The Shadow Dragons

by James A. Owen

  John blinked, then blinked again. “I’m sure we don’t know what you’re talking about, my good knight.”

  Quixote sighed, then smiled knowingly. “I am well used to those around me not believing the stories I tell,” he said, gesturing broadly with his hands. “My tales of the adventures in the Archipelago saw me painted with the brush of a teller of falsehoods, never mind that to tell a lie would be ignoble of a knight. So I understand and I tell you with no rancor that it was prophesied that I would sleep until the call came to serve once more. And I believe that I was destined to be here, now, to aid you on your quest.”

  John pondered the knight’s words silently for a moment. In the keep, he had told them that he possessed special knowledge that would be needed by them on their journey. None of them had really believed him, and they had taken him with them out of compassion more than anything else. To do otherwise would have meant his death. But they had never actually considered that he might have been sincere all along.

  “Don Quixote de la Mancha,” John said, bowing, “I have spoken in haste, and we have not availed ourselves of the counsel you might offer. If you have a special knowledge of this place, I beg you share it with us.”

  Quixote bowed gravely and blushed at John’s respectful speech. He was not accustomed to being spoken to so well, and it took him a few seconds to compose himself.

  “To enter the meadow where the castle stands, we must first fall asleep. . . .”

  “Fall asleep?” Charles said. “All of us?”

  Quixote nodded. “It is through the realm of dreams that we may cross through to the castle.”

  Charles and Jack each sighed heavily and slumped against the stones lining the entrance of the cave.

  “You mean, you dreamed it all,” Charles began.

  “I’m so glad you understand,” said the old knight in obvious relief. “Most people regard it as insanity.”

  Jack’s brow furrowed. “Uh, begging your pardon, but I’m on the fence regarding that myself.”

  “To be fair,” Charles pointed out, “he has been sleeping in the keep for the better part of four centuries. To him, all of this might seem as if it were a dream.”

  “You’re starting to get the hang of it,” said Quixote, clapping Charles on the back. “You’d make a fine knight yourself, you know.”

  “I really don’t think we have time for all of us to take a nap,” John said diplomatically.

  “Oh,” Quixote said, deflating. “I suppose we could try the door, if only we had access to a king or queen of the Archipelago. But that’s probably too much to ask.”

  As one, the Caretakers looked down at Rose. “It’s worth a try,” she said. “After all, I was able to open the Cartographer’s door.”

  Quixote looked from the girl to the companions and back again, gradually realizing what they were talking about. He wheeled around and strode to the remnants of the cooking pit, where he found a solid piece of charcoal, which he handed to Rose.

  On the old knight’s instruction, the companions all entered the cave. Archie remained behind to be, as John put it, their “canary in the coal mine.”

  “Isn’t the canary supposed to go first, to make certain the air is clear?” asked Jack.

  “I didn’t say it was a perfect analogy,” John replied, “but it’s good enough in a pinch.”

  “If anything happens here,” Archie huffed, “your canary will be sure to sing out loud and long.”

  “Thank you, Archie,” said John.

  “Humph,” said Archie.

  Quixote showed Rose what she must do, and the companions watched as she used the charcoal to sketch a broad, high door on the back of the cave wall.

  “Very good,” said Quixote. “Now, if you’ll just recite the poem that opens the door.”

  Rose blinked. “I don’t know what that is.”

  John stepped forward and opened his pack. “I think I do,” he said. He unwrapped the Geographica, flipped to a particular page, and held it out for Rose to read.

  The girl took the book in her hands and began to recite the verses John had indicated:

  By knowledge paid

  For riddles wrought

  I open thee

  I open thee

  By bones bound

  By honor taken

  I open thee

  I open thee

  For life eternal and liberty gain’d

  To sleep and dream, as kings we reign’d

  I open thee

  I open thee

  As she finished speaking, a cracking sound reverberated throughout the cave, and a seam of pure, radiant light appeared along the inside of the charcoal lines. Quixote leaned forward and pushed against the wall—which swung outward, away from his touch.

  The light from the other side was blinding after the gloomy twilight of the cave. It took a few seconds for the companions’ eyes to adjust, then, cautiously, they all moved forward and through the doorway.

  As Quixote had promised, the door opened to a vast meadow of nearly indescribable beauty. There were fields of wildflowers that ended in gently sloping hills of wild wheat and clover. The scents of the flowers and grasses were almost overwhelming, and a sharp, loamy tang permeated the air, as if a thunderstorm had just passed. But the sky was clear and deeply blue, and it appeared to be morning, although there was no sun in the sky.

  In the distance, past the golden fields, rose the towers and crenellations of the crystal castle. The blue light, reflected up from the fields, caused the castle to appear bright green, as if it were constructed of emeralds.

  Charles gave a low whistle in admiration, and Jack could only continue to stare, slack-jawed in amazement at the sights, as Rose knelt to gather a bundle of clover to press to her face.

  As for John, he looked in wonderment at the beauty that surrounded them, then at Quixote, then back again. The old knight had been not only truthful, but extremely precise in his accounting as well.

  “Lead on,” John said, gesturing for Quixote to take them to the castle. “Your word is good.”

  Quixote bowed his head and took off at a brisk pace down a well-worn path through the meadow.

  The companions followed after, with occasional digressions by Rose and Charles to examine some new patch of flowers that appeared along the way. At first it had appeared that the castle was very close, but as they continued to walk, it became evident that that was not the case. The castle grew taller and more broad the closer they came, but it took nearly an hour to reach the high red gates.

  “I had almost thought we’d discovered Macdonald’s Fairy Land,” Jack said to the others, “but the markings on these gates are Greek.”

  “This isn’t Fairy Land,” John agreed. “I don’t know what it is.”

  Quixote said nothing, but instead reached for a corded rope that hung to one side of the gates. He gave it a pull, and a low chime sounded from within.

  In short order a gatekeeper appeared, unlocked the gate, and swung it open.

  He was aged without seeming old, and more weary than aged. He looked over at Rose with a flicker of surprised recognition, then composed himself. He next regarded Quixote with a cautious eye, before giving his full attention to Charles, John, and Jack.

  “I have not seen you before,” he said in a voice thick with a French accent. His tone indicated that he was used to speaking with authority. “Why have you come here?”

  “Avalon is deserted,” John told him. “We’re looking to discover why, and what may have happened to the Guardian.”

  The gatekeeper snorted. “That fool? He has been gone from the isle for many years. Where he went, I cannot say—but the one who might tell you the rest resides here, in the castle.”

  “Are you the new Green Knight?” Charles asked.

  The gatekeeper rolled his eyes. “Do I appear to be made of wood?” he said. “As a knight, I guarded milady, and I guard her still, as well as the others within. What happens outside these walls is no longer my concern
.”

  “May we pass?” asked Jack.

  “On what authority do you ask to enter?” said the gatekeeper.

  John unwrapped the Geographica on a hunch and showed the cover to the old man. “On the authority of the heirs of Arthur, King of the Silver Throne.”

  The gatekeeper looked as if he had been struck across the face with a hammer. He staggered back a moment, then pulled himself against the gate to stand steady.

  “Enter and be welcomed,” he said, his voice shaking with barely controlled emotion.

  As the companions passed by, they were able to look at the gatekeeper more closely. He had the bearing of a knight but would not meet their eyes, lifting his head only to glance at Rose. There were scars on his arms and face, which had once been handsome. But the sorrow in his eyes and on his countenance was the deepest any of them had ever seen. More surprisingly, under his cloak they could see his own armor, which also bore the mark of the king.

  “Who is this?” Quixote asked Charles behind his hand. “He never bothered to say three words to me when I was here before.”

  “I can’t say for certain,” Charles replied as they walked into the castle grounds, “but if I were to hazard a guess, I’d say we just met Lancelot himself.”

  The gatekeeper pointed the companions down a broad avenue between the gleaming green towers, to a pair of white doors. “I must go no farther,” he said, “but I will see you on your return. May the gods grant you the knowledge you seek.”

  “Lancelot?” said Quixote, when they reached the doors and passed between them. “Really? I always thought he was a monk. I—”

  The knight stopped talking as the doors closed behind them, leaving them in an expansive room that aspired to be a world, and that rendered them all speechless.

  A thousand architectural styles were represented by the miniature buildings that were ensconced in transparent globes placed on gleaming pedestals throughout the room. On closer examination, the Caretakers realized that each miniature city was a world unto itself and contained tiny people and other creatures.

  All along the walls were doorways interspersed with crypts, and at the far end of the hall was a bowl of blue fire, set into the floor in front of a massive wall.

  Jack clutched at John’s coat and pointed. “Look!” he whispered. “I think we’ve found them!”

  Attending to the various globes were three women who floated above the surface of the floor in gossamer robes. One, the closest, was clothed in blue; the next, a short distance away, who was looking into a globe containing a Norse village, wore green; and the most distant of them wore pink.

  It wasn’t until the woman in blue moved to a globe closer to the doors that John realized he knew her. “Do you know us?” he called out. “Are you of the Morgaine?”

  “When one has been a part of the Morgaine,” the apparition said, “a part of the three who are one remains ever after. But I am still myself, especially here, in this place.”

  “And what should we call you?” asked Charles, before John could whisper to him that they already knew this woman. They had met her long ago.

  “Call me Guinevere,” the apparition said, opening her arms wide to embrace Rose. “Welcome home, daughter.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Nameless Isles

  Guinevere, with her ethereal presence and turquoise hair, seemed more like a fairy than one of the Morgaine—but enough of who she was remained that Rose knew her and recognized her, and it gladdened the companions’ hearts to see the girl so fulfilled and happy.

  “What is this place?” said John.

  “Call it the Elysian fields, or Valhalla, or Vanaheim,” replied Guinevere. “It is all and none. But it is a place where the dead heroes of the past may come to rest, before they go on to their afterlife or are needed again.”

  “Why is Avalon deserted?” John asked. “The Morgaine are gone, and the Green Knight is as well.”

  “The Morgaine keep their own counsel and left of their own choice,” Guinevere intoned. “The Guardian was enticed and easily gave up his post.”

  “As I thought,” Charles fumed. “Once a Maggot, always a Maggot.”

  “What are you doing here, Mother?” Rose asked. “I’ve missed you, very much.”

  Guinevere looked down at her daughter. “As I have missed you.

  “I expect you must be the Caretakers,” the cat said ...

  But we each have our paths to follow, and mine has ended here.”

  “Ended?” said Charles bluntly. “Are—are you dead?”

  She looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. “That would depend on your point of view, Caretaker,” she answered. “I left the Morgaine to marry, and saw the downfall of a kingdom. But from the ashes of that tragedy, my children built a kingdom anew— you are its guardians now, and one of you may yet earn your place among the heroes here.”

  She turned and glided away, gesturing for the companions to follow. She led them to the great marble wall, next to the blue flame.

  The marble wall contained three crypts. Guinevere passed the first of them and then paused at the second, resting her hand lightly, almost reverently, on its surface. “Here rests he who was my husband, who breathed his last in my arms,” she said, the sorrow in her voice unconcealed. “The first King of the Silver Throne, the first king of Camelot. Here lies Arthur, who will sleep until he is needed again.”

  “We know a little of his death from the Histories,” said Charles, “but Geoffrey of Monmouth was incomplete as a chronicler and fictionalized some things to make his stories more interesting. I didn’t realize you had been with him when he died.”

  She looked pained at hearing this. “I—I wasn’t, but I was near,” she said, “and I have remained with him ever since.

  “Mordred returned to Camelot and brought war with him,” she continued. “I had abandoned my duties on Avalon to become Arthur’s queen, to protect and watch over him. And I failed. I failed him, in every way. And so it is my penance to stay with him here, to watch over his body and wait for the time when he might rise again to protect all the lands that are, and the people who reside there.”

  “That’s very, ah, loyal,” said Jack.

  “And optimistic,” said Charles.

  “It is prophesied,” stated Guinevere, “that in the time of greatest need, he will rise once more to defend and protect his kingdom. But,” she added before any of the companions could ask, “now is not that time.”

  “How do you know?” asked Jack.

  “There is a Prophecy,” Guinevere began.

  “I’m starting to get weary of hearing about prophecies,” said Charles.

  “Does he need me again, Mother?” Rose asked, moving around Charles to take Guinevere’s hands. “Does he need my blood to save him, as it did before?”

  Guinevere shook her head. “That is not written for you,” she said to her daughter in a voice both gentle and firm. “You gave your sacrifice once. In time, it will be for another to do so.”

  She held her daughter’s hands for a moment more, then let them go and crossed her hands in front of her. “What else would you ask of me?”

  “Who are in the other two crypts?” Charles asked. “If you don’t mind my inquiring.”

  “In the crypt on the left is the first of the heroes,” said Guinevere. “The original, the archetype, the one who inspired all those who came after.”

  “Hercules?” Jack guessed, only to be slightly embarrassed when the lady responded with a laugh.

  “Little mortal, I forget how short a time you have lived, and how little you know of the history of the world. The first hero, who sleeps here next to Arthur, was the one called Gilgamesh.”

  “And in the third?” said John, whose curiosity had overwhelmed his need for decorum. He really wanted to know: Who could possibly merit being interred next to Gilgamesh and Arthur Pendragon?

  Instead of answering, Guinevere glanced almost imperceptibly at Rose, then shook her head. “It is
not for me to say,” she replied. “Not at this time.”

  “Guinevere,” Jack said suddenly, “may I ask a boon?”

  She looked at him curiously, but could not disguise her amusement at the request. “You may ask.”

  “We first came into the Archipelago to protect your daughter,” said Jack. “There are those roaming about, in both this world and in the Summer Country, who seek to harm her. Perhaps even kill her. We don’t know of any place where we might take her that will be as safe as she’ll be here. Could she stay?”

  John and Charles both started to say something, but held their tongues as they realized the truth of Jack’s words. If this place was as difficult to enter as it seemed, it really might be the safest place for the girl.

  But Guinevere shook her head. “She cannot. This is not a place where the living can long stay. In time she would become as transparent as I. I have lived a full lifetime—more than one, in fact. And so I can accept this ghostly existence. But it is not for her. There is a—”

  “Prophecy,” said Charles.

  “A destiny,” Guinevere said, giving Charles a stern look, “that she must seek out. She has an extraordinary life ahead of her, and should not dismiss it so easily by staying here with phantasms. And this is only the beginning. You will need her if your worlds are to survive.”

  “Why did the Morgaine abandon the Archipelago?” asked John. “Why did they leave?”

  “There is nothing gained but futility in weaving a tapestry whose picture changes at a whim,” Guinevere said plainly. “Elements of creation are changing, even now, as we speak. Events in history are being made and unmade with every passing moment.”

  “Is there anything you can tell us?” John pleaded. “For your daughter’s sake, if nothing else?”

  “A great weapon is being brought to bear against the forces of the Light,” Guinevere said, “which you will not be able to withstand. Only by wielding a weapon of equal power will you have the chance to prevail.”