The Dragon Men (26 page)

“Then how—?”

“The candle can't hold its shape in the bonfire. It has to become
one
with the fire. If it does that, it still exists, but in a new form. You gotta accept yourself as a clockworker, accept everything the universe is trying to show you, become one with it. The universe can't harm itself, you see. Become one with it, and you become immune to it. Serene. Balanced.”

“That's ridiculous,” Gavin scoffed. “It's a disease. You can't become ‘one' with it or cure it by . . . by
thinking
hard.”

“But here I am, kid,” Uri replied with a quiet smile. “You felt it when I touched you. And there are more than a dozen like me. Almost ageless, like the dragons.”

“Ageless? That's why you look so young?”

“We age slowly. I figure I'll live another three hundred years. You can find it, too, Gavin.”

“Find what?”

“I told you: acceptance. Serenity. It's all part of the balance.”

“Now I'm confused again.”

“Yeah, it's hard to explain. The balance is all one piece, like time. You need to understand it, all at once. And when you do, nothing else will matter.”

Nothing else will matter.
Gavin remembered his first flight, how nearly perfect everything had felt, and how nothing else had mattered—until the giant squid had come for Alice.

Uri nodded at the Impossible Cube. “That's a real piece of work. What is it?”

“Dr. Clef—a friend of mine—made it. I don't understand it completely. I brought it along because . . . I don't know why, actually.”

“What's it do?”

“It twists the universe around itself. It transforms energy from one form into another and fires it. And it probably has a few dozen other uses we haven't figured out yet.”

“How's it do that?”

“It's unique in all the universes,” Gavin said. “It—”

“No.” Uri held up a finger to interrupt. “It ain't. Nothing's unique. Nothing. The Dao teaches that everything has to balance. Everything has an opposite, and the opposite holds a seed of the original.”

“Why are we talking about this?”

“It's
important
, Gavin. You gotta understand.” From beneath his tunic he extracted a medallion. Two fishlike designs swirled around it in black and white. The white half had a black dot in it, and the black half had a white dot in it. When Gavin looked closer, he realized the two dots were actually the overall design done in miniature. He had never seen the design before, but it was compelling. He felt another fugue coming on, and he pushed hard to keep it at bay.

“The yin and the yang,” Uri said. “Female and male, water and fire, light and dark, mountain and valley, death and life, plague and cure. They can't exist without each other. Sometimes one gets to be more powerful than the other for a while, but eventually the universe finds the balance. Plop a stone in a pool, and you create waves, highs and lows, but finally the pond becomes calm and smooth like the silk on an envelope.”

Gavin tore his eyes away from the medallion. “What does this have to do with Impossible Cube?”

“That Cube of yours can't exist on its own any more than light can exist without darkness or joy can exist without sorrow. You said the Cube fires energy and twists the universe in weird ways. It's unstable. So its opposite must absorb, take things in and hold them, make everything
more
stable. Those two things will find each other, pull together eventually to create a balance.”

Gavin almost protested again—Uri almost seemed to be attacking the uniqueness of Dr. Clef's work, and even after everything the man had done, Gavin still felt a loyalty to Dr. Clef—but then he knew what the answer was, and it sent a little thrill through him.

“The Ebony Chamber,” he breathed. “It's an infinite set that opens into an infinite number of universes. The Cube is a fixed point across the universe. They're opposites. Why didn't I see that when I started to put the two of them together?”

“You did
what
?” A tremor crossed the serenity on Uri's face. “God's balls, Gavin! What possessed you to do something like that? Yin and yang need each other, but they're still separate. Together, they destroy each other completely.”

“I was in a clockwork fugue.” For a moment Gavin felt like a little boy who had been caught throwing rocks at windows. “I wasn't thinking right. But Alice stopped me.”

“Alice?”

“Oh.” He felt flustered again. “She's my . . . we're getting married.”

“She a clockworker?”

It wasn't the reaction Gavin had been expecting. This entire conversation wasn't anything he'd been expecting. “What? No. She cures the plague. But not in clockworkers.”

“Yin and yang,” Uri said with a nod. “One is earth and water, the other air and fire. They always find each other.”

“That's not—I don't—”

“Listen, Gavin, does the universe speak to you? Do you see what no one else does? What not even other clockworkers see? Tiny things?”

Here Gavin stared at him again. “Yes. Particles that move one another. I've never been able to explain it.” He began to grow excited. It was the first time someone else seemed to have experienced such things. “They have colors and . . . flavors. Sort of. No, that isn't right, but we don't have words for what they are or what they look like. Maybe you can't even give a name to something so small. Some of them affect each other without touching, in pairs . . .”

He stopped. Uri's serene expression remained.

“You're going to say yin and yang, aren't you?” Gavin said.

“I don't need to.”

“But what does it all
mean
?”

“Why don't you know how they all work?” Uri countered. He held up the medallion, swirling and enticing. Gavin couldn't take his eyes from it, and he found answers sliding out of him like water from a sieve. “Why don't you understand these tiny particles of yours?”

“I've tried, but something always seems to get in the way.”

“What, exactly, gets in the way?”

“Alice,” Gavin replied without thinking.

“How does she stop you?”

“She calls me back every time I go too deep.”

“Why does she do that?”

“I don't know.”

“Yes, you do. Why?”

“Because she loves me.”

“But if she loved you, she'd want you to be happy and find what you need to find.”

“She's afraid I won't come back. She won't . . .” He trailed off, and the rhythm faded.

“Won't what?”

“She won't let me go,” he whispered.

“Is that important?”

“Very.” He sat up straighter, and his wings clinked. “Those particles are the key to understanding everything, aren't they?”

Uri merely gave the serene smile. He set the medallion aside, breaking the half fugue.

“If I understand the particles,” Gavin said slowly, “I'll understand the universe. Become ‘one' with it. And that'll cure me because the secrets won't burn out my mind anymore.”

“Yep, yep.”

Gavin blinked, surprised. “No mysterious questions? No strange double-talk?”

“Nope. You nailed it.”

“Let me see that amulet again.” Gavin took it from Uri's proffered hand. The design was a snowflake frozen in metal and paint. The two dots of black and white that were themselves designs contained two dots of black and white that were designs, which contained two dots of black and white. They pulled him in and down, farther and farther down. The crystalline lattice that made up the medallion's structure repeated itself, shapes within shapes, patterns within patterns. The tiniest particles hovered there, dancing in pairs. And what were they made out of? He reached for one of them, and it turned. So did its partner. Incredible. He could go farther down, pry the particle apart, and peer inside. Secrets whispered inside his head, scratching at his mind like an infinite number of cats in their infinite boxes. An overwhelming, endless field of infinitesimal boxes lay before him. It was too much, too powerful. The little bits pulled him in an infinite number of directions, and he had to keep himself together, had to . . .

But that wasn't it. Dad had said he needed to let go, let it flow, accept it. His heart pounded. He was facing his own obliteration. If he let himself fall apart, he would never find himself. Was this what Dad had seen?

The thought of his father brought a slash of anger. He was putting his trust in the man who had turned his back on his family. Sure, the plague had made Gavin do strange things, but he was fine now. Nothing was stopping him from writing—or even coming home. The anger tightened his chest, and Gavin became aware of his breathing, of the cold stones under his backside, of the wing harness dragging at his back, and then he was sitting in front of Uri, the medallion clenched in his fist.

“I can't do this,” he said.

“I think you were close,” Uri observed.

“No.”

“You're angry again.”

“I haven't
stopped
being angry. I've just been hiding it.”

“Your anger is your own.” Uri shrugged. “You can let it go, or let it run your life. That's your choice, kid.”

“I'm supposed to be helping Alice sneak into the Forbidden City. I shouldn't even be here.” Gavin rose, stood with one foot over the edge of the porch with darkness below him. “Your bird put me in a fugue, or I wouldn't have come.”

“So why don't you leave?”

“I should.” But he hung there.

“Maybe you need to learn something here,” Uri said. “And once you learn it, you'll be able to help Alice the way you want to.” He held up the medallion again. It was compelling, almost hypnotic.

Gavin sat back down again. “I don't know what I'm doing.”

“You don't need to know. Let the universe tell you.” He paused, then reached into a shadow and came up with, of all things, a fiddle case. He opened it. “Do you still play?”

The unexpected question made Gavin feel self-conscious. “Of course I play. I earned money on street corners, bought bread with it because
you
weren't there.”

“Play for me.”

“No.”

“If you didn't want to play, why did you say you still know how? This is a great fiddle. I bought it in San Francisco. Or maybe I stole it. My memory of that time isn't very good.” He ran the bow over the strings in liquid notes that shot old memories down Gavin's back. “My old fiddle was better, though.”

“The old one isn't your fiddle anymore. It's mine. You left it behind, just as you left everything else behind.”

“Yeah.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “Still, it sure would be nice to hear you play again. It's been so long. Yep, sure would be nice.”

Gavin hesitated, then relented. He took the fiddle from his father and, still seated, began to play with the moon hanging over his shoulder and turning his wings to mercury.

I see the moon, the moon sees me.

It turns all the forest soft and silvery.

The moon picked you from all the rest,

For I loved you best.

His hands shook as he played. He couldn't make a mistake, not in front of his father on his father's instrument. It had never occurred to him that he might one day play for Dad, the man who had admonished him not to make mistakes. He slowed the song, but that only made things more difficult.

I have a ship, my ship must flee,

Sailing o'er the clouds and on the silver sea.

The moon picked you from all the rest,

For I loved you—

His left hand twitched on the final note. The fiddle squawked, and there was no way to recover. Gavin corrected and replayed the note, but the damage was done. He stopped playing and felt the heat rise to his face. He wanted to fall backward off the edge of the porch and let himself crash to the rocks below. But he sat with his head bowed instead, waiting for the inevitable harsh words.

Uri sighed. Of course. The terrible playing deserved that exact reaction.

“I remember that song so well,” he said. “Your mother loved it.”

Gavin's head came up. “I messed it up at the end. It was awful.”

“Perfection doesn't exist, kid. One mistake doesn't ruin the whole song any more than a single ripple ruins an entire stream.” Uri touched Gavin's arm. “You play it better than I ever did. No wonder that Alice girl fell in love with you.”

Something broke inside Gavin at those words, something he couldn't define. Chains he hadn't known he was carrying fell away, and he wanted to weep for the lightness.

“Maybe I should try again,” he said hoarsely. “Where's that medallion?”

But as he was reaching for it, a familiar silver nightingale encrusted with jewels zipped under the overhang. It landed on Gavin's shoulder. He clapped a hand over it, and it was as if Alice were standing next to him. He missed her with a deep intensity that made this place feel all the more foreign. Uri cocked his head and touched the brass bird on his own shoulder.

“Is that one of mine?” he said.

“Probably. It belonged to the emperor's nephew.” He pressed the bird's right eye.

“Gavin, where did you go? We need you!”
Short pause.
“
I
need you.”

The nightingale fell silent.

“She has a pretty voice,” Uri said. “Reminds me of your—”

“Don't finish that sentence,” Gavin warned. “Not even in your head. I need to go.”

“You coming back?”

Gavin, who had already gotten to his feet with the Impossible Cube, paused and said, “Do you want me to come back?”

“The Dao teaches us that once you become one with the universe, there are no needs, no wants, no desires. Everyone has to follow his own path, and it doesn't always travel where we—”