The Shadow Dragons

by James A. Owen

  The bicycle careened past the gate, and they could finally see the portal, hanging in the air just ahead.

  “Hang on,” he said again. “We’re going to come in hot!”

  Without slowing, Charles aimed the bicycle straight for the portal and went screaming through, crashing hard against the opposite wall of the gallery in Tamerlane House.

  He staggered to his feet. “Ransom! Somebody! Close the Trump, quickly!”

  Ransom ran in from the anteroom and took hold of the Trump just as the witches were coming into view. Rapidly the illustration began to shrink; in moments it was the size of a card again, and Ransom placed it in the pages of a book.

  All the Caretakers were summoned, along with Aven and Artus. The still shaken Charles hurriedly explained what he and Fred had been doing, and why the Green Knight was bound and gagged.

  Jack and Dickens dragged Magwich off to lock him in a closet, and John brought a kettle of hot tea for Charles and Fred as the other Caretakers arrived in the gallery.

  Once they had regained their breath, Fred and Charles took turns relating what they’d seen in Abaton, giving special emphasis to the tower of doors.

  “What are they doing with it?” John exclaimed. “What can they be using the doors to do?”

  “That’s the worst part,” said Fred. “The Chancellor’s using them to find the dragons one by one.”

  “Good luck with that,” said Jack. “What’s he going to do? Poke them with the spear?”

  “He’s discovered a use for the spear that no one ever anticipated, no one ever dreamed . . . ,” Charles said, his voice trailing off. “There’s just . . . there’s no way to . . .”

  “What is it, Charles?” demanded Jack. “What is he doing with the spear?”

  “He’s using it to sever shadows,” said Fred. “Anyone’s shadow.”

  “So he’s creating another army of Shadow-Born, then?” asked Jack. “We’ve dealt with that before.”

  “Not like this, Jack,” said Charles. “Any shadow. From any creature, whether it walks—or flies.”

  It took a moment for Jack to realize what he was being told, and when he did, his eyes widened in disbelief. “You can’t mean . . . How? How is that even possible?”

  “We don’t know how he’s doing it,” Charles said, rising and pacing. “We just know that he is. He’s using the Spear of Destiny. Somehow, Chancellor Murdoch is severing the shadows from the Dragons themselves. And the army he is building with them will be unstoppable.”

  . . . an apparition . . . her gown floating in the water . . .

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Broken Sword

  “There is a Ring of Power here, in the Nameless Isles,” said Bert. “It’s not made of massive standing stones, as the others are. This one is closer to a fairy ring, in that it can be used only to summon a single entity—the Lady of the Lake.

  “You have the authority to use the ring,” he told Rose, “and Quixote has the right to request a boon. So only the two of you should go, if she’s to appear at all.”

  “One more thing,” said Chaucer. “There is a guardian. He may or may not let you pass. It’s our hope that he will. But tell him your request, simply and honestly, and I believe that he will see you through to the Lady.”

  “It’s low tide,” Bert said. “You should be able to walk to the upper crescent island. You’ll find the guardian and the Ring of Power there.”

  They watched as the girl and the old knight walked out of Tamerlane House and toward the northern part of the island.

  “Will it be dangerous for them?” asked Chaucer.

  “No,” Bert replied with a sad smile. “As a great poet once said, ‘It ain’t nothin’ but a family thing.’”

  The guardian was tall and bearded, and his hair was white, with two streaks of gray. He was dressed simply in a tunic and leather breeches, and he carried a black staff.

  He started when he first heard them approach, then relaxed when he could see them more clearly, and he even smiled as they stepped into the circle of firelight.

  “Greetings, niece,” the man said, rising from where he was tending the fire. “What brings you to the island at the top of the world?”

  “Niece?” Quixote exclaimed, startled by the unexpected greeting. He had fully expected to have to answer a riddle, or perform a feat of skill to be allowed to approach.

  “Don Quixote,” Rose said in introduction, “this is my uncle, Taliesin the Lawgiver.”

  Taliesin bowed his head in greeting. “It is simply Taliesin these days. I no longer deal with laws, or those who would see them broken. I am more than content to spend my days here, tending the fire and guarding the circle.”

  “So it’s true,” Rose said. “From here, we can summon the Lady of the Lake?”

  “Yes,” he said. “She may be summoned here. But I fear you may not like the reception she gives you.”

  “Why is that?” asked Quixote. “I have met her before, and found her to be most gracious.”

  “I have heard of you, O Riddle Master,” Taliesin said with a lopsided grin, “but I was speaking about the Grail Child. I have come to terms with her existence, but my sister has not.”

  “What did you come to terms with?” asked Rose. “Have I offended you in some way?”

  Taliesin shook his head. “Not you, my dear, but your father.”

  “I know what he is,” said Rose. “I hope that I’ve learned better lessons than he did.”

  Taliesin gave her a long look, then gestured for them to sit by the fire. “Do you know,” he asked when they were seated comfortably, “how Arthur died?”

  “I don’t,” said Rose. “Not really, other than knowing that Mordred was involved.”

  “Mordred was always on the fringes of the kingdom, waiting for his chance at vengeance,” Taliesin said. His beard glowed red from the fire, and his eyes sparkled as he talked. “But it was not Mordred alone who caused Arthur’s downfall. He was betrayed by one of his own knights, his most trusted and loyal friend.”

  “Lancelot,” said Quixote, nodding. “I have met this knight.”

  Taliesin looked surprised at this, but simply continued his story. “There had been decades of peace in both worlds, thanks to Arthur. It was, in every possible way, a Golden Age. And then Lancelot fell in love with the queen, Arthur’s wife—your mother, Guinevere. He became consumed with the idea of being with her, of having her to himself. And so he conceived of a plan to see Arthur, his own best friend, killed on the battlefield—and he arranged with Mordred to do the deed.”

  “D-did my mother participate in this plan?” Rose asked.

  “She did not help, but she knew about it—and she did nothing to stop it until it was well in motion,” said Taliesin.

  He paused, and poked some embers from the fire with the staff. They sparked and danced in the air.

  “Mordred was successful in his revenge,” Taliesin continued. “Arthur was slain. Together with her sons, Artigel and Eligure, Guinevere removed his body to Avalon. Lancelot was banished for his part in the murder, and Mordred was cut off completely from entering the Archipelago.

  “Artigel assumed the Silver Throne and began to draw a curtain of secrecy over the whole Archipelago, to ensure that Mordred never found his way back. And that was the beginning of the separation of the two worlds.

  “Because of the contention between our sibling-cousins, Merlin and Mordred, our family has known little else but suffering and grief,” said Taliesin. “Only Thorn, who became the Arthur, has ever brought a glimmer of light into our circle. And even he was born only because Merlin forced himself on Nimue, who became the Lady of the Lake. She raised him to be a good, strong, and noble man—and then he was killed by your father’s hand, and your mother’s betrayal. So can you understand, young Rose, why she might not be so eager to speak to you?”

  “I do understand,” Rose answered, “at least as much as I am able to. But I must try, nevertheless. Many people are counting on it
.”

  “Very well,” said Taliesin. He looked at Quixote. “Are you prepared for the challenge?”

  Quixote nearly fell off his rock. He composed himself and stammered something that sounded like an acceptance. Would it be a trial of skill? Or a battle of wits?

  “If you can answer my question, you may pass,” said Taliesin. “How long is a rope?”

  “Eh . . . What?” said Quixote.

  Taliesin chuckled and waved his hands. “I but jest. It’s a joke I heard from a bird once. Of course you may pass.” He stood up and gestured to them. “Come this way.”

  He led them up and over a small, grassy rise, then down to a hidden cove. It was more placid than silent, and was unremarkable: just a sandy beach, a few grasses, and the occasional petrified log. Then they saw it.

  It was a small ring of standing stones, which glittered in the light of the rising moon. A miniature Ring of Power.

  “I will leave you to your business,” Taliesin said. “Do you know what to say?”

  Rose nodded. The old man shifted his staff to his other hand, clapped Quixote on the shoulder, and walked back over the rise.

  With an encouraging nod from Quixote, Rose stepped inside the ring and began to speak.

  By right and rule

  For need of might

  I call on thee

  I call on thee

  By blood bound

  By honor given

  I call on thee

  I call on thee

  For life and light your protection given

  From within this ring by the power of Heaven

  I call on thee

  I call on thee

  At first she was afraid it hadn’t worked—that she had done something wrong, or, worse, that she simply hadn’t been worthy enough to speak the summoning.

  Then a ripple appeared on the placid surface of the water in the cove, then another, and another.

  A greenish blue light began to emanate from somewhere below—far deeper than the water actually seemed to be. Then she appeared.

  To describe the lady as an apparition would not have done her justice. The folds of her gown floating in the water, twinned with the long strands of her auburn hair, gave her a spectral appearance, but as she rose higher and broke the surface, she was revealed as a creature of flesh and bone. But whatever else she appeared to be, she was not to be toyed with.

  Her eyes were stern and cold, and her bearing was haughty. She glided closer to the shoreline, her feet never losing contact with the water.

  “Who has summoned me in the old way?” she asked, barely containing her fury. “Who has called the Lady of the Lake?”

  Rose knelt in the sand, careful not to touch the water. “I have,” she said simply. “I am Rose Dyson, daughter of Guinevere.”

  The Lady moved closer. “I know who you are,” she said coldly. “Tell me why I should not take you now and drag you into the deeps of the sea to drown.”

  “I gave my lifeblood once to save your son,” Rose said softly. “Would you take it again, just to avenge him?”

  The Lady retreated, just a little, and the mask of anger slipped, then fell.

  “Would that I could,” she answered. “Your kin have always been a vexation to me.”

  “Your kin as well, milady,” Rose reminded her, “and I cannot say I disagree with you.”

  The Lady smiled at that—this girl was an odd mix, she thought. Confidence and boldness, but coupled with an openness that made her hard to dislike.

  “Why have you summoned me, child? You may not like the answers I have for you, whatever you ask.”

  “I summoned you because I could,” Rose answered, “and I do have many questions, but there is someone else here who would speak with you.”

  With that cue, Quixote strode forward next to the ring and removed his helmet.

  “Greetings, milady,” he said, bowing his head. “It is good to see you again.”

  “As it is good to see you, brave sir knight,” the Lady said. She moved forward almost to the water’s edge and pulled gently on his shoulders, permitting him to rise. “I have often thought of the great service you did for me, so long ago. It is among my fondest memories.”

  “It is one of mine as well, milady,” said Quixote, “and that is the reason I have come. I seek a boon.”

  Her eyes flared up briefly before she softened again. “Of all who seek me out to ask for favors,” she said, “only you have the right to do so. What do you seek?”

  “Milady,” Quixote said, “we seek the return of the sword Caliburn.”

  The Lady drew back a few feet, then drew back again, holding her hands to her chest. “My son’s sword?” she exclaimed. “You wish me to give you the sword of Arthur?”

  “We do.”

  She shook her head. “It is shattered. It is useless to you.”

  “Surely there must be a way to repair it?” Quixote asked. “It is a matter of the gravest importance.”

  “You are speaking of the Prophecy, are you not?”

  He nodded. “I am.”

  The Lady seemed to shrink in on herself at this. “The only thing more destructive than limitless ambition,” she said, “is a Prophecy, and the fools who follow it.”

  Turning, she sank into the water and disappeared. For a moment Quixote and Rose were worried that they had offended her, but an instant later she rose back through the water and approached them again, arms outstretched.

  In one hand she held the hilt, in the other, the blade. She handed them both to Quixote.

  “Thank you,” he said gratefully. “Now that we have the sword, we can repair it and—”

  “Repair it?” said the Lady. “It cannot be repaired by any smith in the Archipelago or in the Summer Country. It was forged in a time before the age of the Old Gods was over, and none remain who can match the work.”

  “There must be someone,” said Rose. “Taliesin, perhaps?”

  “If it were only that, then it might be possible,” said the Lady, “but this sword was not shattered by force—it was shattered by a breaking of the Old Magic. And only by Old Magic may it be restored.

  “There is only one way to repair Caliburn,” she continued, with a tone in her voice that defied argument. “Only he who broke it may restore it. Only Madoc.”

  “Madoc!” Rose exclaimed. “My father? But he may be the very enemy we are fighting against—or at least, an aspect of him.”

  “I told you that you would not be so happy to hear the answers I had to give,” said Nimue.

  “I am not sad,” said Quixote. “I asked for a boon, and you granted it. We needed this sword, and you gave it to us. We needed to know how to restore it, and without seeking more for yourself, you shared the secret with us. There is nothing that has happened here today that has saddened me.”

  “Just remember,” Nimue said as she turned and began fading back beneath the water, “do not make the mistakes your forebears made. Do not sacrifice that which you want the most, for that which you want the most at that moment.”

  “And do not forget,” she said, almost gone.

  “Only Madoc may repair Caliburn. Only Madoc.”

  “But he’s dead—isn’t he?” asked Shakespeare. “The great Dragon dropped him over the waterfall at the Edge of the World.”

  “His Shadow survived, and plagues us still,” said Bert, “so we believe that somehow, somewhere, he must still be alive.”

  The war council had been reconvened to decide what to do. They had the sword—but making it whole seemed impossible.

  “There’s no way to even find him if he lives,” said Defoe. “No one’s ever gone over the Edge of the World. No one who has returned, that is.”

  “That’s not exactly correct,” said Twain, “is it, Professor? It is indeed possible that Mordred—pardon, Madoc—survived, and it’s equally possible to find where he is.”

  “What does he mean?” John said, turning to his mentor.

  “It’s very simple,” s
aid Professor Sigurdsson. “Rose must find Madoc, and I must accompany Rose as her guide. There is no other alternative.”

  The room went silent, as every Caretaker to a man looked over at the professor.

  “That makes sense,” John said reasonably, not realizing how much more gravitas was evident in the faces of everyone else. “You certainly have the training, and the experience, and if I were in your place, I wouldn’t want to miss a chance for one last adventure.”

  Defoe let out a bark of a laugh and was elbowed in the ribs by Hawthorne. The professor responded only with a smile that was more melancholy than admonishing.

  “That’s more true than you realize, John,” he said, clapping his protégé on the shoulder.

  “Have we missed something?” Jack asked. Charles shrugged and looked at Twain, who merely observed the three companions and puffed on his cigar.

  “Rules of time may be broken,” said Professor Sigurdsson. “Rules of space may be broken. But not together, and not at the same, ah, time, so to speak. Bent, sometimes, in the rarest of circumstances. But not broken.”

  “There are limitations,” Bert explained. “It’s one of the reasons that this place has been kept such a secret. Yes, using Verne’s technology it is possible to do as we have done, and summon personages from the past to dine, and discuss, and determine the fate of the world. But the price they pay is that this is all there is—none of them may pass beyond the threshold of Tamerlane House and live.”

  John sank back in despair. “Then we’re handicapped before we start.”

  “Seven days,” came a voice from the upper floor, ghostlike and ethereal. “One may pass outside this door, but unless he crosses back before the end of seven days, he will vanish back into the ether.”

  “Is that true?” said John, looking at Bert, then the professor.

  “I’d trust in Poe,” said Bert. “It is his house, after all, and much of what Jules learned was based on his writings. If he says seven days, then you can plan on it.”