“I am the true heir of this armor,” said Dr. Raven, “and I always have been.”
“Dee’s plans do not serve reality,” Verne said cautiously. “They serve the Echthroi.”
“This is not the only reality there is,” Dr. Raven said, his voice even and clear. “There are other places and times where a man may reinvent himself, even if that reinvention is a fiction.”
“Is that what he is?” John said to Verne. “Is he a fiction, like Henry Morgan?”
“No,” Raven said, answering John’s question. “Not like that. I am as real as you are, Caveo Principia. But sometimes, reality gets in the way of what’s really important. And the only way you can learn what you need to learn is to practice being fictional for a while.”
“There is no time for this, boy!” hissed Dr. Dee. “We must—”
Dr. Raven cut him off with a glare. “There is time enough for everything, Dr. Dee,” he said, as if it was a command. Dee opened his mouth to respond, but Dr. Raven had already turned back to face the Caretakers.
A thought passed among several of the Caretakers, which John and Twain confirmed with a glance—that exchange with Dee was significant. Not only was Raven not cowering before Dee, as the other members of the Cabal did, but he had in fact put him firmly in his place—which seemed to be subservient to Raven.
Was it possible? John wondered in amazement. Was Raven the true leader of the Cabal, or had Dee actually created a paladin he couldn’t control?
“Even now,” Raven continued, “we’re creating new fictions where we all play our parts. But it’s all just a continuation of an old tale, already begun.”
He nodded to the members of the Cabal, who scrambled up the hillside and into the House, where they closed the doors behind them. After a moment, and a last glance at Verne, Dee followed.
Verne took a few steps toward the armor-clad Messenger, hoping that with Dee gone, the younger man might be more open to reason, but Raven held up a hand, stopping him.
“This part of the story is ended. It’s time for us to go away, to lick our wounds and rewrite the fiction that is to come.” He turned to John. “We will meet again, Caveo Principia, on a different battlefield.”
Something clicked in John’s mind, and he moved in front of Verne, who was at a complete loss for words.
“You know me, don’t you?” John asked Raven. “Somehow we know each other, from before Jules introduced us.”
For the first time since he had donned the armor, Raven smiled—and it was a brilliant, charismatic smile.
“We do, Caveo Principia,” the young man replied. “Long ago, and also, not so long ago.
“I am the age you see now because I choose to be. It was the age when I was brought back into this story by Dr. Dee and his Cabal. It was when I had lived through another fiction, in another time, and I had leaned to make my own way in the world.
“In that fiction, I chose my own names. There were times I was known as Jude, and others as Obscuro, the Zen Illusionist. At one point I thought I might be Saturn, but it turned out I was mistaken. At some other point in my future, I become Dr. Syntax, and then Dr. Raven, and it was as Dr. Raven that I made myself known to the Caretakers and began my work as one of the Messengers for Jules Verne. But,” he continued, “before that, you and I met, and I was known by a different name.”
With a thrill of fear, John suddenly realized what that name might have been, but he wasn’t sure he should ask it, for fear the young man would vanish altogether.
“If you’re serving the Cabal,” he said carefully, “then why become Dr. Raven at all? Was it merely to spy on us?”
“Not spy, observe,” said Raven. “I had been left entirely alone, and I found out, also on my own, who had created the life they thought I should lead, and why. In learning about the Cabal, I came to learn of the Caretakers—and I wanted to know you better.”
“It hasn’t helped you to choose more wisely,” said John, “or else you just hadn’t learned enough about the difference between right and wrong.”
“You may be correct on the latter point,” Raven ceded, “but as to the former, I haven’t chosen anything yet. I’m simply assessing the rest of the pieces on the board.”
As he spoke, the entire structure of the House on the Borderlands began to shimmer, as if it had been immersed in a wave of hot air. A moment later Raven himself began to shimmer and grow transparent.
“We always seem to be seeking what we already have,” Raven said as he grew less and less visible, “like Jason of old, searching for his lost sons. Even when he found them, he couldn’t see them. And so even with a father within their reach, they were still orphans.”
He stopped and considered what he’d just been saying. “That’s a terrible story,” he said, frowning. “I don’t much like it. The tale of Odysseus and Telemachus is a better one, I think.”
“Odysseus missed his son’s entire childhood,” said John. “Telemachus never knew his father when he was growing up.”
“Ah, but Odysseus did return to Ithaca,” said Raven, “and Telemachus never, ever, believed that he had been abandoned. His father was simply delayed—and when he finally returned, Telemachus helped him to reclaim his kingdom. Yes,” he said, nodding in satisfaction. “That’s a much better story.”
“Telemachus was Rose’s uncle,” Verne said cautiously, having found his voice, “and John Dee is no Odysseus.”
“No, he isn’t,” the young man said, keeping his eyes focused on John, “but perhaps I might become a Telemachus.”
Behind him, the House had begin to shudder and rise. Stones were dropping from the foundation, and strange lights were beginning to appear all around it.
“Telemachus,” John said, realizing that only moments might be left, “what was your first name?”
“I don’t remember the name I was given at birth,” the newly self-christened Telemachus said, “but when I was a child, I chose my own name, as I have done before, from the books I was reading, from the stories I liked. And although I couldn’t read, the animals who cared for me could, and I loved being read nursery rhymes as I fell asleep each night there in my room on Paralon.”
Hearing that word, Jack sat up in shock, staring at the nearly vanished Telemachus, as did all the other Caretakers. Verne gave a quiet moan and dropped to his knees, and John barely managed to remain standing himself.
“Oh, my dear Lord,” John said under his breath.
“Yes,” Telemachus said, his smile now showing as much sadness as goodwill, “we met in a place that was once in the future but is now long in the past, and my name . . .
“. . . was Coal.”
And in that instant, Telemachus, once called Coal, the missing boy prince of Paralon, vanished, and with him, the entire Nightmare Abbey.
The young man, John Dee, the Cabal, and the House on the Borderlands were gone.
. . . hanging next to his own . . . was a full-size portrait of a woman.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Choices
Bert and Edmund had no idea where they’d suddenly appeared, but Charles and Rose recognized where they were immediately—not because there were familiar landmarks with which they could orient themselves, but because there were no landmarks at all. There was literally nothing but an expanse of whiteness in every direction. There was no shadow or context to even indicate whether they were in a small white space or standing on an infinite expanse of nothingness. There was, simply, nothing. And then he appeared.
The old man was just as Charles and Rose remembered him. Thin, impossibly old, and hunched more with responsibility than with age. He was dressed simply in a white embroidered tunic, and he was holding a watch—one of the silver pocket watches that belonged to the Caretakers. And he was smiling—at them.
“Excellent, excellent,” he said, the smile never faltering. “You are right on time. This pleases me. It pleases me very much. How are you, Rose?”
“You remembered this time,” Rose sa
id. “I’m well, thank you.”
“And you?” he said, turning to Charles. “You’ve been youthened. I don’t know that the hair suits you, though.”
“Oh, ah, thanks,” said Charles. “I think.”
“And you,” the old man said to Bert. “You have traveled often in time, I think.”
Bert drew himself up to his full height and answered with as much dignity as he could muster. “I have. They call me the Far Traveler.”
The old man nodded as if Bert had just recited a grocery list. “Oh, do they now? Yes, yes,” he said, waving his hand and smiling—condescendingly, Bert thought—“that’s very nice for you. Now, Rose,” he continued, “what is it that you’re trying to do, that brings you back to Platonia?”
‘We’re trying to discover the identity,” she said, “of the Architect of the Keep of Time.”
“The Architect?” the old man said. “That’s what you’ve gone flitting about searching for? Why would you need to know that?”
“Because, ah,” Charles stammered, “we broke it. That is, I did. I broke time.”
“You broke time, you say?” the old man answered. “Not possible. Time is eternal. Only we ever change.”
“We broke the keep,” said Bert, “and now we’re just trying to find a way to repair it.”
“But,” the old man said gently, “that was not the reason you wanted to go into the future, was it?”
Bert took a breath as if he meant to respond, then slumped inward and pursed his lips, thinking. “No,” he finally said, looking not at the old man, but at his companions. “No, it really wasn’t. Not the entire reason, anyway.”
“I understand,” the old man said, resting a hand on Bert’s shoulder. “But it is the others who must go on.” He checked his watch. “Your time is nearly done, Far Traveler.”
“There’s still a task to be done, still work—,” Bert began, but he stopped and looked mournfully at Rose. “It is time, isn’t it?”
“In more ways than one,” Charles admonished. “You’ve done all you needed to do, Bert. Now it’s up to us.”
The old man turned to Edmund. “It was a very good drawing you made. If you had been using it in conjunction with an actual time machine, instead of just as a trump, you’d have made it through easily.”
“Oh,” Edmund said, crestfallen.
“Don’t worry, young Cartographer,” the old man said. “You get better. Much better.”
He turned to Rose. “And you, Rose. All I can tell you now is to trust in yourself, and to not be afraid of your shadow.”
She blinked at that. “Why would I be?”
“You shouldn’t,” he repeated. “It’s the only way you will find it again.”
The old man bowed his head and spun the dials on his watch. “Close your eyes,” he instructed them, “and do not be afraid. Remember . . . ,” he finished as his voice began to fade, “all good things happen . . .
“. . . in time.”
John Dee’s house on Easter Island was gone—but not all the members of the Cabal had vanished with it. Standing there in the expanse of grass where the house had been was Daniel Defoe.
“No!” Defoe howled with rage. “You promised! You promised me, Dee! I want my amnesty!”
“Amnesty?” asked Jack. “What is he talking about?”
“His time is nearly up,” said John. “If he doesn’t go back to Tamerlane House right now, he’ll vanish forever.”
“This,” said Jack, “does not sound like a problem to me.”
The former Caretaker had no choice but to approach his former colleagues and appeal for mercy. He had been abandoned by his masters and had no way to even begin to fight against the army of creatures that he faced.
“Defoe has a watch,” said Verne. “Why doesn’t he use it to escape?”
“And go where?” asked Jack. “There are wards around Tamerlane House. And without one of these,” he said, holding up his ring, “he’s not getting in.”
“Well, we can’t just leave him here to die in a puff of smoke,” said John. “I say we take him back to Tamerlane and then decide what’s to be done with him.”
“Shame, shame,” Uncas said to Defoe. “You could have come with us and been a part of everything. But now you belong to no one at all.”
“All I need,” Defoe said, “is one of those rings, and I can hide forever in Tamerlane House. And you, little rodent, are going to give it to me!”
Suddenly Defoe pulled a wicked-looking dagger out of his boot and launched himself at Uncas.
None of the other Caretakers was close enough to rush to Uncas’s defense—but someone else was.
Aristophanes threw himself against the little badger just as Defoe thrust out the dagger. Uncas tumbled to the grass unharmed, but the former Caretaker had delivered a terrible wound to the detective—a wound that Aristophanes had returned in kind. Defoe had plunged the dagger deep into Aristophanes’s stomach, but he had forgotten that the detective was not unarmed.
The Zen Detective had removed his hat—and for the first time, the Caretakers saw that his horn had not been filed down, as he claimed. It was stout and sharp and protruded from his brow very much like the thorn on a rose stem—and it was lodged deep in Defoe’s shoulder.
Defoe pulled back and screamed in pain as the horn stabbing into his shoulder broke off, dissolving into poison.
“I’m sorry,” Aristophanes gasped, clutching at his wound. “So, so sorry.”
“It’s only a flesh wound,” Defoe spat. “You’ll die long before I do.”
“You’re wrong, Daniel,” Verne said sadly. “Steve has all the time in the world, and you don’t.”
The Prime Caretaker turned to the others. “You’ve noticed no one ever touches Aristophanes. That’s because he was cursed, thousands of years ago. His skin is toxic enough to make a man seriously ill. But the poison in his horn is potent enough to kill any living thing. Even,” he said, looking at Defoe, “those who reside in magic portraits. I’m sorry, Daniel—but you brought this on yourself.”
The alarm on Defoe’s watch suddenly rang, but was drowned out by his frustrated howl. He pushed away from the Caretakers and fell to the grassy field just as the last rays of the setting sun streamed across the top of Easter Island.
“May God have mercy on you,” said John, “if it be right that he do so.” And with one last cry of anguish, Daniel Defoe evaporated into the sunlight.
John turned and looked at where the other Caretakers were standing protectively around Aristophanes, who had gone pale from the wound, which was bleeding profusely.
“That’s Defoe taken care of,” said Hawthorne, “but what’s to be done with the unicorn here?”
“We’re taking him back to Tamerlane House,” Verne said. “I owe him a payment, and I think he’s more than earned it.”
“But the armor is gone!” the detective exclaimed. “I didn’t fulfill—”
“Earned it,” Verne said again, looking at Uncas. “Armor or no, you’ve earned it.”
“Let’s go,” John said, suddenly weary. “There’s nothing more to battle over here now.”
“No,” a voice said from somewhere behind them. “Not here. And not now. But soon, Caretaker.”
It was Defoe’s shadow speaking—with the voice of someone else they thought was a friend.
The shadow twisted and spun on the ground, assuming first Lovecraft’s silhouette, then Dee’s, and Defoe’s, and finally it coalesced into the shape . . .
. . . of a cat. A Cheshire cat.
“Grimalkin?” John said in disbelief. “Surely you haven’t betrayed us too?”
“Not betrayed, boy,” the cat answered, licking at its fur as if entirely unconcerned that it had just revealed itself as an enemy agent. “I am simply doing what I must, what the Binding compels me to do.”
“The collar,” said Verne. “I never realized it, but it must be the collar. Dee has had a spy with us all along.”
“There are greater S
hadows than I in the House of Tamerlane,” Grimalkin said as he began to fade in the twilight, “and they are no less prisoners of fate, for as surely as this ring around my neck binds me, so are they also bound.”
“But why reveal yourself to us now?” Blake asked, suspicious. “We would never have known.”
“There are Bindings, and there are covenants,” Grimalkin replied. “I was bound to serve Dee, but I did not choose it. Long ago I made a covenant, which I am only now able to fulfill by giving you a warning.”
“What warning?” said John.
“The girl,” said Grimalkin, as he continued to vanish. “The Grail Child. Her shadow is not her own, but an Echthros, and everywhere she has gone, or will go, the Cabal can also go. She carries with her the seed of your destruction. Do with this what you will.
“Farewell, little Caretaker,” the Cheshire cat’s grin said as it vanished into the rising light. “And fear not. We will meet again—and sooner than you think.”
And then the cat was gone.
“All right,” John said to the other Caretakers. “Let’s get Aristophanes home and tended to. I’m done with all this business today.”
It took some time for the Caretakers to sort out who would be responsible for dispersing or attending to what parts of the Wendigo-Yorick-goat army, so it was late in the evening when John finally pushed open the doors of the great hall at Tamerlane House to collapse into a chair with a tall, tall ale. However, he had one more shock to experience before the day was over.
“We tried to summon you sooner,” said Jack. “Someone is here to see you.”
The other Caretakers, who were crowded around the table, parted, and John saw who was sitting in the chair opposite Jack.
“Hello, my boy,” said Bert. “It’s . . . good to see you again.”
Joyfully, John rushed forward and embraced his mentor. “Bert! You’re back!” he exclaimed, looking around. “Where are the others?”
“It’s just him, John,” said Jack. “But the others are fine, as far as we know. Bert’s just been telling us about it all now.”
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