Dragon Secrets

by Christopher Golden

  “All right,” Alethea said at last. “All right. The time for words has passed. Now is the time for judgment. Is Professor Leander Maddox guilty or innocent?”

  Leander felt his throat go dry. His heart pounded in his chest. He did not understand why, for though some foolish hope still flickered in the back of his mind, he knew what the outcome would be. He glanced around the room. In their seats, each of the members of Parliament held out a hand, and from each palm there sprang a crackling ball of flame. Red for guilty. Blue for innocent. As commanded by the Voice, none of them spoke, but the flame of judgment was statement enough.

  There was not a single blue flame.

  “And what of his sentence? Is Professor Maddox to be executed?”

  Every hand closed, snuffing out the red flames. Leander’s gaze darted about the room, trying to see who would be the first to judge him. After several moments a single red flame ignited in the open palm of Mistress Belladonna of the Order of Strychnos. Several other reds quickly followed.

  And then a blue.

  A red.

  Three more blues in quick succession.

  A tiny spark of hope sprang into Leander’s heart. Two thirds of the Parliament had to vote for his execution in order for the sentence to be carried out. The alternative—imprisonment in Abaddon—was probably not much better than being executed, but he would certainly choose life over death, regardless of the circumstances.

  One by one Parliament voted. Leander did his best to calculate the votes quickly in his mind. Many of them wanted him executed. Too many. In the end it came down to a single vote. One mage. A red flame would mean his death, a blue flame would give him his life. Leander stared into the gallery at the one mage whose palm was still closed.

  Cassandra Nicodemus.

  She clutched her fist tightly and grimaced as she stared at him, hesitating.

  The building shook with a sudden impact. A rush of air swept through the chamber, and Leander looked up. Roaring fire, Wurm burst through the spell-glass windows in the spire of the Xerxis. Their own magic had shattered the spell-glass. There were only a few of them at first, but dark wings blocked out the daylight, and he could see there were many more behind them.

  Parliament erupted in chaos. Mages shouted in anger and fear and began to scatter from their seats in the gallery. Ghostfire lamps were broken, the souls that provided illumination dissipating, drifting into the afterlife.

  Wurm opened their jaws and seared the air above the Parliament with liquid fire. Mages threw up their hands and began summoning spells. Magical energy arced through the chamber. A female Wurm was struck, and her wings furled and withered as though they had been crippled by age. She fell.

  “Stay together!” Lord Romulus shouted. “Stand your ground!”

  “Yes!” Constable Grimshaw said. “Fight them! This is the boy’s doing! The traitor!”

  But Grimshaw did not fight the Wurm. He did not raise his arms to cast a single spell in their direction. Instead he rushed at Leander and, with a flick of his wrist, produced a long, ridged dagger that glittered with dark purple light.

  “Traitor!” he shouted, and he raised the blade.

  If Cassandra Nicodemus had opened her hand to reveal a red flame, Leander might have accepted that dagger as his fate and his due. But he had yet to see what her judgment would be, and so he stepped back to defend himself. Even with the Wurm descending, with mages shouting and fighting, and some fleeing for the door, he mustered all the magic in him and gritted his teeth as golden light spilled from his fingers, streaking the air.

  Grimshaw raised the dagger in both hands. Leander hoped that his magic was more powerful than the constable’s.

  Alethea Borgia, the Voice of Parliament, shouted for Grimshaw to halt and ran toward them, summoning a spell of her own. But she was too late.

  Leander never let loose his magic.

  With a snarl Verlis darted down from the heights of the chamber, grabbed Grimshaw with a single talon, and then bit his arm off all the way to the elbow. Verlis dropped him then, and Grimshaw hit the floor with a scream of pain. The Wurm spit out his forearm, and it hit the ground not far from the constable, cursed dagger still clutched in dead fingers.

  Leander spun, the magic still spilling from his hands. Alethea was right behind him, and when he faced her, she shook her head firmly.

  “Do nothing, Professor. Nothing. We shall see what comes.”

  And she was right. For even as Leander turned around in a circle to see that the Wurm had alighted in force upon the ground, three dozen strong, and were in a standoff with the gathered mages—a moment that could erupt into all-out war in an eyeblink should any Wurm or mage make a wrong move—he heard the cry of the rook.

  “Caw, caw! Tim! It’s about time, kid! You had us worried!” Edgar called.

  Leander looked up to see a pair of Wurm gliding down to the main floor of the parliamentary chamber, one carrying Ivar of the Asura, and the other carrying Timothy Cade himself.

  “Grandmasters, listen to me!” the boy shouted, his voice echoing through the chamber. “The Wurm are not here to fight, but if they are attacked they will defend themselves. Don’t let your hatred make you do something stupid.”

  “Timothy, thank goodness!” Sheridan said, and a blast of steam burst from the valve on the side of the mechanical man’s head. It whistled such a high note that it sounded almost like music to Leander.

  Alethea crouched beside Constable Grimshaw, using her magic to staunch the flow of blood. She was not a Healer, had not studied those skills, and though she could not restore his arm, she would be able to keep him from dying from his wound. It was a disturbing sight, and yet Leander paid little attention to it.

  Ivar dropped from several feet up and landed in a crouch. He ran to Leander’s side and then turned, as though to stop anyone who might dare try to attack him now. Timothy was set down lightly, and the boy rushed to Leander and threw his arms around the mage’s middle.

  “I was so worried about you!” Timothy said.

  “You were worried about me?” Leander shook his head in amazement. “It’s wonderful to see you. And your timing is impeccable.”

  One of the members of Parliament pushed past the others, climbed over a row of seats, and clambered down the stairs. The Wurm in the center of the chamber blocked his view at first, so Leander could not see who it was. But he knew that voice.

  “This is an outrage!” Lord Romulus bellowed. “Proof of Grimshaw’s every word!”

  Romulus tried to push through the Wurm and one of them spit a thin stream of flame at him. It set his fur cloak alight. Lord Romulus tore it off as black smoke rose from the cloak; he threw it aside and raised his hands, black light dancing on his fingers.

  Leander stiffened. Surprise had caused the grandmasters to hesitate, and then Timothy’s words had given them pause just seconds before an all-out battle would have erupted in the chamber. The Wurm were hated—the enemy, as far as most of them were concerned. But as long as the fire-breathers did not attack Parliament, the mages might hold back, knowing the slaughter that would otherwise ensue. Or if Romulus made a fight of it, the stalemate would be over. It would be a massacre, leaving very few alive inside that chamber.

  Timothy’s smile disappeared. He shook his head and walked up behind the Wurm. They moved out of his way as though he commanded them, and Leander could not help but be impressed that they trusted him so completely. When they had moved aside, that left Timothy face-to-face with Lord Romulus.

  “Is there a problem?” the boy asked.

  The mere question made Romulus shake with fury. “Your insolence will be the death of you, boy.”

  “Maybe,” Timothy said. “But not today.”

  He reached out swiftly and tapped Romulus on the chest. The black fire disappeared from his fingers, and it seemed to Leander that Lord Romulus shrank a little bit. The warrior mage’s eyes bulged and his mouth dropped open.

  “My magic. What have you done?”
>
  Timothy shrugged. “You’ll get it back in a minute or two. If you behave.”

  A ripple of fear went through the room. All along they had been inventing reasons to be afraid of Timothy Cade. Now, Leander saw, he had finally given them one. The boy turned and addressed the room.

  “Grimshaw was attacked because he was trying to kill Leander. I told you before that these Wurm are not here to hurt you,” he said. “They are here for your help.”

  This time it was Cassandra Nicodemus who spoke. “Help? Why would we help them? Wasn’t one Wurm bad enough? Now you have brought us dozens of them.”

  Her fist, Leander saw, was still tightly closed. Her voice was firm, but filled with a nobility that could not be denied. Her eyes sparkled, and there was no mistaking the effect her beauty had on Timothy. Though, if Leander was not mistaken, there was something else in the look that the two exchanged, as though they shared some secret.

  Timothy studied her, and then he regarded the entire assemblage once more.

  “Many of you are not old enough, or have not been members of Parliament long enough, to know the true history of the conflict between the Wurm and the mages. But some of you are. Some of you were probably in this very chamber when it was decided that the Wurm would be driven from their homes, many of them murdered.

  “But you all know that piece of history. And because you know a piece, you think you know it all. But you don’t. Or, at least, most of you don’t.”

  “Go on, then, boy,” Lord Romulus scoffed. “Tell us this secret history.”

  Timothy nodded. “Secret history. Yes, that’s exactly what it is. And, yes, I will.” He scanned the faces in the room and saw that he had their complete attention. Timothy wondered if some of them had always suspected there was more to be told, if they had sensed it.

  “To those of you who were in Parliament in the days before the Asura were slaughtered and the Wurm driven out—in the days when Alhazred was in power—I ask this. Did you ever hear of mages being attacked by Wurm or by Asura before Alhazred began to warn you about their savagery? About the threat they posed to your society?”

  “There were villages burned to the ground! Mages and their children slaughtered!” snarled the Cuzcotec Grandmaster.

  “Yes,” Timothy agreed. “But that was afterward, wasn’t it?” He glanced around again. “Wasn’t it? The Wurm and the Asura were bent on destroying each other’s tribes, and they paid little attention to mages. When they made new settlements in areas that mages claimed as their own, they did so without violence.”

  “That’s not true. They were barbaric—”

  “No,” Timothy interrupted. “No, they weren’t. That was only what Alhazred wanted Parliament to believe. He manipulated it all. Filled this hall with panic, with stories of creatures he painted as monsters. He lied.”

  There were angry shouts and low mutterings, and some of the mages moved as if to attack. The Wurm hissed and beat their wings to remind them of the bloody consequences of an all-out battle in the Xerxis.

  “Why?” Alethea Borgia asked.

  “Don’t listen! He lies!” cried Lord Foxheart.

  “Why would he do such a thing? Alhazred was one of the greatest mages who ever lived,” Alethea went on.

  “I know.” Timothy sighed, but he stood up straighter. “But it wasn’t enough for him to be one of the greatest. He wanted to be the greatest. Alhazred saw the Parliament coming together, and he wanted to control it. Wanted to control all of it. His successor, Nicodemus, was much the same, wasn’t he? Trying to gather the power to take over. Well, Alhazred was sneakier about it. The Asura and the Wurm he gave to the guilds as a common enemy. Fear of these strange races helped to solidify the alliance that the Parliament represented. It united the guilds. And Alhazred presented himself as the only one with a plan to deal with this seeming threat.”

  The Cuzcotec Grandmaster stepped forward and spread his hands wide, appealing to the other grandmasters. “This is absurd. Parliament would never have ceded power to one mage. Even if Alhazred had such ambition, it would never have worked.”

  “That’s true,” Timothy agreed. “It didn’t work, thanks to my father. Argus Cade was the voice of reason. He was the conscience of this chamber. But when Alhazred saw that his plan wasn’t going to work, he came up with another plan. He nurtured the hatred of the Asura, and the fear of them, and plotted the series of attacks that wiped out the entire species. All except for one, Ivar, whom my father saved.”

  Timothy paused. He glanced at Leander, then around the room, and finally looked at Alethea again. “Alhazred went to the ambassadors of the Wurm then, including Tarqilae, and told them that he had destroyed the Asura in a gesture of good faith, and he proposed an alliance.”

  The effect of his words was immediate. Gasps filled the room, and the mages began to glance around at one another, some in suspicion, some in defiance, and others in disbelief.

  “Alhazred presented himself as sympathetic to the Wurm. He wanted to help the Wurm attack Arcanum, to destroy the Xerxis and as many members of Parliament as possible. He would lead a counterattack on the Wurm, but it would all be for show. All of the guilds would have rallied behind him them, given him whatever power he wanted as long as he could protect them from the Wurm. And in exchange, Alhazred would leave the Wurm in peace in their jungles and mountains.

  “I’ve been called an abomination. Ivar is considered a savage. The Wurm are called monsters. I can’t think of better words to describe Alhazred. It is terrible enough that Parliament was so easily manipulated, that such wise mages were so eager to wage war on a race of beings just because they looked different. Just because they weren’t like you. And before any of you who weren’t around in those days try to claim innocence, I’ll remind you that it’s exactly the same thing that you all did to me, not very long ago.”

  The uproar in the chamber was deafening, all denying the things Timothy had said about them, and about Alhazred.

  Lord Romulus took a step toward him. Leander tensed, because while most mages would be helpless without their magic, Romulus led one of the few guilds that did not rely entirely on their magical power. Timothy had been trained by Ivar, but Romulus could probably still kill the boy with his bare hands.

  “You are a liar! A criminal! A traitor!”

  “If so, then I hope my cell in Abaddon is big enough to fit all of us, because I’m no worse a criminal or a traitor than any of you.”

  “Filth!” Romulus shouted, and before Timothy could react, he struck the boy across the face.

  Timothy could have fought him then. Instead he stood, all eyes upon him, and faced Lord Romulus. Wurm had started to move on the warrior mage, but Timothy gestured for them to stay back. He stared boldly up at Lord Romulus, but the mage was taken aback by his lack of reaction and did not strike him again.

  “I’m not lying.”

  Alethea stepped toward him. Constable Grimshaw lay unconscious on the floor behind her, but he still breathed. He still lived. There was a terrible dread in Alethea’s eyes. “How have you come by this knowledge? If these are secrets, where did you learn them?”

  Timothy smiled. “From a Wurm named Hannuk, who was one of the ambassadors who dealt with Alhazred directly.”

  “From a Wurm?” Romulus roared. “From a Wurm, and we’re to believe such lies? You are all that I said, boy, but you are also a fool!”

  “I can prove they aren’t lies,” he said, and the room fell silent again, though he had not shouted. The grandmasters watched him expectantly. He turned to Alethea. “When I was studying the customs of Parliament, I read that the Voice has access to spells that can compel the truth.”

  The Voice nodded. “Within the Xerxis, yes. But magic won’t work on you, Timothy. And even if it did, this is hearsay from a Wurm!”

  “I don’t mean for you to cast the spell on me,” he replied. Then his eyes scanned the mages who were gathered on one side of the room. He saw a familiar cloak, night black and sparkling wi
th the glitter of stars. “You see, Alhazred had followers. Conspirators who worked with him. If you want to find out if what I say is true, then the Voice should simply ask someone who was close to Alhazred at that time. Ask Lord Siberus of the Order of the Winter Star.”

  Silence reigned for several heartbeats. The rest of the mages retreated from Lord Siberus as though he had been stricken with the plague and might infect them. Even those who were Timothy’s most vocal critics gazed at Siberus with suspicion.

  The ancient mage only gazed at them, eyes glowing yellow in the shadows of the hood that hid his face. “Alethea,” he said, his voice as icy as the winter star that was the symbol of his order, “you cannot possibly believe this. Alhazred was one of the founders of this Parliament. And this boy … he is less than nothing.”

  The Wurm started to fume, smoke and fire drifting from their nostrils. They beat their wings, and some of them moved closer to the mages. Verlis and Cythra forced them back with commands issued in grunts and clicks.

  Alethea Borgia raised her hands. When she began to speak, the room thrummed with her words, the air vibrated, and it sounded as though every mage in the Xerxis were speaking through her.

  “I am the Voice of the Parliament of Mages. Grandmasters, open your hearts to me so that we may see into the heart of another.”

  Then she looked at Lord Siberus, and in that same voice that was many voices, she asked him: “Grandmaster Siberus, does the boy speak true?”

  Siberus began to shake. His head whipped back and forth, as though he were attempting to defy the Voice. Then he fell to his knees, head bowed in defeat.

  “Yes,” he hissed. “The boy speaks true.”

  The outcry was deafening. It was a full minute before Timothy could draw their attention again.

  “Listen to me!” he shouted. And at last they did. “You were wrong about the Wurm,” Timothy told them, speaking softly. “Wrong about Verlis. Wrong about me.” He pointed to his friends. “You’re wrong about Sheridan and Ivar, and certainly wrong about Edgar and about Leander. There’s no mage more loyal to the Parliament, and more a credit to his guild, than Leander Maddox.