The First Dragon (Chronicles of the Imaginarium Geographica, The) (19 page)

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.

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.”

“It has never been in the Repository,” Poe said as he reached inside his breast pocket, “because it has never left my person.”

The other Caretakers rose from their seats to look at the curious, small book that Poe was holding. It was very, very old, compact but thick, and resembled nothing so much as it did . . .

“The Little Whatsits.” Twain chortled. “It looks like those bloody annoying books of genius and wisdom the badgers refer to all the time.”

“The thing is,” Bert said, “the information in the Little Whatsits is almost always spot-on.”

“That,” said Twain, “is precisely why those books are so bloody annoying.”

“It is indeed much like the Little Whatsits,” Poe said, “in that inside its pages is an accounting of all the knowledge of the world that once was. A world that was smaller, and seemingly simpler, and never to be known again except in stories.”

“How did you find this book, Edgar?” Houdini asked.

“I didn’t find it,” Poe answered, “I
wrote
it.

“Now,” he said, stepping out into the hallway and beckoning the others to follow, “gather everyone together.
Everyone
. All the Caretakers, and Mystorians, and Messengers; all the helpers, and apprentices, and associates. Everyone at Tamerlane House should attend, because I’m going to do a
reading
—one I have waited to do since the beginning of the world.

“It is time,” the master of the house said, “for
all
the secrets of history to be revealed.”

♦  ♦  ♦

“What, pray tell,” Charles exclaimed, “did you do to the poor
Indigo Dragon
?” He walked around the airship, fondly caressing the battered hull and once-living masthead he knew so well. He and his colleagues John and Jack had shared some amazing adventures aboard this ship, and it pained him to see it made so . . .

“Short,” he said, bending over to examine it more closely. “And it’s got wheels. Sweet heaven, old girl—what have they done to you?”

“It was kind of necessary,” said Fred. “We needed something that could go anywhere, do anything. And the
Indigo Dragon
has been the greatest Dragonship there ever was.”