The Dragons of Winter (45 page)

“If you’re serving the Cabal,” he said carefully, “then why become Dr. Raven at all? Was it merely to spy on us?”

“Not spy, observe,” said Raven. “I had been left entirely alone, and I found out, also on my own, who had created the life they thought I should lead, and why. In learning about the Cabal, I came to learn of the Caretakers—and I wanted to know you better.”

“It hasn’t helped you to choose more wisely,” said John, “or else you just hadn’t learned enough about the difference between right and wrong.”

“You may be correct on the latter point,” Raven ceded, “but as to the former, I haven’t chosen anything yet. I’m simply assessing the rest of the pieces on the board.”

As he spoke, the entire structure of the House on the Borderlands began to shimmer, as if it had been immersed in a wave of hot air. A moment later Raven himself began to shimmer and grow transparent.

“We always seem to be seeking what we already have,” Raven said as he grew less and less visible, “like Jason of old, searching for his lost sons. Even when he found them, he couldn’t see them. And so even with a father within their reach, they were still orphans.”

He stopped and considered what he’d just been saying. “That’s
a terrible story,” he said, frowning. “I don’t much like it. The tale of Odysseus and Telemachus is a better one, I think.”

“Odysseus missed his son’s entire childhood,” said John. “Telemachus never knew his father when he was growing up.”

“Ah, but Odysseus did return to Ithaca,” said Raven, “and Telemachus never, ever, believed that he had been abandoned. His father was simply delayed—and when he finally returned, Telemachus helped him to reclaim his kingdom. Yes,” he said, nodding in satisfaction. “That’s a much better story.”

“Telemachus was Rose’s uncle,” Verne said cautiously, having found his voice, “and John Dee is no Odysseus.”

“No, he isn’t,” the young man said, keeping his eyes focused on John, “but perhaps I might become a Telemachus.”

Behind him, the House had begin to shudder and rise. Stones were dropping from the foundation, and strange lights were beginning to appear all around it.

“Telemachus,” John said, realizing that only moments might be left, “what was your
first
name?”

“I don’t remember the name I was given at birth,” the newly self-christened Telemachus said, “but when I was a child, I chose my own name, as I have done before, from the books I was reading, from the stories I liked. And although I couldn’t read, the animals who cared for me could, and I loved being read nursery rhymes as I fell asleep each night there in my room on Paralon.”

Hearing that word, Jack sat up in shock, staring at the nearly vanished Telemachus, as did all the other Caretakers. Verne gave a quiet moan and dropped to his knees, and John barely managed to remain standing himself.

“Oh, my dear Lord,” John said under his breath.

“Yes,” Telemachus said, his smile now showing as much sadness as goodwill, “we met in a place that was once in the future but is now long in the past, and my name . . .

“. . . was
Coal
.”

And in that instant, Telemachus, once called Coal, the missing boy prince of Paralon, vanished, and with him, the entire Nightmare Abbey.

The young man, John Dee, the Cabal, and the House on the Borderlands were gone.

. . . hanging next to his own . . . was a full-size portrait of a woman.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-
T
HREE
Choices

Bert and Edmund
had no idea where they’d suddenly appeared, but Charles and Rose recognized where they were immediately—not because there were familiar landmarks with which they could orient themselves, but because there were no landmarks at all. There was literally nothing but an expanse of whiteness in every direction. There was no shadow or context to even indicate whether they were in a small white space or standing on an infinite expanse of nothingness. There was, simply, nothing. And then he appeared.

The old man was just as Charles and Rose remembered him. Thin, impossibly old, and hunched more with responsibility than with age. He was dressed simply in a white embroidered tunic, and he was holding a watch—one of the silver pocket watches that belonged to the Caretakers. And he was smiling—at
them
.

“Excellent, excellent,” he said, the smile never faltering. “You are right on time. This pleases me. It pleases me very much. How are you, Rose?”

“You remembered this time,” Rose said. “I’m well, thank you.”

“And you?” he said, turning to Charles. “You’ve been youthened. I don’t know that the hair suits you, though.”

“Oh, ah, thanks,” said Charles. “I think.”

“And you,” the old man said to Bert. “You have traveled often in time, I think.”

Bert drew himself up to his full height and answered with as much dignity as he could muster. “I have. They call me the Far Traveler.”

The old man nodded as if Bert had just recited a grocery list. “Oh, do they now? Yes, yes,” he said, waving his hand and smiling—condescendingly, Bert thought—“that’s very nice for you. Now, Rose,” he continued, “what is it that you’re trying to do, that brings you back to Platonia?”

‘We’re trying to discover the identity,” she said, “of the Architect of the Keep of Time.”

“The Architect?” the old man said. “That’s what you’ve gone flitting about searching for? Why would you need to know that?”

“Because, ah,” Charles stammered, “we broke it. That is, I did. I broke time.”

“You broke time, you say?” the old man answered. “Not possible. Time is eternal. Only we ever change.”

“We broke the keep,” said Bert, “and now we’re just trying to find a way to repair it.”

“But,” the old man said gently, “that was not the reason you wanted to go into the future, was it?”

Bert took a breath as if he meant to respond, then slumped inward and pursed his lips, thinking. “No,” he finally said, looking not at the old man, but at his companions. “No, it really wasn’t. Not the entire reason, anyway.”

“I understand,” the old man said, resting a hand on Bert’s shoulder. “But it is the others who must go on.” He checked his
watch. “Your time is nearly done, Far Traveler.”

“There’s still a task to be done, still work—,” Bert began, but he stopped and looked mournfully at Rose. “It is time, isn’t it?”

“In more ways than one,” Charles admonished. “You’ve done all you needed to do, Bert. Now it’s up to us.”

The old man turned to Edmund. “It was a very good drawing you made. If you had been using it in conjunction with an actual time machine, instead of just as a trump, you’d have made it through easily.”

“Oh,” Edmund said, crestfallen.

“Don’t worry, young Cartographer,” the old man said. “You get better. Much better.”

He turned to Rose. “And you, Rose. All I can tell you now is to trust in yourself, and to not be afraid of your shadow.”

She blinked at that. “Why would I be?”

“You shouldn’t,” he repeated. “It’s the only way you will find it again.”

The old man bowed his head and spun the dials on his watch. “Close your eyes,” he instructed them, “and do not be afraid. Remember . . . ,” he finished as his voice began to fade, “all good things happen . . .

“. . . in
time
.”

John Dee’s house on Easter Island was gone—but not all the members of the Cabal had vanished with it. Standing there in the expanse of grass where the house had been was Daniel Defoe.

“No!” Defoe howled with rage. “You promised! You promised me, Dee! I want my amnesty!”

“Amnesty?” asked Jack. “What is he talking about?”

“His time is nearly up,” said John. “If he doesn’t go back to Tamerlane House right now, he’ll vanish forever.”

“This,” said Jack, “does not sound like a problem to me.”

The former Caretaker had no choice but to approach his former colleagues and appeal for mercy. He had been abandoned by his masters and had no way to even begin to fight against the army of creatures that he faced.

“Defoe has a watch,” said Verne. “Why doesn’t he use it to escape?”

“And go where?” asked Jack. “There are wards around Tamerlane House. And without one of these,” he said, holding up his ring, “he’s not getting in.”

“Well, we can’t just leave him here to die in a puff of smoke,” said John. “I say we take him back to Tamerlane and then decide what’s to be done with him.”

“Shame, shame,” Uncas said to Defoe. “You could have come with us and been a part of everything. But now you belong to no one at all.”

“All I need,” Defoe said, “is one of those rings, and I can hide forever in Tamerlane House. And you, little rodent, are going to give it to me!”

Suddenly Defoe pulled a wicked-looking dagger out of his boot and launched himself at Uncas.

None of the other Caretakers was close enough to rush to Uncas’s defense—but someone else was.

Aristophanes threw himself against the little badger just as Defoe thrust out the dagger. Uncas tumbled to the grass unharmed, but the former Caretaker had delivered a terrible wound to the detective—a wound that Aristophanes had returned
in kind. Defoe had plunged the dagger deep into Aristophanes’s stomach, but he had forgotten that the detective was not unarmed.

The Zen Detective had removed his hat—and for the first time, the Caretakers saw that his horn had not been filed down, as he claimed. It was stout and sharp and protruded from his brow very much like the thorn on a rose stem—and it was lodged deep in Defoe’s shoulder.

Defoe pulled back and screamed in pain as the horn stabbing into his shoulder broke off, dissolving into poison.

“I’m sorry,” Aristophanes gasped, clutching at his wound. “So, so sorry.”

“It’s only a flesh wound,” Defoe spat. “You’ll die long before I do.”

“You’re wrong, Daniel,” Verne said sadly. “Steve has all the time in the world, and you don’t.”

The Prime Caretaker turned to the others. “You’ve noticed no one ever touches Aristophanes. That’s because he was cursed, thousands of years ago. His skin is toxic enough to make a man seriously ill. But the poison in his horn is potent enough to kill any living thing. Even,” he said, looking at Defoe, “those who reside in magic portraits. I’m sorry, Daniel—but you brought this on yourself.”

The alarm on Defoe’s watch suddenly rang, but was drowned out by his frustrated howl. He pushed away from the Caretakers and fell to the grassy field just as the last rays of the setting sun streamed across the top of Easter Island.

“May God have mercy on you,” said John, “if it be right that he do so.” And with one last cry of anguish, Daniel Defoe evaporated into the sunlight.