The Shadow Dragons (27 page)

The body had only its own shadow. The second shadow had been destroyed by the touch of Caliburn.

Charys approached the spot where the head had fallen and looked down. Nothing remained of the countenance of the Shadow King—all that was left was the original clockwork once called the Red King.

“This is all very unorthodox,” the head of the Red King said. “Is the Parliament out of session?”

“It is now,” said Charys. He reared up with his forelegs and brought them smashing down onto the head, which exploded into gears and wheels and wires.

At that moment, all the Timelost Dragonships and the thousands of spellbound children crusaders, including young Stephen, vanished.

A cheer rose up from the hovering airships and the allies alike.

“The clockwork!” Bert said in amazement. “It was a giant Anabasis Machine, like the pocket watches! That’s how he was able to manipulate the Time Storms to capture the children and the ships!”

“That machine is no more,” Charys bellowed, “and I think all debts have been settled!”

“Not entirely,” a voice called out from farther down the rise. “There are still other claims to be made, and I’m claiming the Archipelago as my own.”

It was Defoe. And in his hands he held the Spear of Destiny.

He looked at John and smirked. “You should act more swiftly against those you discover to be your enemies.”

“Don’t be a fool, Daniel,” said Bert. “You cannot do this!”

“I think I can, and I shall,” said Defoe. “We’ve often searched for the means to make the Society dominant over the Caretakers, and I always believed it would be in the service of Mordred. But I realize now that it was my destiny all along to do it myself.”

“Rose has Caliburn, Daniel,” said John. “You’re outmatched.”

“Ah, I think not, young Caretaker,” Defoe replied. “I have the shadows of the Dragons. And that makes me the victor, even before the battle is begun. You are trapped here in the Nameless Isles, and I get the rest of creation. That sounds like a fair exchange.”

“Overconfidence was Mordred’s downfall,” said John. “It will be yours, too.”

“It’s hard to be overconfident when I control all the Dragons,” said Defoe.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say all of them,” Bert noted, looking up. “You missed one, Daniel.”

With a terrifying rush of speed and a sickening crunch, Samaranth dropped out of the sky and crushed Defoe beneath his feet.

“I learned my lesson about banishment last time,” said Samaranth. “This is now done and done.”

The battle was finally over.

“Why didn’t the Shadow King go after you?” Jack asked the Dragon. “I’d have thought he would have made certain to get you first.”

“He tried,” said Samaranth, “but he could never find my True Name to bind me. His mistake was in believing it was in the book. It wasn’t.”

“Where is it?” asked Jack.

“That would be telling,” said Samaranth.

“We saw something similar happen in the battle with Peter Pan,” said Jack, referring to the destruction of the Shadow. “How is this time different?”

“Dissipated is different from destroyed,” said Bert, “and silver pixie dust is different from the sword of the gods. The Shadow is gone. Forever.”

“That begs an interesting question,” said Charles. “The Shadow could not survive if the owner was dead—but what about the reverse? With his Shadow destroyed, what will happen to Madoc?”

But Bert didn’t answer. He smiled grimly, then strode off to find Aven to move Artus’s body. The king had been the only casualty.

Jack wondered if Bert hadn’t answered his question because he couldn’t . . .

. . . or because he
wouldn’t.

“Answer my question,” said John. “Which side are you on?”

Kipling’s only response was to reach into his breast pocket and pull out a silver pocket watch. A pocket watch with a red dragon on the cover.

“How did you get that?” John exclaimed. “Haven’t you turned traitor?”

Kipling smiled. “I got it in the usual way, and no,” he said blithely, “I have not become a traitor.”

“The Shadow King had Defoe and poor Jakob in our camp,” said Bert with a weary smile, “but we had Kipling in theirs.”

“Don’t worry, lad,” Kipling said. “We’ll explain it all to you by and by. Just know that everything’s gone as it was supposed to go.”

“Everything?” John said, looking at Artus’s body, which they had moved to the deck of the
Blue Dragon.

“Yes, John,” Bert said sadly. “Everything.”

John gestured skyward at the shadows. “The Shadow King created this terrible army, and he never even used it.”

“He tried,” said Kipling, “in the Summer Country. But we summoned them away, then defeated their master. We
won,
lad.”

John smiled bitterly. “It just seems to have ended too quickly.”

Kipling whirled around, eyes flashing. “Were you hoping for a bigger battle, John? A valiant, vain struggle against foes we could not possibly defeat? That would have made a very dramatic story—for anyone who survived to tell it. But can’t it be enough that we won? That our enemy was beaten, and only Artus paid the ultimate price? You were a soldier once,” he continued. “How many deaths did you have to witness to make you hate war?”

“One was enough.”

Kipling nodded. “I lost my son, and my world changed. If a million more had died in grander battles, it would have made no difference to me—it was already more of a burden than I could bear.

“No,” he finished, looking at the sky, “what great things we did today were done despite the terrible cost. But they would not have been made greater had the price we paid been more terrible still.”

Kipling clapped John on the shoulder and turned away. “We don’t always get the ending we hope for, lad,” he called back, “but if we work hard enough to earn it, we sometimes get the ending we deserve.”

“So my ancestor was your cousin, hundreds of years ago,” Stephen said. “Does that make you my aunt?”

“That’s probably as close as anything,” said Rose, as she looked up at the still dark skies. “What do we do now?”

“How do we go about freeing the Dragons?” Jack asked Samaranth. “The Shadow King didn’t create them the same way he did the Shadow-Born, so I’m guessing the cauldron is going to be of no help.”

“You guess correctly. The Dragons are not creatures such as yourselves,” Samaranth said slowly, his voice a low rumble. “They cannot be restored with a magic jar, as you did with the Shadow-Born. For a Dragon, its shadow is too intrinsically a part of its being to be severed. So when the Shadow King was cutting into them with the spear, he was not merely severing their shadows—he was ending their lives as Dragons upon this Earth. And he was only able to do that much because he knew their True Names.

“Rose can do nothing now but release the spirits that are left.”

“They’ll die?” said Rose. “I can’t do that! I won’t!”

“You must,” Samaranth said sadly. “They cannot return to what they were. All we can do now is liberate them.”

The Caretakers and the others on top of the hill circled around Rose in support, as she slowly realized that it was indeed her responsibility.

The sword suddenly felt a great deal heavier as she realized that in some way, she had known all along what she would be asked to do.

“All right,” she said finally. “What must I do?”

“You know the words of Summoning,” said Samaranth, “and this entire group of islands is a Ring of Power. Summon them here, and then you’ll be able to release them.”

It took a very long time.

... Hallward was just completing the varnish on a painting.

The Funeral
for Artus was small. Later, there could be a full ceremonial service on Paralon so that the entire Archipelago could mourn. But for now, only the three Caretakers and Bert, Aven and Stephen, Rose and Quixote, and the Dragon Samaranth were present as the king’s body was lowered into the earth.

He was buried opposite the grave of Nemo, on Terminus. Both graves were within sight of the ring of stones.

“This is where he wanted to be buried,” said Aven. “He said that this was the place where he grew up.”

“I thought he’d always lived on Avalon,” said Charles.

“Not that kind of ‘grew up,’” said Jack. “This is where he stopped being a boy and became a man. It’s where he became a king, when he summoned the Dragons.”

“He fulfilled his destiny,” said Aven. “He was the last king of the Archipelago, the last to sit upon the Silver Throne. And he honored his calling more than anyone could have imagined.”

“The first time we met,” said Samaranth, “he had a bucket on his head, a wooden sword, and a deep desire to become a great knight. I knew, even then, what his destiny was to be, and so I encouraged him the best that I was able.”

“This may be an indelicate time to address this,” said John, “but do I understand you correctly that Stephen will not be assuming his father’s place on the Silver Throne?”

“The Silver Throne will be kept,” said Stephen, “and I’ll keep the title of king, if only to continue to manifest the changes my father began.”

“It’s going to make for a fragile peace,” said Jack. “The races of the Archipelago are still as fractured as ever—and the first real unifying personage they’ve ever had turned out to be a despot. That’ll be hard to overcome.”

“A fragile peace is what we’ve always had,” said Stephen. “I don’t think it was any different with a republic than it was with a monarchy. Mother told me there was a Parliament of Kings guiding the lands before, and it really wasn’t any more successful at preventing wars and conflicts than we’ve been these last decades.”

“So what are you going to do?” John asked.

Stephen grinned and shrugged. “We’re going to pick up the pieces and start all over again,” he said wryly. “Just because we’re terrible at making it work in practice doesn’t mean the principles aren’t still sound in theory. That’s what my father believed, and it’s the reason he sent away the Dragons in the first place. As long as we always had a fallback position, we were never truly committed to the battle.”

“Can the Dragons be reunited with their shadows and made whole again?” asked John. “We’re going to be returning to our proper time, before these events all took place. Is there a way to save all the Dragons whose shadows were taken as well?”

Samaranth looked away for a long while without answering, and when he finally did turn to face the companions, they were shocked by his expression. As long as they had known him, Samaranth had always appeared ancient. But this was the first time he had ever appeared . . .
old.

“They are finally free—free of a choice I compelled them to make aeons ago. I believe they should remain so.

“The Dragonships remain ships, but they are no longer living and cannot cross the Frontier. They lost their lives when their shadows were taken. Those that may have escaped the Shadow King in the past will never return to this place, now or ever. And those lost cannot be restored.

“I am now in fact as well as name the last Dragon,” said Samaranth, “and you are, as a race, now well and truly entirely on your own.”

“Defoe survived?” John exclaimed when they returned to the Nameless Isles. “But we saw Samaranth crush him to death!”

“Correction,” said Bert. “We saw Samaranth crush him. He was
already
dead. Now he’s just a bit more disorganized and upset than usual. But no,” he finished, sighing, “he didn’t die.”

“What’s to be done with him, then?” asked John. “He’s far too dangerous to just be released or banished. And I doubt anyone would consider making him the Green Knight. After Rose’s report, and after what happened with Magwich, it’d be foolhardy in the extreme to release someone as willful and resourceful as Daniel Defoe.”

“The Caretakers Emeritis have penalties of their own,” said Bert. “I don’t think there’s any way he can escape what’s planned for him.”

“Fair enough,” John said. “And what of Burton?”

“That’s going to be a matter of some debate,” Bert replied. “Poe for one believes him. We weren’t exactly winning when he chose to defect—which lends credence to his claim that he and certain other members of the Imperial Cartological Society did indeed have goals more noble than world domination.”

“Pull the other one,” said John.

“Don’t ascribe to evil what can be attributed to well-intentioned stupidity, John,” Bert cautioned. “Burton caused more damage than Defoe, but at the end, he wouldn’t betray his ideals. For Defoe, the cause was just a means to an end, which was to gain power over others. That made him a stronger ally for the Shadow King, and a weaker man than Burton. But rest assured—everyone pays a price for the choices they make, no matter what their reasons were.”

“Burned alive?” Charles exclaimed. “That’s a terrible way to go, even for Maggot—er, Magwich. I can’t say I’m sorry that . . .” He paused. “Oh, curse it all.” He sighed deeply. “As despicable as he was, there was something I
did
like about Magwich. Maybe it was his constancy.”

“His constant whining, his constant lying, his constant cowardice,” said Jack. “Is that what you mean?”

“Pretty much, yes,” said Charles. “There was less pretense about him than almost anyone I’ve ever known. I think I might even learn to miss the old bugger.”

“I can’t believe you just said that,” Jack said.

“I’m a bit surprised myself,” said Charles.

“Then you may find this cheering,” said Eledir, the Elf King. He approached the companions and handed a small bag to Charles. It was filled with soil and tied around a small, slightly charred plant.

It had only three offshoots, and the leaves had only just begun to bud. In the center, at the top, was a curiously shaped bulb.

“Several of my captains discovered this as we were sweeping the field,” Eledir said. “I meant to give it to Samaranth, but I overheard your discussion, and I think it more appropriate that you have it.”

“Well, uh, thank you,” Charles stammered.

The King of the Elves gave the Caretakers a staunch salute, then spun about and walked away to finish gathering his people and return home.

“Imagine that!” Charles said. “The Elf King gave me a plant. I wonder if it symbolizes something in his culture.”

“You’ll have to bring it along when you move to Oxford,” said Jack. “It’ll look good in the window. I wonder what kind of plant it is?”

“Oh, no,” John said as he rushed over to his two friends. “I thought Eledir was going to give it to Samaranth.” He sighed heavily and rubbed his temples. “It’s too late to refuse it now. Eledir would only get offended.”

“Refuse it?” asked Charles. “Why would I possibly want to refuse it?”

In answer to his question, a strange, high-pitched whistling noise emitted from the plant. The companions leaned closer to hear better.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Jack. “It’s talking.”

And indeed it was: “Help meee . . . ,” the plant said in a tiny, tinny voice. “Help meee. . . .”

Charles’s mouth dropped open. “I’m cursed. Cursed, I tell you.”

Jack let out a loud guffaw. “Now I have indeed seen everything. Charles, old sock,” he said, patting his friend on the back, “you’ve just become the proud owner of a Magwich plant.”

There were a few more good-byes to be said. Aven and Stephen prepared to return to Paralon, and the other captains and kings went off to their respective lands. But some farewells were more difficult than others.

“Ho, Jack,” said Nemo.

“Ho, Nemo,” Jack replied. “What’s to become of you now?”

“I have to go back,” he said, casting a furtive glance at Aven, and a more lingering and direct one at Stephen. “I have a future to live, and many things to do. And,” he added with a grin, “a young soldier to teach.”

“You still have a lot to learn,” Jack said, clapping him on the shoulder. “But you are already becoming the man I knew and admired, and I have no doubt you’ll get there, in time.”

“Literally so,” said Nemo. He held out his hand. In it was a silver pocket watch. “Bert instructed me in how to use it, and when I return to my proper time, I’m to turn it back over to him.”

“You don’t want to keep it?”

Nemo shook his head. “I’m the captain of the
Nautilus
and the heir of Sinbad. I’m meant to be sailing in the Archipelago, not through time.”

“Fair enough,” said Jack, offering his hand. “Be well, Nemo.”

They shook hands, and the young captain strode away. He did not look back.

Quixote noted that one other friend in particular struggled with saying farewells.

Uncas was finding it difficult to adjust to the idea that Fred was an apprentice Caretaker—and to the fact that his son was going to probably have the kind of adventures he had only dreamed about.

“I believed myself too old for adventuring,” Quixote said to the little badger, “but apparently, I was mistaken. There may be a few more journeys left in these old bones yet.”

“I wish you luck, brave sir knight,” Uncas said glumly, while trying to appear pleased for him. “I guess I’m going to go back to work at the press. Scowler Charles said I have the temperament to be a fair editor.”

He chewed thoughtfully on a paw. “I wonder if he meant ‘fair’ as in ‘just,’ or ‘fair’ as in, I won’t be really awful at it?”

“I’m sure he meant the latter,” Uncas’s son Fred said in consolation. “You’ve been a mainstay there for years. Editing might be the next natural step.”

“With which,” Quixote said, “a journey of a thousand miles may be taken. But as always, it is for you to choose the direction.”

“And which direction are you going?” asked Fred.

“A knight must needs have a squire,” Quixote proclaimed as he knelt before the badgers, “and at the moment, I find myself sorely lacking.” He leaned closely to Uncas and pointedly raised an eyebrow.

“Well,” Uncas said thoughtfully, “we could help you advertise, put up flyers and whatnot. Maybe we could get Aven t’ sponsor a competition or summat, like a contest for a maiden’s handkerchief, except you’d be the handkerchief. But not a maidenly one,” he added quickly. “More like a manly kind of handkerchief.”

Fred rolled his eyes heavenward and elbowed his father in the back. “He’s talking about
you,
Pop. He wants you to become his squire, right?”

Quixote nodded, and Uncas’s eyes grew wide with the realization of what was being offered to him.

“Y’—y’ mean, go with you? On adventures, and heroic quests, and, uh, adventures? Do I get a sword?”

“A dagger, perhaps, would better suit one of your stature,” Quixote replied. “But you get a hat with a feather in it.”

“And a horse?” said Uncas. “I get to ride a horse?”

“Actually,” said Quixote, “I know of an ogre who has a donkey that might be just the right size and temperament for you.”

“What’s the donkey’s name?”

“Donkey,” said Quixote.

“That’s perfect!” Uncas said, hitting a fist into his other paw. “I can remember that! But . . . ,” he continued, his expression suddenly sorrowful, “I have responsibilities here. I mean, the press . . .”

“Will do just fine without you, Father,” Fred said hastily.“ You’ve trained me well, and it practically runs on its own, anyway.”

“True, true,” Uncas said. “But I’m the seniormost member of the RARS. I can’t possibly deprive them of my wisdom an’ guidance an’ . . . uh, smartness.”

Fred continued to press the point that this was a great opportunity, but it wasn’t until a dozen other badgers who’d heard of Quixote’s offer rushed forward to reassure Uncas that somehow the Royal Animal Rescue Squad could struggle along without him, that he finally acquiesced.

“All right,” Uncas said to his son. “As long as you’ll be able to muddle through on your own.” He turned to Quixote. “It would be my privilege,” the little mammal said as he bowed deeply, “to become the squire to the great knight, Don Quixote Enchilada.”

“De la Mancha,” said Quixote.

“Gesundheit,” said Uncas.

“We have one last matter to attend to,” said Poe. “Caretaker Principia? If you’ll come with me.”

“Of course,” said John.

Poe led John to the atelier, where Basil Hallward was just completing the varnish on a painting. Even from across the wide room, the visage was impossible to mistake.

On the easel was a portrait of Daniel Defoe.

“Are you crazy?” John said to Poe. “We’d just gotten rid of him, and by his own choice, essentially! Why do this now?”

“He was a Caretaker once,” said Poe, “and we look after our own. We could not let him die the final death, when we had the means to prevent it.”

“By creating a new portrait?” asked John.

Poe shook his head. “By creating the
first
portrait. And the last, for him. The other portrait was a fake, very much like the one we created for Kipling to use. Defoe had prolonged his life through other means. He had never truly been among those Caretakers in the gallery.”