“Hello, Rose,” he said, simply and plainly. “I’ve come a very long way to find you, girl.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Kipling looked up at the ornate sculpture standing at the intersection and sighed heavily. It was exactly where the note said it would be—which meant that any moment now . . .
His jaw dropped open as the Cherubim approached. He had not realized, had not understood until this moment, that he knew this angel—not in the same form, but close enough to be familiar. Close enough to recognize.
Close enough to feel regret, even as he stepped out into the street to do what he knew he must.
The Cherubim stopped, momentarily distracted by the markings that were still on Kipling’s forehead.
“You are not of the Host,” the angel said, confused. “Are you of one of the principalities?”
“I’m sorry,” Kipling said, and without a pause, he began to recite the words on the note, beginning with the true name of the angel before him.
It took only a few minutes to complete his task, and when he was done, the Cherubim walked away, slightly dazed, to the spot three blocks away where he would be confronted by someone else, who would repeat almost the same process Kipling had performed. Just the thought of it made Kipling sick to his stomach, and he turned and vomited against a wall. Then he walked to one of the towers, away from the destruction being done by the Watchers and their children, and found a nice fountain to sit beside, and silently, he wept.
. . . his reflection was no longer that of a young man . . .
Chapter FOURTEEN
The First Dragon
The reunion was joyful, but brief. Rose hugged her father in astonishment as both badgers jumped gleefully on Charles, and Edmund wrapped Laura Glue in a passionate embrace, which he punctuated with a long kiss.
“I say,” Quixote chuckled, “this is like witnessing the best ending to a fairy tale you never expected to finish.”
“First things first,” Charles said. “There’s a lot happening that we need to tell you about.”
“Like the flood about t’ destroy the world?” asked Uncas. “We’re on top of that.”
“That isn’t the most urgent business,” said Fred. “Rose is.”
“Me?” Rose asked. “What do you mean?”
“That,” Madoc said, pointing to her shadow. “It isn’t yours, Rose! The Echthroi have been following you everywhere!”
At the mention of Echthroi all the angels stopped, and their eyes glowed. “She is Fallen?” one of them asked, fearful. “There is a Fallen among us?”
“Not her,” Fred said, moving defensively in front of Rose. “Just her shadow—which isn’t hers.”
Rose spun about to look and was horrified to see that her shadow did not turn with her. Instead it seemed to thicken, rising up and growing larger and larger, until . . .
A hand reached out to the wall and grasped the shadow.
“I’m sorry,” the star Sol said to Rose. “I’m afraid this will hurt.” He pulled, and ripped the shadow free from her with a single motion. Rose screamed and fell backward as her father leaped forward to catch her.
As if sensing its imminent end, the shadow thrashed about frantically, but Sol simply held it, watching.
“There can be no shadows without light,” he said plainly. “So as there are shadows here, so let there be light.” He flared, bright and brief, and the companions had to shield their eyes. When they could again see, the shadow was gone.
♦ ♦ ♦
A few streets away, closer to the center of the city, Dr. Dee screamed and dropped to his knees. His primary link with this time and place had suddenly been severed, and the loss was taking a sudden and vicious toll.
He focused on breathing deeply and slowly, and in a few moments, he regained much of his strength, if not his composure. If the shadow—which had been Lovecraft’s—had been destroyed, then he had enemies other than Kipling wandering through the City of Jade. But Kipling was still bound hand and foot in Hermes Trismegistus’s study, and Dee knew from the Histories of the Caretakers that he would perish in the cataclysm, so it had to be someone else who’d destroyed the shadow.
No matter, Dee thought. He had what he came to the city to find. This had been the last moment in history where angels could be found walking the same streets as men—and now one of them had been bound to serve Dee.
Bound to serve the Echthroi.
Smiling wryly, Dee removed the black pocket watch he wore and spun the dials. An instant later, he was gone.
♦ ♦ ♦
Rose looked down at her feet and exhaled, relieved. Her own shadow had returned.
“I’m sorry,” Sol said again, this time to Samaranth. “If I could ascend, I would. But Rao . . .”
“I understand,” said Samaranth. “You have done all you can. It is time for you to leave, Sol. Watch over us. Warm us. Be a guide to us. And never forget.”
“I won’t,” Sol said. And then he was gone.
Other Cherubim had drawn closer to the companions to watch the star destroy the shadow, but one in particular, a stern-countenanced female, was whispering angrily into Samaranth’s ear. He nodded once, then again, and whispered something back to her before they both turned to face the companions.
Rose suppressed a shudder when she realized who this angel was—and that they had met before.
“Yes,” Charles said quietly. “I remember too, Rose.”
Before the companions traveled further back in time to arrive at the City of Jade, they had been in ancient Greece, where they met Medea, the wife of the legendary hero Jason, and her familiar, a green-gold Dragon named . . .
“Azer,” Samaranth said by way of introduction. “My wife.”
“I beg your pardon,” Charles said, trying to regain his composure, “but I had no idea that angels could marry.”
“It is the way of things,” Samaranth said, “to organize into families. In fact, we were thinking about having a child together, in another billion years or so. But,” he added, with a sudden immeasurable sadness, “that may not be possible—not after this.”
“I will never forgive you for this,” Azer said through clenched teeth. “Know that, Samaranth. Never. You said descent would never be necessary.”
The sadness in Samaranth’s face was almost tangible. “We have a responsibility, my wife. One we accepted long, long ago. You, I, and . . .” He craned his neck, scanning the faces of the Cherubim.
“Who are you looking for?” one of the angels asked.
“Shaitan,” Samaranth replied. “Among the Host, he is the one who is most like . . .” He turned and gestured at Charles and Edmund. “As these Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve are. A . . . friend? I had expected him to be here.”
“There have been a great many things happening today,” the angel replied. “If Shaitan could have come, he would.”
“No matter,” Samaranth said. “We are out of time.”
♦ ♦ ♦
The angels gathered around an enormous circle of water on the terrace outside the tower. It extended out past the cliffs on which the city was built, over the ocean. “The Moon Pool,” Samaranth said. “In it are the tears of the mother of us all, called Idyl, who gave birth to the world when the Word was spoken. With this pool of water, we can choose, and change, and descend.”
“It’s like a larger version of Echo’s Well, on the Lost Boys’ island in the Archipelago,” Charles said to the others. “Jack used it once, years ago, to make himself younger,” he explained, “because in his heart, he was still enough of a boy to become so in reality. He believed himself to be young, and young he became. I think this is something similar.”
“It was touched by the Word,” said Samaranth, “like the Creative Fire, and it changes not our Names, but our Being. Who we are is the same, but we will be Remade, so that the world may be saved.”
He stepped forward and leaned over the pool. A lock of his red hair fell over his eyes, and he pushed it back
as he stared at his own reflection.
In rightness’s name
For need of might,
I thus descend
I thus descend
By blood bound
By honor given
I thus descend
I thus descend
For strength and speed and heaven’s power
To serve below in this dark hour
I thus descend
I thus descend
Even as he had started to speak the words, the change had begun. Eddies of light began to swirl about the small, lithe form of the angel Samaranth, changing him as they watched. Without taking his eyes off his reflection in the glistening pool, he grew tall and broad; his flesh turned red, and wings sprouted from his back even as he was growing a tail. In short order, as the echo of the last words faded, his reflection was no longer that of a young man, but of the great Dragon Samaranth.
♦ ♦ ♦
Of all the reunited companions, Uncas was the one who had known all the Dragonships in their glory, and he thrilled at the sight of those familiar visages appearing as, one by one, Samaranth’s companions invoked the change.
“There’s th’ Red Dragon!” he said excitedly. “And th’ Blue Dragon! And Green!” He turned to Quixote. “That one was all’ays a bit temper’mental.”
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Edmund said to Rose. “It’s the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever witnessed!” He looked up at Madoc. “Uh, except your transformation. That was most excellent also.”
Madoc didn’t respond. He was watching Rose, and the tears in her eyes mirrored his own.
“This is where their lives as Dragons began,” she said softly. “And I remember where they ended—I just wish I could forget.”
Fred hugged her leg in sympathy. In one of the greatest battles of the Archipelago, all the Dragon shadows had been turned to serve a new master: the Shadow of the Winter King, her father, when he was known as Mordred. The only way to release the Dragons was for her to sever the shadows’ link to the earth with the sword Caliburn—but that also meant the end of the Dragons’ days as guardians of the Archipelago.
“It is not your fault,” Madoc whispered to her as he hesitantly reached out to take her hand. “It was mine. My choices brought about their end. Not yours.”
She didn’t reply, or look at him—but she didn’t let go of his hand, either.
♦ ♦ ♦
It went more quickly than any of them could have expected, this transformation of angels into Dragons. But when it was complete, the terrace and the sky above the tower were filled with them.
“Uh, Samaranth?” Fred said, hesitant to address the Dragon directly, but doing so anyway. “I want to ask—out there, in the desert, there is a huge ship. On it are all the Children of the Earth.”
“The animals,” Samaranth rumbled. “We had made no provisions for them. . . .” He stopped, realizing what the little badger had actually said. “They are all on a ship, you say?”
Fred nodded so enthusiastically the others thought his head might fly off. “Several of every kind,” he said, “gathered together by Ordo Maas. Uh, I mean, Deucalion. Or, uh, Utnapishtim.”
“Ah,” the Dragon responded, with what seemed to be a smile. “The old king from the Empty Quarter. I had wondered what it was he was building out there.” He gestured with one hand and summoned another Dragon, a giant creature with the aspect of a cat in his countenance.
“Kerubiel,” Samaranth told the Dragon. “Go, find the ship, and make certain it crosses over safely.”
“Samaranth,” the god Prometheus implored, “that . . . is my son. There are things he will need, things he must be given.” He gestured at the flame. “May I accompany the Dragon?”
Kerubiel did not speak, but simply nodded at Prometheus. The god climbed atop the Dragon, who launched himself into the air and winged his way at top speed toward the desert.
“Thank you,” said Fred. “That’s very gentlemanly of you to do.”
“It will take a long time for this world to recover,” Samaranth told the companions, “but when it does, it can be as it once was, as the Garden was, in the beginning.”
“Yes,” said Madoc. “It will be the true Summer Country.”
“The Summer Country,” Samaranth said, growling in satisfaction. “So mote it be, little Namer. So mote it be, little king.”
Madoc stared, shocked at the title. “I am no king, Samaranth,” he murmured back, “as you will discover for yourself, in time.”
At this, the Dragon rose up to his full, terrifying height and began to beat his wings to rise aloft. Even Rose flinched at the looming sight of the red Dragon. “I am a Namer, little king, and I know my own. You may not be a king in fact, but you have it in your countenance to be. You have it within you. Just remember—a king who commands by force may rule, but a king who is followed because he is loved, and trusted, will rule forever.”
The Dragon turned to the rest of the former Host and indicated that it was time to leave, to attend to the responsibilities they had just taken on.
“Samaranth, wait!” Charles exclaimed. “I want to ask you something. Please!”
The great Dragon lowered himself to the ground and a growl rumbled deep inside his chest. “What is it, little Son of Adam?”
Charles shuddered inwardly and realized suddenly that this might not have been the wisest thing to do. This was not the old, tempered, world-wise Samaranth he’d met as a young Caretaker-to-be. This was a newborn Dragon, who had just sacrificed his life as an angel of the Host of Heaven in order to create the Archipelago and safeguard the entire world. Still, he couldn’t help himself—he had to ask.
“The book,” said Charles, “the one my colleagues call the Telos Biblos. It contains all the names of those angels who became Dragons—except for yours.”
Samaranth leaned closer, exhaling hot breath into the Caretaker’s face, and his eyes narrowed.
“To ask one’s true name is to try to have power over them,” the Dragon hissed, “and it is not advisable that you ask anything further.”
“I don’t mean to offend,” Charles sputtered, slightly terrified but unwilling to let the opportunity pass. “I am a scholar of heaven, and angelic doings, and I know many of the names of the angels, uh, I mean Dragons,” he corrected quickly, “but I never heard of any angel named Samaranth. And I know that that is not your true name.”
“How can you know that?”
“Because,” Charles said, “in another place, and another time, someone who serves the Shadows does something . . . something terrible, to your kind. And you are spared, because your name is not in the book. I don’t want any power over you, of any kind. I just want to know. You don’t know me now, but someday you will—and you will trust me. In the name of that trust, I—I just want to know.”
Samaranth reared up on his hind legs and looked at the man before him. The Caretaker was afraid, but only because the aspect of the Dragon was terrifying—not because he feared Samaranth himself. There was trust, somehow.
“I will tell you,” Samaranth said, again leaning close, “and with the name, a small Binding, so that it cannot be shared with another.”
Charles nodded. “Fair enough.”
The Dragon whispered into the Caretaker’s ear, and Charles’s eyes widened in surprise. “You—you . . . ?” he stammered as the Dragon moved back and prepared to take flight. “You are that angel?”
“I am not the eldest of the Host, but I am the eldest among those here, on this world,” said Samaranth, “and my name has not been spoken since the dawn of creation. Even then, it was only to summon me to do my first task, which was necessary to do before anything else could be created or Named.
“Since that time, I had simply been known as the Lightbringer to those of my kind, and as Samaranth to those younger races of the earth. And now, as a Dragon, it is Samaranth I shall remain . . .
“. . . until the end of time itself.”
With no
further farewell, the Dragon beat his mighty wings and lifted into the air. In moments, he was gone.
Chapter FIFTEEN
The Maker
As the Caretakers at Tamerlane House watched the great red Dragon soar away with the hundreds of newly born Dragons into the darkness of the newly made Frontier, the whirling pages of the Last Book began to darken and crumble apart. In moments, the images they had been watching so keenly faded completely, and once more the room went dark.
John turned to Poe, who had not moved from the doorway the entire time they had been watching the visions of Atlantis and the Dragons. “What happens now?” he demanded. “We need to keep watching!”
“We cannot,” Poe replied. “The book gave us a window into the events that were witnessed by its author, and this was the end of his record. Thus, there is no more to observe.”
“The author?” asked Jack. “But I thought the Last Book was written by—”
“The Telos Biblos,” said Poe, “was written by Samaranth himself, in the days after the founding of the Archipelago, when one by one, he named all those from the Host of the City of Jade who followed him and became Dragons, but it is not the oldest history. There is one older still, which John Dee never acquired nor stole, because it was never given to the safekeeping of anyone else other than him who wrote it.”
. . . everything around them glowed with pulsing, vibrant, living lights . . .
“An older history?” John said, confused. “But I want to know what happens next! We know that our friends are safe—or at least, they were—but how can we discover what’s become of them with an older history?”
“Because,” said Poe, “their journey is not yet finished, and their quest to find the Architect must lead them deeper into the past before they can come back to the future.”
“Hmm. All right,” John said. “Is this book in the Repository, then? I don’t remember ever seeing it.”
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