The Shadow Dragons - James A. Owen [82]
“We should have someone trying to suss out other spies,” Defoe said with a sideways glance at Jakob Grimm. “Whoever they might be.”
“That’s a good idea,” said Chaucer. “Will you take charge of that, Daniel?”
Defoe nodded. “I will.”
“Excellent,” Chaucer said. “Then for the moment, we’ve work to do.”
Jack realized that being in charge of the war preparations meant that he was going to have to speak to the young Nemo. The appearance of the youth and the gleaming Dragonship was not as unusual to those in the Archipelago as it was to him. There had been numerous events caused by the Time Storms that had changed many things in the lands. But this was a harder thing to process. After having caused the older Nemo’s death during the great battle at the Edge of the World, Jack made sure to visit Nemo’s grave every time he’d come to the Archipelago, and he always had plenty to say. But now, with a young Nemo in the very next room, alive, he realized that he couldn’t find any words.
Jack’s musing was interrupted when a strong hand clapped down on his shoulder.
“When first we met,” Charys said, “you were a student who was playacting at being a warrior. Now you are a teacher. And as a descendant of Charon himself, I can truly say there are few callings more noble.”
“A teacher, yes,” Jack replied. “But still playacting at being the warrior, I’m afraid.”
At this the centaur grew serious. “Not playacting, Caretaker. Your deeds are well known throughout the Archipelago, and your bravery and skill are without question. The Far Traveler himself told me that you were a soldier of note in the Summer Country as well. Is that true?”
Jack nodded. “It is. But I’m afraid I didn’t fare much better there than I did here. I still failed to protect the ones who depended on me.”
“We are all here of our own choosing,” Charys countered. “None among us has been coerced, or compelled against his will. Nemo knew what he was doing, and he knew, as do I, the day of his death.”
“I know, and I accepted that, long ago,” Jack said with a fleeting glance over at the young captain he was avoiding. “But I was hardly prepared for . . . for this.”
“I have some of my own troops to attend to,” Charys said as he wheeled about on his hind legs, “but consider this, Caretaker: What if you are the one who makes Nemo into the warrior he becomes? What if this is the opportunity to teach him what he needs to know to truly be a good man?”
“But for what?” Jack said, protesting. “We know what happened to him in the end.”
“If for no other reason,” Charys called back over his shoulder, “teach him well, so that when the time comes in his own future, he will be prepared to pass on what it means to be a man . . .
“. . . to you.”
Charles and Fred landed well short of the tower. They concealed the bicycle in a thicket a few hills to the south of it, then stood up to take stock of their target.
Charles let out a long, slow whistle. It was the Keep of Time, remade as a patchwork lighthouse comprised of doors, rough-hewn stones, and creaky scaffolds. The space between the doors was only broad enough to allow one to open without compromising those adjacent to it, and there were few landings on the stairways—as if the opportunity to pause between doorways were an unthinkable folly.
Unlike the authentic keep, wherein the stairways were on the interior and the doors opened out into whatever time they were anchored to, this construct was exactly the inverse. The structure was built as a hollow tower, and the doors were then inserted into frames, which allowed them to open inward.
“That can’t be safe,” Charles murmured. “It’s practically insane.”
“Why?” asked Fred.
“Because all of the doors are linked to some point in the past,” Charles whispered. “Just harnessing that kind of energy is almost impossible to conceive. But at least in the