The Shadow Dragons

by James A. Owen

  Professor Sigurdsson looked more closely, then lowered the Scarlet Dragon a few yards.

  “Hmm,” he said. “That’s William Blake, unless I miss my guess. Surprising—I would’ve thought he had a stronger will than that.”

  In a few more minutes they had passed over the lake, and the professor said it was safe to drop back into the waters past the western beach.

  According to Johnson’s memory of the professor’s notes, the next island gate had a name. “It’s called Entelechy,” he said.

  “Both are,” said the professor. “The island, and its queen. They share the same name—although it’s more politic to refer to her as ‘the Quintessence.’ As far as I know, she’s Aristotle’s goddaughter, and so is at least two thousand years old.”

  “Finally,” said Rose. “I’ll get to meet someone my own age.”

  Entelechy was a prim and proper island, with a well-kept harbor and several soaring towers of blue stone. They stopped at the dock and left Archimedes and Captain Johnson to guard the boat. The professor led the others to a great turquoise-tinged reception hall.

  The Quintessence was seated on a throne at the head of a magnificent banquet table. She was perhaps twelve feet tall and had all the presence of a giant. Her gown billowed around her immense chair, and her hair was piled high above a glittering crown.

  “Great Quintessence,” the professor said, bowing. “We seek passage through your gate, if you please.”

  “Come closer,” she commanded, “that I may better see you.”

  A curious look of . . . happiness appeared on the queen’s face as she watched the professor. She considered them all, briefly, then turned back to Rose.

  “You have the look of the Old World to you, girl,” she said. “I may allow you to pass. Who are your forebears?”

  “My father’s father was Odysseus,” she replied.

  “Ah,” said the queen. “I might have guessed. You are familiar to me. And your mother’s parentage?”

  “No one you’d know.”

  “Hmm,” said the queen. “And you?”

  Quixote bowed. “I am the lady’s humble protector,” he said simply.

  “I see,” said the queen. “And you?”

  “I am a simple traveler,” said the professor, “seeking out what beauty there is in the world.”

  “And what have you found?”

  “If seeking beauty was my only goal, I should be happy to stop here,” said the professor, “but we have other needs, and thus must go on.”

  The queen smiled. “That’s an excellent answer,” she said, smiling. “I believe I will let you pass, for a price.”

  “There’s not much left to barter with,” Quixote whispered to the others, “only the candles!”

  “Those are for a different gate,” said the professor. “Name your price, milady.”

  “Will you give me a kiss?” the queen asked, bending down so he could reach her.

  “I shall,” said the professor. And he did.

  “Ahh.” The queen sighed. “I have missed that—it was as nice as before, so long ago. It does grow lonely out here, you know,” she said with a look of sorrow on her face. “There have been few other visitors of late.

  “Another descendant—or was it an ancestor?—of Odysseus passed this way not long ago, and I allowed him through, because he knew my godfather.”

  Rose and Quixote were silently thrilled by this—the first proof they’d had of Madoc’s survival, and passing.

  “There was another,” said the queen, “but he was rude, and a bit delusional. I let him pass, but I kept one of his arms.”

  “We really ought to be going,” said Quixote, his eyes wide. “Begging your pardon.”

  “You won’t stay to dine with me?” said the Queen.

  “We really must go,” Rose concurred.

  “So we must,” the professor said. He bowed deeply and kissed the queen’s hand.

  She bowed her head in assent, and the companions returned to the boat. Shortly after, they were again underway.

  “I don’t know what to say, Professor,” Rose said with a broad smile. “That was an impressive display of personal charm.”

  “Thank you,” replied the professor. “Bert used to refer to it as my ‘shield of charisma.’”

  “She seemed to remember you,” said Quixote, “and very fondly at that.”

  “And now you know one of the reasons that Bert could not be your guide,” said the professor. “The Queen of Entelechy would never have allowed him to pass.”

  “Why not?” asked Rose.

  “Because,” explained the professor, “when we came here before, the first words out of his mouth were, ‘You’re the largest woman I’ve ever seen in my life!’”

  Both Johnson and Quixote groaned. “A terrible mistake,” said Quixote.

  “Awful,” said Johnson.

  “I don’t get it,” said Rose.

  “You’re still very young,” Quixote told her, “but I will tell you what my grandfather wisely told me. Never, ever mention a woman’s size, or her age. Women are timelessly young and eternally beautiful.”

  “Always?”

  “Yes, always,” Quixote and Johnson said together.

  “That’s part of the reason it took Bert eight hundred thousand years to find a wife,” said the professor. “No tact.”

  The fifth gate was a trio of tall, spikelike rocks standing only yards apart from one another. The professor lit the tallow candles and instructed Archimedes to place the first one atop the center stone, the second on the stone to the right, and the third on the stone to the left.

  “That’s it?” said Quixote.

  “That’s it,” said the professor. “We may now pass.”

  “What would have happened if we hadn’t placed the candles there?” asked Quixote.

  The professor shivered and drew his coat closer. “I don’t even want to think about it,” he said. “I’ve been dead for a quarter century, and the idea still gives me nightmares.”

  After the fifth island gate, they passed into what must have been night. The haze was replaced by complete darkness, and then, eventually, a night sky full of stars.

  “Do you recognize any of them, Professor?” asked Rose. “I don’t see any of the constellations!”

  “I don’t believe those are stars, per se,” said the professor in a hushed voice. “I believe those are the dragons themselves.”

  It was a sobering, fantastic thought: that they were actually somewhere underneath thousands upon thousands of dragons— and so, the companions slept.

  In a few hours, still under the night sky, they came to the sixth island.

  Broad, with no hills or cliffs on the beaches, it was not a small island, but it had been completely overbuilt with temple after structure after edifice, until it was practically a city. And the city must have been deserted for countless years, because it was all but ruined.

  The crumbling remains were more ancient than those they’d seen on Avalon, and even more ancient than the islands of the Underneath.

  Standing among the ruins was a man, dressed in rags and clutching a book. He was staring up at the stars.

  “Ah, me,” said the professor quietly. “It’s the last of the society pirates.”

  They pulled the Scarlet Dragon onto the beach, and the professor took a few steps toward the man, who had not yet acknowledged their presence.

  “Hello, Coleridge,” said the professor.

  The man looked up at the mention of his name. He squinted at the boat on the beach, then at the passengers who were now standing in front of him.

  “Sigurdsson?” he asked eventually. “Is that you? What are you doing here at the end of all that is?”

  Rose wrinkled her brow at the question, but Quixote’s discreet touch on her arm signaled her not to speak. This man should be dealt with by the professor.

  “This isn’t the end,” the professor said, his voice calm and soft. “This is just one more stopping
place.”

  “Dreams come true here, you know,” said Coleridge. “I’ve seen it happen. But no one told me . . .”

  His voice trailed off, and he turned away again.

  “No one told you what?” the professor asked.

  “Nightmares come true here as well,” said Coleridge.

  “Are you all right?” asked the professor.

  “She took my arm,” Coleridge said simply, “but she let me go past. I had to come here. I had to see . . .”

  “Come with us,” said the professor. “There’s no reason for you to stay. Do come. Please.”

  The emaciated figure turned to look at him. “I cannot, for it may yet change. And there is nowhere else to go. There is nothing further. This was the last place in the world. This was the great city I saw in my vision, and it’s all a shambles. Destroyed.”

  “You know it was once great,” said the professor. “You know how it began.”

  “I did not know how it ended,” Coleridge said, looking up at the sky. “I did not know.”

  He did not turn around again. The professor motioned for the others to get on the boat, and they sailed around and past the city.

  “What a sad man,” said Quixote. “What happened to him?”

  “On this island, dreams do eventually come true,” said the professor, “but true things are also real, and real things eventually fade. What we saw was the end of his particular dream.”

  “What was this island called?” asked Rose.

  The professor smiled, but it was a melancholy smile. “Xanadu,” he said. “It was called Xanadu.”

  The waters after the Ruined City were placid, with no indication of currents or tides. Above them, disturbingly, the stars began to go out—but soon they realized it was because the light was coming up again. Strangely, it appeared that the sun was rising in the west—until they realized that it was not the sun at all, but the last of the seven island gates.

  The island, emerald green with a thick blanket of grasses, was smaller than the last, and had no structures on it—only a ring of standing stones.

  A Ring of Power, virtually identical to that on Terminus, save that the stones were larger.

  They were pristine, and spread far enough apart that the areas between were paved with smooth stones. In the center was a long stone table draped with a crimson cloth, and seated at the table was a tall, silver-haired man.

  As the companions approached, he rose to greet them. His tunic was also silver, shot through with crimson down the left side of his chest, and he was almost as tall as the Quintessence had been.

  “Greetings,” said the professor. He introduced himself and the others, then asked if the tall man had a name.

  “I am a star,” he said with an air of haughtiness, “or at least, I once was. I think I may be still, but it is difficult to say. However, when I was still in the sky, those who worshipped me called me Rao.”

  “Is this a Ring of Power?” Rose asked. “Like the one used to summon the Dragons?”

  Rao frowned. “Dragons? I know of none here who may be called to this place, save that I call them. And I would not deign to call Dragons, for they would not come for one such as I.”

  “A Dragon would not come at the call of a star?”

  “One, perhaps,” said Rao. “He would not look down upon me as the others might, for not having ascended. He himself chose to descend to the office of Dragon for the sake of a city, so he is, as you might think, different.”

  “What was his name?” asked Rose.

  “Samaranth,” said Rao. “But enough of this. Will you settle the dispute?”

  “What dispute is that?” asked Quixote.

  “There is a dispute between some of my children,” said Rao. “Have you come to arbitrate for them? To judge which is in the ascent, and which must descend?”

  “We have not come to judge anyone,” said the professor. “We have merely come seeking someone who may have passed this way. He is called Madoc.”

  Rao’s eyes narrowed. “None come here save that they fell. Are you saying you have come seeking one of the fallen?”

  Before the professor could answer, Rose stepped forward again. “Not everyone must fall, great star,” she said, bowing her head respectfully. “We have come here of our own accord, and we did not fall. We flew.”

  “Hmm,” Rao mused. “This I see, Little Thing. But take a caution—others before you have chosen a similar path, and fared the worse for it. Flying is not always ascending.”

  “Are you one of the fallen?” Rose asked.

  Professor Sigurdsson winced. That was not a question he thought would get a good response from a former star.

  Strangely enough, Rao looked at her with gentleness, and even touched her head. “I was not,” he said. “I had not yet ascended, and thus did not have to choose. But soon, soon.”

  “If I may,” said the professor.

  “Little Thing,” Rao said bluntly. “Why have you come here?”

  “We seek passage beyond your island,” said the professor, “in search of the man Madoc. May we pass?”

  “You may not,” Rao said blithely. “None may pass save that one must stay. That is the Old Magic, and the old rule.”

  “Then I offer myself,” said the professor. “I will stay, so that the others may pass.”

  “No!” Rose cried. “You can’t!”

  “That, dear Rose, is the other reason Bert could not come,” he replied. “Years ago, we turned back when another star made the same request. And we both knew it would be made again. A life for the passage. That’s the rule.”

  “But we need you!”

  “No,” he said gently, “you don’t. You needed me to get you to your father—and you’re nearly there. Quixote is your guardian—I was merely your guide.”

  “We still have to convince him to repair the sword,” said Rose. “We can’t do that without you.”

  “Rose,” the professor began.

  “I’ll stay,” said a voice behind them. “I’ll do it.”

  It was the portrait of Captain Johnson. “I’d be willing,” he stated, “if the fact that I’m essentially an oil painting doesn’t count against me.”

  “Can you arbitrate?” asked Rao. “Will you arbitrate the disputes of my children?”

  “I witnessed more than seventy pirate trials,” said Johnson. “I could give it a go, I suppose.”

  “Little Thing,” Rao said, “this is acceptable to me. You shall stay, and the others may pass.”

  Rose took the portrait from the boat, kissed it quickly, and handed it to Rao.

  Quickly, before the star could change his mind, the companions hurried back to the boat and put her to sea.

  “Thank you, Captain Johnson,” Rose called out.

  “Farewell, Captain,” Quixote said.

  “I’d rather have left the Caretaker,” said Archimedes. “There’s an entire houseful back in the Archipelago.”

  “Remember,” Johnson called out, his voice growing faint as the island vanished behind the mist, “don’t trust Daniel Defoe!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Bargain

  “Absolutely not,” said Dickens. “It’s the most insane thing I’ve ever heard of in my life.”

  “I concur,” said John. “He’s caused us more grief than almost anyone except for the Winter King himself, and he almost single-handedly brought about the Winterland when he tricked Hugo Dyson through that door. Letting him have asylum here, in Tamerlane House . . .” He paused and took a deep breath. “Well, it’s just unthinkable.”

  “I think it’s worth at least a debate,” said Defoe. “He knows a great deal about the Shadow King’s plans.”

  “Because he was his chief lieutenant until just a few hours ago!” said John. “We should consider him a prisoner of war, not a refugee seeking asylum.”

  “I think he should be flogged,” said Shakespeare.

  “But just yesterday,” Chaucer pointed out, “weren’t we deba
ting whether or not his beliefs about the Archipelago and the Imaginarium Geographica were in fact superior to our own? That alone should change our perception of him.”

  John rubbed his temples. This discussion was not progressing in a reasonable direction. “All right,” he said finally. “Bring him in.”

  In one hand he held a hammer. The other was not a hand at all . . .

  Richard Burton entered the conservatory, flanked by Nathaniel Hawthorne and Daniel Defoe. He grinned and nodded at John as he took a seat at the table.

  “You should realize, Burton,” John began, “that none of us here trusts you in the least.”

  “I don’t trust you any more than you trust me, John,” Burton said, “but desperate times make for strange bedfellows, and you don’t have to trust me—just my motives.”

  “Which are?”

  Burton raised his hands and smiled. “The same as they’ve always been,” he said simply. “No more secrets. My goals and those of the Caretakers have seldom been far apart—we just differ in how we approach them. But I’ve realized that the goals of the Chancellor are not mine—and whatever he is, he is not the man I would willingly serve. I believed he was. I was wrong.”

  “Would you be willing to give us the information we need to defeat him?” asked Chaucer.

  “I will share what I know,” said Burton.

  “We haven’t yet decided whether to give you what you’re seeking,” said John, “but we’re considering it. In the meantime, you’re not to be left alone at any time. Either Charles and Fred will be with you, or Defoe and Hawthorne.”

  “Fine.”

  “You won’t be allowed to go near the docks,” John continued. “You must not leave Tamerlane House under any circumstance, and your men must remain within the bounds of their quarters. No exceptions.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Very well,” said John. “Do you have any questions?”

  “Yes,” said Burton. “Where’s the kitchen? I’m starving.”

  Charles, Defoe, and Fred took the first shift watching Burton, as the Caretakers continued the debate; and the kitchen was as secure a room as any other in Tamerlane House.