“But none of that matters anymore. You see, the Wurm were banished to a world they named Draconae. They have thrived there. Built armies. And in all the time they have been there, they’ve been feeding on their hatred of the people who betrayed them. Mages.” The boy pointed one finger and waved it around the room. “You. For what you did—and they blame you, no matter how Alhazred manipulated you—they want to kill you all. You. Your families. Your guilds. They want to kill every mage in the world. They’re led by a Wurm called Raptus.”
This news was met with more gasps of horror and mutterings of disbelief.
Now Timothy nodded toward the Wurm who gathered in that very room. “Verlis and his clan were the only ones to oppose Raptus. They wanted peace. For that, Raptus tormented them. Attacked them. Killed and tortured many of them, including Verlis’s parents. I brought them all back here, to ask the Parliament of Mages to put aside the past, and to give them sanctuary.”
At last, despite their fear, the mages in the room reacted. There were boos and hisses, shouted curses, and even laughter. But after Timothy’s revelations and Siberus’s confession, not all of the grandmasters reacted this way. Most of them only listened.
“Even if all you say is true, you’ve said yourself they want to kill us. Why should we trust them? Why help them?” Cassandra Nicodemus asked, moving closer to Timothy, studying his face. For a moment it was as though the two of them were alone there at the center of the room.
Timothy looked at her gravely.
“You have to,” he said. “Cassandra, you have to. Raptus is not some stupid beast. He’s vicious, and very smart. And he has sorcerers who have been working for ages to tear down the dimensional barrier that keeps them on Draconae. I got a close look at what they’re doing. I don’t think it’s going to be long before they figure out how to get through.”
Timothy nodded toward Verlis again. “If the Wurm of Draconae do get through, with Raptus leading them, then my friends here are the only hope you’ve got.”
Alethea came to the center of the chamber. Constable Grimshaw lay on the floor behind her, only beginning to stir to wakefulness again. But Alethea seemed to have forgotten the constable. Her focus was on Verlis.
“You, Verlis. Wurm. You would do this? You and your clan would pledge to aid us against others of your kind in exchange for safe haven here?”
The Wurm snorted smoke and fire. Their wings flapped slowly as they all gazed about at one another. Verlis snapped his jaws shut with a clack. One by one, all of the others did the same. When they were through, Verlis turned to look at Alethea.
“We swear it. On the hearts of the Dragons of Old, we swear it. But will you swear? On the souls of the Wizards of Old, Voice of Parliament, will you swear it?”
Leander held his breath as Alethea looked first at him, then at Timothy, and then around the chamber at the guild masters who huddled there, unsure what was going to happen next. They were afraid and ashamed and angry, all at the same time.
Cassandra was still face-to-face with Timothy. She studied him for a long moment. Then Cassandra, this girl who held Leander’s life in the palm of her hand, opened her fist.
Blue fire danced on her palm.
Leander’s life was spared.
Alethea nodded at her, and then the Voice addressed Verlis again.
“We shall see,” the Voice declared. “A vote will be taken, and we shall see.”
“What?” a shrill voice shrieked. “How can you? How dare you? This is war! These monsters have attacked the Xerxis! They are vermin! They must be exterminated. Do something!” Grimshaw shouted to Lord Romulus as he tried to struggle to his feet, clutching the white stump where his arm had once been. “All of you! You must do something!”
Timothy raised an eyebrow and glanced at Leander. He looked at Alethea for a moment. There was a confidence in his gaze that Leander had never seen there before, and it reminded him powerfully of the boy’s father. Alethea had cared deeply for Argus Cade, and Leander had no doubt that she saw it too.
The un-magician strode over to Grimshaw and reached out toward him. The constable flinched at Timothy’s gesture. Bright silver energy began to crackle in Grimshaw’s one remaining hand and to spark in his eyes.
“Don’t you dare!” he commanded.
Timothy shrugged. “I only wanted to give you a word of advice. You might want to keep quiet now. You’ve had your say. And if you don’t want to hold your tongue, well”—he glanced over at Verlis—“I’d guess the Wurm are probably still very, very hungry.”
Epilogue
The Cade estate was filled with the sounds of the Wurm.
Timothy and Leander stood in the foyer of the great old home and listened: the pounding beat of leathery wings; the heavy tread of clawed feet on the floors above; the roars, clicks, and clacks of their ancient language. The Wurm had been introduced to their temporary residence two days prior and were still acclimating themselves to their new surroundings. They had been a great deal of help in repairing the damage Verlis had done while escaping from Grimshaw with Timothy and Ivar, not to mention cleaning up the mess Grimshaw’s deputies had left behind. There were a great many of them, but it was an enormous house, with rooms and entire wings Timothy had yet to even begin to explore.
“It’s quite noisy today,” Leander said, flinching as one of the new residents glided down from the second floor, a shrieking roar exploding from its cavernous mouth while two smaller Wurm doggedly pursued it.
The larger beast flew twice around the chandelier hanging above the foyer, then dropped down to skate mere inches above the floor before rocketing skyward, heading back from whence he came. The smaller Wurm did their best to keep up, roaring their excitement as they continued the chase.
“I didn’t notice,” Timothy said, and he smiled as the two walked deeper into the house. “How are things at Parliament?” he asked the mage, frowning deeply.
The mage shrugged. “They are as they’ve always been, Timothy. Afraid. Afraid of you, the Wurm, even me. Afraid that the fragile world they’ve built for themselves will come crashing down around them. There are changes in the wind, and even the most stubborn of them can see that.”
Begrudgingly Parliament had decided to allow Verlis and his clan to stay on Terra, not that they really had much of a choice. Just the thought of an invasion led by the fearsome Raptus was enough to cause even the most stubborn of grandmasters to reconsider their position on the Wurm. If an attack was indeed inevitable, and instinct told Timothy that it was, Parliament needed to be prepared. The clan’s offer of support was but the first step in a long and arduous journey for both the mages and the Wurm. Mages had betrayed their species horribly in the past. A trust had to be built if the two were ever to exist together. Now the threat of war provided the proper incentive.
The boy and his mentor walked down the hallway toward Argus Cade’s study. “I think you’ll be pleased at how far Verlis’s kin have come in just a short while,” Timothy said.
The sound of Sheridan’s metallic voice could be heard drifting out from the room. They stopped in the doorway to see the mechanical man standing at the front of the study, Wurm of all sizes sitting on the floor, listening to his every word with rapt attention.
“Yes, I would love a cup of brew,” Sheridan said, lifting a delicate cup from a saucer and pretending to drink. He then bowed his metal head toward his audience, urging them on.
“Yes, I would love a cup of brew,” they repeated, some of the Wurm pretending to drink from an imaginary cup.
Sheridan’s head swiveled away from his students as he noticed Timothy and Leander standing in the doorway.
“If you will pardon me,” he said to the gathered Wurm, setting his cup and saucer down and clomping across the room, short bursts of steam escaping from the valve at the side of his head.
“If you will pardon me,” the dragons repeated in unison.
“Good morning to you, sirs.” Sheridan bowed. “My pupils are making great pro
gress today.”
Leander chuckled. “You are doing a remarkable job, Sheridan,” he said, patting the mechanical man’s shoulder. “They’ll be speaking Terran better than Verlis in no time. Carry on.” He motioned for the mechanical man to return to his duties.
“Very good,” said Sheridan, and he bowed again, waddling back to his class.
“It appears they are adjusting well,” Leander said as he and Timothy left the study. “Parliament will be pleased with the positive progress.”
Timothy was glad. Anything to get on Parliament’s good side would be a step in the right direction. By disobeying their laws—freeing Verlis from Abaddon and traveling to Draconae—Timothy had greatly strained his already fragile relationship with the mages who comprised Parliament, but he hoped that the damage was not irreparable.
“Has anything been decided … about your penance?” Timothy asked Leander, still bearing the guilt of what his actions had done to the Grandmaster’s standing within the Parliament of Mages.
Though Leander had been found guilty of his crimes, he had yet to be sentenced. Apparently there was great debate about how serious his punishment should be.
“Nothing official yet,” he said, resignation and sadness in his tone. “Most of my duties as Grandmaster have been given over to Cassandra, and my presence at parliamentary gatherings will no longer be necessary, unless requested. What more can they do?” he asked, hands clasped behind his back as they walked. “Although some feel that being given the responsibility of monitoring the activities of our Wurm friends here is penance enough.” The large man chuckled.
“I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before they decide my fate,” he continued, “but right now, they are distracted, the winds of change and all.” The mage waved his hand in the air.
Timothy felt horrible, and had ever since his return with the Wurm. “I’ve been nothing but trouble since you found me,” he said, hanging his head sadly. Maybe this was what his father had feared all along, the reason he had hidden the boy away. “I guess you wish you’d never stepped through that door to Patience.”
“I’ll hear none of that talk,” Leander responded, slipping an arm about Tim’s shoulder and giving him a reassuring squeeze. “What has happened, has happened. There is nothing that any of us can do to change it.”
“But since I’ve been around, everything’s been thrown into turmoil. Maybe it would have been better if I had just stayed where you found me.”
Leander stopped in the doorway to the solarium and turned to the boy, placing a large hand beneath his lowered chin, lifting his face so their eyes could meet. “If you had not come, would we ever have learned of Nicodemus’s evil? Or of the potential for a Wurm attack? No, I think it is good that you have come to live with us, and besides, think how boring my life would be otherwise. With your father gone, there would have been no one to get me into trouble.”
They both laughed as they stepped into the solarium. The room was filled with boxes, each packed to the brim with heat-stone from Patience, brought to feed the dragon residents. Edgar was flapping about the room, having been placed in charge of coordinating the collection of the stones.
“That’s it, boys,” the rook croaked, directing five Wurm, each of them carrying a large, heavy crate of heatstone with ease. “Set ‘em down wherever you see an open space.”
The bird fluttered to land upon one of the rock stacks and craned his head as he noticed Timothy and Leander. “This should keep their bellies full for a few more weeks,” he squawked, “or at least until Parliament figures out what to do with ‘em.”
Although the Cade estate was fine for now, it was far too small for the Wurm to live comfortably. Parliament, however, had yet to decide upon a more permanent location for Verlis’s clan.
“There has been talk of a volcanic island off the Trindian coast,” Leander said.
“Yeah, well, I suppose Parliament’s got bigger things to worry about,” Edgar said, and the room became eerily silent, all of their thoughts likely dwelling on the same thing.
The threat of Raptus.
“Do you really think he’ll be able to get through the barrier?” the familiar asked.
Leander looked at Timothy, and the strange sense of intuition returned, warning of a danger yet to come.
“If there’s a way, I think he’ll find it,” the boy replied, remembering the cold hatred in the Wurm general’s dark eyes. “We have to be ready.”
Timothy turned, walking toward the spell-glass windows that separated the solarium from the back of the estate. The spell-glass blinked from existence as he neared it, allowing him to pass.
Leander followed him outside, onto a broad stone patio with a view of distant towns and of the steep, rough face of August Hill. In the sky the Wurm honed their aerial combat skills, flames shooting from their mouths. On the broad expanse of the patio, Ivar trained others of the draconian clan in the deadly fighting techniques of the Asura. Even so, the wind was cool and gentle, and despite the preparations for war, it was almost peaceful.
Almost.
Verlis stood side by side with the Asura, a sight that most of the older Wurm would never have thought possible, while Ivar demonstrated that skill and swiftness could overcome size and strength, and even magic.
“I pray to the bright ones that Raptus never succeeds in breaking free and all this is for naught,” Leander said grimly as he watched the Wurm and the last of the Asura prepare for future combat.
“So do I,” Timothy agreed, watching the Wurm in flight above them. “But if prayers fail us, and Raptus does break through, we’ll be ready for him.”
“I hope you’re right,” Leander said, turning away to return to the great old house.
Timothy stayed on the patio, thinking about what the future held—for him and his friends, for the Parliament of Mages, for all the world of Terra—and he was afraid.
Very afraid indeed.
It was long after dark in the city of Arcanum and the shadows were deep.
Councillor Pepoy squinted through the crack of the slightly open door, the expression on his pinched features showing annoyance, and perhaps the slightest hint of fear, that he had been pulled from his bed at this late hour.
“Constable Grimshaw?” he whispered in surprise, his bony hand clutching the top of his silken dressing gown. The fussy older man allowed the door to open wider. “Please, do come in.”
Grimshaw entered, the inside of the councillor’s abode stiflingly warm, a noticeable contrast to the evening’s damp chill, although he wasn’t sure which one he preferred.
“If I’d known you were planning to stop by, I would have had some refreshment to offer, but as you can see I’ve already retired for the evening,” the councillor said. “Here, let me take your cloak.”
“No concern, Councillor,” the constable said as he stood in the entryway, shrugging off his cape as a serpent would slough its old skin. “This is not a social call.” Grimshaw turned to face the man. “I’ve come for the list you promised me.”
Pepoy’s eyes widened with shock.
Since the loss of his lower arm to the Wurm’s bite, the constable had grown used to the startled stares.
“Attractive, isn’t it?” he said, raising the stump, the sleeve of his uniform pinned back with a simple placement spell. “Just another example of the chaos I’m attempting to squelch.”
The old councillor brought an age-spotted hand to his mouth. “Oh, my,” he murmured. “I had heard that you were injured, but I didn’t realize…Was reattachment not a possibility?” he questioned.
The constable gazed down at the space his lower arm had once occupied. He could still feel its presence, as if the ghost of his arm were haunting him. “The acidity of the beast’s saliva, you see … the damage was too extensive.”
“My condolences,” Pepoy whispered.
“Accepted with heartfelt appreciation,” the constable said, clamping down tightly on the rage that simmered within him. “But th
e list of names you promised to provide would prove far more valuable to me than your sympathies.”
“Certainly,” the old mage muttered nervously, moving around the constable, his eyes looking everywhere but where the arm used to be. “I’ll get it for you now.”
The fussy old man entered a room to the right of the entryway, and Grimshaw followed. Lamps of ghostfire came to life as Pepoy hung the constable’s cloak, and he moved around his desk, searching for the requested list. The surface was cluttered, chaotic, and the foul mood that Grimshaw had been in since his arm was taken from him grew all the more intense.
“I completed it earlier this evening,” the old man was saying as he carefully moved about pieces of parchment, as if to disturb their placement would be to throw off some intricate cosmic balance. “Ah, here it is.” He pulled a long sheet of yellowed paper from beneath a stack of others very much like it.
“And this list comprises all the mages who were working outside the authorization of Parliament?” Grimshaw asked, anxious to be finished with this task, so that he could move on to more important matters. “All of the … rebels.”
He tasted the word. It was sweet.
Pepoy studied the list, as if he were seeing it for the very first time. “Yes, this is all of them,” he said, his eyes moving down the page. “I find it very unnerving that most of those who make up this list have either passed from life, or have mysteriously gone missing.” He lowered the parchment to fix the constable in a fearful gaze.
Grimshaw snatched the list from the old man’s trembling hand.
There were thirteen names. Eleven of them, including Argus Cade, bore an intricate star symbol beside them, indicating that they had died or disappeared.
“Very good, Pepoy,” Constable Grimshaw purred, reading the names of the two remaining mages and committing them to memory. “This is all of them?”
Dragon Secrets Page 22
