“You’re eating quite heartily for a prisoner of war,” said Charles.
“Asylum seeker,” said Burton, “depending on which way your friend’s wind blows.”
“Has anyone seen Jakob?” Hawthorne asked, peering around the corner. “I was supposed to help him with some notations an hour ago, and his cat is looking for him.”
“There’s a hall of mirrors in one of the rooms here,” Defoe said. “I think he wanted to go have a look at them, maybe see if there are any trapped princesses or lost treasures in them.”
“Very well,” said Hawthorne, sighing. “I’ll tell Grimalkin.”
“What the devil are you eating, Burton?” asked Charles.
“Aardvark,” he replied, chewing. “Will you have some? It’s delicious.”
“It looks a bit greasy to me,” said Charles. “Where did you get it? It isn’t something the Feast Beasts usually bring out for the banquets.”
“Oh, we brought them ourselves,” Burton said. “We didn’t want to impose on—or expect—your hospitality. The northern lands are crawling with them, and they’re easier to hunt than a baby deer.”
“How’s that?”
“Well,” explained Burton, tearing off another piece of flesh with his teeth, “do you know the old joke about how you can hunt deer with an apple and a hammer? Aardvarks are even less trouble than that, mostly due to their sensitive natures, and the fact that they’re very slow.”
Burton leaned over the table and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “To catch an aardvark,” he said, grinning, “all you have to do is find one, then start insulting it.”
“Really?” said Charles.
“Yes. Instead of running away, it gets offended and sits down, whining about how no one likes it and everyone just wants to be mean to aardvarks.”
“And then what?”
“Then, WHAM!” Burton exclaimed, slamming his fist to the table. “We wallop it with a hammer and marinate it in garlic and butter.”
“That’s positively barbaric,” said Charles.
“I am a barbarian,” said Burton, stroking his scarred cheeks with a bowie knife. “And besides, what else are aardvarks good for?”
“Good point,” said Charles.
The loss of their newfound friend was sobering to all four of the companions. In an unfamiliar place, Captain Johnson had been a comforting voice of reason and tact. Granted, being an oil painting, he had less to lose overall, but a life is a life, Sigurdsson told them, and his sacrifice was as meaningful as anyone else’s would be.
Past the island of the star, the waters grew still, but they remained cloudy, so it was difficult to estimate their depth. There were no other islands in sight in any direction, and only a smudge of color on the horizon, which hinted at thunderstorms. Other than continuing in the direction they were going, there was no strategy or plan of action they could employ. There was not even an expectation, said the professor, of what they might encounter next.
“Haven’t you been here before?” asked Rose.
The professor shook his head. “Remember, we only got as far as the star. When we had to leave someone behind just to go on, Bert and Ko and I decided that we’d gone far enough, and returned to the Archipelago.”
“So,” said Quixote, “we are truly journeying into an unknown region. This is truly the quest to end them all.”
“I know it’s just a turn of phrase,” said Sigurdsson, “but that really isn’t a comforting thought.”
“Professor,” Rose said gently. “Can you tell me what time it is?”
Professor Sigurdsson opened his mouth to reply, then saw the look on her face and stopped. He turned back to look out over the water and sighed. “Third time’s the charm, eh, Rose?” he said quietly.
He reached into his pocket and removed his silver pocket watch. Flipping the lid open, he took a quick glance and snapped it shut again, swallowing hard as he did so.
“How long have we been gone, Professor?”
“It took less than a day for Bert to fly us to Terminus,” he said matter-of-factly, “but more than a day to descend the falls. And from the time we discovered the Aurora, we have traveled for two full days. All told, we’ve been gone for just over a hundred hours.”
Rose closed her eyes as she realized what that meant. They were past the halfway mark that would allow the professor to return to Tamerlane House and the safety of the Pygmalion Gallery.
The professor reached an arm around her shoulders and gave her a comforting squeeze. “No time to worry about the trip back when we’ve yet to reach our destination, hey? Let’s see to that first, and we’ll worry about the rest when we have to.”
“Wall ho,” Quixote called out.
“Land ho, you mean,” said Archie.
“Land is land and a wall is a wall, and I know the difference between them,” Quixote retorted. “Look.”
In the near distance, what they had assumed to be storm clouds on the western horizon was now revealed to be more substantial than clouds, and taller besides.
It was, as Quixote said, a wall.
As high as the waterfall at the world’s edge had been, the wall was tall, and it stretched away in both directions, north and south, to the vanishing point on each horizon.
“I wonder what’s on the other side?” Professor Sigurdsson mused, squinting as he looked up for a glimpse of the wall’s summit. “I wonder if there’s a way over?”
“This is how people are chosen as Caretakers of an atlas like the Geographica,” Quixote said to Archimedes. “They can’t escape it. It’s in their blood.”
The wall was so massive that even once they had sighted it, it took another two hours to reach the base. It stood on a narrow beach that was perhaps thirty feet wide and, as far as they could tell, ran the length of the wall. It was as if an infinite barrier had been placed on an equally infinite sandbar.
They pulled the Scarlet Dragon into the shallows and clambered out to examine the wall. It was made of stones that were placed so closely and precisely that Quixote could not get his sword point between any two of them.
“Impressive,” he said with grave sincerity. “I would not have believed such a wall was possible.”
“I can’t find a top,” called Archie, who was spiraling back down to the others. “I could fly higher, but the air was getting too thin to keep me aloft.”
“Is this the end of our journey, Professor?” asked Rose. “If we can’t get over it or through it, then how do we go on?”
“It is the end of all that is,” a voice said from farther down the beach. The words were spoken calmly, but were tinged with menace, and perhaps . . . fear?
The companions turned around to see a man standing about twenty feet behind them. In one hand he held a hammer. The other was not a hand at all; his arm ended in a hook, which was tarnished and rusty. He was heavily bearded, and his clothing was in tatters. And on his face was a look that was almost indescribable, a mix of fury and what might be relief.
“Hello, Father,” said Rose. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
There was none among them, other than the professor, who might say how the fall over the water’s edge had changed the man called Madoc.
Rose had seen him only once before. At the time he was known as Mordred; he had just tried to kill her uncle Merlin, and had lost his hand to her cousin Arthur. Quixote had also never seen him, but knew of him only through stories about the Winter King, as his enemies had called him. Archimedes had known him when he was still called Madoc, but that had been many centuries earlier. Only Professor Sigurdsson had seen him as the man he was now—and that was moments before Madoc, Mordred, the Winter King, had killed him in his study.
Madoc’s hair and beard were long and greasy. His arms were thick and corded with muscle, and he watched the new arrivals with suspicion. Slowly he paced back and forth across the width of the sand, never taking his eyes off them. Finally he decided to speak—to the owl.
“Hello, Ar
chimedes,” he said. “You’re looking well.”
“You’re not, Madoc,” Archie replied, lighting onto Quixote’s shoulder. “You look like you’ve been hit by a train.”
“Actually, I was dropped over a waterfall,” said Madoc, “but the net result is probably the same.”
“How did you bypass the gates, then?” asked the professor. “And once below, why didn’t you try to return to the Archipelago?”
“I was compelled,” Madoc said, “and I remain so. I briefly thought of trying to repair that ship, the Aurora, but I was unable to even pause to appraise the vessel’s damage. I may have been swimming, or walking, or otherwise moving perpendicular to the waterfall, but make no mistake—I was always falling, and am falling still.”
“Until you reached this wall,” said the professor.
“Yes,” said Madoc. “Until I came here. As far as I can determine, it is endless. I spent years doing nothing but walking, first in one direction, then the other. After a while, I began to hallucinate. I dreamed that as I slept, all my progress was undone, and I had been returned to the place I started. Even if that had been true, there was no way to know for certain.
“It’s impossible to climb—believe me, I’ve tried. I wasted a year on that. Then I considered trying to dig my way through, but other than this,” he said, holding up his hook, “I had nothing that was capable of even scratching it. I built a forge and created several tools, using metals I’ve scavenged from the beach, but they’ve all proven too soft for the stone as well. That was almost two years ago. I’ve spent all of my time since planning my revenge.”
The professor started, and Madoc laughed.
“I’m only joking,” he said to the old Caretaker. “Really, though—what were you expecting me to say? That I’ve had time to reconsider my choices, and I’ve turned over a new leaf?”
“I’m pretty sure that’s a lie,” said Archimedes.
Madoc rolled his eyes. “Of course it’s a joke, you stupid bird,” he said, more exasperated than irritated. “I used to be the villain of the story, or hadn’t you heard?”
“Actually, you still are, after a fashion,” said Sigurdsson. “Or at least, your Shadow is.”
“Now you have my attention,” Madoc said, sitting cross-legged in the sand. “Tell me.”
The companions sat on the sand across from Madoc, and Professor Sigurdsson told him everything that had happened in the quarter century since the conflict on Terminus.
Several times the professor nearly paused in his narrative, concerned that he might be sharing something that would better remain a secret—but each time he reminded himself that without Madoc’s help, they would not be able to defeat the Shadow King. And while they were still a long way from being friends, or even friendly enemies, Madoc was at least listening to what they had come to say.
“We need your help, Madoc,” the professor said. “Show him, Rose.”
She walked back to the Scarlet Dragon and retrieved a bundle, which she placed on the sand in front of Madoc. Slowly, carefully, she folded back the oilcloth to reveal the shattered remains of the sword Caliburn.
“We need you to repair the sword, Father,” Rose said simply. “Can you do it? Please?”
Madoc stared at the sword for a long moment, as if he couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing. His face was inscrutable, and Quixote and Sigurdsson exchanged worried glances. What did this mean, that he didn’t react at all?
Suddenly Madoc fell to his knees, dropped his head into his hands, and began to shake violently.
Quixote was about to step forward, and Rose was reaching out a hand to comfort him, when they realized together that Madoc was not sobbing.
He was laughing.
He laughed so hard that he could not speak, could not stand. Tears ran down his face as he erupted in a paroxysm of laughter, choking, sobbing, guffawing, all at once.
“If you only realized, child,” he choked between spasms. “If you only understood how important this object was to me, once . . .”
“We do understand, Madoc,” Sigurdsson began.
“You understand nothing!” shouted Madoc, his anger rapidly sobering him. “Nothing!
“My brother was the one who wished to conquer the world!” he cried. “I only wanted to do what was right! But each time, he forced his way ahead and did as he wanted—only I paid the price!”
“He paid a price too, Father,” Rose said. “He was imprisoned in the Keep of Time, never to leave. And it was his own son who banished him there.”
Madoc blinked at her, as if he didn’t understand. “Arthur?” he said. “Arthur banished him?”
“Yes,” said Rose.
“He—he never said,” Madoc began. “Even when I returned to Camelot, if he had only told me . . .”
“Would that have changed anything?” asked the professor.
Madoc grew cold again. “No,” he said, his voice edged with hatred. “He took my hand, and then he took my wife. He deserved everything I brought down on his house.”
“All you’ve ever brought down is darkness, Madoc,” said the professor. “And that darkness has continued to fester and grow, until it now threatens to cover two worlds. And you still have the ability to choose the right thing.”
“It’s too late for that,” Madoc said, shaking his head. “After what was done to me—”
“Spare me,” said Archimedes. “You were always the rational one, Madoc. But nothing you’ve said is rational in the least. So Merlin wanted to conquer the world, and sacrifice his own son in the process. You defended the boy, then lost your hand trying to kill your brother. And after all that, you set out to basically subjugate everyone else who has ever lived. And you failed at that. So why don’t you show some of the mettle you used to have, and just do the thing you know to be right?”
Madoc glared at the bird and trembled a little, but then he steadied himself and spoke. “All right.”
“All right, what?” said Archimedes.
“It’s very simple,” Madoc said. “I will do as you ask, and repair the sword. But I want you to do something for me.”
“I’ll consider it,” said Rose. “But I cannot promise anything.”
“This is not a negotiation,” said Madoc. “This is a barter. I am the only one who can give you what you want, and so I am asking you for something I want. You either say yes, or you say no. Whatever happens now is entirely up to you.”
“What is it that you want, son of Odysseus?” said Quixote. “Ask, and we shall consider.”
“As I said,” Madoc repeated, “it’s very simple. I’ll repair the sword, and you can go back and defeat whatever evil it is that my Shadow has perpetrated. But when you are victorious, I want you to return to Terminus and drop a door from the Keep of Time over the waterfall.”
“You want us to provide you with a means of escaping your prison, you mean,” said Professor Sigurdsson. “I don’t know if that will be permitted.”
“I’m not asking for escape,” said Madoc, “or else I’d be demanding to return with you now. I know that there are lines no one will cross for me, and if nothing else, I don’t relish the idea of encountering Samaranth again anytime soon. All of which is why I’m asking for the door—any random door will do. It won’t be a means of escape so much as a sort of parole.”
“Freedom is freedom,” said Quixote.
“I say we agree to it,” said Archimedes, who had continued listening and observing during the entire discussion. “I’ve actually known him longer than any of you, and honestly, I always liked him better than the other one.”
At the mention of his brother, Madoc winced, as if the words stung. But he said nothing.
“Even if we do agree,” said Quixote, “where do we find a door from the keep?”
“If this is successful,” the professor said, “then we will have recovered all of the doors that are being hoarded by Burton. We can have our pick of them.”
“And if you’re not successful?” sai
d Madoc. “What then? I will have done this service for you for no benefit to myself.”
“Once you would not have asked a boon for yourself, to do something that cost you so little and helped so many,” the professor replied.
Madoc regarded him with a rueful stare. “That was a different time, and long past. Don’t try to sway me with what cannot be reclaimed.”
“I’ve read the Histories,” the professor said. “I know as much about you as any man, save for my protégés, and I know the caliber of man you once were.”
Madoc brandished his right arm, which bore the tarnished hook. “It was your students whom I have to thank for this,” he said, waving the hook in the air. “And also for making me the man I am now. And that you cannot change.”
“Will you take my word of honor?” Quixote said suddenly. “My word, as a knight, that whatever it may take, we shall deliver you one of the doors?”
Madoc tipped his head back and laughed. “I might, if you were a real knight,” he said brusquely. “Go back and play your little games with windmills and shrubberies and fat, useless squires. There’s nothing for you to promise here.”
“My word then,” offered Sigurdsson. “As a Caretaker of the Imaginarium Geographica.”
“A bit more appealing, but no,” said Madoc. “Not that I doubt your sincerity, but from what I can gather you appear to be dead— and dead people have a way of living down to one’s expectations.”
“Then will you take my word?”
Rose stepped between the knight and the professor and laid a comforting hand on Madoc’s hook. He started to protest, but after a moment lowered it. Rose took his other hand in hers and looked up at him, her face serene.
“I am your daughter,” she said softly. “I am the child you never knew, who was raised by someone you claimed to love. In her name, and on her blood, which also runs in my veins, will you take my word that whatever we must do, we will somehow find a way?”
At first, as she spoke, Madoc would not meet her gaze. Then, slowly, he lifted his eyes to look at her.
“Green,” he said quietly, “flecked with violet. Her eyes were not violet.”
The Shadow Dragons Page 26