The Dragons of Winter Read online

  “The trumps are more convenient, Samuel,” said Verne, “and let us do our work more efficiently.”

  “But it’s a device our enemies also use to go where they want to,” said Dickens. “In fact, I think they’ve figured out some way to travel in space better than we do.”

  “Like the cat,” Twain said, puffing thoughtfully on his cigar. “Grimalkin can appear wherever, whenever he pleases, and he does so without benefit of a trump.”

  “Yes,” Dickens agreed, “but he is a cat, and obeys as well as the rest of his species—which is to say, not at all.”

  “We’ll have the means ourselves soon,” Verne said firmly. “Someone wearing the Ruby Shoes will be able to go anywhere they please—perhaps even into our enemy’s stronghold.”

  “If we can acquire them,” John pointed out. “Uncas and Quixote still have to find them first.”

  “Finding them is one thing,” said Twain. “Keeping them is a horse of a different color.”

  “They’re meant to be used by an adept, like Rose,” Verne said. “Perhaps she can give them a try when they get back.”

  John looked at the others. “Maybe we ought to try to send someone after them with one of the devices in the basement, just in case there’s been trouble,” he said. “I’d certainly volunteer. Anyone else game?”

  For a few long moments, none of them moved, until finally Twain reached out and squeezed the younger man’s shoulder. “We are all with you, my boy. To the last man, to the last mouse. We are with you. But we cannot follow them into the future. Not until they return.”

  Suddenly it dawned on John why his suggestion couldn’t be followed—and why it hadn’t been suggested and implemented already by one of the others.

  “The chronal energies,” he said, crestfallen. “I’d forgotten. We can’t go after them.”

  “Not,” Verne said cautiously, “with what we now know about time travel, young John. But there are those working on . . . new ways.”

  “Who?” asked Jack.

  “Top men,” Verne answered cryptically. Which angered John, who stood up and clenched his fists.

  “Your Messengers, you mean, like Dr. Raven, and the Mystorians!” John exclaimed, barely containing his frustration. “I don’t care if we’re meant to keep them a secret. Now is the time to play your cards, Jules!”

  “The who?” said Byron.

  “The thing you should know about cards, young John,” Verne replied, “is never play an ace when a two will do.”

  “Jules learned that from the badgers,” said Twain.

  “How is this not the time to play all your aces, Jules?” said John. “How much larger do the stakes have to be?”

  “It’s not the stakes that you’re misunderstanding, Caretaker,” Edmund Spenser said, moving past the others and standing next to John, “but the size of the game.”

  It was an accepted tradition that due respect and deference was given to the Caretakers in accordance with their seniority. The only exceptions to this were Verne and Poe, who were accorded more because of their more prominent roles in the work of the Caretakers, and da Vinci, who was accorded less because of his arrogance among his peers. And thus Spenser or Chaucer usually presided over meetings, but less frequently got involved in the debates. So when one of them actually went out of his way to make a point, the rest of them listened. John sat back down on the rock and waited.

  “All it takes for the opposition to win is to defeat us once—because the corruption that will cause can never be completely winnowed out again. And thus for us, a victory means never letting that take place. Constant, eternal vigilance—in all the times past, and all those still to come.

  “So have patience, Caveo Principia,” Spenser finished, holding out his hand to John. “Trust in your mentor, and the Grail Child, and the Cartographer. Trust in those you believe in. And they will find a way to come home.”

  John puffed his cheeks and blew out the air to calm down. “All right,” he said, shaking Spenser’s hand. “Let’s go back into the house, shall we?” He glanced at Verne, still clearly annoyed. “All this hot air out here is giving me a headache.”

  As the others moved into Tamerlane House, Verne held Poe back to speak with him more privately.

  “I need . . . ,” Verne began. He stopped. Poe was holding a key in his outstretched hand.

  “I know,” the master of Tamerlane House said simply. “She is downstairs, where she has been since Quixote and the Child of the Earth retrieved her from the museum in London.”

  “I’ve prepared some memory rings,” said Verne, “but if they’re truly lost that far in the ancient future . . . If they indeed did just as you fear, and ended up in a might-have-been . . .”

  “The Sphinx will persist, but the rings themselves may not last,” Poe confirmed. “She may be the only one who can help them there, then.”

  It did not take Defoe long to return to the House on the Borderlands, but against Dee’s express request, he returned without the boy prince.

  “I have some good news and some bad news,” Defoe said, slumped in his chair at the Cabal’s table. He looked as if his head were splitting in two. “Which do you want to hear first?”

  “I only care about why you came back without the boy,” Dee replied through clenched teeth. “Tell me that before I have you drawn and quartered and fed to Loki.”

  Defoe glanced up at the huge black bird and gulped. “I went to find the Sphinx at the British Museum, but she’s, uh, she’s no longer there.”

  “Moved?” asked Tesla.

  “Stolen,” said Defoe. “Burgled.”

  “Well, there’s irony for you,” said Chesterton. “Can’t say we didn’t deserve that.”

  “Without the Sphinx, there’s no way to return him from a might-have-been—,” a now livid Dee started to say before Defoe interrupted him.

  “That’s just it,” he insisted. “The boy is here, in the House. He’s waiting in the next room. I just can’t decide if that’s the good news or the bad news.”

  On hearing the boy was there, Dee started to calm down, but now he stiffened up again. “How is that bad news?”

  “ I didn’t bring him,” Defoe said. “He found us entirely on his own.”

  The Chronographer’s eyes narrowed, and he looked at Blake. “How is that possible?”

  “Because,” Blake said testily, “he’s not just an heir to the powers that be. It seems he’s also an adept.”

  Dee’s eyes widened, and he leaned forward. “Explain.”

  “He has all the abilities we hoped he might have,” Tesla said, glancing sideways at Blake, “and more, he is using them. He has learned how to activate his Anabasis Machine, and he has already been traveling in time.”

  Dr. Dee turned to look at Defoe, eyes blazing with anger. “You left him with a functional watch?”

  “I had to!” Defoe exclaimed. “If he had been left in the past, no problem. We record where he is and retrieve him at our leisure. But in the future, especially in a might-have-been, we needed to leave a marker. And that meant giving him a watch and making sure it was activated.”

  He slumped back in his chair, pouting. “It isn’t my fault, you know,” he said to no one in particular. “How was I to know the boy would figure it out on his own?”

  Blake knew from Dee’s expression that he was considering whether to just dump Defoe in the ocean and be done with him.

  “He more than ‘figured it out’ if he returned from a might-have-been all on his own,” Dee murmured, more to himself than to the others, “and to have found the House so easily . . .”

  He looked up at Defoe. “Bring him here. Now.”

  Defoe leaped out of his chair and vanished through the door. He reappeared a moment later, followed closely by a young man of perhaps nineteen who stood next to him as he took his seat.

  “Greetings,” said Dr. Dee. “You can call me John.”

  “If it’s all the same to you,” the young man replied, “I’ll
call you Dr. Dee.”

  Dee and the others reacted in surprise. “Daniel has told you about who we are?”

  “No,” the young man replied, “but I learned about you and who you are from my studies. And I know you can help me. That’s why I decided to find you.”

  Interesting, Blake thought as he observed the young man, who was unruffled and very, very self-assured. Dee may have actually bitten off more than he can chew. He thought they’d taken a hostage who could be converted to an acolyte. But now, Blake realized, even if the others in the Cabal did not quite yet, they might have created a predator.

  “We can help you,” Dee said persuasively.

  “I know I have these abilities,” the young man said. “I just don’t know what I have them for.”

  “I can tell you that,” said Dee. “You shall use them in the service of a great cause. There are immense forces at work in the world, and I am offering you the chance to shape what the world will become. If you work with us, there is no limit to what your destiny may be. Will you accept?”

  In response, the young man simply nodded, once.

  “Good,” said Dee. “Daniel, will you see to it our young guest is made comfortable? We’ll finish our business here, and then I’ll come to personally instruct him.”

  Defoe again rose from his seat and motioned for the young man to follow, and without another word, they left the room.

  “We should simply kill him now,” Tesla said flatly. “He’s more dangerous than he appears, Dee. And he’s too unknown a quantity.”

  “He’s an adept!” Dee snapped. “Like Mordred before him. Only we’ve gotten him before he’s had a chance to lose his focus.”

  “His focus is precisely what worries me,” said Tesla. “And if he’s already learned to use the watch on his own . . .”

  “Then he’ll be at least as useful as Daniel Defoe,” said Dee, “and longer-lived, to boot.”

  “What is his name?” Chesterton asked. “No one asked him.”

  “What does that matter?” Dee replied. “He’s here, and he’s ours. The plan proceeds apace.”

  “Where should we go?” Charles asked the others as they hurried down one of the paved pathways amid the dark buildings. “Back to the plaza, perhaps?”

  Bert shook his head. “If that’s really Jack up there, that’ll be the first place he comes to look for us. We should find somewhere else where we can try to plan our next move.”

  “I’m all for going to find that Messenger, Pym,” Burton growled, “and wringing his scrawny little neck.”

  “In that,” Charles said, “we are absolutely agreed.”

  As it turned out, the companions had the opportunity to do both. When they exited through one of the city gates, they also found Arthur Pym, who seemed to have been waiting for them.

  The scruffy Messenger threw himself to the ground, wailing. “Please!” he howled, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Forgive! I did not realize the birdy was a hurdy-gurdy! Only Echthroi fly here! Forgive!”

  “Archie isn’t a hurdy-gurdy,” Edmund said sternly. “He’s a Teacher.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” Charles said, rolling his eyes. “Have a little dignity, man.” He pulled the still wailing Pym to his feet and offered him a handkerchief, which the Messenger promptly covered in snot.

  “You can keep that,” Charles said when Pym offered it back. “I’ve got a perfectly good sleeve here.”

  “Do you think the Lloigor will be looking for us?” Rose asked the others.

  “Possibly,” Bert said, looking around, “but we’re still in the open here. We need to find someplace safe.”

  “Safe haven!” Pym exclaimed, tugging on Bert’s arm. “That’s where the others are. Safe haven.”

  “You mentioned ‘others’ before,” said Burton. “Are they Lloigor too?”

  Pym shook his head. “Not Lloigor. Not Messenger, either. People of the Book.”

  “Librarians?” asked Bert. “Or writers?”

  “A little yes, a little no,” said Pym.

  “Which one?” asked Rose.

  “Exactly,” said Pym.

  “All I care about,” Charles interrupted, “is if this ‘safe haven’ is away from the city.”

  Pym nodded and started walking across the pavement. “Yes,” he answered over his shoulder with a loopy, triumphant grin. “Very far.” He motioned for the others to follow and picked up his pace.

  “That,” Charles said as they all fell into line behind Pym, “sounds pretty darn good to me—at least, better than our alternative. Lead on, Arthur.”

  The companions, led by the Anachronic Man, Arthur Pym, followed a paved path that led due east away from Dys. They walked in relative peace—the denizens of the city apparently didn’t venture beyond its gates, or so Pym told them.

  The Messenger kept up a rambling travelogue about their surroundings, none of which made an impression until they came to the canyon.

  “This,” Pym said, his voice echoing even though he spoke barely above a whisper, “this I wanted to show you especially, Bert.”

  Ringed about the high canyon walls were the great, skeletal remains of several ships, which had nonetheless survived enough of the passing centuries to be easily recognizable.

  “It’s all the ships,” Bert said breathlessly. “All the Dragonships, come together again.”

  “Come together in a graveyard, you mean,” Charles said scornfully, giving Burton a withering glance. “They’re all dead, Bert. All of them. They would have been dead, as living ships, anyway, long before he ever brought them here.”

  “I . . . didn’t know,” Burton said, looking away, unwilling to face any of the others. “I swear to Christ—I didn’t know the Dragons would be lost, when we took all their shadows.”

  None of them responded to Burton’s apology, but Rose stepped forward, simply taking Burton’s hand and squeezing it in empathy.

  “I don’t see the Blue Dragon anywhere,” said Bert. “The Elves’ ship.”

  “Nor would I expect you to,” said Charles as he climbed over a protrusion of rock for a better view. “It was left behind, there on Paralon, and perished with the island when the Echthroi took over.”

  “But the rest of them are here,” Bert said, pointing, “including the old Black Dragon. Which means that at some time in the past, the Archipelago was restored.”

  Before any of them could comment further, Pym moved farther down the path on the canyon floor, toward an old, ramshackle gate. “There’s more to see,” he said, beckoning for the others to follow. “Much more.”

  They followed him through the gate, where they saw a massive, gleaming pyramid that rose up from the ground and dominated the horizon. It was surrounded by an immense wall that was nearly twice Burton’s height. “The Last Redoubt,” said Pym, trying to hurry them on. His eyes kept darting from side to side on the path, as if he were waiting for some beast to leap out and attack them.

  At the pyramid’s base, they saw something else familiar. “These are the rune stones!” Bert exclaimed as he examined the wall around it. “The ones we set up as wards around Tamerlane House. They’ve been repurposed to protect the pyramid and whatever else is behind this wall.”

  “The entrance is here,” Pym said, showing them a looming, ornate door a little farther down the slope.

  “It’s of Caretaker manufacture,” Bert said, excitement rising in his voice. “What’s inside, Arthur?”

  “Don’t know.” Pym shrugged. “Never been inside. Can’t. Have to have a watch or a silver ring to get in at all—but you need two Caretaker’s watches, just to open the entrance—and Lord Winter took my watch ages ago.”

  That piece of information elicited a quick glance of concern between Charles and Rose, but Bert was too excited to notice.

  “Tried without using a ring,” Pym said plaintively. “Tried and tried and tried. Don’t like it out here a’tall. But no use. I couldn’t get through.”

  “Maybe you can’t,” C
harles said, “but I’m betting that we can.”

  There was a protective ornamental lock that was affixed to both sides of the door, where Pym said that the watches must be inserted to allow passage. “Otherwise,” he said, “can’t get through, even with a ring.”

  “Nice,” said Burton. “Good forethought. Whoever built this place wanted to make sure that at least two Caretakers or their emissaries were present for it to work. Just one wouldn’t do the trick.”

  “No,” Pym echoed. “Wouldn’t.”

  “Arthur was lost in time before Jules conceived of the rings,” said Bert, “and so of course he wouldn’t have one. But,” he added, “I have mine, so he can use my watch to pass through.”

  He handed the device to Pym and nodded at Rose. She inserted her own watch in the indentation on the left of the door, as Edmund inserted his on the right. Then she reached out her hand and pushed the door . . .

  . . . which swung soundlessly open.

  “There,” said Bert. “We’re in.”

  From inside the wall, they realized the pyramid was in fact still a good distance away. There were crumbling temples and fallen archways, all overgrown with foliage, lining the gentle slopes of land that led to the pyramid’s base. It was an architectural and arboreal disaster area—but somehow, it all managed to look deliberate. And the atmosphere was far less oppressive than that just on the other side of the gate.

  “Well enough and good,” said Bert, looking around. “There are people here.” He pointed to the right of the pyramid. Against the dark sky, they could see the wispy trails of smoke rising.

  “Why I brought you here,” said Pym. “To meet the Unforgotten.”

  “Who are?” asked Charles.

  Before Pym could answer, a tall creature with the beaked skull of a bird and the skin and claws of a reptile stepped out of the trees just ahead of them. He was carrying a spear and was adorned with ringlets of beads and feathers.

  He stood watching the companions a moment, then tipped his head back and spoke—and it was then they realized it was a man, dressed as some kind of creature.