The Dragons of Winter (15 page)

“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 observe 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
.”

P
ART
T
HREE

The Mystorians

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

C
HAPTER
N
INE
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.

He had been compelled, by a Binding of Deep Magic, to journey to the farthest ends of the Earth—and that compulsion had brought him here, to the mountains on the far side of the Mongolian plateau. It was not the farthest place where men dwelled, but it was the farthest place that had been named.

The man was considering whether this meant he might have to travel farther still when the Dragon landed behind him, silent as a dream. He didn’t turn around but merely considered the great beast’s reflection, behind and beside his own.

“Greetings, Madoc, son of Odysseus,” the reflection of the Dragon said. “I have been seeking you a long while.”

“I’m not Madoc any longer,” he replied. “I stopped being Madoc when my brother betrayed me and drove me from Alexandria.

“The people here call this place Baikal,” the young man
continued, “and they call me Mordraut. Baikal refers to the lake, apparently. It means ‘deepest.’”

The Dragon growled. “And Mordraut?”

The man turned and looked up at him. “Driven,” he said after a moment. “They say it means driven.”

“And are you driven?” the Dragon said. “You must have been, to journey so far.”

Mordraut’s face darkened. “The journey,” he said softly, “wasn’t my idea.”

“Hmm,” the great Dragon rumbled. “The Binding. Of course. I apologize, Ma—Mordraut.”

The man considered the Dragon before deciding to ask a question—something not lightly done with Dragons.

“You are from the Archipelago, are you not?”

The Dragon did not answer, but merely met his gaze.

“Can you take me there?” Mordraut pressed. “Can you take me home?”

The Dragon shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I cannot. Not bound, as you are now. But perhaps . . . there might be a way. It is why I have come to find you.”

The man Mordraut had listened only to the first part of the Dragon’s response and was already deflating when the second part registered on his consciousness. “You came here for me?” he asked, more earnest now. “Why? And how can that get me back?”