Dragon Secrets

by Christopher Golden

  “What are they waiting for? We can’t just sit here. We’ll all die!” Timothy said, glancing at Ivar.

  The Asura warrior crouched in the snow with his back to the cliff face. He was not far from Timothy, but he seemed intent only upon the arguing Wurm. The boy would have liked to move closer, to share Ivar’s natural warmth, but he could tell from his friend’s stance that Ivar did not want to be disturbed. He was obviously on edge, alert, as though he expected an attack. That made no sense, of course. They had eluded Raptus and his followers. Their enemy now was the weather.

  Ivar did not respond to his comment, except to raise a single eyebrow. Timothy did not understand. He focused his attention again on the Wurm who were scattered in a rough circle a short distance away. They were spread out across the plateau beneath the cliff, the ugliest most monstrous creatures Timothy had ever seen. And yet he was not going to make the same mistake Parliament had. Despite their appearances, these were rational, thinking creatures, no better or worse than a mage, or himself, for that matter.

  Whatever I am.

  The Wurm hopped around on the snow, their wings spreading and then wrapping around them again. They snapped their jaws closed in a series of clicks, and they made certain grunts and gestures and snorts of fire that he could only assume were some form of communication among their kind. Like Verlis, the clan all seemed to be able to speak the tongue of mages, but Timothy realized now that it was not their native language. Verlis was arguing furiously about something, and only occasionally would his gaze shift toward Timothy and Ivar.

  But they were all weakening, slowed by the cold. From time to time one or more would stand back from the others and let loose a long blast of fire that would warm the place where they gathered. Timothy could barely feel the heat from where he stood, and he longed for it.

  He wrapped his hands in the bottom of his shirt, and then he could take no more. Cautiously, not wishing to interfere or offend, he approached the Wurm nearest to him. Throughout the argument, the one among the clan who had not seemed to move at all was the female who had scooped Timothy off the battlefield, who had saved his life. During their escape, he had learned that her name was Cythra, and that she was Verlis’s wife. Now, as he moved nearer to her, it occurred to him that she was not so much standing around as she was standing between himself and Ivar and the other Wurm. He furrowed his brow at this realization.

  “Cythra,” he said quietly, the howl of the wind high above drowning out any chance the others would have of hearing him. His teeth chattered and he hugged himself. The cold had started to work frozen fingers into his head, and it ached.

  “You should stand back, Timothy Cade.” Her eyes were kind, but also hard, and her expression was grim. Something was happening here. Whatever it was, it had Cythra and Verlis very worried.

  “I think I’ve done enough standing back,” the boy replied with far more confidence than he felt. “Verlis is my friend. He risked a lot for me, and I’ve done the same for him. What is it, Cythra?”

  The massive female Wurm turned to look down at him, her yellow eyes narrowing. She looked at him as though for the first time, and a low snarl came from her throat and twin jets of fire seethed above her nostrils. Still, he had the idea she was amused.

  “You are quite like your father,” Cythra said.

  Timothy did not understand. He shook his head. “I’m nothing like my father. He was a great mage. A great man.”

  Cythra bent low and he could feel the heat emanating from her. It warmed his face. Her massive jaws were close enough that she could have bitten off his head. With one long talon she tapped his chest. “Greatness is in here. Magic, too, the kind that matters.”

  Then a low, rumbling sound came from her throat, and she glanced over at her husband and the rest of the clan for a moment, as though contemplating what she would say next. After a moment her gaze locked on Timothy’s again.

  “Your father taught Verlis to cast the spell that let him break through to the mages’ world a long time ago. It was a … safety measure. Verlis has only performed the spell twice. Once to travel to your world, and the second time to come home, with you and the Asura by his side. He never dared use the spell otherwise, for fear that Raptus would discover it. One day the tyrant will succeed in his efforts to shatter the barrier between worlds, and then the blood of mages will run, and their flesh will burn, and there is no knowing what will come of it. But we would not hasten that day by letting Raptus know that this spell exists, or how it is done.

  “And we had no real reason to use the spell. Though we were banished here, Draconae became our world. We were content with it. Even when Raptus and the others began to rise to power and the violence began, even when civil war erupted, we still hoped to remain here, to combat their terrible philosophy and make this a world of peace and prosperity. We never imagined wanting to return to the world of the mages, and even if we had, we know we are not welcome there. We know they think of us as monsters, as unclean things to be destroyed.”

  Timothy nodded. “Trust me. I know exactly how you feel.”

  “Now we have no choice,” Cythra said, her gaze drifting back toward the others. “It has come to this. We must flee to the world of mages, or Raptus will slaughter us all. He has not pursued us into these frozen barrens because he expects us to die here.”

  Timothy followed her gaze and watched the gesturing and listened to the snorting and gnashing of jaws and guttural words that made up the argument among the clan.

  “So, that’s what the fight is about? Some of them don’t want to go, and Verlis is trying to convince them they don’t have a choice?”

  Cythra turned to look at him. At first she seemed confused. Then, when she understood, she shook her head slowly. “Oh, no, Timothy Cade. None of us is so foolish to think we can remain here. They are arguing because, though your Asura friend has been Verlis’s ally and helped saved his life, all Wurm are natural enemies to his tribe. Aside from Verlis and me, all of our clan want to kill him before we slip between worlds.”

  Timothy’s throat went dry and his eyes widened. “But—Ivar has saved—”

  “Yes, yes,” Cythra interrupted, her wings twitching upward. “Agreed. Verlis is honorable, not to worry. He would sooner give his own life than see harm come to the Asura. It is only that it will take some time before the others are willing to realize exactly how sincere he is in his conviction. Then it will pass.”

  Timothy looked over at Ivar, whose eyes darted back and forth. He was watching the debating Wurm intently, and for the first time Timothy realized that with the Asura and the Wurm being ancient enemies, Ivar must understand their strange language. He knew exactly what they were saying. Which explained, as far as Timothy was concerned, why he looked as though he were preparing to fight off an attack.

  “Well, they’d better come to that conclusion pretty fast,” Timothy replied, worriedly watching the arguing Wurm and shivering with the cold. “Or we’ll all freeze, and then Ivar will probably be the only one of us to make it out of here. The rest of us will be dead.”

  It was late afternoon, and though the spell-glass window at the apex of the Xerxis showed a clear, bright sky beyond, the light did not reach down into the shadows of the parliamentary chamber. Only the flickering ghostfire lamps shed light upon those proceedings, and that light seemed gloomy indeed.

  Leander wished that it was night, and that through that small window he could see Terra’s moons. He often wished upon Hito, the cold, icy moon that was the smallest and most distant. But wishes so rarely came true. He stood in the center of the parliamentary chamber and gazed around at the assembled grandmasters of all of the world’s magical guilds. Many times he had addressed such a gathering, both as a professor from the University of Saint Germain and as a respected apprentice to the late, venerable mage Argus Cade. More recently he had addressed the Parliament as the Grandmaster of the Order of Alhazred.

  Never in his life would he have imagined that one day he wou
ld stand before them as a prisoner, and address them in his own defense.

  A short distance away Edgar ruffled his black feathers, perched on Sheridan’s cold metal shoulder. Leander had been firm with Edgar, insisting that the often disrespectful bird remain silent during the proceedings. Sheridan did not have to be cautioned. Leander knew the mechanical man would say nothing for fear of making things worse for Timothy, and for Leander himself. It sickened the mage to see Sheridan held there by a pair of Constable Grimshaw’s deputies, for he was not a prisoner so much as he was considered evidence in the case, an example of Timothy’s unnatural tendencies. Or so Grimshaw and many others would have Parliament believe.

  Grimshaw himself stood by the door, as though he were afraid Leander might try to escape. His deputies stood around the circular chamber at the base of each set of stairs that led up into the gallery where the members of Parliament were seated.

  In the chair that was assigned to the Grandmaster of the Order of Alhazred, Cassandra Nicodemus sat, intent upon every word spoken in that chamber. The young woman was eerily beautiful and grimly serious, and though she was the granddaughter of one of the most despicable mages the world had ever seen, Leander had no reason to think of her as his enemy. He did not blame her for challenging him for the role of grandmaster. In truth, he wanted to believe her motives were pure, that she felt the title and position were her right and due, and not that she was anything at all like her grandfather.

  Perhaps he was a fool. If so, he would confess to that crime when the time came.

  Just as he had confessed to other crimes today.

  The tribunal had begun hours earlier, conducted by Alethea Borgia, the Voice of Parliament. But though Alethea was the Voice, Grimshaw had done most of the talking. As his accuser, the constable had brought forth witnesses—his deputies, as well as several Alhazred mages, and Leander’s aide, Carlyle—to corroborate Grimshaw’s version of events at SkyHaven. Leander had denied nothing.

  Now a silence descended upon the chamber, a silence that seemed to echo up to the peak of the Xerxis. The Voice strode around the floor, pausing in front of each section of the gallery to regard the gathered grandmasters gravely. The Cuzcotec Grandmaster actually chuckled when she passed. The elegant, sensual Drayaidi, Mistress Selkie, shook her head in sadness. Lord Foxheart of the Malleus Guild bared his sharp teeth and nodded in approval of the proceedings. Leander noticed that Siberus, the aged Grandmaster of the Order of the Winter Star, remained completely still. Siberus had not so much as whispered to any of the others seated around him throughout the proceedings.

  At length the Voice returned to the center of the chamber and paused to gaze at Leander. There was an extraordinary elegance to her aging face, and her gray hair gave her a regal air that caused him to nod once, deferring to her. Whatever else happened, he had far too much respect for Alethea to challenge her authority. She drew a long breath and looked at him with kind and gentle eyes.

  Then her expression hardened and she turned away.

  “You have heard the accusations against Professor Maddox,” the Voice declared. “You have heard the testimony of the witnesses. And you will note that Professor Maddox has yet to refute any of their statements. As is our custom, Professor Maddox will now be afforded an opportunity to speak in his own defense.”

  Alethea bowed her head to the assemblage and then stepped to one side. All eyes were on Leander. He could feel the weight of their anger, their curiosity, and their expectation. He cast a long look at Sheridan and Edgar and took a moment to wonder, for perhaps the thousandth time that day, what had become of Timothy

  Leander frowned. Even with all of the members of Parliament staring at him, he could feel the glare of Constable Grimshaw. He glanced at the man, saw the smug satisfaction and disdain upon his features, and Leander Maddox grew angry.

  “Members of Parliament. Masters. Venerated friends,” he began. “My fate is in your hands. I confess that I wish I had greater hope that you would treat it with fairness and great deliberation, but I do not.”

  The Parliament gasped at this insult to their integrity. Leander did not care. He scanned the chamber, defiantly meeting the eyes of as many of them as he could.

  “Your treatment of Verlis the Wurm was rash. To condemn one creature because of the behavior of others of its kind is the worst kind of prejudice. It is blind and foolish and dark at heart. Never would I have thought such a collection of sages and scholars as sits within these walls would fall victim to such stupidity. And it only grew. The Parliament is filled with such hatred and fear that you have given absolute authority to a man filled with more sadistic cruelty and venom than I have seen in any mage since the fall of Nicodemus.”

  A wave of hushed whispering went through the chamber. Shocked expressions turned nervous, and many glanced over at Constable Grimshaw. Leander did not bother to look at the man.

  “You forget yourself, Professor,” Grimshaw said from the doorway, his voice cutting through the room. “Those words will not go without response.”

  Leander shook his head. “I am the only mage in this room who has not forgotten himself. And you will shut your mouth now, Constable. Unless the Parliament wishes to completely abandon the entire history of its protocol and procedures because you frighten them too much, it is my time to speak.”

  Leander glanced over at the Voice. Alethea nodded for him to continue.

  “Argus Cade was the greatest among you. His son has no magic, but in his heart and mind he is much like his father. He is kindhearted and strong willed, courageous and clever. But he is different. For that, you think him a freak or an abomination. A danger. An enemy.

  “An enemy! A boy not yet old enough to grow a beard, and you hate and fear him. You disrespect the memory of Argus Cade, and you dishonor yourselves with your ignorant treatment of the boy. You hand over his fate to Grimshaw. You will not listen to reason when he speaks it, asking about the Wurm. The Wurm who was integral to the defeat of Grandmaster Nicodemus. Who had proven himself our ally.”

  Leander shifted his gaze so that he was looking directly at Cassandra. Her expression was unreadable.

  “When it became clear to me that he intended to free Verlis, I knew immediately that I had no choice but to aid him in his escape from SkyHaven. Did I try to hide his absence for as long as possible? Certainly, I did. And before you determine my fate—a decision I trust will be made with the same fear and prejudice and hatred that has ruled this chamber of late—I want to tell you why.

  “I gave my loyalty to Timothy Cade because he earned it. I gave him my help because though he was ignoring the commands of Parliament, his decisions were honorable.

  “And yours have not been.”

  With a roar, Lord Romulus stood, his fur cloak flapping. “How dare you, Maddox? You’ll face the executioner for such talk.”

  Leander only smiled and chuckled softly. “Honestly, my lord, I expect nothing less. What else would you do but kill or banish or imprison all that you do not understand, all that you fear? If that is to be my fate, then so be it. As I stand here today I find there is far less shame in being your prisoner than there would be in being your colleague.”

  Leander clapped his hands twice, the symbolic end to his defense—though he had hardly defended himself—and took one step back. He was meant to bow his head, as custom demanded, but he did not bother. Alethea stared at him for a long moment, taken by surprise at this abrupt end to his speech. At length she looked to Grimshaw.

  “Constable, you have the final word.”

  With a sneer Grimshaw strode to the center of the chamber. His cloak flowed like shadows behind him. The ghostfire light shimmered on his face. He came face-to-face with Leander, then glanced at the Voice before turning around and gesturing to the assembled guild masters with a flourish of both hands.

  “You have heard him damn himself with his own words. There is little more I could add, save that the Wurm, Verlis, and the boy, Timothy Cade, are not to be pitied. They a
re dangerous, and their ingenuity in escaping Abaddon has proved that the honorable members of Parliament were correct in distrusting them. There was suspicion that they were plotting against Parliament, and there can be no doubt that they have revealed themselves as the adversaries of honor and decency and the rightful rule of the Parliament of Mages. As your servant, I have done my duty to the best of my ability. For myself, I can only say that I hope you will take Lord Romulus’s suggestion, and execute him.”

  Grimshaw paused. Slowly now, he stared up into the gallery, his gaze sweeping the entire Parliament. There was menace and dark promise in his eyes.

  “Professor Maddox is highly regarded as a lecturer at university. He is well spoken and passionate. Yet the truth here is as clear as the law. And the law is irrefutable. Why, even to suggest otherwise would be no less treason than the actions of Professor Maddox.”

  Leander gaped at Grimshaw. The man had just threatened the members of Parliament with imprisonment should they disagree with him. It was outrageous, and yet from the continued hush in the room, he could tell that the guild masters took the implications of Grimshaw’s warning quite seriously indeed.

  Only Alethea Borgia replied. She crossed her arms and studied Grimshaw closely. “Constable, are you presuming to tell this Parliament how to conduct its business?”

  Grimshaw bowed deeply. “Not at all, Madame Voice. I am confident that the members of Parliament are more than familiar with the law.”

  For a long moment, not even the Voice spoke. Leander knew that he could not change his fate. He glanced over at Sheridan and nodded to the mechanical man, and to Edgar, proud of the bird for having remained quiet. He suspected the Parliament would let the bird live, but Sheridan would surely be dismantled. Destroyed. For that, Leander was truly sorry. But he was certain they would not have argued with him if he had been able to tell them earlier what he planned to say to the Parliament. At the same time he felt Edgar’s and Sheridan’s approval, he sensed the disdain and the fear from the mages gathered in the room.