Dragon Secrets

by Christopher Golden

  And with that thought, there came a knock, and the doors opened to admit Timothy flanked by two of Constable Grimshaw’s men.

  “Timothy Cade for breakfast, Grandmaster,” said one of the guards.

  “We’ll be waiting outside to escort him back to his quarters as soon he’s finished,” said the other.

  And the two left the boy in the dining room to assume their posts outside the door.

  “Good morning, Timothy,” the Grandmaster said in his cheeriest voice. “I hope you’re hungry.” He picked up his plate and headed to the buffet at the side of the room.

  Timothy followed silently, taking his own plate from the table. Once again, the cooks had outdone themselves. Leander helped himself to some diced fruit, numerous strips of smoked meat, and some freshly baked bread.

  “How are you faring?” he asked, watching as the boy spooned a heaping portion of eggs onto his own plate.

  “Well enough, I guess.” Timothy replied with a shrug, eyeing the items on the elaborate breakfast table.

  Leander almost apologized again, but decided against it. The damage had been done; now was the time to move beyond it. And if he was correct in his assumptions about the boy’s rebellious personality, Timothy was doing just that. He was planning something, the mage was certain, locked away in his workshop from early morning to late evening. But the mage would expect nothing less from the son of Argus Cade.

  Leander filled a delicate-looking cup, emblazoned with the crest of the Order of Alhazred, with steaming hot brew from a silver decanter. “I just want you to know that I’m willing to help, if I can.”

  “Help?” Timothy asked, using tongs to place a spiny jagger fruit on his crowded plate. The boy studiously avoided looking at him. “Help with what, exactly?”

  Leander dipped a spoonful of honey into his drink and stirred. “Don’t play the fool, boy. Others might be deceived by it, but I believe I know you well enough by now. I have no doubt that you’ve already concocted some way to escape the watchful eyes of Constable Grimshaw’s guards and free Verlis from Abaddon, though for the life of me, I can’t imagine how you could do it.”

  Taking his plate and drink, Leander returned to the table. Timothy paused by the buffet, his back still turned toward the Grandmaster, as though he were biding his time, trying to determine how best to respond. It pained Leander to think that the boy might no longer trust him, but he knew he had not given Timothy much reason to have faith in him of late. At last Timothy joined him at the table.

  “If I told you that you weren’t wrong, would you be mad at me?” Timothy asked.

  The mage chewed on a slice of smoked meat, wiping his greasy fingers on the cloth napkin in his lap. He studied the boy a moment and then swallowed, hesitating only a moment before speaking his mind. The words about to issue from his mouth were treason, and as such, the hardest words he would ever speak. Leander reached out and placed a comforting hand over Timothy’s on the table. The gesture made the boy meet his gaze, all pretense falling away. Leander saw all the pain and doubt his young friend was feeling, but also saw his determination. How could he be any less determined in the face of injustice than this remarkable boy?

  “What they have done to you and Verlis is wrong, Timothy,” Leander said grimly. “For your sake, as well as for the memory of your father, and not least, to save my own honor, I offer whatever help I can to rectify the situation. And no, I most certainly would not be mad at you.”

  The boy smiled, the first real smile Leander had seen grace the lad’s face in what seemed like months. It was as warming as a late summer sun, and he realized again that there was something incredibly special about this youth, something that went far beyond his inability to do magic.

  “I know you think I’m brash, that I rush into things without thinking them through,” Timothy began, a bit sheepishly. “But I was not unrealistic in going to see Parliament. I knew there was every chance that they would deny my request. So I began to work on an alternate plan.”

  Timothy grinned excitedly and shoveled a forkful of orange egg yolk into his mouth, barely stopping to chew. “I would never have expected to be held captive in SkyHaven, but it’s given me time to—”

  “Tim,” Leander said, his mug of brew pausing halfway to his mouth. “Please, you’re not a captive. Parliament is being cautious. Observing you.”

  The boy’s smile dissipated. “If you want to help, the first thing you can do is to stop making excuses for them!” Timothy snapped. He looked away, obviously embarrassed by this show of emotion. When he raised his eyes once more, there was an apology in them. “I’m sorry. I know you’re stuck in the middle of all this. But, Leander, did you see the two guys that are waiting for me outside this room? They’re outside my door when I wake up, and when I go to bed. They aren’t observers. They’re guards. I’m a prisoner, no matter how you word it.”

  The Grandmaster set his cup down with a heavy sigh. The boy was right. If he really was going to help Timothy, he was going to have to confront his own reservations about Parliament. Certainly he felt that it was possible, and preferable, to change mage society from within … but that could take time. Years. Generations. And Verlis’s clan back on Draconae did not have years. Even if they had, Leander did not know how many nights he could sleep comfortably in SkyHaven knowing that Timothy—a boy he had vowed to care for—was a prisoner under his own roof.

  “You’re right, of course.” he said, carefully wiping his mouth with the napkin. “Now, tell me as much as you feel you can about what you have planned, and how I can help set these plans in motion.”

  The boy had placed his jagger fruit in the center of his plate with a fork and was using a knife to slice it open, revealing its bright green core. “I have to get out of SkyHaven undetected and reach my father’s estate.” He spooned a mouthful of the sweet fruit into his mouth. “Are you willing to help me do that?”

  Leander thought of what was being asked of him, and of the danger that he and Timothy could be facing in going against Parliament, but saw no alternative. Mages were being murdered, creating an undercurrent of fear and paranoia within Parliament. The appearance of the un-magician and an Asura warrior, and now the arrival of a Wurm on Terra, were only making things worse. The Parliament of Mages was in chaos, ancient fears, suspicions, and prejudices governing their every move. There would be no change unless it was forced.

  The Grandmaster picked up the last piece of smoked meat from his plate and bit it in two. “How shall we proceed?”

  Timothy’s radiant smile returned, but almost as quickly, it was dashed. With no knock to signal his arrival, Constable Grimshaw swung the door open and strode into the room.

  “Ah, just in time for breakfast,” the constable said, hands clasped behind his back as he eyed them both suspiciously. “May I join you?”

  Leander caught Timothy’s gaze and saw that it was filled with alarm.

  “Why, good morning, Constable Grimshaw,” he said, politely rising from his seat, as if genuinely pleased to see the man. “Please, do join us. Timothy and I were just discussing matters of the day.”

  Leander winked pleasantly at the boy, letting him know that it was not a time for panic.

  It was a time for courage, and for subterfuge.

  “Caw! Caw! So what, exactly, are we waiting for?” Edgar asked as he alighted upon Sheridan’s head, talons scratching against the metal.

  “I’m not sure,” Timothy said, dropping an armload of blankets and pillows from his room onto the floor of the workshop. “But Leander promised he would help me get out of here.”

  Sheridan released some steam and rubbed a segmented hand across his metal chin. “But won’t the guards be coming shortly to escort you to your room for the night?”

  Timothy smiled slyly, stepping over the pile of bedclothes to get to his small desk in the corner. “I told them I was really close to finishing a project, and that I wanted to stay in the workshop. They’ll be out there, but I doubt they’ll bother
us again tonight.” He began to read over his notes, discarding some, and placing others inside a leather satchel that he wore slung over his shoulder.

  A familiar scraping sound filled the workshop, and Timothy saw that Ivar had stealthily joined them and was in the process of sharpening the knife that Timothy had made for him back home on Patience. The Asura had been meditating earlier, reconnecting with himself, as he liked to describe it.

  “This place is like a large beast with many eyes,” Ivar said, never allowing his concentration to waver from his blade, the strange black patterns writhing over his pale flesh. “How will you leave SkyHaven without being seen?”

  It was a question that Timothy had been asking himself repeatedly since leaving breakfast that morning. He and Leander had been unable to finish their discussion after Grimshaw’s untimely interruption, and the boy was left to wonder exactly how his friend intended to help him escape the scrutiny of the constable’s watchdogs. He had to admit he was a bit worried, but held on to his faith in the Grandmaster.

  “I have no idea,” he answered in all earnestness as he continued to peruse his notes and drawings. “But I’m sure it will happen.”

  The room was silent, except for the sound of Ivar’s metal blade sliding over the rough surface of the sharpening stone. The boy gathered that his friends did not share his confidence, and was spurred to rally them.

  “That’s why I need you all to be ready with the next phase of the plan when the time does come,” he said, focusing his attention on Sheridan and Edgar. “Are we clear on what you’re to do?” He closed the flap on his satchel and approached them.

  Something whirred and clicked inside Sheridan’s head before he answered, and Timothy knew that the mechanical man was having some trouble with what was being asked of him. But there was no other way.

  “I am not especially skilled at lying, Timothy but I’ll do my best.”

  “Thank you, Sheridan.”

  “Caw! Don’t worry about me, kid,” said the rook. “Working with your father for so many years, and dealing with the likes of Parliament, I’m an old hand at creative fabrication. Not that I have hands, but you get the picture. The steampipe over here may not be able to lie very well,” Edgar added, nodding his black-feathered head toward Sheridan, “but I’ll make sure he doesn’t get too close to the truth.”

  “Excellent.” Timothy turned to the Asura. “Ready, Ivar?”

  The warrior scrutinized his knife, then picked up a stray piece of parchment from the floor. He tossed the paper up into the air and let it drift down upon the waiting blade, slicing the parchment in two with the mere flick of his wrist. Both halves fluttered to the floor.

  “Ready,” he confirmed, carefully sliding the knife into a leather sheath at his hip.

  Then they were all silent, waiting. At first the apprehension in the air was suffocatingly heavy, but as the hours passed and there was no sign of Leander, the intensity began to rise. Timothy didn’t know what to think, and the first seeds of doubt began to blossom. As the night wore on, they grew. His gaze was drawn again and again to the timepiece he had built. It hung on the wall, its pendulum slowly swinging with the incremental passage of time.

  Timothy drifted off briefly, and when he woke, found that it was only a few hours before dawn. He began to wonder if Constable Grimshaw had somehow found out about Leander’s plan to help him escape SkyHaven, and put a stop to it. Or, even worse, that Leander had abandoned him. Timothy hated even to think such a thing, but he knew how torn Leander was about acting against Parliament.

  Edgar dozed, still perched atop Sheridan’s head. The mechanical man had long ago shut down his primary functions to review the workshop’s inventory of supplies and building materials stored in his automated brain. Only the smallest light glowed in Sheridan’s eyes.

  Exhausted, his own eyes burning, and his head muddled from the little sleep he’d had, Timothy sighed and looked into the shadowy corner. He could barely make out Ivar there, blending into his surroundings. Even then, he could only see the Asura because he knew what he was looking for, and how to focus his eyes to perceive the shape of the warrior against the identically shaded background.

  “We might as well get some sleep,” Timothy said glumly. He sat down on his blankets, put the pillow behind his head, and leaned back against the wall. “I don’t think we’re going anywhere tonight.”

  The Asura warrior did not stir, and Timothy wondered if his friend was even awake.

  “Did you not say that you were sure it would happen?” Ivar asked, breaking the silence and startling the boy.

  Timothy shrugged. “Well, yeah, but now I don’t know.”

  “Is your faith such a fragile thing that it can be so easily shattered?” Ivar asked, his flesh returning to its natural tone, his dark eyes slowly opening.

  “But look at the time,” Timothy said, pointing to the timepiece. “We’ve been waiting all night.”

  “It has not happened because it is not yet the proper time,” the warrior said. “Remember the name of the place where we once dwelled,” he said. “The island that is more your home than this world will ever be. Its meaning will serve you well in times such as this.”

  Patience, Timothy thought, understanding fully what his warrior friend was trying to teach him. They had lived for years on the island, their days the very definition of simplicity. Rise with the sun. Build and learn. Eat and think. Then sleep when the sun hides behind the horizon and the night comes on.

  I have to have patience.

  As difficult as it was, he forced himself to do just that. He was so tired now that it would not serve him well when the time finally came to escape. A lack of sleep over the past few days was finally beginning to take its toll on him, and he found himself gradually drifting down into a deep, dream-filled slumber.

  In his dream he had escaped the confines of SkyHaven and freed his Wurm friend from prison with ease. Now all that remained was to travel to Draconae and help Verlis’s tribe. As he stood with his monstrous friend, the Wurm seemed to grow before his eyes, standing as high as one of Arcanum’s tallest towers, like one of the Dragons of Old.

  We have to take you home, he yelled up to the enormous Wurm, and Verlis slowly nodded his great head, reaching down to snatch the boy up by the shirt, bringing his tiny form close to his gaping, smoking jaws.

  Timothy was speechless, staring wide-eyed as the Wurm opened its cavernous maw to reveal the roaring fires that seethed at the back of its throat.

  You wish to go to Draconae? asked a voice that he did not recognize. Timothy began to struggle as he was dangled closer to the fires that bubbled and churned inside the mouth of the dragon. Then go! screamed the voice that was not his friend’s, and he felt himself dropped into the liquid flame, his body consumed by the ravenous blaze.

  At that moment he knew the identity of the one responsible for his horrible fate.

  Grimshaw.

  Timothy came awake with a start, his body prickling with a cold sweat. Ivar had shaken him and was pointing to the large window of the workshop.

  “Look,” the Asura whispered.

  The boy did as he was instructed, banishing the horrible dream from his mind. He blinked, as if to accuse his eyes of lying to him. But his dream had not lingered. This was real. A sky carriage hovered outside the workshop window.

  “Caiaphas,” Timothy whispered, crawling out from beneath his blanket to quickly cross the room. He reached a hand out to the spell-glass in the window’s frame, which dissipated at his touch. The chill night air breezed into the room.

  “It is time,” the navigation mage whispered from his perch atop the vehicle, which hovered outside of SkyHaven, far above the churning ocean below, with only a low crackle of magic to give away its presence.

  Timothy turned to his friends to see that they all had gathered around him. “Are we ready?” he asked in a near breathless whisper, and from the looks in their eyes, he could see that they were.

  The time, at las
t, had come.

  It was one of Timothy’s favorite fantasies, to have the Cade estate as his own. Not just in name, but truly belonging to him. He wanted to live there all the time, exploring the corridors of the big, old house anytime of the day or night. But the way things were going, he doubted his fantasy would ever become a reality. Could he ever live a normal life in this world and not be looked upon as a freak or something to be feared? He really didn’t know, and at the moment, he didn’t have time to indulge in fantasies.

  Caiaphas had taken Timothy and Ivar from SkyHaven, expertly piloting the carriage away from the floating citadel with no one the wiser. The navigation mage had explained that he was there at the behest of his master, and that he was to offer them aid in any way he could. Timothy had thanked the coachman for his assistance, directing him to take them to his father’s home, where all that he needed to set his scheme in motion would be found.

  He instructed Caiaphas to moor the carriage to an entrance at the rear of the estate, away from curious eyes, and they had all gone into the grand house beneath the cover of what little remained of the night.

  Entering the home of Argus Cade was like wrapping oneself in a down-filled quilt on a cold winter’s night. Though large and somewhat foreboding in its design, there was something welcoming about the old mansion, almost as if the kindly attributes of the man who had lived there for so many years had somehow permeated the structure. There would have been nothing Timothy would have enjoyed more at that very moment than to curl up in one of the large, overstuffed chairs in his father’s study and just soak up the atmosphere of the place. It would have been almost like having his father back again.

  Almost.

  But there were other, more important things that required his attention, and hopefully there would be time for comfort later.

  Timothy went toward the door that led to Patience to inspect the supplies that Ivar and Sheridan had brought from the island for Timothy’s trip to Draconae.

  “Is this all of it?” Timothy asked Ivar, examining the baskets, barrels, and crates as he reviewed a mental checklist.