The Golden Book
Part I
The Golden Book Series
Cameron McFadden
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2008
Published by:
Cameron McFadden on Smashwords
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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This book is dedicated to Andrew McFadden and Andrew Sheldon—I carry you with me.
PROLOGUE
Dracontis, red dragon and King of Dragonshold, reeled backwards into his throne, gasping for breath. His bodyguards (two of Dragonshold’s finest dragon-warriors) lay crumpled by the throne room doors like stringless puppets.
They didn’t even stand a chance…
Their murderer, a monster known only as Azrael, leered as Dracontis tried to regain his composure. Once, Azrael had been human—but centuries of torment and savagery had scared his face and annihilated whatever humanity he once had; now, clothed in a tattered black tunic and pants, Azrael tensed his left hand, which was wrapped about with bloody bandages.
“How?” Dracontis stammered, his voice echoing throughout the arched, vacant room. “How did you escape?”
“I didn’t escape, King of Dragonshold,” Azrael said—his voice chillingly close, as if he were whispering in Dracontis’ ear. “The Master has returned. He freed me from my prison cell.”
But it is far too soon!
After the Ancients had first defeated Azrael centuries ago, they built a prison cell that was meant to imprison Azrael for five- hundred years; after which time, the Ancients had promised to return to Dragonshold and resurrect the Order of the Flame: a legendary bond between man and dragon.
And then, the Ancients had vowed to defeat Azrael once and for all.
Yet, only four hundred years had passed since that day and Dragonshold was not prepared for Azrael’s return. Without the Order, the land would surely fall to ruin.
A chill chewed up Dracontis’ spine. He straightened his wings to conceal a tiny compartment at the base of his throne, because inside this compartment were two very valuable objects— and surely the only hope Dragonshold still had left.
Azrael must not find them.
“But this time,” said Azrael. “There will be no humans to help you. The Order of the Flame dies tonight.”
Rage throttled Dracontis’ fear as if it had physical from, like a pair of hands. Dracontis was no coward. He was a red dragon who had defeated countless enemies in countless battles in his prime… his foe today could be no different.
“You forget, monster,” Dracontis nearly spat when he pronounced this last word, “that Dragonshold has prepared for your return. The timing doesn’t matter. I shall gather the remaining three priests of the Order. Contact will be established with the Realm of Men.”
“Have you not heard?” Azrael asked, savoring the moment. “As of this night, the other three priests of the Order lay silent. Murdered, I’m afraid.”
“You’re lying, fiend.”
The four priests of the Order, delegates solely entrusted with the location of the City of Ancients, had lain in hiding throughout Dragonshold for hundreds of years—their locations almost as secret as the knowledge they protected. Azrael could never know where the City was located, or the Order could never be resurrected.
Azrael reached into his tunic and tossed three distinctly-colored necklaces onto the marble floor.
Dracontis’ resolve cracked like an egg shell. “How?”
The necklaces before him were both symbols of status and lockets, exclusively given to each of the four priests of the Order. For a priest to part with their locket, Dracontis knew, was a pain far worse than death.
Spots of blood encrusted the necklaces and each locket lay open—and empty. Azrael had already removed the keys inside.
Instinctively, uncontrollably, Dracontis gripped his own locket, overwhelmed with a terrible realization: I am the only priest of the Order still alive. But Dracontis had been entrusted to guard something particularly important; inside his locket lay the rune crystal… the most powerful device Dragonshold had ever known.
“Now, I do appreciate what I found in the other three necklaces,” Azrael said, holding up three metal keys (keys to Dracwyn Prison, no less). Azrael paused, staring at Dracontis’ necklace. “But I still need the rune crystal.”
Yet Dracontis knew the truth: the rune crystal wasn’t inside his locket. It was tucked away safely inside his throne and Dracontis was prepared to give his life to keep it hidden from Azrael. So instead, Dracontis did his best to act surprised. “No, your Master needs the rune crystal,” he said at last. “You kill for your Master.”
“I do not enjoy killing,” Azrael blurted out. And for a moment, he faltered—his bloodshot eyes softened and Dracontis caught a glimpse of the torment inside Azrael; the perpetual agony he was forced to endure. “I only want peace.”
“I can give you peace.”
Though Dracontis couldn’t have known this, Azrael clenched his bandaged left hand and pushed a tiny blade—as small as a razor-blade and twice as sharp—into his palm until he drew fresh blood. Then, Azrael straightened his left arm and a silver-like snake slithered out of his sleeve.
This was no ordinary snake, either; this was Eseldor, and she was Azrael’s weapon of choice. In a matter of seconds, Eseldor went perfectly taut and changed into a polished blade… a blade that had killed hundreds. “Only the Master can give me peace.”
In one terrible moment, Azrael fixed his eyes on Dracontis… and Dracontis realized that he wasn’t about to let him live—not when Dracontis still had the locket around his neck.
The next moments were something of a blur.
Dracontis spat out a fireball that was more black smoke than anything else (most dragons were impervious to fire and so, it seemed, was Azrael). Then, in all the smoke and confusion, Dracontis leapt off his throne and vaulted through the air, his claws bared. With one beat of his mighty wings, Dracontis closed the gap, ready to rip his claws across Azrael’s face.
But his claws stopped just a few inches short. He was so close, Dracontis could feel Azrael’s breath on his scales.
But Azrael was too fast—already, he had lunged forward with Eseldor and stabbed Dracontis right through his stomach. For a few confused moments, Dracontis tried to move, but his body wouldn’t respond. He was broken.
At last Azrael removed his blade and Dracontis collapsed upon the throne room floor in a mangled heap. Panting and wheezing, he waited for Azrael to strike the fatal blow.
But that blow never came; instead, Eseldor crept back up Azrael’s left sleeve as he knelt down beside Dracontis. “Go now, and be in peace—as I shall soon be,” he whispered, then ripped the locket from Dracontis’ neck. “For at long last, the Order has fallen.”
The Order. In an instant, Dracontis realized the horrible truth: If I die, there will be no one left who knows where the City of Ancients is hidden. Somehow, despite all their precautions… all the fail-safes that the Ancients had devised, Dracontis was the sole protector of the greatest secret Dragonshold had even known.
Dracontis heard Azrael leave the throne room and walk down the corridor. His thoughts were scattered. Dracontis was losing blood, and fast.
I don’t have much time. The rune crystal must reach the Realm of Men.
The desperate task ahead, Dracontis knew, would require every last second of his life.
Once he knew that he was alone, Dracontis struggled to raise himself on one claw and clutched his wound. The throne of Dragonshold lay before him, blurred and seemingly miles away.
Dracontis staggered onto his hind claws and pictured his three murdered brethren; he thought of the past generations… and how this last action was the only way to save Dragonshold from certain destruction.
Dracontis gripped the base of his throne and pulled his body close.
Then, he slid a bloody claw into a small indentation, concealed beneath the royal seal of his throne, and pulled open a hidden compartment.
Inside lay two objects: the rune crystal and a small, golden book.
Dracontis should have been grateful that Azrael had not discovered these things—after all, they represented the only hope that the Order could still be resurrected, just as the Ancients had planned—yet, as he grabbed both objects, Dracontis started crying.
Trevor Thomas: this grim burden was never meant to fall upon your shoulders, he thought, tears blurring his vision. But so it must be. And I am so very sorry that I shall not be there to help you.
Dracontis opened up the golden book to a page he had read thousands of times before. Then, he used his own blood to write down four sentences—a riddle that only Trevor Thomas could solve… a riddle that detailed how to travel into Dragonshold and (most importantly) how to find the City of Ancients.
It is done, then. The secret is safe.
Dracontis clamped the golden book underneath an arm and held the rune crystal in his other claw. Then, he limped out of his throne room and down the palace corridor, towards the Gateway.
*******
Trevor Thomas.
Though you will never meet me—though you have always lived in the Realm of Men—know that I have been watching you. I have read about every moment of your life. Often I have longed to comfort you, to protect you, to stand beside you. And know that, even though I’ve never seen your face, I love you… just as your father did.
You are our last hope.
For it is you, Trevor Thomas, who shall defeat Azrael and resurrect the Order of the Flame—I know that now, just as surely as the sun rises each day. The task ahead shall be difficult; but you must always have faith. Because, if you fail, Dragonshold shall be lost forever.
My prayers shall be with you. And know that, no matter what happens, I shall always be a part of you, Trevor Thomas. I carry you with me—always.
CHAPTER 1
On March 15th, at exactly 3:15 p.m., Trevor Thomas’ cell phone beeped.
It didn’t ring, mind you, because no one was calling him. No, Trevor’s cell beeped simply because today was March 15th—a most important day for Trevor… a day he had circled on his bedroom calendar, in his daily planner and even programmed into his phone.
Anxiously now, Trevor glanced again at Professor Richard Ticker’s classroom clock—which was an unbearably two-and-a-half minutes slow. Trevor tapped his pencil on the side of his desk, keeping rhythm with the clocks second-hand.
One hundred seventy-nine… one hundred seventy-eight…
Trevor counted those final one-hundred-and-eighty seconds, until—at last!—Professor Ticker’s lecture on plate tectonics was cut short by a shrill bell: school was out. In seconds, Trevor’s geology class had snatched up their backpacks, jumped up from their desks and were now shoving their way towards the classroom exit.
And, if today hadn’t been March 15th, Trevor would have certainly stayed after class—to make sure he still had an “A”, or to verify today’s homework assignment and or simply to avoid the after-class rush. But today was March 15th, so Trevor was at the front of the mob, pushing his way down the hall, past the exit doors and into the Trenton High School parking lot.
You see, Trevor wanted to get home as fast as possible. He spotted his rusted ‘87 station wagon parked off in the corner and fished out his car keys.
But suddenly, Trevor stopped in mid-stride and his heart stopped dead inside his chest, because just then, he saw Mariah Murphy (Trevor’s next-door neighbor—and the girl of Trevor’s dreams).
There she was, not twenty feet away from him, looking quite lovely in her blue-and-white cheerleading uniform and her maple hair French-braided to each side. Mariah had just opened the front door to her black Honda Civic.
Trevor waved stupidly, but Mariah didn’t seem to notice him. She never did. Instead, Mariah stepped inside her Civic and started the engine.
Trevor meant to say something like “How’s it going, Mariah?” but his throat was much drier than he remembered, and all that escaped his lips was a mumbling that matched the raspy noises of her Civic’s engine.
Mariah backed out of her parking space and shifted into drive.
Rooted to the asphalt, Trevor watched as Mariah’s Civic exited the Trenton High School parking lot and disappeared from sight, then sighed and turned back around. For once, he had more important things to do than fantasize about Mariah Murphy.
Trevor went over to unlock his station wagon, but found that he didn’t have his keys anymore; he had dropped them when he saw Mariah Murphy.
*******
While driving up to his cul-de-sac, Trevor’s cell rang again, but Trevor didn’t answer; instead, he let the call go straight to voicemail then listened to the message. It was his Aunt Sophie, of course, calling because today was March 15th.
“Hi honey,” she said, “unless my clock is wrong, it’s about that magical time. 3:15 right? I’m just calling to wish you luck, even though I know you’ll get in. Princeton will be lucky to have you… oh, this is so exciting! Call me back, okay? I love you,” just as she hung up, Aunt Sophie got choked up, but this was to be expected, so Trevor deleted her voicemail. He was going to call Aunt Sophie back, but not just yet. Not until Trevor checked his email.
Trevor pulled up to his driveway and found that no one was home; he wasn’t surprised, though.
Aunt Sophie (a widower who had provided for Trevor ever since his parents died ten years ago) still had a couple of hours left working at a telephone-sales company called Sterner and Klein. It wasn’t her dream job, to be sure, but Aunt Sophie made good money there because she was a good salesperson—she could sell freezers to Eskimos.
His cousin Jonnie wasn’t home, either. Jonnie was, in his own words, “taking out that fine redhead for some lunch and then making out with her”—which, amazingly enough, he would probably end up doing. That redhead’s name was Elizabeth, but Jonnie wasn’t much for names, or for relationships for that matter. Thinking about this, Trevor felt a familiar twinge of jealousy.
But today was March 15th and Trevor had no time for jealousy. Humming Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, Trevor shifted into park and jumped out of his station wagon, but didn’t mind to shut off the engine. His heart beat was racing.
Trevor tried the front door, but knew that it was locked; like any good parent, Aunt Sophie always locked up before she left for work.
“This isn’t a Dwarven-door, Aunt Sophie,” Trevor murmured happily (referring to one of his favorite fantasy series, The Lord of the Rings) and overturned a rock in the front yard, where he found the spare house key Scotch-taped underneath the rock, then unlocked the door.
Leaving the front door wide open, Trevor sprinted across the living room and down the hallway, then kicked open his bedroom door, short of breath now.
The smell inside his bedroom was so awful, it made Trevor’s nose curl. Once again, he had forgotten to open up his only bedroom window before school, so his bedroom smelt a lot like sweaty underwear that had been left out in the sun too long.
But he didn’t bother opening up the window. He even walked right past his most precious possession: a redwood wardrobe that held his massive collection of fantasy literature. Ordinarily, he loved to read his fantasy books after school; but today was March 15th, and he didn’t have time for fantasy.
Instead, Trevor sat down at his computer.
His finger trembled as he pressed the power button and the monitor lit up.
This is it. Judgment Day.
Impatiently, Trevor watched as his computer booted up and his wireless card connected via broadband; he kept on humming, even though his tempo was going double time, like the wing-beats of a humming-bird. He clicked eight times to open up the internet and scrolled the mouse wheel incessantly while he waited. When his computer finally connected, he signed into his email account and clicked on his inbox.
But as the web page loaded, Trevor felt very dizzy. Everything—the last four years of algebra tests, English essays, Honors courses, vending-machine lunches, after school study sessions, SAT scores… all of it had been leading up to this very moment.
Getting accepted into Princeton University.
Trevor looked up and glanced at his most recent emails. One was titled “zero-percent APR for six months” from Visa, another was the weekly newsletter from Jerry M. Blue’s Emporium for the Fantastically Inclined…
And (Trevor’s heart skipped a beat) an email from the Princeton University Admissions Department.
He right-clicked to open the email, afraid that double- clicking might somehow freeze his computer or erase this wonderful email from his inbox.
Miraculously, though, the email opened in seconds. Trevor read the email:
Princeton University Admissions Department
P.O. Box 4457-190
Trenton, New Jersey 86731-0090
“Dear Prospective Student:
“The Princeton University Admissions Department has exhaustively reviewed your admission application and has collectively determined both your academic and extra-curricular standings to be both exemplary and worthy of extraneous praise.
It was all like a dream. Trevor scrolled down to read more.
“However, we regret to inform you that the records submitted per your application do not sufficiently address the criteria for admission. As such, the Admissions Department cannot possibly grant you admission into Princeton University. Please accept our apologies, as we sincerely hope this shall not deter you from seeking other opportunities at further education, offered at other universities—”
Something cracked inside of Trevor.
He hesitated, unsure of what to do now, so he scrolled up to read the letter again. Something was wrong.
“The Princeton University Admissions Department has exhaustively reviewed your admission application…”—but Trevor didn’t get past the second line.
His forehead was sweaty. Something was very, very wrong.
I didn’t get in.
Trevor started crushing his mouse until his knuckles turned white.
I didn’t get…
“Hey, quit munkin’ it in here!”
“Cheese and crackers!” Trevor screeched, accidentally disconnecting his mouse by flinging it across the room. In a panic, Trevor turned off his computer screen and spun around in his chair.
His cousin Jonnie was lounging in the doorway, dressed in a bathrobe, with cactus-patch hair and a smirk. “What were you lookin’ at bro?”
“Uh,” Trevor hesitated. “Inappropriate material.”
“Well, at least you’re honest,” Jonnie stretched and almost left, but stopped. “Hey, have you received that email from Princeton yet?”
Out of reflex, Trevor was about to tell Jonnie the truth, but stopped. He thought about all the preparation, all the effort that Jonnie and Aunt Sophie had put into today. And they expected that Trevor would get in to Princeton University.
And they would be so disappointed in me.
“Not yet,” Trevor lied.
“Let me know, ok?” Jonnie said. “Remember: we’ve got reservations at Charly’s at 7:30 to celebrate. And we’re going to get you shnockered.”
Never, even in his darkest of days, had Trevor ever thought that he would forget about his reservation at Charly’s. March 15th, at 7:30 p.m. And yet, in the span of thirty minutes, he had—and Jonnie’s casual reminder hit him like a backpack filled with Anne McCaffrey’s Dragonriders of Pern series.
Charly’s… oh no. Trevor was speechless. Jonnie left his bedroom, leaving Trevor alone. This can’t be happening.
Trevor kept staring ahead, blankly, for a very long time. Something was very, very wrong.
Outside his bedroom, Trevor could hear that his station wagon was still running.
CHAPTER 2
Coriath, the crippled son of Dracontis and heir to the throne of Dragonshold, collapsed next to his father’s mangled corpse. He knew he should be crying. Advisors, Council members and palace staff all stood around the archways of the throne room, but said nothing—most had already given their condolences. Besides, there wasn’t much to be said. For the first time in Dragonshold’s history, a king had been murdered.
Protocol dictated that Dracontis’ body should first be examined by the Military State, but they had yet to arrive and (at the moment, anyway) no one seemed too worried about protocol; but all were wondering who could’ve killed Dracontis.
But Coriath knew. His father’s fatal wound had already crusted over with a silver-like residue, which was the mark of Eseldor, Azrael’s serpentine weapon of choice. When he was a hatchling, Coriath had often heard stories of Eseldor’s destruction; but never once did he think that he might witness it firsthand, in his lifetime.
There can be no doubt then, Coriath concluded miserably. Azrael has returned—more than one-hundred years early.
Versik, Coriath’s mentor and friend, sat down beside Coriath, looking unusually haggard, which was understandable given the circumstances. “His Highness was murdered sometime in the night,” he said gruffly. “In the darkest hours, some say. Yes, it must have been after three o’ clock, because I set in at half past one, and if I had heard—” Versik faltered.
Coriath nodded absent-mindedly. It seemed strange to him, but just half an hour ago, Coriath had submitted his resignation to Tragonus and the Military State. A half an hour ago, Coriath was sick of reporting to Tragonus’ squadron, and sick of being called a cripple—and was prepared to face his father, because Coriath knew he would most certainly be mad.
But then, the unthinkable happened.
And a half hour later, the throne room was eerily silent and for some reason, Coriath couldn’t look away from his father’s corpse. All he could think about was the argument they might have had if his father was still alive. You see, Coriath was not a normal dragon. He had been born with a defect that made his right wing much smaller than his left. This made it hard to fly, but even harder to fit in with other dragons, especially in Tragonus’ squadron.
“You don’t understand how hard it is for me,” Coriath had planned on telling his father. “I can’t fly like the other dragons. I just can’t.”
His father, of course, wouldn’t have listened—he never listened. He would have re-enlisted his son in Tragonus’ squadron, in hopes that it would make a normal dragon out of Coriath; and Coriath probably would’ve run away to the Western Skies and wish that his father was dead.
But now, that all seemed like some sick joke.
Coriath had never really loved his father, but as he stared into his father’s barren eyes, he knew he couldn’t live without him, either. Please… he pleaded. Please don’t leave me, father. Then, Coriath cried. His tears mixed with his father’s dried blood and he almost felt comfortable in this hopelessness.
But outside the throne room, Coriath could hear the rhythmic clanking of metallic armor approaching down the hallway.
The Military State of Dragonshold.
“Oh, in the name of the Ancients,” Versik said. “They’re much too late for an investigation.”
Moments later, both throne room doors burst open, and a squadron of red and blue dragons marched inside, equipped with spears and shields and polished helmets, so that the dragons looked like carbon copies of one another. The squadron halted, then slammed the ends of their spears down on the palace floor and saluted. “All hail the Military State of Dragonshold,” the squadron shouted mechanically.
After this introduction, their commander stepped forward, and (with short, calculated movements) approached Dracontis’ corpse. He nodded curtly at the palace staff and withdrew a small notebook from his knapsack.
Coriath knew, without even looking up, that this dragon could only be Tragonus—commander of the 1st division of the Military State of Dragonshold.
Coriath knew him well, and rightfully feared him. For the thirty-six miserable days Coriath had spent in his squadron, Tragonus had spat, kicked and jeered at him until Coriath became the laughing stock of the bunch; not that he was surprised, though. Coriath’s birth defects made him an easy target. Coriath could still recall, word-for-word, what Tragonus told him after he submitted his resignation:
“Can’t say that I’m surprised,” he had told Coriath. “I always knew you were a coward. My squadron will be better off without you, anyway. But I hate to think what your father will think of this.”
Now that Coriath had left Tragonus’ squadron, he was afraid to face the Commander.
“Tragonus, commander of the 1st division, you bless us with your presence,” Versik said. “We welcome you, and your division, to the throne of Dragonshold.”
At last, Coriath looked up. Tragonus was wearing his dress- armor, which served no practical purpose except to dazzle his subordinates. His dragon-mail was covered in an assortment of golden trinkets; a cloak cascaded from his shoulders and a broadsword, garnished with jewels, lay sheathed upon his belt. But all of these embellishments, Coriath knew quite well, had been stolen by Tragonus himself—and all in the name of the Military State.
But even in his finest attire, Tragonus could not hide his age. His crimson, battle-worn scales had lost their sheen, and instead hung upon his weary bones. He looked tired.
“Coriath, son of Dracontis,” Tragonus said, staring past Versik, right to Coriath. “My deepest sympathies for your loss.” Coriath winced; his tone was doting, yet awfully fake and Coriath didn’t believe it for one moment.
“I trust you have a warrant,” Versik said. “Why, of course,” Tragonus replied.
On cue, Tragonus’ second-in-command (a red dragon named Lieutenant Goloth) stepped out from the ranks, reached into his knapsack and removed a scroll. As Lieutenant Goloth unrolled the scroll, Coriath caught a glimpse of an emblem: a dragon in mid- flight, with a sword and crown crossed behind him—the official seal of the Military State.
“The Military State of Dragonshold,” he read aloud, “hereby declares the body of Dracontis and all pertinent evidence to lie under the jurisdiction and discretion of 1st Division Commander Tragonus. All witnesses must therefore—”
“You’re late, Commander,” Versik whispered while Lieutenant Goloth kept on reading. “Your investigation was supposed to begin hours ago.”
Tragonus flicked an invisible piece of lint off his dragon- mail. “My apologies, but my squadron has been quite busy today. We have investigated three other murders, all of which occurred yesterday evening,” he said and pointed over at Dracontis’ corpse. “And all of them with similar chest trauma.”
A cold wave of nausea washed over Coriath. Three other murders. Before he could think better of it, Coriath rose to his hind claws and faced Tragonus. “Did you find silver residue on the corpses?”
For a moment, their eyes met and Coriath feared the Commander would start yelling at Coriath for leaving his squadron. But Tragonus seemed cool and composed. “Yes,” he replied. “A silver residue on each corpse.”
“The Priests of the Order.”
Tragonus cringed as if the very mention of the Order had a physical form, like a spear or a sword. “Ah, yes, the Order of the Flame. It is probable that all four of these murders are linked to this… cult.”
Hearing the Order blasphemed by such a high-ranking official infuriated Coriath—but it was to be expected. Because both peace and prosperity had blossomed since Azrael’s defeat centuries ago, many had chosen to ignore the words of the Ancients. Faith in a resurrection of the Order of the Flame had eroded, and pagan religions sprouted in its path. It was only a matter of time, Coriath knew, before this faithlessness corroded the hearts of those in the very highest positions of power.
Coriath even wanted to spit fire right in Tragonus’ face—he wouldn’t be burned by it, mind you, but it would disorientate and confuse him. Spewing fire at another dragon wasn’t so much an attack as it was a breach of conduct. But Coriath thought better of it and kept his mouth shut.
“The Military State has identified all three of the deceased as possible leaders of this cult,” Tragonus continued.
Azrael has already murdered the other three priests of the Order. Yet, as terrible as this realization was, another more terrible thought eclipsed Coriath’s mind. “Did your reports mention any necklaces located on or near the three corpses?”
“Necklaces?” Tragonus asked, clearly surprised by Coriath’s assertiveness.
“Necklaces,” Coriath repeated. “Every priest of the Order is entrusted with an individual necklace. And each necklace… well, each locket rather holds an important key.”
“The reports make no mention of such accessories.”
Coriath glanced back at his father’s corpse, but there was no locket around his neck, either, which could only mean one thing: Azrael had already taken the three keys to Dracwyn Prison. Soon, Azrael would free his siblings.
But worse still, it also meant that Azrael had the most powerful device Dragonshold had ever known—the rune crystal.
CHAPTER 3
Wishing that he really did have the flu, Trevor Thomas dialed Aunt Sophie’s cell number and waited. Her phone rang once, then twice.
Please don’t pick up…
Three times.
Please don’t pick up…
Four times.
“Howdy! You’ve reached—”
Trevor yelped and snapped his cell shut then dropped it onto his bed. Trembling all over, Trevor took in some deep breaths. It’s just her answering machine, doofus. Of course, Trevor felt awful about lying to Aunt Sophie, but he had to do this—because he couldn’t tell Aunt Sophie the truth about his rejection from Princeton University. Not right now, at least.
With renewed determination, Trevor picked up his phone a second time and pressed redial. This time, Aunt Sophie’s cell rang twice.
“Howdy! You’ve reached Sophia Biggs. I will be out of the office Saturday, March 16th and Sunday, March 17th, to celebrate my nephew’s acceptance into Princeton University. He’s worked so hard, you know…” Aunt Sophie even got choked up on her own answering message, “…please leave your name and a detailed message after the beep.”
The beep lasted for a few moments, but Trevor hesitated even longer. “Uh, hi Aunt Sophie. How’s it going today?”
Remember, you’re sick.
Trevor coughed into the receiver a few times. “Hey, listen… I’m not feeling too good. I caught some stomach flu going around school. I can’t make it to Charly’s to celebrate… but grab me some take-out, okay?”
Trevor hung up before he could say anything else. Something truthful, like: “I can’t make it because today, I got rejected from Princeton.”
And Aunt Sophie would be calling back—simply because today was March 15th. See, ever since Trevor knew that he wanted to go to Princeton, he also knew about March 15th.
Affectionately deemed “Judgment Day” by Trevor’s father, March 15th was the annual deadline when the Princeton Admissions Department sent out thousands of acceptance emails—and, statistically, three times as many rejection emails. Way back in 1947, when Princeton was founded, applicants were forced to wait weeks to see their results, but nowadays the results were delivered instantaneously—at 3:15 p.m. on March 15th.
Trevor had read his email by 3:17. And he had been miserable ever since.
Trevor’s cell started ringing; sure enough, it was Aunt Sophie calling from Charly’s.
And ever since Trevor knew about “Judgment Day”, he knew he wanted to celebrate at Charly’s—a five-star Italian piazza that had ancient ties to Princeton. It was a great tradition, Trevor’s father had told him, to celebrate a student’s admittance to Princeton at Charly’s; as such, March 15th was their busiest day of the year.
This year, the dean was even scheduled to make an appearance at eight, to shake hands with some of 2008’s incoming freshman. “I need to be there,” Trevor had told Aunt Sophie incessantly. And so, nine-and-a-half months in advance, Aunt Sophie had called Charly’s and made reservations—March 15th, at 7:30 p.m. Trevor had even rented a tuxedo for the occasion.
Trevor checked the time on his phone. 7:37 p.m. His tux was still in his closet and his cell kept on ringing. He pressed the end button until his phone turned off then, he threw it across the room.
And now, because of some bland, two-paragraph template e-mail from the Admissions Department, Trevor’s future at Princeton (and his reservation at Charly’s) had been destroyed.
Crushed, even. Murdered.
The Admissions Department didn’t even bother personalizing the email: the forwarding address had been alphabetized, and comprised hundreds of applicants whose last name started with “T”—from Taalshalf to Turveen. And all of these people, Trevor mused, were now just as miserable as he was… he even thought about calling some of them for support.
But the worst part was that his rejection from Princeton affected more than just his immediate future—studying at Princeton had been a Thomas family tradition. His own great-grandfather had been a member of Princeton’s first graduating class in 1907; his grandfather, Jordan Thomas, graduated from Princeton in 1948; and Trevor’s father spent four years there. “Four wonderful, wonderful years,” his father had told him. “And someday, when you’re big and strong and older, you can go there too.”
And now, more than ever before, Trevor needed therapy.
Aunt Sophie’s “secret” liquor stash downstairs seemed like a good start—except that Trevor had never drank a drop of alcohol in his life and he wasn’t about to start now. Instead, Trevor wanted his own drug-of-choice, a cure he had counted on a million times before.
Fantasy literature.
CHAPTER 4
Trevor Thomas sat back down at his computer one last time. He glanced at the screen, which was still open to his rejection email from Princeton University, then held in the power button until his monitor went black and (just like his computer screen) he erased the rejection letter from his mind.
He needed fantasy.
On his feet now, Trevor squinted in the twilight, his eyes swollen and red. He wiped crusted tears from his cheeks and peered about his bedroom, then checked his watch. It was 8:21, which meant that he still had a good six hours left—eight hours, if he wanted.
But first he needed his key.
Trevor reached into his front pocket and grabbed an ornate key and his breathing started to ease. He ran his thumb across the curious hieroglyphic etched upon the key’s surface, and smiled.
Ah, my key… my ticket.
Then, he turned to face the only object in his bedroom that such a bizarre key could unlock: a redwood wardrobe, whose edges were covered with similar alien hieroglyphs. But as he bounded towards the wardrobe, he found it impossible to ignore all the memories that this wardrobe had come to represent.
*******
Trevor’s parents had been killed in a car accident on the I-40 freeway more than ten years ago; after that, young Trevor had become confused, angry and lost, and spent weeks wandering about his three-story house. Most days, he went looking for his mom and dad, hoping that he would find out where they were hiding, but others times, he just wanted to find a quiet, alone place to cry. One day, he stumbled upon a cracked panel in the garage ceiling and, after using a ladder and a screwdriver from his father’s toolbox, he hoisted himself up into an attic.
He choked as soon as he stepped inside; the dust here was unbelievably thick.
Kneeling down, Trevor noticed a redwood wardrobe, hidden away by labeled cardboard boxes and spider webs and was positively spellbound by it. The wardrobe reminded him of a marvelous chapter-book he had read in school—about a wardrobe, a witch and a snowy world with a lamppost.
And, because he had been looking for his parents all day, Trevor decided to open up the redwood wardrobe and step inside, just like the children in his chapter-book. But the wardrobe didn’t lead to a magical world, even when he closed the wardrobe doors. Instead, he waited inside that wardrobe for hours, rocking side to side in the stuffy, ancient darkness.
But even though the redwood wardrobe was not a magical gateway, and even though his parents never came out from their hiding spot, young Trevor grew quite fond of the wardrobe. When he was forced to move in with his closest living relatives (his aunt Sophie and his cousin Jonnie) Trevor lugged the redwood wardrobe along with him.
Within a month, Trevor bought the remaining six chapter-books in that marvelous fantasy series and stacked them on the floor of his wardrobe. And soon enough, after Trevor built in a series of shelves, the redwood wardrobe became much more than a magical gateway into another world—it became a gateway to hundreds.
Trevor’s wardrobe lead to the shire of Middle-Earth, into the Yokohama circling Pern’s pristine skies, to the Subtle Knife that cut through the very fabric of the universe, to the Hogwarts Express that departed from platform 9 and ¾, even to the labyrinth of The Death Gate Cycle.
*******
And they are all right here, in front of me.
Trevor savored this moment, just like it was his favorite dish at a restaurant, then thrust his key into a hexagonal slot just above the left doorknob of the wardrobe. After a satisfying metal crunch, Trevor twisted the key and opened up his wardrobe.
And inside—there were hundreds, upon hundreds of six- dollar fantasy paperbacks, all with spines cracked white from vigorous readings. In one corner of his wardrobe was a reclining leather chair; in the other lay a plastic fan and a nice, 60-watt reading light. But behind all of this was something truly special: homemade shelves that were meticulously arranged with Trevor’s collection of proper fantasy literature.
Partially out of due reverence and nostalgia, the first fantasy series Trevor had ever read was centered on the top shelf: C.S. Lewis’ The Chronicles of Narnia. Then, Perlandia, The Dark Tower, and a collection of Lewis’ short stories rounded out the shelf.
A shelf below, the first six books in J.K. Rowling’s popular, yet imaginative and heartfelt series shared space with Phillip Pullman’s sprawling, multi-universe trilogy His Dark Materials. Below that, Trevor designated a shelf for his love of dragons—twenty-two doses of Anne McCaffrey’s intoxicating medley of science fiction and fantasy. Here, each book was brimming with descriptions of the profound spiritual connection that McCaffrey’s dragons shared with their riders—something that Trevor longed to share with someone in his own life.
J.R.R. Tolkien’s archetypal trilogy, The Lord of the Rings, lay a shelf lower, alongside An Illustrated Guide to the Hobbit, the Silmarillion, and Tales from Middle-Earth. Trevor had also tossed in some of Brian Jacques’ rodent-themed Redwall series, Terry Pratchett’s delightfully skewed Discworld series (Trevor particularly enjoyed Pratchett’s tongue-in-cheek innuendoes to other fantasy novels) some of Madeleine L’Engle’s work, and Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman’s septet series The Death Gate Cycle.
It was all overwhelming…
…but tonight, Trevor could only pick one. He frowned. Just one book to hide inside.
But which one?
Trevor took his time, weighing the severity of this decision. After all, tonight was not normal.
No—in Trevor’s life, normal was tripping down the stairs at his high school; normal was sleeping in class and drooling on his textbook; normal was choking on his own spit while he was talking with Mariah Murphy. These things were normal.
But tonight, Trevor’s very future had been destroyed.
C.S. Lewis was a comforting choice. Trevor would have to start at Book II, of course, at The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.
Perhaps tonight, safe in his own magical wardrobe, Trevor would accompany Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy on their noble quest through the Land of Narnia. He could have tea with Faun Tumnus, journey with Mr. Beaver to meet the mighty lion Aslan, fight the armies of the White Witch, and finally he would emerge from his own wardrobe, as if no time had passed at all. He knew it all by heart.
Or, perhaps McCaffrey—Trevor could read Dragonsdawn. Perhaps tonight, he would wake up in the spaceship Yokohama after a twenty-year cryogenic sleep, then board a departing pod and survive in Pern’s primal habitat. Tonight, he could flee with his fellow villagers, just as hatchling fire lizards defend their town from the first Threadfall (the sworn enemy of McCaffrey’s dragons) and ask geneticist Kitti Ping Yung to genetically enhance these lizards to grow into dragons. And all the while, Trevor could long for a dragon of his own.
But Trevor just shook his head. Tonight was desperate.
Tonight, more than anything else, he wanted to pretend that he wasn’t alone. He wanted to pretend that someone else in the world felt the same way he did—someone who knew what it was like to lose their parents at a young age, someone who felt alienated at school, who yearned for an escape from reality.
Trevor snatched The Sorcerer’s Stone off his bookshelf. Since he was on the verge of a breakdown, Trevor wanted to curl up inside J.K. Rowling’s intimate, miraculous world. Tonight, he would board the Hogwarts Express at Platform 9 and 3/4, with a caged owl, his crooked wooden wand, a sub-par broomstick and a handful of gold coins and travel to Hogwart’s School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Tonight, Trevor would skim all the way to page 237.
But then, he would stop.
Because then, Trevor would read the next three pages word- for-word, with a happy sort of sadness. On page 237, Harry Potter discovers the Mirror of Erised (which, read backwards, is the Mirror of Desire), and reads the inscription on the top: erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. But this too, is a trick—read backwards, it says “I show not your face but your heart's desire”. As such, Ron Weasly sees himself as Head Boy and Quidditch Captain and holding the Quidditch Cup, while Harry Potter sees his parents, as well as what appears to be a crowd of relatives.
Trevor was going to read The Sorcerer’s Stone because tonight, he wanted to pretend that he, too, was going to see his parents again.
He smiled; his plan felt like a mug of hot chocolate on a cold, rainy day.
Almost giddy now, Trevor switched on his plastic fan and adjusted his reading light. Everything needed to be perfect.
In The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, C.S. Lewis wrote that “it is very foolish to shut oneself into any wardrobe.”
Ah, Mr. Lewis, Trevor thought. You don’t know what you’re missing.
With this, he reached out and shut both wardrobe doors then turned to face his leather chair. He was about to sit down but stopped short.
For the first time, he noticed a book and reddish object lying on the cushion of his chair.
What the—
Trevor couldn’t believe it. After all, he had read every book in his wardrobe at least twice. He knew their covers by heart… but the book and object that lay in front of him were frighteningly unfamiliar.
Trevor frowned and reached down.
How did these get in here?
There, in the center of his leather chair, was a reddish crystal set atop a golden book.
CHAPTER 5
Coriath stumbled backwards, reeling from a most terrifying discovery.
Azrael has the rune crystal. The armies of Dragonshold (even the Military State) stood little chance against such power.
But Commander Tragonus continued on, oblivious to this impending threat. “The State also received word from Dracwyn Prison,” he said.
It can only be about Azrael’s escape, Coriath ruminated. Ages ago, Dracwyn Prison had once been a mine and was operated by greedy dwarves in search of valuable jewels; unwittingly, they had uncovered the rune crystal and brought Azrael to life. After thousands of deaths, the Ancients managed to defeat Azrael and turned Dracwyn Mine into a prison, imprisoned him and locked Azrael’s cell with rune magic.
“According to the State’s report, the prisoner in the primary holding cell of Dracwyn Prison has escaped,” Tragonus said. “Additionally, six prison guards are unaccounted for. It is the State’s assertion that these guards were killed, possibly by the escaped criminal.”
Like Coriath, Versik held little respect for the cold analytical tactics of the Military State, and scoffed. “Do not pretend, Commander, that you don’t know what evil was held in Dracwyn Prison. Azrael has broken free.”
Tragonus cleared his throat, clearly irritated. “The State believes that the aforementioned murders were not conducted by an individual, as you assert, Versik, but rather by a group of suspects that are working to achieve a mutual goal. Their motive is unclear at this time.”
“That’s idiotic,” Coriath blurted out. He wanted to take those words back, because Tragonus fell silent, but it was already too late. His words must have hit a nerve, too, because in an instant Tragonus’ calculating demeanor melted away, revealing his true nature—hot-blooded fury.
Coriath had seen this before, when he was part of Tragonus’ squadron, and knew that Tragonus exercised neither logic nor control while he was in this state.
And because of this, Coriath was terrified.
Steam shot out from Tragonus’ nostrils as he threw back his cloak and grabbed the hilt of his broadsword. “Hold your tongue, knave,” he hissed at Coriath.
“You dare to threaten the prince of Dragonshold?” Versik said, walking up close to Tragonus. “Do not forget with whom you speak, commander. As of this day, the king of Dragonshold has fallen. In two day’s time, we shall hold the Arming Ceremony— and Coriath shall be crowned king.”
King. Coriath’s heart sank down into his stomach; he had been too busy to even think about politics, but Versik was right: Dragonshold law required that a successor to the throne be declared in two days’ time—in two days’ time, Coriath would be expected to lead the nation against the greatest threat Dragonshold had ever known.
I’m not ready to rule in my father’s stead.
“And you, Versik,” Tragonus said, removing his claw from the hilt of his broadsword. “You believe that this fledgling cripple is capable of ruling Dragonshold?”
“I have taught Coriath ever since he was that fledgling cripple,” Versik said, his voice hushed and taut. “He has grown in to a wise, compassionate dragon, and he shall make a fine king.”
Tragonus smiled a terrible sort of smile, suddenly realizing what Coriath had neglected to do. “Has Coriath not told you? Why just today, Coriath submitted his resignation from my squadron. I hated to see him go, but he was quite adamant about leaving.”
Versik scoffed, but then looked over at Coriath, who didn’t say anything; instead, he looked at the ground. He could not (and would not) lie to his mentor.
“Oh, Coriath,” Versik murmured.
“Just as I suspected,” Tragonus added smugly. “As of this day, the king of Dragonshold has fallen. We do not need a coward for a king.” With this said, Tragonus turned upon a hind claw and marched back toward his squadron. “I knew that my time spent amongst such fairy-tale idiocy would be wasted. The State’s business here has been concluded.”
“Yes, commander,” Lieutenant Goloth said. He shouted out orders, and Tragonus’ squadron moved about-face, then marched out of the throne room.
Meanwhile, Coriath was too ashamed to look into his mentor’s eyes. He had meant to tell Versik the truth about his resignation, but so much had happened since then, and…
“My prince,” Versik said softly. “Do not allow the Military State this victory.”
Coriath didn’t reply. Tragonus was right: he was a coward. And no coward could ever rule Dragonshold.
Tragonus’ squadron passed underneath the throne room doorway and marched out into the hall.
“Your father would not surrender so easily,” Versik said, hoping this might strike a nerve.
But Coriath wasn’t thinking about his father—he was thinking about all the humiliating days he had spent in Tragonus’ squadron. Somehow, Tragonus had always managed to demean Coriath, and now, it seemed as if he had done it again. The very thought infuriated Coriath, so he retaliated the only way he knew how.
“Hold your retreat, Commander,” Coriath bellowed. Tragonus stopped, more about of surprise than actual intimidation.
“Have you forgotten your schooling so easily?” Coriath asked.
Like all hatchlings, Tragonus had attended a school that taught both scientific method, and the prophecies of the Ancients— the Commander had simply focused on the former. “Surely even you realize the truth of what has transpired.”
Tragonus was not a dragon to back away from confrontation, so he halted his squadron and walked back inside the throne room. “What are you prattling on about?”
“Azrael has broken free,” Coriath said. “We must make contact with the Realm of Men. With a human at our side, Dragonshold can resurrect the Order of the Flame. Only a human can save us now.”
“You’re right,” Tragonus replied. “Despite my best efforts, I have not forgotten my schooling. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I was taught that a rune crystal is needed to bridge together the Realm of Men with Dragonshold.
“Exactly,” Coriath said.
“So tell me this, Coriath, King of Dragonshold: if the rune crystal has been stolen, how do you plan on resurrecting the Order?”
Coriath opened his mouth to say something else but the words wouldn’t come out; as usual, Tragonus’ logic was infallible: without the rune crystal, there was no way to contact the Realm of Men. And without a human, there was no way to resurrect the Order of the Flame or even finding the City of Ancients. Coriath turned back around and looked at his father’s corpse.
Somehow, despite centuries of planning, all of the contingencies, fail-safes and records, the Order had been buried in silence. There could be no resurrection.
Tragonus paused, wondering if he should humiliate Coriath even further, but turned back towards Lieutenant Goloth. “Our time is short,” he said. “We are due back to the Military State shortly.”
Coriath sank to his knees as Tragonus’ squadron marched out of the throne room and down the hallway; soon, the rhythmic clanking of armor faded off in the distance, the same way it came. Then, the throne room was silent once again.
“Do not pay heed to the Commander,” Versik said at last, kneeling beside his future king. “He means to frighten you. But we shall find another way to resurrect the Order… there must be another way.”
But Coriath’s wasn’t frightened; he was humiliated. And when he felt humiliated, Coriath turned his feelings to anger, even to the people who loved him. He grabbed Versik by the nape of his dragon-mail and pulled him close. “Don’t you understand?” he whispered violently. “Azrael has stolen the rune crystal.”
But Versik didn’t seem to be shaken by Coriath’s actions. Instead, he simply stared back at his protégé with a composure that infuriated Coriath.
Ignorant fool! Coriath pulled him even closer, until he could feel the smoky breath from Versik’s nostrils. “Do you not understand? Azrael has stolen the rune crystal! We cannot contact the Realm of Men.”
“What would you have me do, Sire?” Versik asked at last.
“I…” Coriath began, but just as quickly as it came, Coriath’s anger turned back to despair. He felt like crying—it was all so hopeless. Instead, Coriath released Versik, knelt back down upon his knees and rocked back and forth, as though he was still a hatchling. How could it have all gone so wrong?
“Gather the dragons of the palace,” Coriath said after a long silence. “And tell them… that the Order has fallen.”
Versik nodded. He thought about saying something else, but there really wasn’t much to be said, so he simply stood upon his hind claws and walked out towards the hallway.
“Sire!” A blue dragon exclaimed, nearly scrambling inside the throne room; when he saw Versik, he straightened up and saluted. “As you requested, Versik, I completed a preliminary search of the palace grounds.”
Versik stopped walking just long enough to return the salute. “Very good, Private. Now, if you’ll please excuse me, I must—”
“With all due respect sir, I think you should hear this.” Versik hesitated. Interrupting a palace-guard’s business, especially the affairs of Coriath’s mentor, was a nearly unforgivable breach of protocol; but given the circumstances, Versik would allow it. “Please speak quickly and to the point.”
The blue dragon seemed unable to control his excitement. “I believe that his Highness Dracontis activated the Gateway last night.”
“That’s impossible,” Coriath said, wheeling around. “My father died right here, at the foot of his throne.”
“But Sire,” the blue dragon persisted, “I discovered dried blood on the Gateway’s outer edge—most especially in the rune crystal’s indentation!”
Versik put an arm around the blue dragon and led him away, as if he some sort of escaped mental patient. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, dragon-guard, but what you speak of seems preposterous. Why would Dracontis activate the Gateway in the last moments of his life?”
Coriath hesitated. My father couldn’t have activated the Gateway, because Azrael stole the rune crystal from him. Unless… Coriath looked past his father’s corpse, right to the base of his throne. And for the first time, Coriath noticed a few bloody claw marks right below the throne’s royal seal.
Right above Father’s secret compartment.
Many years ago, Dracontis had entrusted his son with a valuable bit of knowledge—a concealed compartment he had made inside his throne. Dracontis had even shown his son how to open it, and since that day, Coriath had been the only dragon (save for his father, of course) who knew what he kept inside of it. Such secrecy was necessary, because inside of that compartment, Dracontis kept his two most valuable possessions—a small golden book and the rune crystal.
“His Highness needs his rest,” Versik said, leading the blue dragon out of the throne room.
“Wait!” Coriath exclaimed.
Versik spun back around, as did the blue dragon. “What is it, Sire?” they asked in unison.
“The guard’s right,” Coriath replied. “Before he died, my father made contact with the Realm of Men.”
Versik started walking back towards his protégé. “How can you be sure?”
“Watch,” Coriath said simply. With trembling claws, Coriath gently tugged at the thin, nearly invisible line about the throne’s seal until he heard a clicking sound, then pulled open his father’s secret compartment. Both the golden book and the rune crystal were gone.
But where? Coriath wondered.
Where did they go?
CHAPTER 6
“Aunt Sophie?” Trevor Thomas asked, peeking out from his bedroom doorway, holding the golden book in his hand. “Did you pick me up a book from the library?”
No answer.
Trevor paused, then examined the reddish crystal had found on top of the golden book. He held the crystal up to his ceiling-fan light and frowned. And why on earth would you buy me a crystal?
Aunt Sophie wasn’t one to believe in natural healing and crystals and neither was Trevor, which made it all the more confusing. The crystal itself was no more than two inches tall and hexagonal in shape, though one of its sides was quite jagged, as if he had been broken off from a bigger piece. Inside, the crystal seemed to be stained with blotches of red pigment—some areas were darker than others.
But Trevor had no use for crystals, so he put it in his front pocket and looked over the golden book instead. This was more his area of expertise.
But why did Aunt Sophie pick out this book? After all, the book had no title or author… there were just two blank covers fashioned from a thick, golden hardcover.
Maybe the book’s a first edition. Tolkien’s first published copy of The Hobbit had blank covers.
Trevor wasn’t about to hold off any longer—to him, there wasn’t anything better than a smell and feel of a new fantasy book. He opened up the cover, feeling like a ten-year-old on Christmas Day, and when he saw that the first page was burly (filled with paragraphs of handwritten prose in a black ink) his heartbeat raced.
It read:
“Ages past, when the Realm of Men had yet to be discovered, and the land of Dragonshold was both wild and chaste, an ancient evil named Azrael threatened to destroy all that was— and ever could be. And it was at this time, in greatest peril, that the ruling dragons sent plea to all the creatures throughout Dragonshold to assemble together, and fight against such an evil.”
There could be no doubt: the golden book was a fantasy novel. Trevor couldn’t have been happier.
He shut the book and hugged it close to his heart and kicked his bedroom door shut. Then, he turned and skipped on over to his redwood wardrobe; once he was inside, he adjusted his reading light, shut the doors and reclined his leather chair at a 45 degree angle—everything needed to be just perfect.
Jittering now with anticipation, Trevor slipped the wardrobe’s key back into his front pocket. Finally, no one can disturb me.
He laid back into his leather chair and made sure that his mind was ready and free, just as a wine sommelier rinses their palette before tasting. Then, he opened up the golden book and put it to the test. The BAD PAGES test.
The BAD PAGES test was an acronym that Trevor had come up with—it detailed the four criteria that every good fantasy book should have:
A Bad Antagonist, of the super-powerful variety. Some authors depicted their antagonists as human-like and complex—but Trevor hated this. He liked his bad guys to be uncomplicated, maniacal beasts, because Trevor liked to have a clear-cut line between good and evil.
Dragons. Though Trevor had read some dragon-less fantasy books that he loved (like His Dark Materials), dragons were always a huge plus—but not the angry, treasure- hoarding kind, mind you; no, Trevor preferred his dragons to be noble, sophisticated beasts, like in The Dragonriders of Pern.
A Protagonist who is Actually realistic, yet likeable. Some heroes in fantasy are the muscular, mono-syllabic kind (like Conan or Hugh the Hand from Dragon Wing) but Trevor preferred heroes that he could relate to. Because of his own past, Trevor also liked heroes, like Harry Potter, who had lost their parents at a young age.
A Grand, Epic Setting. Trevor preferred his fantasy worlds to be grandiose, full of dilemmas and epic quests and fantastic scenery and ancient secrets. All of these things helped to create a sense of wonderment and adventure that felt like a form of adrenaline.
Together, these four criteria spelled BAD PAGES. It wasn’t perfect, to be sure, but it expressed all the things Trevor looked for in a fantasy novel.
Since most fantasy books take a while to get rolling, Trevor usually gave a new author thirty pages to establish at least two of these criteria; if they didn’t, Trevor threw the book in the garbage. But the golden book established all four criteria of the BAD PAGES test long before he even reached page 20.
In short, Trevor was hooked.
*******
The golden book was so good, in fact, that Trevor tried to slow down his reading pace so that he could treasure every paragraph; but this was nearly impossible, because the book already contained everything that Trevor had ever wanted in a fantasy novel.
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(Pages 1-44 show above.)