Chapter 10

Destiny had always been a fickle mistress. Although he'd never met her himself, he'd watched many be led astray by the mere mention of her name. How many men had thrown their lives away at the glimpse of a shadow of her hand, an offer so often mistaken for a dance—he'd lost count. Even the Fates had expressed their frustration with her, often leaving the sisters as befuddled as the men she visited. No, he'd never met her himself, and these days, he wasn't sure anyone ever had.

Scott closed the door slowly as he reentered the room. Seeing him walking around the building was rare, but everyone needed time to think right now. He had taken the Pallas family to their room so they could get their first proper rest since the attack. Now, as he found his seat at the table, the Seers could begin what would undoubtedly be a long conversation.

George shifted his focus around the room. The present Seers met his gaze as it moved through them, but he caught himself focusing on the empty chairs. He glared at the head of the table, where he would see Ken leaning into his hand with a smile on his face, if he hadn’t taken too much on himself and run off to meet the apocalypse. The chair immediately to his left found itself under a more nostalgic expression. Chris Hamilton, the former Seer of the Thinker, the last of the Seers who had filled this place when George arrived, had passed in his bed nearly a decade ago, taking with him a lifetime of experience worth more than the right hand of King Midas.

“George?” The call came somewhat distant. The echo in his mind latched onto a memory of the Hero before Ken, a mute, who spoke through telepathy. “George.” This time, it was Jason. “What did you see? What are we dealing with here?”

George heaved a breath and stared into Jason before answering the question. “It appears that these Dragons will be a more complicated sort than we expected.”

Scott laughed under his breath. “Well damn, boss man, I could’ve told you that. The kid’s got some right powerful imaginary friends.”

“His friend is anything but imaginary, Mr. Turner.”

“Well,” Jesse leaned forward, “Scott mentioned Tim was talking to himself before he saved Will. You’re telling us that wasn’t something he just made up to handle his powers?”

“No, Miss Treiv. I’ve seen that before. I’ve banished all sorts of constructs from the minds of men. Constructs of the mind are all unique, but they are all incomplete in one way or another. Monsters no one else can see, people who have since died, ghosts of those who still live, friends with no history, entire organizations founded on nothing. I’ve met them all. No, this was different.”

Jason raised an eyebrow at the old man. “Fine then. What is it? What makes this one special?”

“This one,” George continued, “is completely separate from the boy. It has its own soul. It simply lives within the boy’s mind.”

“Two souls in one head? How? There’s no fight for control?”

“No, but Timothy has almost completely cut it off. The child is afraid of it.”

Marcus decided to join the conversation. “Do you have any idea what ‘it’ is?”

“It claimed to be the Reaper.” The room got quiet. Painfully quiet. Jason stopped fidgeting with his lighter, and Scott put his hands on the table.

“Well, that explains why Tim is afraid of it. Does he rattle when he moves around or—“

“Scott!” Jesse cut him off. “I don’t really think this is the time for a joke.”

“Why not? Not much else we can do. This isn’t exactly our personal grand plan we’re working with right now.” Scott turned back to George. “Did he mention what he wants? Or why he’s in the kid?”

“He didn’t know why. He knows what Tim is, but he wouldn’t say what he wanted, only that he was to help Timothy, within reason.”

“Whose reason?” Marcus questioned.

“His own? God’s? He didn’t say.”

“So what do we do?”

“When the Dragon is found, we’re supposed to take him to the sword. Other than that, it’s up to us. History’s Seers often wrestled with the question, but no one knew what they would actually need to do.”

Jason began fidgeting again and rejoined the discussion. “Anything of note?”

“The Greek Seers toyed with the idea of killing them.”

Jesse came out of her chair. “Killing them?!”

“Yes, well, the Greek Seers were among the earliest cases of an actual gathered number. The power they possessed because of that centralization gave them a sense of superiority. You’ve certainly heard the stories. The Seer of the Hero in that era was exceptionally powerful. He wielded the art of destruction with such grace that he could actually hold lightning, and he was well-versed in transformation as well.”

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

“So they were greedy and power-hungry.”

“They have often been described that way, yes.”

“So,” Scott mused, “no bad ideas in a brainstorm. Has anyone less historically significant followed that train up the tracks?”

“The general consensus is that the Dragons would be too powerful at any stage for the idea to have any merit.” The room grew quiet again before George addressed the group. “It has been an interesting day, my friends, and it has given us much to think about, but I do not suspect we will save the world tonight. It is late, the Pallas family is resting as we speak. I suggest we follow suit. We can pick this up tomorrow, after some proper sleep, and after we give young Timothy the sword as is his birthright. Please meet back here when you wake up. This is something we should do together.”

Marcus marched away from the table first. George watched as the other Seers left silently in short order, until only he and Scott remained at the table. Scott smiled at him, then walked over and placed a hand on Ken’s chair. “Goodnight, Mr. Thompson.”

“Goodnight, Scott.”

Then he was gone, no flash of light, no sound. There one moment, gone the next. The next day came quicker than most, or at least, it seemed to. George made breakfast and returned the Pallas family to the room where they had met. Soon after, one by one, the Seers joined them. Each one clearly returning from a night burdened with very little or no sleep. Scott was the final one to rejoin the group, and the only one without bags under his eyes. He assembled his plate, found his seat, pointed his fork at Jesse and laughed, “Man! You’re starting to look like Jason!”

Jesse smiled. “Better than looking like you.”

Scott grabbed his chest as he gulped down a huge bite from his breakfast. “Oh, my shattered heart! The witch Helga has stricken me so!”

Jason pushed away an empty plate, lit a cigarette, and responded in monotone, “Your heart? Here I was thinking you loved me, Scott.”

“He does,” Marcus laughed, “but you are kinda ugly.”

“Now that we’re all here.” George cut off the banter. “If everyone would follow me. Mister and Missus Pallas, we have something that we believe belongs to Timothy, and we would like him to have it.”

Will spoke first. “What is it?”

“A gift for the Dragon, brought here from far away by a spirit of the water, and sealed away to make sure it can only go into the right hands.”

“That doesn’t really answer my question.”

“Nor will I, sir. I’m afraid that, despite the circumstances, you might find this hard to believe. Please keep an open mind. This is something that our predecessors believed your son would need.”

The walk to the center courtyard was not a short one, shorter at least, if George was not in need of a cane. The Seer base was round, a giant nine-spoked wheel of stone at the center of a small island, built and hidden away from the world a thousand years ago. This place was Mount Olympus; it was Camelot; all those places that Seers had gathered throughout the ages, this place was their successor. The group stepped through a door into the courtyard. Soft green grass, towering trees, and flowers of every color seemed to leap out from the beautifully decorated but utterly human granite and marble halls of the building itself.

Anna let out a gasp. “Where are we?”

George pointed at the sky with his cane. “Our home is a small island just inside the Arctic Circle. This structure takes up pretty much the entire island, and our climate is moderated by runes built into the foundation during its construction. A similar method traps the island between the physical and ethereal world. If you aren’t in it, you can’t see or touch it without being a Seer, and you cannot get in without an invitation.” George leveled his cane in front of him. “The altar at the center of this courtyard is our destination.”

The altar was, even in this garden, a sight to behold. Water from streams and water features throughout the courtyard flowed into a small moat at its perimeter. Crystal clear, with no visible bottom. The altar itself, accessed by a short bridge across the moat, was a circular, stepped platform of solid white marble with gold inlays running throughout, all leading to what appeared to be the peak of a small boulder at the center, clearly a leftover from the island, and driven into that boulder, was a sword. The group approached and George stopped them just before the blade.

“That sword is Excalibur.”

Will and Anna looked at each other, then at the Seers around them. Will spoke their mind. “Excalibur? Like, King Arthur’s Excalibur?”

“The very same.”

“So now you’re telling us King Arthur is a true story?”

“In a sense, yes. The court at Camelot were all Seers. Although, no one actually knows how they died. They just disappeared, all at once, and new Seers started to appear 15 years or so afterwards, confirming that they had indeed all died.”

“Then how did the sword get here?”

“Do you remember the Lady of the Lake in the story?”

“Yes.”

“She wasn’t a Seer, but a student of the Seer of the Thinker of the age, the Master Mage, Merlin. Merlin knew something was coming, but refused to tell her what it was. He gave her the sword and two books, one was his life’s work, a complete collection of every spell from every art that he was able to discover. The other had a spell sealed into every page. He told her not to open it but to come to this desolate, frozen island and stab it with Excalibur. The spells unleashed by this act built the stone around the sword, and sealed it there, only to be drawn by the Dragon destined to save the world.” George looked down at Tim. “This blade, young Mr. Pallas, is yours.”

Anna spoke up. “Tim is five! You want to give him a legendary sword!?”

“It has always been his. If nothing else, he must hold it.”

Will spoke next, slowly, somewhat still in disbelief. “How do you expect him to draw it? He probably wouldn’t be able to lift it even if it weren’t in a rock.”

“For Tim, the blade is meant to be an extension of his power, a catalyst to refine his actions. To him, Excalibur should feel weightless.”

All eyes turned to the boy, who, up to this point, had been utterly silent, staring up at the sword with stars in his eyes. Will knelt down and grabbed his shoulder. “Well, buddy, I guess it's all yours. You just have to get it.”

Tim looked at his father, then to the sword, then back at Will. “The sword?”

“Yeah, the sword.” Will didn’t know what he expected—hesitancy maybe—but Tim was off to the races. The kid ran up to the sword as fast as his legs could carry him, wrapped his hands around the hilt, and heaved. Excalibur didn’t budge.