The Dragons of Winter (33 page)

Dr. Raven didn’t look up—he didn’t need to, to know who was speaking. “That wasn’t my responsibility. I’m to shadow them, and nothing more.”

“Lies,” Grimalkin purred as an upside-down smile appeared in the air next to the Messenger’s face. “All lies. You are the Caretaker’s errand boy, are you not? And he is nothing but wheels within wheels, and games within games. You serve a greater purpose, we think, than to simply watch.”

The Doctor didn’t flinch at the cat’s slight insult, but turned to look at Grimalkin as the badger, the Zen Detective, and the knight disappeared over a rise in the distance. “They’ll do fine without my help,” he said, not caring to distinguish whether he meant the Caretakers or the hapless trio running from the irate merchants of the Goblin Market. “And as to games, methinks you would know something of those . . .
cat
,” he added with emphasis. “Don’t you? Or else you’d have already told Dee all about me.”

“We serve our own interests, and none other,” said Grimalkin, who had now begun to vanish again, starting with his half-formed head.

“Now who is lying?” Dr. Raven said, looking pointedly at the Cheshire cat’s ornate collar. The runes on it glowed slightly, whether or not the rest of the cat was visible. “You serve whom you are compelled to serve, as do I.”

“Well, of course,” said the voice of the disembodied cat, more weakly now. It was obviously bored, and returning to wherever it spent its time in between appearances. “If we were not compelled, would we choose to serve anyone at all? Even ourselves?”

Dr. Raven wanted to ask if the cat was including him in that statement, or was still merely speaking with the royal “we” as
it so often did. But by the time he opened his mouth to speak, the cat was already gone—as was, he noted with some relief, the Duesenberg. Uncas, Quixote, and the Zen Detective had evaded their pursuers and moved on to the next destination.

Looking around to ensure that no one would notice his own departure, and assuring himself that he was alone, the Messenger removed the watch from his pocket, twirled the dials, and disappeared.

If anyone had been watching, they might have noticed that there, under the shadows of the chestnut tree, the silver casing of the watch appeared darker.

In fact, it was almost black.

Shakespeare, Laura Glue, and the badger Fred closed the doors and drew curtains over the windows in the small room that was far from where the other Caretakers ventured throughout Tamerlane House.

“Have we heard anything from them?” Laura Glue asked hopefully.

“Nothing yet, it seems,” Shakespeare said, dropping the last curtain. “They haven’t returned. And the other Caretakers do not seem overly encouraged that they will.”

“If the Scowlers are all stumped,” said Fred, “then us figuring out a way t’ help will be impossible.”

“Nothing’s impossible,” Laura Glue said, folding her arms. “Nothing.”

“But some things really are,” Fred said sadly. “Like making crème brûlée with a kerosene torch, or teaching Byron t’ fight with a
katana
.”

“Everything is impossible until someone does something for the first time,” said Laura Glue. “Half the time I’ve been here the Caretakers are usually discussing why a trump did or didn’t work the way they thought it was supposed to, or how the keep really worked, or all sorts of other stuff that nobody really knows anyway. So I think if nobody really knows how anything is supposed to work, then anything is worth trying, neh?”

“Neh,” said Fred, tapping her fist with his. “Our unknowledge is our only hope.”

“‘Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt,’” said Shakespeare.

“Ah,” Fred said, nodding. “
Measure for Measure
. One of your great plays.”

“Well,” Shakespeare said, reddening. “Yes. But that particular line actually did come from Kit Marlowe, thrice curse his eyes. But he spake it while deep in his cups, and I wasn’t going to let it go to waste.

“So,” he said, wiping his hands on his trousers. “What be our plan, my children?”

“Our plan be to have their back, neh?” said Laura Glue. “Sometime soon, someone is going to have to go after them, to help them. And we’re not going to let them down. We’re going to find a way, even if every scholar who has ever lived and died says it’s impossible. We’ll find a way. And when they need us,” she concluded, a determined look in her eyes, “we’re going to be
ready
.”

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN
The Sorceress

The companions dashed
through the passageways to where the Sphinx sat, silently watching.

“We aren’t going to have enough time!” Charles said, panicked. “That was the bravest act I’ve ever witnessed—but they aren’t going to be able to hold him for long.”

“We won’t need much time,” said Rose. “We just have to let Azer make her choice.”

“What choice is that, Moonchild?” Azer asked impassively.

“The one in the riddle,” Rose said. “Here, on the wall. It says we’re to give you a choice. So we discovered your name and woke you. Can you help us?”

“Help you?” the Sphinx said. “How?”

“Can you help us go back in time?” Charles asked, getting straight to the heart of their urgency. “Are you able to travel in time?”

The Sphinx ignored him completely. “There is a price, Moonchild, for all things. Pay the price, and you shall have what you wish.”

“What do you want?”

“A Dragon’s heart,” she said, looking at Rose, “to restore me to what I was, long ago.”

. . . a woman, tall and regal . . .
with the bearing and manner of a queen.

“To become a Dragon again?” asked Rose.

“No,” said Azer, still looking at the Grail Child. “To once again ascend, and leave this world at last.”

Rose removed the circlet of stone she wore around her neck, which her father had given her when he became the Black Dragon. She looked up at the others, doubtful.

“Your destiny is greater than just being a Dragon, Rose,” Bert said gently, “and you don’t need that circle of stone to fulfill it. In truth, I don’t think you ever did.”

“Then I think . . . ,” Rose began—but she was interrupted by an unearthly shrieking sound coming from the passages outside the chambers.

“Lord Winter is freed,” Burton said, “and this world now belongs to the Echthroi.”

“Not fully,” Azer said, looking at Rose. “Not if a Dragon remains. The Shadows cannot prevail against a true Dragon. You can choose to stay, or you may give the heart to another and save the world as it is. Or you may give it to me, and return to your own world as it was. The choice is yours.”

“No, it isn’t,” Rose said in sudden understanding. “The choice is yours.”

Azer stared at Rose, who held the Sphinx’s gaze, unafraid. A thousand regrets passed through the eyes of the once-Dragon, as she considered the truth of Rose’s words.

“He’s coming!” Charles shouted. “Hurry!”

At last the Sphinx made her decision. She closed her eyes, and below where she sat, the doors set into the arch slid open. “Give the heart to another,” she said, “and go to thy journey.”

The companions suddenly realized what had to happen—Azer
had agreed to give them passage, but unless a Dragon stayed behind, the world would still be lost to the Echthroi.

“The world must have its defender, it seems,” Rose said sadly. “Maybe this is my destiny. You should all go. I’ll stay.”

“No,” Burton said, laying a muscular hand on Rose’s shoulder. “Not this time you’re not.”

Rose began to protest, but the old adventurer shushed her.

“I served the man your father once was because I believed a grave injustice had been done to him,” Burton said calmly, clearly, “and somehow along the way, the cause I served became as distorted as the man, and I lost my way. But I found it again. I found myself. And I lived to see him redeemed. So this is not a request—this is what I was meant to do. This is the reason I am here. And taking his daughter’s place is the best way I know to honor your father’s memory.”

Rose nodded in understanding. She handed the stone circlet to Burton, then stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. He blushed, and pushed them all toward the open doorway, then turned to meet the Lloigor.

“I never got to see my own daughter grown and married,” Burton called over his shoulder as he strode to the antechamber. “But I can do this thing for you, Rose. For Lord Mor—for Madoc.”

The Scholar Barbarian stepped into the passageway. Dark Shadows were cascading up against the pyramid, swirling so thickly he could barely make out the features of Lord Winter standing just outside.

Burton turned and called back to his friends. “Bert, don’t . . . don’t stop looking . . . . Find him. Find our boy.”

Rose lifted her head, locking eyes with Burton, and answered for all of them. “We won’t, Sir Richard. None of us will stop looking. We’ll find your heir, if we have to travel to the beginning of time.”

He didn’t reply, but gave a curt nod, then slipped the Dragon’s heart around his neck and stepped out to do battle with the Lloigor.

Rose looked up at the Sphinx. “I’m ready to make my wish,” she said.

“Speak.”

“Take us home,” Rose said. “That’s all. Just take us home.”

In answer, the Sphinx closed her eyes and nodded once. “It shall be as you desire.”

Rose stepped inside with the others, and the door underneath the Sphinx slid closed.

“In another life, in another reality, you were a Namer, Jack,” Burton said, reaching to grasp the Lloigor’s arms. As he grappled with the slender man, Burton’s features, his very form, began to ripple and change. “So, name me now. Name me for what it is I have become because of you.”

Lord Winter glowered, and his footing slipped. He lurched to one side, and his glasses fell from his face. Where his eyes were supposed to be were orbs of impenetrable blackness. “You are Chaos,” he hissed, steadying his stance and tightening his grip. “You are disorder!”