The Shadow Dragons - James A. Owen [127]
“Oh, do shut up,” said John. “You aren’t going to put him in the gallery now, are you?” he asked Poe. “Even being turned to the wall seems too light a sentence, considering you’ve already saved his life, so to speak.”
“No,” Poe said, lifting the still wet painting off of the easel. “I have something else in mind for him.”
With Defoe cursing all the while, they carried the picture down endless corridors and flights of stairs until they were in the basement, which seemed to be a repository of unused furniture.
Poe walked straight to a tall grandfather clock and moved the hands to midnight. The clock chimed and swung open to reveal a door, and more stairs.
Underneath was an immense cavern, which was chill and dark. Offshoots of the tunnels led in every direction, with the largest carrying the scent of salt water.
“Does that lead outside?” John asked.
“Yes,” said Poe, “but the entrance is guarded by a forty-foot-tall flaming red bull. No one comes in or out without my permission— and even then, it’s a crapshoot.”
The cave had been built out with brick walls that formed dozens of rooms, as if someone had tried to impose a sense of order on the chaos of the cavern.
Poe moved down several levels until he came to a shallow niche, where he placed the painting.
“You think putting me down here is a punishment?” Defoe sneered. “Someone’s bound to come exploring and find me.”
“They won’t after we’re through,” Poe said, as he picked up two trowels and handed one to John. “The mortar’s in that canister. I’ll fetch the bricks.”
“You are not seriously considering this,” Defoe exclaimed as John and Poe laid down the first row of bricks. “This is barbaric.”
“Well,” said John, “I have been accused of worse.”
“But—but you’re Caretakers!” Defoe said, eyes grown wide with panic. “You’re supposed to help people.”
“That,” said Poe, “is precisely what we are doing.”
The wall was almost complete. John spread the mortar on the last row, and Poe put two more bricks in place.
“Stop!” Defoe shrieked, having dropped all pretense that he was not bothered by his situation. “You can’t! John, don’t do this!”
“Ironic,” said John. “That’s the last thing I remember someone saying to you”
“For the love of God!” Defoe screamed as Poe slid the last brick into place. “For the love of—”
Then, nothing. It was a good wall.
“There’s another irony for you, John,” Poe said, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Everyone thinks I wrote that story as entertainment. No one ever realized it was actually an instruction manual.”
“You promised what to whom?” John said in astonishment. “Absolutely not.”
Rose had finally been able to reveal what she had promised to Madoc in return for restoring the sword—and she chose to tell the three Caretakers in the presence of her uncle, the Cartographer, in his room atop the Keep of Time. It was an appropriate place to do so, she said, because she had made a second decision in concert with Aven and Stephen—to release the Cartographer from the keep.
“It was the only way,” said Rose. “He would not have repaired Caliburn otherwise.”
“You didn’t see what happened when Hugo Dyson went through one of the doors,” said Jack, his face flushed with emotion. “The entire world changed into the domain of the Winter King. We had to traipse through two thousand years of history just to fix it—and that was all mostly by accident. Do you know what kind of damage he can cause if we give Mordred himself the means to go into the past?”
“I agree,” said Charles. “He went into exile, and that’s where he should stay.”
“I gave him my promise,” Rose said firmly. “And so did Professor Sigurdsson,” she added, looking askance at John. “And we didn’t give that promise to Mordred, we gave it to Madoc.”
“It’s the same person,” said Jack. “What difference does his name make?”
“Jack,” said Bert mildly, “of all of you, I would have thought you would be the most receptive to the idea of giving the door to Madoc.”
“Me?” Jack said in surprise. “Why?”
“Because you alone have had the experience of getting a second chance