The Shadow Dragons - James A. Owen [10]
“I’m betting the second reason has to do with time travel,” said Charles. “There was already enough damage done by them just being there, and events had to take the proper course to be repaired. Am I right?”
“Eminently so,” Ransom replied. He selected one of the cards, then replaced the others in the book, which he put back in his coat. “Everyone, now, if you please—stand behind me and give your attention to the card.”
Archimedes dropped down from one of the beech trees and landed lightly on Charles’s shoulder. Rose, Jack, John, and Charles moved behind Ransom and stared at the card he held in front of them.
It depicted a cozy-looking, multigabled tavern set in a wood exactly like the one that surrounded the crossroads just ahead of them. At arm’s length, the drawing was nearly photographic in nature, so real and precise that it almost seemed to . . .
“Oh!” Rose exclaimed, startled and delighted at once. “The flames in the lanterns! They’re flickering!”
The lamps were indeed moving with the light of active flame. The smoke from the chimneys also moved, as did the leaves stirring in the gentle breeze that blew them across the tableau . . .
. . . and onto Ransom’s outstretched arm.
The philologist smiled, then concentrated all his attention on the card, which began to grow bigger.
The patterns around the border began to glow with an ethereal light, and they pulsed with a rhythm very much like a heartbeat.
In moments it was the size of an atlas, and now hung suspended in the air of its own accord. It continued to expand, and within a matter of minutes it was a life-size looking glass that could be stepped through with ease. The only thing that was different about the wood in front of them was that five minutes earlier, there had been no tavern there—but otherwise, every tree and leaf was exactly the same.
Ransom stepped through the frame of the card and beckoned to the others. “Come along,” he said with a wry grin. “I assure you, it’s perfectly safe.”
Charles and Archie went first, with no hesitation. Rose was next, followed by Jack, and finally John, who inhaled sharply, checked his bag for the bulk of the Imaginarium Geographica to make sure it was secure, and stepped through.
Once on the other side, the portal shrank rapidly, until it was once more just a drawing on an old sheet of parchment, which Ransom carefully replaced in the book in his coat.
The philologist then turned about and flung out his arm as if he were the host of a party. “My friends,” he said brightly, “welcome to the Inn of the Flying Dragon.”
“That’s fantastic,” said John. “I think I like those even better than the doors in the Keep of Time.”
“It takes a certain knack to get the hang of them,” said Ransom as he walked toward the inn. “We’ve got our eye on a young fellow named Roger to become my own apprentice. He shows great promise, I think.”
Charles stroked Archimedes and frowned. “I’m sorry, old fellow,” he said placatingly. “I know it’s a bit dreary still, but we’ll need you to stay out here.”
Ransom stopped on the front steps of the inn and turned around. “Why is that? Bring him in. I’m sure they can accommodate him.”
The companions exchanged confused looks. “I don’t know how it is in your Cambridge,” said John, “but where we come from, an oversized talking mechanical owl tends to attract a lot of the wrong kind of attention.”
“Really?” Ransom said as he opened the door, a knowing smile spreading across his face. “Perhaps in Oxford that’s true, but it isn’t the case here. Please—come inside and see for yourselves.”
Stepping through the door into the Inn of the Flying Dragon was, on first glance, very similar to stepping inside one of their usual gathering places like the Eagle & Child. There was a burly proprietor tending the bar, and scattered patrons seated at the tables, with a few in the back playing a game of cards. The room was well lit and not terribly smoky. There was a scent in the air of charred spices, possibly from