Yet more importantly it—he—was also a true seer of the future. The oracle knew things that no one could possibly know. This had been his magic in life, and now, hundreds or even thousands of years after his death, that magic still survived.

  “It is nice to see you, Timothy,” the oracle said, gazing at him with dark eyes that gleamed with pinpoints of moonlight.

  “You too,” the boy replied. And though it was strange conversing with such a creature, he found that he meant it. The oracle had been fair and kind t
o him before. He hoped the same would be true now.

  “Your friend, the Wurm, is in trouble,” the oracle said.

  Timothy’s eyes widened. The oracle knew! But of course he did. Knowing was what he did. It was everything he was.

  “Yes.” He nodded. “I can’t just leave him there, in prison. It isn’t right. I wonder what he must be thinking. Does he think I’ve betrayed him? I know he must be worried about his family, his clan. I promised to help him, and I will. But I don’t know what to do. The Parliament—”

  “Hush,” the oracle said, so sternly that Timothy blinked in surprise.

  “But—”

  “Hush,” the oracle repeated, dark eyes squinting, withered flesh crackling. “You have only moments before you must leave.”

  Timothy wanted to ask why, to ask what was coming, but he thought better of it. If the oracle said he had to hurry, then that was good enough for him. Go on.

  “A moment of great change is upon you, Timothy,” the oracle said. “The future is in turmoil, and difficult for me to see. It seems that where you are concerned, this is often the case. I find it … disturbing. Still, there are several things I can tell you.

  “There are forces at work upon this world that will expose the secrets of the past. These revelations will ignite a fire that will smolder for some time before at last blazing brightly, wreaking havoc, throwing the Parliament into chaos. These things have been set in motion and are immutable. Mages will die. Others will be cast down in shame.”

  The words chilled Timothy, but he could only shake his head in confusion. “I don’t understand. What does all this have to do with me? What should I do? About Verlis, I mean.”

  The edges of the oracle’s mouth creased, as though in a smile. The effect was unsettling. If the boy had gotten used to speaking with a disembodied head, it would still take him a very long time to become accustomed to the oracle’s whims and moods.

  “I cannot tell you what to do. All I can tell you is what I see.”

  “And what do you see?” Timothy asked.

  “You,” the oracle replied, its voice a dry rasp. “You, in the Wurm world, Timothy. In Draconae. Whatever else you do, whatever else happens, you will go to Draconae. You must.”

  Timothy’s mind was filled with questions, but the oracle blinked several times, eyes wandering.

  “Now,” the oracle said. “You must go now. Hurry!”

  The descent always went far more quickly than the ascent. But the problem with the swiftness of climbing down, with his weight pulling at him, was that he was always tempted to move too quickly. With the ocean below, he dared not. Hand under hand, he moved down the wall, now bracing himself with his feet and elbows, legs splayed against the stone.

  He had been gone from the Repository only briefly when he realized that the Oracle of Vijaya’s insistence that he rush had made him forget the strain in his muscles. He ought to have rested longer. Timothy winced now each time he lowered his right hand, for doing so meant putting all of his weight on his left arm … and on the shoulder he had torn.

  Timothy hissed air in through his teeth, jaws grinding with the pain. He slid the quills on his right glove into the stone and paused a moment. Still, the urgent voice of the oracle was in the back of his mind, prodding him to hasten his pace. He had no idea why the seer had rushed him, but the boy had visions of guards coming into the workshop, of his friends thrown in Abaddon with Verlis for their complicity in his traitorous deeds.

  Ivar would die in a place like Abaddon. Somehow he knew it. The Asura could endure almost anything, but imprisonment in some cold cell, so far from nature and the open air … Ivar would not survive.

  With this haunting thought, he began to move again. Hand under hand. Down and to the left. Moving toward the balcony that had tempted him before. Out of the corner of his eye he could see it, and its lure was even greater this time. Two stories farther below was his workshop. He would get there. He was certain of it, but at the moment it seemed so very far away.

  When next he stretched out his left arm, he reached too far. As he pressed the Bathelusk quills into the stone and released his right hand, his body slid along the wall, the momentum putting even more strain on his shoulder.

  Timothy groaned aloud, barely aware he had made any noise at all.

  “That looks difficult.”

  He had his eyes tightly closed, wincing with the pain. Now they flew open and he twisted his head around to look up.

  Cassandra Nicodemus stood on the balcony, her red hair blowing behind her and her pale skin gleaming under the caress of three moons, as though their light were hers and hers alone. One eyebrow was arched, and she gazed at him with a certain amusement that held none of the cold distance he had seen in her before. Instead a sweet benevolence danced in her eyes.

  “Perhaps you’d better rest here for a few moments,” she suggested.

  Timothy stared at her, speechless.

  He was caught! Her words made no sense to him at all. She had found him out. No matter how beautiful she was, she was still Nicodemus’s granddaughter. She wanted to be Grandmaster of the Order of Alhazred. This girl was not a friend to him, nor to Leander. She was … the enemy?

  “Or,” she ventured, “you could just hang there until your arms tear out of their sockets and the rest of you plummets into the ocean. You’d have a difficult time swimming for shore without arms, I imagine.”

  This time, there was no mistaking it. Cassandra was smiling.

  Timothy could barely breathe. He had no idea what to make of her words, or that smile.

  “You’ve been to see the oracle, I take it?”

  At last he summoned words. “How—how d-did you know?” he stammered.

  Cassandra tucked a strand of red hair behind one ear and shrugged. “It’s what I would have done, if I were in your situation. Though I suspect I’d have found a way to get there from inside SkyHaven.”

  For another long moment she watched him, obviously waiting for him to speak. Timothy’s shoulder was throbbing with pain, but he could only stare at her.

  “Ah, well. Do as you wish. If you decide to rest here, take as long as you like. But you’d be well advised to be back in your workshop before sunrise. The guards are unlikely to bother you tonight, but they will come to escort you to breakfast.”

  Once again she arched an eyebrow. “Good night, Timothy. And good luck. I do hope you survive the night. This world is far more intriguing with you in it.”

  With that, she slipped through the open balcony door, then closed it firmly behind her, disappearing into the darkness of her room. Timothy waited several moments longer, but the strain was too great. If he did not get to the balcony, he would fall.

  He pulled himself, grunting softly in pain, onto the balcony. Whatever the reason for the oracle’s urgency, there was nothing he could do now. He had to rest his arms.

  For perhaps half an hour he sat on the balcony, forcing himself not to try to peer through the spell-glass set into the door. He wanted to see Cassandra, but he did not dare look for her. His mind was awhirl with confusion. Was she his enemy, or might she be a friend?

  It was only when he began at last to descend once more, with great care and great pain, that another thought occurred to him.

  What if the oracle had known Cassandra would see him, there on the balcony? What if that was why the seer had hurried him along?

  By the time he climbed back in through the window of his workshop, every muscle on fire with the strain, he was more confused than ever.

  Chapter Six

  And do not forget your noon appointment with Professor Phineas about his assuming your ancient Arcanum classes at the institute this coming semester,” Carlyle said, reading from a scroll of items that Leander would need to address this day.

  Leander nodded, but he was not listening; his thoughts were elsewhere this early morning. He couldn’t stop thinking about Timothy Cade, and for the first time in his long career, Leander Maddox felt ashamed
to be associated with Parliament.

  What would Argus think? he wondered as he sat at the table in the dining room, awaiting the boy’s arrival. In his mind he pictured Argus Cade as he had been just before falling ill. Leander could imagine the great mage sitting across the table, slowly shaking his head in disapproval.

  “Excuse me, sir?” Carlyle asked, startling the Grandmaster from his reverie.

  “Yes, Carlyle?” Leander asked, trying to refocus his attentions.

  “You said it was out of your hands. What is, sir? What’s out of your hands?”

  The Grandmaster ran a hand through his thick red beard, his thoughts in turmoil. “Nothing, Carlyle,” he said, realizing he must have spoken his concerns aloud. “That will be all for now.”

  “But we must still discuss the menu for next week’s celebration of the Feast of—”

  “I said that will be all,” Leander repeated with a growl of finality, pounding his fist on the tabletop and making the place settings jump. There were times when he was all too aware that his aide had previously been employed by the last Grandmaster of the Order of Alhazred. Leander had grown to rely upon Carlyle, but he would not have called the man his friend.

  Carlyle bowed graciously and quickly departed, leaving the Grandmaster alone with his troubled musings.

  Leander still imagined Argus sitting across from him, a look of disappointment on his face, and felt ashamed. Argus had been the spitfire, the one who often challenged the judgments of Parliament, and had developed quite a reputation before his death. Leander had always wanted to be more like his mentor, but it was often so much easier not to question. Still, he had questioned. He had protested their treatment of Timothy, but Parliament had insisted that it agreed with Constable Grimshaw’s judgment, and Leander had acquiesced. There seemed little room for further struggle. Parliament had spoken.

  “You would have fought them tooth and nail, wouldn’t you, Argus?” he said to the memory of his friend, knowing full well how the mage would have answered.