The First Dragon (Chronicles of the Imaginarium Geographica, The) (15 page)

“What do you think?”
Rose asked the two men as Samaranth readied himself to attend the summit. “Should we go with him?”

“I don’t know,” said Edmund. “It’s history—whatever’s about to go on has already happened, and I’m loath to get involved and possibly mess something up.”

“We already
did
,” said Charles. “Didn’t you hear him? The keep is damaged—that means it hasn’t fallen just in the future, but in the past as well. If we leave things as they are and try to go back, we may find our own history has been irrevocably changed.”

“You’ve been spending too much time talking to Uncle Ray,” Rose said, “but I think you’re right. That’s exactly what we’d be risking. So I don’t think we have anything to lose by trying to learn as much as we can while we’re here.”

“I agree,” Samaranth said. It was still unnerving to all three of them that this youthful man-child had the eyes of the wise old Dragon that they knew.

“Whoever you are, it is obvious to me that you understand more about how the world works than most of the principalities,” he said as they left the Library. “If you listen, and learn, it may help you to better . . . take care, of your own world.”

“That’s pretty much exactly what we had in mind,” said Charles. “Lead on, Macduff.”

“Samaranth,” the angel corrected. “Your memory needs work.”

“Sorry,” said Charles.

♦  ♦  ♦

The great and spacious building where the summit was being held was less an amphitheater than it was an enormous ballroom—and in all the significant ways, that was exactly what it was. Staircases rose from the floor below, which was several hundred feet lower than the entrance, and connected a series of platforms that extended almost to the ceiling, which was so far above them that clouds had formed inside the room. There were fountains that fed streams of mingled light and water flowing through the air from platform to platform at varying levels. Everything was glass and marble and solidified light, except for the huge circle of fire in the center, and the dais above it, which stood at the far end of the chamber. Atop it was something familiar to all three of the companions.

“The ring of flames is the Creative Fire,” said Samaranth. “It is where all things are made, and thus, this is where all things are decided. The high seat above is . . .”

“. . . the Silver Throne,” Rose said, breathless with awe.

“Hmm,” said Charles. “Your father—uh, Mordred, that is, once said he was older than the Silver Throne. I think he was indulging in a bit of puffery.”

“Obviously,” said Edmund. “It’s all still awfully spectacular, though,” he added, gesturing at the grand spectacle with a sweep of his arm.

“It is indeed,” Samaranth said, leading them to one of the staircases. “It was built by—”

“Magic?” Edmund suggested.

“Yes, that is the word,” said Samaranth. “Magic. Or was it Will? I always get those two confused.”

As they descended the stairs, Samaranth indicated that he was uncertain where he was expected to go, since he had not in fact attended any session of the summit before. The companions were about to ask why he had been excluded when Rose recognized someone on a nearby platform.

“Excuse me, ah, Nix?” she said to the angel. “Can you help us, please?”

Nix frowned—which Rose had noted, when they met before, was his default expression—and consulted his marble tablet. “I don’t know why you weren’t ordered when you arrived,” he complained. “You are minions of a Seraphim, and—” He stopped, having noticed Samaranth for the first time. His eyes widened slightly. “I beg your pardon. I did not realize the elder was also with you.” He consulted the tablet again, then pointed down at the floor level. “There should be some space for you there, if you hurry. The adversaries have claimed most of the upper platforms, and the principalities have claimed everything else.”

“Adversaries?” said Charles. “I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”

“It is the final session of the summit,” Samaranth explained as they moved past several other youthful but apparently elderly angels and located an out-of-the-way corner at the lowest level of the room. “Matters of such importance that all the principalities have been invited, including our enemies.”

“What are they called?” Edmund asked.

“One cannot identify one’s adversaries by name,” Samaranth
explained. “One can identify them only by their actions, and then act accordingly in return. And if they demonstrate that they no longer serve the Word, then, and only then, may they be Named as Fallen, and cast out.”

“Cast out to where?” asked Rose.

“You really don’t want to know,” said Samaranth.

“So,” said Charles, “all those above us, uh, so to speak, are gods?”

“Many of them,” Samaranth answered, “but most above are of the angelic Host. Seraphim, Cherubim, and,” he said, darkening slightly, “Nephilim. There are also the elder of us who serve in lesser capacities, but all who have a hand in guiding the course of the world are numbered among the principalities. Since the moment this world was divided from the Un-Made World, the younger races also began to splinter, and they grew and developed into their own distinctive cultures,” he said in a matter-of-fact way. “As they flourished, they lost their connections to the Word and began the development of their own deities, whom they called gods. We, the Host, came here to build this city to try to reconnect the peoples of the world with the Word. But,” he added with a touch of sadness, “the execution of that plan has fallen somewhat short of the aspiration.

“There,” he said, pointing at a delegation several levels above. “That’s one of the younger groups of gods, from a place called the Fertile Crescent. They are crude in their mannerisms, but effective. And there,” he said, pointing to the left of the first group. “Those call themselves Titans. In truth, they bear many similarities to the Host—but their view is limited. Except,” he added, “for that one.”

Toward the bottom of the delegation a red-haired man was watching the angels just as intensely as Samaranth was watching
him, only occasionally turning away to speak to another god, who carried a staff of living fire.

“He is the offspring of one of the Titans,” Samaranth explained. “They call him Zeus. I expect great things of him, as well as the one he is with . . . Prometheus, I think.”

Samaranth continued pointing out deities around the great room, and it was all the companions could do to keep up. “Loki, there,” the angel said, “and his father, Odin, and Odin’s father, Bor. And there,” he continued, gesturing to a broad platform speckled with fountains, “the twin goddesses, Mahu and Mut, who represent two-thirds of the land masses of this world.”

“What of the angels?” Charles asked. “Where are they?”

“Scattered throughout,” Samaranth replied. “The Seraphim, like, ah, yourself,” he added with as close an expression of mirth as any of them had yet seen, “are primarily of the Makers’ Guilds, and constitute the bulk of the Host. The Cherubim,” he went on, “are primarily Namers, and are those here on the lower levels with us.”

“Have all the elder angels been excluded thus far?” Charles asked. “That hardly seems fair.”

“Some of the older angels among the Seraphim would have allowed me to participate sooner,” said Samaranth. “Sycorax is not much younger than I, nor are Maelzel and Azazel. But Iblis,” he added, pointing to a tall, regal-looking angel near the top of the room, “is older still, and refused all my entreaties to become involved. He is more accepted among the younger members of the Host—why this is, I cannot say. Perhaps it is because he is more permissive than others among the principalities.”

“It seems wrong,” Rose fumed, “that those with the most experience aren’t allowed any say at all in what happens.”

Samaranth turned to her, eyes glittering. “You misunderstand, Daughter of Eve. We are not allowed to participate in the debates, but in the end, we most certainly do have a say.

“The oldest of a kind dictates the actions of all,” Samaranth continued quietly. “It’s one reason we are given work of little importance—so we are given as little influence as possible over the events of the world, until a decision has to be made—and then it is up to us to choose, so that in the end the responsibility, or blame, is entirely ours.”

He spun around to point out a passing angel, apparently eager to change the subject. “That one, with the golden skin, is Telavel,” he said. “He is a star-god who actually serves as the liaison between the Host and the stars. Some among us have even said he serves the Word directly, although there is no way to know for sure.”

“Begging your pardon, Samaranth,” Edmund said, “but do you mean these people you’ve been naming are the
representatives
of certain stars? Sort of like delegates?”

“No,” the angel replied. “They
are
the stars themselves. Here, in the City of Jade, Naming is Being—and so even the stars may walk freely among its streets. In fact, in this case it was necessary, because the responsibility of this world’s star is being called into question. It has even been rumored that the eldest star, Rao, has aligned himself with the Nephilim,” Samaranth added. “That would be very, very bad.”

“Why is that?” asked Edmund. “Aren’t the Nephilim angels too?”

“They are,” Samaranth admitted, casting a worried glance around them as if he were afraid someone might hear, “but they commune with Shadow and heed the call of the Word less and less frequently.

“If the Nephilim side with the stars, then there may be a split among the Host,” he explained, “and the Seraphim are generally opposed to conflict, which means all that will stand between the Word and the principalities will be the Cherubim. If that is the case, the speaker for the Cherubim will have no choice but to declare the Nephilim as Fallen, and then Name them as such.”

“Gosh,” Charles said, craning his neck to look around at the other Cherubim. “What sorry so-and-so has that awful calling?”

“That would be
me
,” said Samaranth. “Now please, be quiet. The final discussions of the summit are about to begin.”

♦  ♦  ♦

In his time with the Imperial Cartological Society, when he was acting as a double agent for Jules Verne, Kipling learned a great many things, and this was not the first time he had been held captive by an enemy. One of the things he learned was how to tell when he had been tied up by an amateur, and while Dr. Dee might have been brilliant in many ways, he was not a man of great physical prowess: The knots were loose.

“He wants to bind an angel,” Kipling said, hoping that discussion would distract Hermes Trismegistus from noticing that he was trying to loosen his bonds. It might not have been necessary, though—Hermes was fully engaged in the work he was doing, which seemed to involve a series of pipettes, tubes, and glass spheres that were hovering around his working area.

“It is ambitious, to be sure,” Hermes replied without turning around, “but hardly unprecedented.”

“You don’t seem to be very sympathetic toward them,” Kipling countered, “even though you are a guest in their city.”

“I see it differently,” Hermes said. “I am not a guest in their
city—they are guests on
my
world. And what is a single city compared to an entire world?”

“I’m starting to see why you and Dee get along,” said Kipling. His left arm was starting to come loose from the bonds. “You have similar ambitions.”

“As all gods ought,” said Hermes.

“Gods?” Kipling exclaimed. “John Dee is not a god, he’s just an alchemist with delusions of grandeur.”

“That,” said Hermes, “is
exactly
how it starts.”

♦  ♦  ♦

Rose, Charles, Edmund, and the angel Samaranth watched solemnly as a door irised open high up in the room, and a regal, impossibly dressed woman floated through and took a seat on the Silver Throne. Her flowing gown draped the dais for almost a hundred feet, and even when she was seated, the long sleeves of her robe continued to float as if suspended in water.

“The Jade Empress,” Samaranth said under his breath, “and the last real connection between the city and the true peoples of this world.”

“How old is she?” Edmund asked.

“Unlike us of the Host,” the angel replied, “she truly
is
as youthful as she appears. She was a crippled beggar, living on the outskirts of the city, when it was discovered that she was the granddaughter of one of the four great kings of the East. And so she was welcomed here, and made empress, so that men would have a say in the fate of the world.”

“That sounds awfully familiar,” said Charles.

“Because we’ve heard the story before,” said Rose. “The Jade Empress is T’ai Shan.”

“Ah,” Samaranth said, surprised. “You know her?”

“We have mutual friends,” said Rose. “Look, something’s happening.”

The ambient light throughout the great room began to dim, and several glowing rings of varying color and intensity began to spread throughout the space, aligning themselves over each of the largest platforms. The rings separated into two, and each set began to oscillate, revolving in different directions. A brightening of a particular set of rings indicated that those on the pedestal below had permission to speak.

Samaranth’s expression remained placid as the first rings to brighten were high above, on the platform of the Nephilim.

“I am Salathiel,” the angel began, “of the first order of the ninth Guild of Diplomats of the second Host of the City of Jade, and I speak for all the Watchers.”

There was a murmuring throughout the assembly, as if something very unorthodox had been spoken.

Charles glanced around at the Cherubim, all of whom were commiserating and whispering to one another. Something about Salathiel had disturbed everyone at the summit.

“What did he say?” Charles whispered. “All I heard was an introduction, but everyone is acting as if he’d just spit into the soup.”

“He has Named himself and the Nephilim as Watchers,” said Samaranth. “That has not been done before.”

“What does that mean?”

“The Watchers,” Samaranth explained, “are mostly Nephilim, and some Seraphim, all of whom are of the Diplomatic Guild. They were meant to have direct contact with the peoples of the
world—and there are many among the Host who believe they did their job either very poorly, or far, far too well.”