Keeper of the Black Stones (21 page)

“I supposed that depends on whether or not you're
sane
,” Tatiana replied.

Fleming winced at his granddaughter's remark, then responded to Paul's question. “When Doc first came to me with this concern, I didn't see any problem with it. I felt, like my son, that the world could use some improvements. Doc, as always, was the voice of reason. He knew instantly how dangerous such a move would be. He knew that tampering with the past would throw all of history–and our present world–into chaos. He knew that upsetting the balance would lead to catastrophic outcomes.”

“And your son didn't want to hear it.”

“No, he didn't. He was impatient, and took matters into his own hands. The following day, without telling us, and without consulting your grandfather about the symbols, he climbed onto the stone and disappeared into history. Your grandfather was able to read the symbols to see where he went, and we knew that he was in York, England, in the year 1468. We knew also that he had no way of getting back.”

“But Doc said he was going back to 1485,” I cut in. Had the man called Dresden found a way to use the stones after all? Was he still jumping
through time?

Fleming shrugged. “Moving through time alters the passage of time. I don't know why, but time moves more quickly in the past than it does here. My son left here four months ago. He's been living in the past for nearly seventeen years. He went to 1468. In that timeline, it's now 1485. Doc has been going back whenever he can, trying to stop him.”

“Stop him from what, exactly?” Reis asked.

Fleming sighed. “I'm afraid my son has shown a propensity for violence in the past. He sometimes becomes … confused.”

Tatiana snorted, and stood from the desk to walk into our circle. “He's not confused, John. He's insane. There's a difference.”

“Honey, you know I don't like it when you say negative things about your father.”

“And you know that he stopped being my father about ten years ago. I don't know why you continue to lie to yourself. Are you trying to protect him? To save him? You know as well as I do that he doesn't deserve to be saved. And he won't accept interference.”

At that moment, the pieces finally fell into place, and I began to understand. I ignored the shock of Tatiana's statement about her father, and picked up where she'd left off. “He doesn't want to be saved, because he's doing what he believes to be in his own best interest. When Doc jumped into the past to try and reason with him, Dresden refused to listen. He wanted my grandfather for one reason–to teach him to use the stones. So he could go where he wanted. So that he could jump through time as often as he wanted.” I stopped and looked at Fleming, then Tatiana. “Doc refused. He doesn't know how it works himself, and even if he did, he wouldn't tell him. He knows that Dresden would use the power to alter history. To bend it to his will, and remake it as he wishes.” My voice faded in shock as I realized the magnitude of the plot.

“Bravo,” Tatiana murmured, smiling faintly. “Tricky, isn't it?”

A deep silence followed, broken only when Paul coughed and spoke up.
“So what's Doc going to do, then?”

This time it was Tatiana who answered, not Fleming. “Doc's gone back to stop my father, once and for all. Nicholas Fleming–the man you call Dresden–wants to use Doc and then kill him, or destroy the world, or both. He won't listen to reason, and he doesn't want to be saved. So that only leaves the one option.”

“War,” Paul murmured, awestruck. “Doc's going to kill Dresden in order to stop him.”

Another light went off in my head, and I saw exactly where it was all leading. “Except that they're not going to be on an even playing field,” I broke in, rising. “Dresden–I mean Nicholas–isn't going to let it come to that. He's going to try to capture Doc first, and Doc has no idea.”

Fleming shook his head. “Son, Nicholas may be confused, but I assure you that he's entirely honorable. He would not deceive your grandfather.”

I laughed. “I assure you that he would, and he has. He's made a deal with a man my grandfather considers to be an ally. A deal for my grandfather's life.”

Paul, Reis, Tatiana, and Fleming turned to stare at me, their mouths hanging open, and I straightened, ready for their doubt.

“How on earth do you know that?” Paul asked.

I shook my head. “That's not even remotely important, Paul. What is important is getting to Doc in time to warn him.”

Fleming stood up and came to rest a hand on my shoulder. “Son, your grandfather can take care of himself. I admire your desire to help him, as I'm sure he would, but let's face the facts. He's beyond your reach.”

I brushed his hand from my shoulder and turned to face him, my plan crystallizing in my mind as I spoke. I hadn't considered it before, but now that I did, I realized that my path was as clear as day. I'd never been more sure of anything in my life.

“With all due respect, Mr. Fleming, my grandfather is well within my
reach. And he needs my help.”

Fleming chuckled. “But, my boy, the fact is–”

“Oh, the stone?” I interrupted. “You're wondering how exactly I would get to him? I'm sorry, did I forget to mention that I can read the stone? That I believe I can, in fact, ride it?”

Fleming's face went blank with shock, and I heard Tatiana gasp behind me. I turned in the face of the silence and strode toward the door, counting on Paul and Reis to follow me.

“What … what are you saying?”

Fleming's whisper was barely audible, but I turned to face the old man, who stood pale, shaking, and alone in the middle of the room.

“I'm saying, Mr. Fleming, that I can read the stones. I know that the next window to the past opens this afternoon. And I plan to be there when it does. I'm going after my grandfather, and there's nothing you can say or do to stop me.”

15

T
he room's only source of illumination came from the twenty wax candles in their gothic iron stands along the wall. The stands were as tall as most men, and had served as weapons more than once. The cavernous room had a dark, mildewed feel, the air thick with the scent of dank soil. It had been built long ago, over 30 feet beneath the castle's floor. Its walls, set within the foundation itself, curved to form thirteen individual arches in the ceiling. These arches towered 20 feet above the floor, supported by wide oak beams that stretched from one end of the room to the other. It was a room built for secrecy and intimidation, for muffling the screams of the men and women unlucky enough to find themselves there.

The current occupant cared little for the architecture, though he valued the hidden secrecy of this room. There were, after all, some things that should not see the light of day. Like the artifact that sat before him now. Nicholas Fleming, known in this world as Lord Dresden, chief councilor to King Richard III in the year of our Lord 1485, sat slumped over in his gilded, straight-backed chair, staring morosely at the black stone in front of him. He wasn't happy.

He had both loved and loathed the stones in the last seventeen years, though neither emotion had helped him. He could feel this stone's power coursing through the room now, and had been able to feel its strength almost from the start. He could not, however, harness the power for himself. Not completely. He'd been trying to do so for as long as he could remember, and still didn't know the secret. He'd been lucky to travel at all on his first and only attempt, and had yet to successfully repeat the action. The stones had brought him here, to an ancient castle in Medieval England, and left him to rot. He didn't know how to go anywhere else, though he'd thought about it often enough. He couldn't tell when the stones were going to open, or where they might take him, and wasn't willing to risk the jump without knowing these important facts.

He snarled suddenly in frustration and threw the cup in his hand at the stone. Secrets. That fool Richard Evans had known them immediately, and had kept them to himself. How he hated the man. He had refused to share the knowledge, no doubt seeking to garner the power for his own uses. Even in this time, when the old man posed as the Earl of Oxford, he maintained his self-righteous, old-fashioned belief that the stones should go unused, and be protected.

Dresden knew better. He knew that the stones offered the impossible–a chance to correct mankind's mistakes, an opportunity to make right a world that had surely lost its way. If he could use the stones as he meant to … but no. He looked around the foul-smelling, windowless room in disgust. He had been brought here and dropped into this God-forsaken wilderness, left to fend for himself without benefit of warmth, money, or even electricity.

But he'd found his way. Oh yes. And now it would all start here, in this backward time before time. His new world order. His grand plan. He would use his power and technological advantages here to win the War of the Roses. With his careful guidance, Richard III would maintain the throne, thus denying Henry Tudor's reign, and with it, Great Britain's dominance over Europe for the next half millennia. This simple sequence of events would take England out of its place of prominence in the future. Make the island weak and defenseless. And easily ruled. Afterwards … he had planned it all years ago, and knew his route well. With Richard firmly on the throne–and Dresden himself in control of Richard's strings–he would begin the next
stage of his plan. And from there, the next. And from there … Dresden smiled grimly at the thought. He'd laid it all out on expensive parchment paper, several years ago, and it had been beautiful. The end, of course was still his favorite part.

A shout from the top of the staircase brought him suddenly out of his thoughts and back to the present. Before any of that could happen he needed to know how to control the stones. His recent alliance with Lord Stanley meant that the Richard Evans would soon be under his control, and with him, the secret of the stones. For the moment, at least, everything was going according to plan. He couldn't read the stones, but he held the most powerful position in the kingdom, and that was a start. Once he held Evans as well, no one would be able to stop him.

Dresden stood, rubbing his cheek and the sore jaw beneath it–he'd had an unfortunate incident with a rotten tooth the day before–and made his way toward the circular staircase. As he climbed the slippery steps, he straightened, squared his shoulders, and firmed his chin to an expression of stubborn power. He knew for himself that he possessed no physically intimidating characteristics, and did not strike a particularly powerful figure. He was relatively short, even for this time period, with fair skin and black eyes. His hair, which he kept short, was blond enough to be almost white. A trimmed goatee sculpted his chin to give his head a sharp, angular shape. His face, which had once been the soft, boyish face of an academic, had changed over the past seventeen years, and now held a cold, hard note of violence and hatred. It was not the face of a kind leader, and did not belong to a forgiving heart. His loyal subjects had spent many years learning to fear and hate him for the things he did, and the man he had become.

His face grew colder and more arrogant as he walked outside, past one of the many men currently learning to respect and fear his lord. The man, who had claimed to be the best healer in the valley, now stood on a wooden platform in the center of the public courtyard, a noose of thick, heavy rope around his neck. He had tried and failed to heal the infected molar in Dresden's mouth, and had signed his own death sentence in the failing. Dresden had, of course, had the rotten tooth pulled by someone else–the only option in this time period. That hadn't been enough to save this man's life.

He strolled through the crowd of people gathered to watch the hanging, enjoying the air of misery and fear, and entered the castle's main hall. His son was practicing his sword work in the stable yard today, and he was of a mind to watch. The boy was progressing quickly, able to take down men twice his size and age, and it pleased Dresden to watch him. Sloan Dresden was sixteen, and would soon be an accomplished swordsman and warrior. He had the strong, lean body for it, and had learned the cold craft of emotionless strategy and murder from his father. Dresden planned to take him into the coming battle to test his strength and will, though he thought that he already knew the boy's heart. His son was bred and raised to follow in his father's footsteps, trained from the day he could walk to carry on his father's battle. Today he would face one of Oxford's captured men at arms in hand-to-hand combat. Dresden had little doubt of the outcome, but wanted to be there to see it.

As he stepped out of the main hall and onto the balcony outside, one of his men stepped forward to intercept him. Dresden glanced at the man, annoyed at this new interruption, but paused when he recognized the leader of his personal spy network.