The Dragons of Winter

by James A. Owen

  “He also enjoyed the films of Clint Eastwood,” said Dr. Raven, “although you’d never have gotten him to admit it.” He spoke in a friendly and courteous manner, but his eyes never left John’s face, and John had also noticed that Dr. Raven addressed him using his most formal title.

  The Messenger was hooded, but enough of his face was visible that John could see the honest smile of greeting, and the well-earned wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. The other Messengers had been roughly John’s contemporaries, but this Dr. Raven was somewhat older, perhaps closer to Bert in age. Regardless, John understood some of what Verne saw in the man—he seemed immediately trustworthy, which bothered John, because nothing else he knew about him was.

  “So,” Dr. Raven said, rubbing his hands together. “What may I do for the Caveo Principia?”

  “Harrumph.” Verne cleared his throat and stepped slightly in front of John. He was used to being deferred to, and Dr. Raven’s seeming interest in John was off-putting. “We need you to be a chaperone, basically. No time travel will be involved, simply spatial travel—to the Soft Places.”

  “Ah,” Dr. Raven said, as if he understood more than Verne was saying aloud. “The badger and the knight. You’ve sent them on another quest, I take it? Are they after another Sphinx?“

  “Not quite,” said Verne. “They’re looking for the Ruby Armor. And Aristophanes is guiding them.”

  For the briefest instant, John thought he saw the Messenger’s expression darken, as if this was a disturbing surprise.

  “The Zen Detective,” said Dr. Raven. “I see. And that’s all you need? For them to be chaperoned?”

  “Shadowed,” Verne corrected. “No assistance, unless their lives are in imminent danger. If they succeed, we’ll have won a major victory against the enemy. But if they fail, then the armor remains out of reach to our enemy as well.”

  “Understood.” The Messenger bowed to Verne, but he kept his eyes firmly locked on John, as if they shared some sort of secret. “I serve at the will of the Caretakers. It shall be done.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Verne said as he opened the door and ushered John outside. “We’ll expect a report soon, then.” He closed the door, and the Messenger was alone.

  The room shimmered, as if it were slightly out of focus with the rest of the world; then it clarified again, and the room was just as it had been—with one exception. Dr. Raven was younger. The wrinkles at his eyes were fewer, and he stood just a bit straighter, with just a little more vigor. It was as if several years of his life had suddenly fallen away.

  “Be seeing you,” Dr. Raven said to no one in particular, before he removed the watch from his pocket, twirled the dials, and disappeared.

  . . . in the middle sat a beautiful woman in a blue silk dress . . .

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Last Caretaker

  Vanamonde’s last word hung in the air and echoed in the companions’ minds so strongly that it took a few seconds for them to realize that they might actually be prisoners, and not merely guests.

  Burton got to the door first. It was locked.

  “Fools,” he muttered, eyes downcast. “We are all fools. Especially”—he turned, pointing at Bert—“you.”

  “We were all taken in,” Charles said mildly. “We can’t blame Bert for trusting in a familiar face.”

  “We all chose to follow him,” said Edmund, “and he did offer to help Archie.”

  “It isn’t that stout a door,” Burton said, flexing his muscles. “I think I can take it down.” He threw his weight against the door—which didn’t move. Charles joined him, but even together, they couldn’t budge the door.

  “This door has a Binding,” Bert mused, rubbing his chin. “Rose, try using Caliburn.”

  As her mentor suggested, Rose swung the great sword at the door. It struck with an explosion of sparks—but made no mark at all where the sword hit.

  “Deep Magic, then,” said Bert. “We’re in this room until Vanamonde—or his Master—say otherwise.”

  There was nothing the companions could do but wait for Vanamonde to return and hope for the best. But hope was in short supply, after the reversals they’d experienced in the last few hours. They paired off into different corners of the room, to commiserate, and try to rest, and prepare themselves for whatever might come next.

  “All Lloigor,” Charles said bleakly. “That’s a bad, bad circumstance, I think.”

  “Not all,” Burton corrected. “Pym certainly was no Lloigor—I think.”

  “Perhaps, but then again, he’s the one who attacked you and nearly demolished poor Archie,” Charles replied. “At this point, I’m feeling less threatened by the Lloigor than by Verne’s own lieutenant.”

  “Been there, done that,” said Burton.

  Across the room in the far corner, Rose and Edmund were sprawled out on their coats, using their duffels for pillows and trying to rest. Sleep was unlikely, but Burton had taught them both how to meditate, so they decided it was as good a time as any to balance their minds. Mostly, though, they were just talking about the friends they’d left behind at Tamerlane—particularly Laura Glue.

  There had been a curious sort of dance among the three of them, since Rose and Laura Glue first met Edmund in Revolutionary War–era London. There had been flirtations—after all, Edmund was the only available male at Tamerlane House who was not a portrait, tulpa, or small forest creature—but Rose, for the most part, kept a discreet distance whenever an opportunity arose to be alone with the young Cartographer. An innocent romance had developed between Edmund and Laura Glue, and she didn’t know whether—or if—she should complicate several friendships by seeing if there was anything deeper between herself and Edmund.

  In terms of education, all three were equally balanced, with expertise in different areas—but in terms of life experience, Edmund and Laura Glue were closer. Rose simply had been through too many experiences that they could not relate to for them to be true equals. So, while the interest had been there, she had never so much as flirted with Edmund.

  But now, in impossible circumstances, and facing the very real possibility that they had been caught in an Echthroi trap, she wasn’t thinking about anything except the handsome young man drifting in and out of a meditative trance, who lay just inches away from her.

  He was, she thought as her shadow curled up and around her like a scarf, right next to her.

  And Laura Glue was very, very far away.

  “Do you ever regret coming back with us from London?” she asked abruptly, taking him out of his trance.

  Edmund blinked as he thought about the question and wondered what kind of an answer she was asking for. Sure, there were times when he missed his father, and the life he had led as a student of Dr. Franklin’s. But there had always been that deeper yearning, the inner conviction that he was destined for greater things. Of course, that could also be his pirate blood speaking to him—not that that would be such a bad thing.

  “Regret, no,” he said finally, taking her hand in his as he spoke. “But there are days when I do wonder if I was crazy to have followed you.”

  “I don’t think we could have gotten back without your help,” said Rose.

  Edmund smiled. “Yes, you could have. Once I made the chronal trump, you just needed to step through. And the connection was yours, anyroad.”

  “If you hadn’t come back with us then, you wouldn’t be stuck here with me now.”

  He sat up so that he could look at her more directly, and he squeezed her hand just a bit more tightly.

  “I’m happy that I did follow you, though, whatever else may come, Rose. I am. Even ending up here has already turned into an adventure. Traveling with you is just too much fun to be had.”

  Her eyes flashed with anger for just a moment, until she realized that he was teasing her, and she moved closer to him and lifted her chin. “I’m glad you came with us too. Whatever may come.”

  He smiled at her briefly, but with an expression i
n his eyes that said he was worried. And afraid. So she clutched his hand a little more tightly against the darkness, and they were afraid together. And that made it more bearable. A little, at least.

  From the other side of the chamber Charles watched the shadows shift and move where Rose sat with the young Cartographer. Bert moved alongside him, where he could speak without being overheard by the others.

  “They’re a good team,” the Far Traveler said softly. “She complements him, and he, her.”

  “I know,” Charles agreed. “His abilities to make maps may actually rival Merlin’s, although I’d never have confessed that to him. And combined with her understanding of time . . . Well. It’s an impressive combination, even if it did result in our getting stuck here in the far future.”

  Suddenly the room was shaken by a loud rumbling from outside—a tremendous noise that made the tower sway to and fro as if it were caught up in an earthquake. The sound and motion brought everyone to their feet, concerned that something awful was happening.

  Bert took Charles by the arm. “That was no earthquake,” he said, a spark of fear in his eyes. “I’ve felt that before, in another tower.”

  “The Keep of Time,” Charles said flatly. “When it grew.”

  “Shades,” muttered Burton. “That would explain the Deep Magic that’s sealed us here in the room, too.”

  “It isn’t a Keep of Time, though,” said Rose. “Otherwise I’d feel it. This is simply a tower.”

  “But a living one, like the keep,” said Bert, “which makes me very curious who Vanamonde’s Master is.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” said Edmund, “but maybe it’s an enemy we already know.

  “I’ve read about the, ah, Dyson incident,” he went on, casting a sidelong glance at Rose, who pursed her lips in return. “It created the Winterland because of what Hugo Dyson changed in the past, but the Caretakers were able to largely restore everything by going into the past themselves, and fixing what Dyson set into motion. So might that not be the case here as well?”

  “Not quite,” Charles said, shaking his head. “The Winterland was an altered present, because of changes made in the past. But here we’re in the future. Things aren’t as they are because of something we’ve done that has to be undone,” he explained. “The world has become this . . . this terrible place because of something we haven’t done yet.”

  “Speaking as one who was largely responsible for initiating the, ah, ‘incident,’” said Burton, “I have to say that it may also have been inevitable. There were events that we caused that had already happened in the past—such as the Winterland’s version of Charles, Chaz, going back in time to become the first Green Knight.”

  “As awful as it is to admit, what has happened had to happen,” said Bert. “Circumstances were thrust upon us like a football thrown to a one-legged player, and we simply played through as best we could. That it turned out that the plays we made had already been scumbled in some sort of cosmic playbook was neither to our credit nor our blame. The important fact here is that we never asked for the ball.”

  “So what do we do?” asked Edmund.

  Bert squeezed the young Cartographer’s shoulder. “Rest. Try to regain some strength. And then be prepared for anything.”

  The shadows that enveloped the city were not static: They were living things that flowed like the tides, overlapping one another and blocking all but the faintest of twilit gloom from reaching the surface. But every so often, they would shift in such a way that a small, insignificant corner of sky was left exposed. And it was through just such an opening that the Lady sent her moonbeam to wake the sleeping Grail Child.

  The light that awakened Rose wasn’t terribly bright, but it was soft, and tinged with blue. It seeped underneath the doorway and through the lock—which, with a gentle clicking, disengaged, slowly swinging the door open.

  Curiosity won out over caution, and Rose got up to investigate. She was careful not to disturb any of her slumbering friends—somehow she understood that they would not wake, were not meant to wake, to see this light. It was sent to awaken only her, and as it retreated down the long hallways outside the door, she felt compelled to follow it.

  The light led her to a door several landings above the room where they’d been imprisoned. The door was slightly ajar, and the light was emanating from within. Slowly Rose pushed it open and entered.

  In the center of the room were three chairs. The first was occupied by a corpse wearing a dress of fine red silk, embroidered with pearls. The third chair was empty. And in the middle sat a beautiful woman in a blue silk dress, who gestured for Rose to come closer.

  “Hello, daughter,” the woman said. “Please, come in. Sit. We have much to tell you, and only these few moments in which to do it.”

  “Are you Mother Night?” Rose asked as she moved closer.

  “We are,” the woman said, “but before that I was Lachesis, and I am the only one who may speak to you here. Clotho is no more, and Atropos is no longer permitted on this world.”

  “What is it?” asked Rose. “What has happened? I tried using Ariadne’s Thread, but—”

  “It will not work, not in this place,” Lachesis confirmed. “This is now a fully Shadowed world. Its connections have been severed. But there is still a chance for you to change what has happened.”

  Lachesis reached out her hand and gave something to Rose. It was a small, multifaceted mirror. “Use this only when you must. Solve the riddle of the last Dragon. And you may yet claim your destiny as protector of this world, before it is too late.”

  Before Rose could ask any questions, Lachesis suddenly turned her head in alarm. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Something fell.”

  Then she disappeared, along with the corpse of her sister and the empty chair. And Rose woke up, still sleeping next to Edmund.

  She almost imagined that it had been a dream—but in her hand was the mirror.

  Rose was about to rouse the others to tell them what had happened when they were all brought to their feet by a soft tapping at the door.

  “Greetings,” Vanamonde said as he entered the room. “I trust you all rested well.”

  Burton started to respond with a well-built-up reserve of expletives, but Vanamonde stopped him with an upraised hand. “All your questions will be answered in due time,” he said placidly, “and so you are not concerned, the repairs on your mek have gone well, and he will be returned to you soon. But for now,” he finished, standing to one side and bowing, “Lord Winter has requested your presence, if you will be so kind as to follow me.”

  At the mention of the name ‘Lord Winter,’ Charles scowled at Burton, whose face had gone red. But Bert put his hands on both of their shoulders and smiled broadly at Vanamonde. “Yes,” he said, agreeing for all of them. “We shall.”

  Vanamonde led them to the stairway, where they climbed farther than they had to reach their cell, and eventually got to the very top of the dark tower.

  The stairs opened onto a broad terrace, so high that the wind should have been ferocious—but it was cold, and the air was calm. At the far end of the terrace, Vanamonde spoke to a man who had been looking out over Dys, who now turned to greet the companions.

  “Welcome,” he said. “I’m very pleased to see you all. It has been . . . a very long time.”

  Lord Winter was not terribly tall, but he had unmistakable presence. He was dressed entirely in black, in fashionable clothes that would not have been out of place in their own century. His hair was nearly as long as he was tall, and he wore the same dark spectacles as Vanamonde. He was flanked by three of his Dragons—long-robed attendants, who wore masks of stone that bore the markings of their office and that flared up and away from their faces as if they were the tails of comets falling to Earth. Behind them, floating in the sky, but considerably lower than the great chains high above, were several geometric shapes. Charles couldn’t shake the feeling that these hexagons and cubes were somehow sentient, and there to obser
ve the meeting.

  “Well,” he whispered to the others, “that isn’t Mordred. That’s something, at least. Although,” he added nervously, “his voice does sound quite familiar.”

  “No,” Bert said, a chill in his voice—and loudly enough to be heard by Lord Winter. “It isn’t Mordred. But it is someone else we know.”

  “Ah,” Lord Winter said as he suppressed a wry smile. “You’ve recognized me after all. I was afraid that after so many thousands of years, you might not . . . . But then again, it hasn’t been quite so long for any of you, has it? By your reckoning, it’s been barely a day since you last spoke to the man I once was.”

  “It can’t be,” Rose whispered. “Not here. Not like this.”

  “I’m sorry, child,” said Burton, “but it is.”

  Edmund looked around, confused by the growing horror he read in his companions’ faces. It was obvious that Lord Winter, this dark and terrible figure, was someone they knew well. He turned to the pale man. “Your Highness,” Edmund began, only to be silenced by a crisp wave of the other’s hand.

  “Now, now, my young Cartographer,” he said smoothly. “You needn’t be so formal. We are, after all, old friends, are we not? So please,” he said, his voice dropping to a soft tone that nevertheless rang clearly in their ears, “call me Jack.”

  PART THREE

  The Mystorians

  She raised her chin in acknowledgment of her guests . . .

  CHAPTER NINE

  Through the Looking-Glass

  The man who knelt looking at his reflection in the lake at the ends of the Earth appeared younger than he really was. Everyone in the lands where he had been born lived very, very long lives, in the manner of the first men, and so youth lasted not merely for decades, but for centuries. By the accounting of this world, he was in fact very advanced in years, even before his exile from Alexandria.