The Dragon’s Apprentice

by James A. Owen

  “And I Michal, now that we aren’t using the boats,” said Charles. “You know she hates the water.”

  “It is easier on all of you, isn’t it?” Warnie asked. “Being allowed to share what you know with those closest to you, instead of keeping it all to yourselves.”

  “Much easier,” Jack said, clapping his brother on the shoulder. “It halves the burdens and doubles the joys.”

  “And besides,” added Charles, “if anyone slips up and mentions anything about the Archipelago, everyone just assumes we made it up anyway.”

  Suddenly there was a knock at the door.

  “I’ll get it,” said John, “although if it’s anyone who wants to give me a magical atlas, I’m going to flip a coin before I let him in.”

  He strode into the next room and opened the door, holding it firmly against the gust of wind that entered with the tall, familiar visitor in a trench coat.

  “Alvin!” John exclaimed in delight. “Come in, come in! So good to see you, old fellow!”

  Alvin Ransom shook his head, scattering raindrops everywhere. “Sorry about that, old friend,” he said, accepting Jack’s offer of a dry towel. “It’s quite the night outside.”

  “The storm’s just come up,” said Charles, “but we’d have let you in anyway.”

  “Maybe you should stand guard at the door,” Ransom suggested to Charles, “in case someone with two shadows tries to enter.”

  “Still smarting over that one, are we?” Charles asked with a barely suppressed grin. “If it helps, I was just having an exceptionally good day.”

  Ransom scowled, then grinned back at Charles and clapped him on the back. “It doesn’t, but I’m not offended. I’m more embarrassed that I spent all that time trying to suss out the identity of the Chancellor, and you spend five minutes examining a few photos and nail it on the head.”

  “That’s why we got the job,” Jack said, grinning, “and you’re still a messenger boy.”

  Ransom took a playful swing at his friend and pretended to be insulted. “Fred sends his regards,” he said to Charles. “He can’t wait to see you tonight.”

  “Twice,” Charles lamented. “Twice in seven years. That’s far too little time to spend with an apprentice—or a friend, for that matter.”

  “Fred knows all the reasons you had to remain here,” said Ransom, “and he understands.”

  “Alvin,” John said, his voice tentative. “Have you spoken to Hank Morgan recently?”

  “Henry?” Ransom replied. “Why, yes, just yesterday, in fact. He’ll be at the dinner, if you’re wondering.”

  “Glad to hear it,” John said, with a quick glance at Charles and Jack. “It’ll be good to see him again.”

  Ransom rubbed his hands together. “Well, I’m all warmed up. Are we ready to go?”

  “Ready enough,” Jack said, handing a pack to John. “We ought to take this along, don’t you think?”

  “You have the Geographica there?” Ransom asked, pointing to the pack. “You haven’t left it in the back of your car again, I hope.”

  John rolled his eyes and sighed. “That was twenty years ago!” he exclaimed. “Who told you about that?”

  Ransom chuckled. “It’s one of James Barrie’s favorite after-dinner stories,” he said. “That’s not the worst of it, though. Laura Glue has told it too.”

  “Uh-oh,” said John. “To whom?”

  “Charys. And the centaurs. And the Elves. And the Dwarves. And—”

  “Enough already!” John yelled as the others convulsed with laughter. “Let’s get going!”

  Still grinning, Ransom removed a small case from his coat. In it were the trumps—the magical cards that allowed him and a few other associates of the Caretakers to traverse great distances as easily as walking across a room.

  He removed the trump that held the drawing of Tamerlane House and held it out in front of him. Ransom concentrated on the card, and it began to grow.

  The trump grew wider and wider, filling the anteroom. The smell of the sea swirled around them. In moments the passage was open, and they could see the towers and minarets of Tamerlane House.

  Grimalkin was sitting at the front door, idly licking one of his two visible paws. “Hello there, Caretakers,” he said lazily. “Welcome back.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ariadne’s Thread

  Rose was startled but not surprised when the crescent moon appeared at one end of her attic room in Tamerlane House. What was surprising to her was that the moon wore a frock coat, fingerless gloves, and sensible shoes.

  She was already awake, having been woken by the thunderstorm that had descended on the islands that evening. The wind was howling, and rattled the shutters, and the frequent flashes of lightning and rolling thunder made sleep all but impossible, so she had been reading Lord Dunsany when the strange visitor appeared. There was a flash of lightning that illuminated everything in the attic in high relief, as if it had been carved in white marble, visible only in that instant—and when it flashed again, the moon was there, sitting in the chair across from Rose’s bed.

  On reflection, she decided that if a moon were to come a-calling, that would be precisely how it would dress, so she shouldn’t be surprised at all.

  She changed her mind again when the moon spoke, addressing her by name.

  “Hello, Rose.”

  “Hello,” Rose answered. “Would you like a sandwich?”

  She wasn’t certain this was the sort of thing a girl who was barely into her teens should offer a visiting moon, but Bert and Geoffrey Chaucer had been instructing her in the rules of etiquette, and she didn’t want to be rude.

  The apparition paused for a moment, then bent forward in acquiescence.

  Rose clambered from her bed and walked across the attic to the small icebox she kept in an alcove. She hadn’t expected to have guests, but she spent a lot of time in the attic, and keeping a store of food and drink handy was easier than having to make her way downstairs to the kitchen.

  For one thing, many of the rooms seemed to rearrange themselves at will, following no particular pattern or schedule, which frequently meant that she would take a customary route only to find she’d ended up on the wrong side of the house. She sometimes suspected she could hear the house snickering at her when it creaked and groaned under a stiff wind.

  Tamerlane House, as its owner, Edgar Allan Poe, explained to her, was a house with a mind of its own. Thus, as a sentient structure, it tended to change and evolve, as do all living things. This also meant it could get grouchy, or play practical jokes—although, to be fair, the house never really messed around with any of its occupants except for Will Shakespeare, but then everyone there teased him, so that was all right.

  Deftly Rose threw together a liverwurst and cream cheese sandwich and cut it in two; then she poured two glasses of milk from a chilled pitcher. She put the sandwich halves on plates, set one along with a glass of milk in front of her strange visitor, and climbed back onto her bed.

  She blushed slightly when her visitor made no move to touch the sandwich or milk, and she realized that her offer had been accepted, as it was itself made, out of courtesy. She also noted, again with slight embarrassment, that the moon had no visible mouth.

  “We thank you for your hospitality,” the moon said, “but it is not necessary. We have come to speak to you regarding matters of the greatest importance.”

  “Who are you?” asked Rose.

  “We are Mother Night,” the apparition said, as if that explained everything. Rose took a bite of her sandwich and chewed as she considered this interesting happening.

  For someone who had just appeared out of thin air, Mother Night gave no indication that her intentions were not good. Even in the event that she was some sort of enemy, the sword Caliburn was just under Rose’s bed and could be drawn out in a trice.

  There was a lot of comfort to be taken in being the wielder of the sword of Aeneas and King Arthur, Rose had often thought. Even if she hoped
never to have the need to use it again.

  Rose was at Tamerlane House in part because it was impossible to break into. For one thing, it was located on the centermost island in a group called the Nameless Isles, and as far as she knew, only a small number of people even knew they existed, and an even smaller number could actually reach them.

  The great stones that stood on the smaller islands acted as a Ring of Power and protected the house from supernatural threats; and downstairs, in the Pygmalion Gallery, were some of the most significant men and women from history, who could be summoned by ringing a small silver bell.

  True, most would have to be called forth from their portraits, which would take time—but Jules Verne, who had invited her here, was always close at hand. And Nathaniel Hawthorne, who was the de facto head of security—based on his ability to outwrestle every other occupant—had not re-entered his portrait since she arrived, just in case.

  There were enemies searching for her through time and space, so she had been required to spend all her time within the walls of Tamerlane House. But in just one more day, she’d have the chance to return to another place she considered home. It was possible that Verne’s caution had lessened, and this visitor had slipped through the cracks. It was also possible that this Mother Night was not the type of creature who would be hindered by any precaution.

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

  “The Three Who Are One are an aspect of ourselves,” answered Mother Night, “but they are not all that we are.

  “Your education is about to begin,” Mother Night went on, “and your true destiny will at last be revealed.”

  “I’ve had quite an education already,” said Rose politely. “I’ve been to boarding school in Reading, and was privately tutored in Oxford, and have spent the last while as a student of the Caretakers Emeritis of the Imaginarium Geographica. So there’s very little I haven’t had the chance to learn before now.”

  “Arrogant words,” Mother Night replied, but in a gentle tone of voice. “Knowledge is not the same as wisdom. And you are still far from wise.”

  Rose blushed and took a large bite of her sandwich, so that’d she’d have to chew for a while before responding. She swallowed, then took a sip of milk. Lightning flashed in one of the windows, and in her head Rose counted silently one, one thousand, two, one thousand, three, one thousand … until the answering rumble. Three miles away. The storm was coming closer.

  “I apologize,” Rose said at last. “I know there is still a lot I need to learn. But it’s also very frustrating,” she added. “It seems as if my entire life is about going where others want me to go, and doing what others want me to do, and never being able to decide for myself.”

  Mother Night shimmered slightly, and Rose got the impression that the moon was somehow pleased by what she’d said. “This is a wise thing, Rose,” said Mother Night. “This is what separates childhood from maturity—the decision to act, and to take responsibility for those actions.”

  “If that’s the difference,” said Rose, “then some people never really grow up.”

  Again, Mother Night shimmered and bowed slightly. “Indeed. To be given a choice and still refuse to choose is to volunteer, whether one realizes it or not.”

  Rose’s eyes narrowed, and she leaned back on her pillows. Had she just been tricked into volunteering for something?

  Mother Night reached into her frock coat and pulled out a luminescent ball of string, which she handed to Rose.

  “What is this?” asked Rose.

  “Ariadne’s Thread,” Mother Night replied, as if that answered everything. “The skein of eternity has come undone. History itself has unraveled, and none remain who may yet reweave it. None,” she said, her voice rising with emphasis, “save for you.”

  There was another bright flash of lightning, followed by an immediate crash of thunder. The storm was right above Tamerlane House now.

  “You will be visited by two other aspects of myself,” Mother Night went on, “at the points in your journey where you reach a crossroads. They will offer you counsel and answer any questions you choose to ask. But they will not compel you to action. That choice, as always, will be yours and yours alone.”

  Journey? Rose thought. Was Verne planning something he hadn’t told her about? Or did Mother Night perhaps mean she’d be returning to Oxford at last? “Where will I meet them? The aspects of you?”

  “You must seek out the Dragon,” Mother Night said, ignoring her question. “Seek him out, and speak to him these words:

  To turn, from time to time

  To things both real and not,

  Give hints of world within a world,

  And creatures long forgot.

  With limelight turn to these, regard

  In all thy wisdom stressed;

  To save both time and space above—

  Forever, ere moons crest.

  “When you have done this,” she said, “you will be ready. Your true education may begin.”

  “My true education?” said Rose. “And … a Dragon? But … there aren’t any more! Unless you mean Samaranth.”

  “No,” said Mother Night. “There is another. He is an apprentice, who has not yet chosen to become a Dragon. If he chooses not to be, all will be lost. You must help him to choose.”

  “What happens if he chooses not to? Become a Dragon, I mean?”

  “The Shadows will be coming for you, child,” Mother Night said. “They are coming for you now. Be ready.”

  “I’m not afraid of shadows,” Rose said with self-assurance. “I defeated the Shadow King with the sword Caliburn, and I used it to free the shadows of the Dragons. My teachers have told me about what shadows can do, and I’ve learned to never be afraid of them.”

  “Afraid you may not be now,” said Mother Night ominously, “but you will be, child. You will be.

  “The shadows you have fought were only the servants, not the masters. The Shadows we are speaking of are those of primordial darkness—the Echthroi. They have labored long to keep this world in darkness, and have tried again and again to create a champion. Again and again they have failed. But there are those more powerful, who may yet be Un-Named and come to serve the Echthroi, and help them destroy the world. You are one of these, Rose.”

  Rose blanched. “Me? But all our enemies have tried to kill me, not convert me, or steal my shadow.”

  “And they were defeated,” said Mother Night. “Now the attention of the Echthroi will turn to you. You will either be named, or Un-Named. You will become either the Imago or the Archimago. But you are our daughter, and it will be yours to choose.”

  “Mine?”

  “You are the Moonchild,” said Mother Night, “and this is your destiny, to use the greatest ability given to the Sons of Adam and the Daughters of Eve: to choose.”

  Rose lowered her head and closed her eyes. “What if I don’t choose?” she asked softly. “What if I see a better path to take, or what if I simply don’t want to choose? What then?”

  There was no answer. Rose opened her eyes and looked around. The attic was empty.

  A rumble sounded in the distance. The wind had died down, and the storm was passing. All that was left of the strange encounter was half a sandwich and a glass of milk, the glowing ball of string Mother Night had called Ariadne’s Thread, and about a thousand questions. What journey was she supposed to be taking? To seek out a Dragon’s apprentice and tell him a riddle? And what was this about Echthroi … or Echthros … She couldn’t quite remember. Whatever else Mother Night had said that was confusing, that part was clear. The Echthroi, the true Shadows, would be coming for her. And perhaps already were.

  “Are you going to eat that sandwich?” a broad smile said from atop one of the curio cabinets. “The storm woke me, and I smelled liverwurst.”

  “Grimalkin!” Rose said, happy to see a familiar face—or a part of one, at least. The Cheshire cat’s smile filled out with whiskers, then nose and eyes, and ears, b
y the time he climbed down to the floor. He had attached himself to her uncle John, who was the Principal Caretaker of the Geographica but spent most of his time at Tamerlane House.

  “Were you expecting a guest?” said Grimalkin, noting the extra glass of milk.

  “Not really,” said Rose, “but it’s yours if you want it. Saucer?”

  “Please.”

  She poured the milk for the cat and scratched its neck under the thick leather collar. The runes on it glowed faintly as she touched it.

  The cat finished the sandwich and milk in pretty short order. “Anything else?” he asked, licking his lips.

  “Not up here,” Rose replied. “It’ll be breakfast soon, anyway. Join us?”

  “Perhaps later,” said the cat, who had started to disappear again. “I was just looking for some ways to kill time while the storm was doing its blustery thing. I think I’ll go downstairs and scratch on Byron’s portrait.”

  With that Grimalkin vanished, although she could never really be sure he wasn’t still lurking about somewhere. That was the only problem with a Cheshire cat—even when they weren’t there, they might be.

  Rose pulled on a sweater and some slacks, then brushed a few tangles out of her hair before heading downstairs. Almost as an afterthought, she tied the loose end of the thread to her bedpost and set the faintly luminescent ball on the floor. She wasn’t certain what she was meant to do with it, but at least, she decided as she closed the trapdoor to the stairs, if she tied it to something, it wouldn’t get lost.

  “That was no ordinary storm,” Bert proclaimed as the Feast Beasts cleared away the platters of food from the breakfast table. Ever since Rose had arrived as a resident, it had become traditional for several of the Caretakers Emeritis to take breakfast together in the southern dayroom. Bert still needed to eat on a routine schedule, and while Verne didn’t, not eating still made him vaguely uncomfortable.

  The rest of the Caretakers, who resided within their portraits in the Pygmalion Gallery, did not require food or drink at all—but they missed the memory of dining, and so were more than happy to accept Bert’s invitation to have breakfast together.