The First Dragon (Chronicles of the Imaginarium Geographica, The) (16 page)

A look of astonishment spread over Charles’s face as his old studies came back to him and he finally understood what Samaranth was saying.

“They had offspring with the Daughters of Eve, didn’t they?” he asked. “The angels had
children
.”

“The giants,” Samaranth said, nodding. “Even now, they stand guard outside the city, to prevent the Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve, and all the other Children of the Earth, from entering the city, or even from reaching the seas beyond. This is the great injustice that we hope to change today. The world, both worlds, were meant to be shared, for the prosperity of all, not just the privileged few.”

“We wish to appeal to the Word,” Salathiel continued, “to make and Name the Un-Made World, so that we, our children, and those of the principalities of this world may cross over, and build it up as we have done before.”

Two more rings began to glow, farther down on one of the Seraphim’s platforms. “And when you have used up that world,” the angel said, not bothering to identify himself, “do you plan to abandon it as well, and move on to another? And another? And another after that? At what point do you actually become the stewards we are meant to be?”

“There are limits to stewardship, Sycorax,” the Nephilim answered, scowling at the challenge, “and limits to responsibility.”

“Only when you lay down your burden, Salathiel,” the angel Sycorax replied. “It is not worthy of you. It is not worthy of the Host.”

“The worlds have been severed,” another of the Nephilim said, “through no fault of ours. The connection is broken, and none living know how to repair it. We should save what we can, and leave the rest to the mercy of the Word.”

“There is a way,” a slight voice said. “There is a way to save this world, without abandoning it.”

It was one of the stars who had spoken—a slender, nervous being with golden hair that flowed upward like living flame and matched his glowing eyes.

Before he could speak again, another star, larger, older, stepped in front of him. “That is not going to happen, Sol. I will never permit it.”

The star Sol stood defiantly in the face of his elder. “We must,” he said, voice trembling with emotion. “We must ascend, Rao. It is the only way to save this world. Both worlds.”

“I will not,” Rao answered. “The planet of my own system is flawed, and I would not ascend to save that, so why would I possibly agree to save this little world by doing so? In any event,” he continued, “it is not necessary. I have made a pact with the Little Things—”

“You mean the Sons of Adam and the Daughters of Eve, don’t you, Rao?” Sycorax asked.

The star frowned, but continued speaking. “I have made a pact that will ensure prosperity for this world, if the empress will support the Watchers’ proposal.”

To confirm this was so, he raised a hand to the Jade Empress, who nodded once. Again, the room was filled with murmurings and whisperings among the assembly.

“So,” Rao said, “as the eldest star, I formally endorse the
Watchers’ proposal, as do the majority of the principalities. I would like to call for a vote of sustainment.”

“Pardon me,” a voice, quiet but firm, rang out into the great hall, “but I think this is a mistake.”

Every angel’s voice could be heard with equal clarity at the summit, so any angel who spoke could be heard. The shock and surprise that the words evoked was not because they were spoken, but because of who spoke them.

“It is a mistake,” Samaranth said, “and not according to the plan. It should be reconsidered.”

It took Kipling
only a few minutes more to loosen up the ropes that bound both his arms, and fortunately for him, Hermes Trismegistus was too sufficiently wrapped up in his work to pay any attention to John Dee’s captive. In a few moments more, he had loosed the ropes around his feet as well and swung around, leaping to his feet and hefting the chair to use as a bludgeon in one fluid motion.

Hermes simply continued to work, completely ignoring him.

After a moment, Kipling lowered the chair, realizing that his odd companion really did care as little as he seemed to.

“If you’ve finished freeing yourself,” Hermes said without looking up, “would you mind setting the chair out of the way so I don’t trip over it? There’s a good fellow.”

Dumbfounded, Kipling rolled his eyes and headed for the door. “You’re lucky no one was witness to this, Kipling,” he muttered to himself, “or they might take away your spy card.”

“Kipling?” Hermes exclaimed, dropping a tablet, which hit the floor with a loud clatter. “Did you say your name was Kipling?”

“Yes,” the Caretaker replied, hesitant to confirm much of anything. “Why?”

The Watcher Salathiel lifted a huge, curved golden trumpet . . .

“This,” Hermes said, actually focusing on Kipling in full for the first time, “is for you.” He stood and handed the Caretaker a small, cream-colored envelope. It bore his name, and nothing else.

“Oh, my hell,” Kipling said. He started at the envelope for a moment, then tore it open and read the note inside. He glanced up at Hermes, who was still showing a marked interest, especially compared to his earlier detachment.

“A god who wore the armor of a star gave that to me,” Hermes said, wringing his hands with curiosity, “and warned me to save it for Kipling, that you would come for it someday. What does it say?”

“It says that it’s the end of the world,” Kipling answered, “which happens more often than you’d believe.”

Before Hermes could ask anything further, Kipling spun on his heel and rushed out the door. He didn’t look back.

♦  ♦  ♦

No rings had been dispatched to cover the Cherubim, because no one had expected any of them to speak, so Samaranth spoke in the twilight glow that emanated from the walls.

“This summit has been ongoing for almost a century and a half of Chronos time,” said Samaranth, “and the Un-Made World has remained so the entire time, because we have not yet earned that stewardship.

“The Watchers and their children,” he continued, “seek to claim it for themselves, and that is not part of the plan given to us by the Word. It was meant to be connected to this world, to be used by all, but we have failed. This world is dying. And to abandon it would be unconscionable. It would not be”—he glanced at Charles—“Taking Care.”

“It is not our failure!” Rao exclaimed. “When the Adam was given responsibility to govern this world, he divided the responsibility equally between the Imago and the Archimago. And we have all seen how that turned out.

“But,” he added, “in one thing you are correct. It
is
a divided world. We seek to do the same as you advocate, and unite it again.”

“By allowing this world to perish first, and for your own purposes, Rao,” Samaranth said, “and not to serve the peoples of this world, who will live or die based on what we decide here today.”

“There is another way,” a new voice said, which silenced the entire chamber. The Jade Empress had spoken. “There is still a chance to save this world, to end the drought that has plagued it and restore it to the state it was in at the time of the Adam.”

She reached into one of her sleeves and withdrew a single, perfect red rose. On it were three dewdrops that shone with a light so brilliant that it reflected through the entire room.

“No!” Rao hissed at her. “Not now!”

Once more the assembly erupted in whisperings and murmurings over what was a clear violation of protocol.

“What is this . . . ?” Samaranth murmured. He and Sycorax exchanged bewildered glances, and both looked back to the star, then again to the empress. Rose followed their glances and realized that underneath the flowing robes, T’ai Shan was wearing armor. The Ruby Armor.

“Ah,” Samaranth said. “I think at last I understand.” He closed his eyes and bowed his head, and a wave of energy seemed to ripple outward from him, touching every attendee of the summit, including Charles.

“Rao gave the empress his fire,” he whispered to Rose and
Edmund, “just as in the story Lord Winter told us in the far future. She used the star’s fire to forge the armor that she needed to find the talisman—a rose—that held the power to end the great drought. I think,” he added, “that the wheels are about to come off the apple cart.”

“You have no jurisdiction over our children, Samaranth,” one of the Nephilim said brusquely. “Not while you reside in the City of Jade. Only here, within these walls, may you dictate what will or will not happen. Out there, we—and our offspring—are free.”

A hue and cry rose up from the rest of the Nephilim, led by Salathiel, followed by equal cries of outrage and fervor from the principalities.

For his part, Rao had already begun dashing up one of the stairs, focused entirely on the Jade Empress. She watched him advancing, and the look of sadness on her face was wrenching. He had nearly reached the dais when she stood . . .

. . . and dropped the rose, and the dewdrops, directly into the circle of flames below, which exploded with light. In seconds, the entire room erupted into chaos.

The Watcher Salathiel lifted a huge, curved golden trumpet and sounded a note that rang out so loudly that it seemed as if the walls would shatter.

“Og! Ogias!” he called out. “Gog and Magog! Orestes and Fafnir! All you who are the grandsons of the Fallen angel Samhazi! I summon you to my side! Aid us, my children!”

“Fallen!” Samaranth exclaimed. “They have Named themselves as Fallen! This changes it all! We have to leave, now!”

♦  ♦  ♦

As the note had promised, Naming Madoc as a Nephilim did indeed allow the
Indigo Dragon
and all its passengers to pass by the wall of giants unmolested. But the relief the companions felt was short-lived, because as they flew past the immense limbs, the giants suddenly turned and began to stride purposefully toward the city.

Decades of dust and decay that had built up on the motionless bodies of the giants suddenly scattered and fell, forming a dust cloud that filled the air for hundreds of feet, and which stretched for fifty miles.

“What did we do?” a horrified Laura Glue said as the shadows of the giants covered them, and Madoc and Quixote both moved protectively closer to her and the badgers.

“I don’t think we did anything,” said Madoc. “They aren’t focused on us, they’re focused on the city itself.”

“Well, whatever is going on,” Fred said, shading his face to look up at the giants, “I bet Kipling has something t’ do with it.”

♦  ♦  ♦

The great building where the summit had been held was a madhouse of frantic activity. Of the empress, there was no sign; Rao and the stars were also gone, as were several of the principalities. Only the Nephilim and certain of the Seraphim remained where they stood, as if waiting for something.

“The giants are coming for them,” Samaranth said numbly. “They intend to go to the Un-Made World to try to Name it before the destruction comes.”

“What?” Charles said, startled. “What destruction?”

“The empress dropped the Tears of Heaven into the Creative Fire,” Samaranth replied, still in shock for reasons the companions
still did not fully understand. “Everything is about to change now!”

“Because of a single rose?” asked Edmund. “I don’t understand.”

“Everything that is made is conceptual first,” Samaranth explained as he led them back up the stairs, which were crowded with other angels also trying to leave. “Then we . . . create the thing to be made. We give it form, and substance. But then, to put it out into the world, the made thing is placed in the Creative Fire, and from then it multiplies.”

“So we’ll have a lot of roses to deal with,” said Edmund.

“You don’t understand!” Samaranth said, whirling about and grabbing the young man in the first physical act the companions had seen him perform. “That flower contained three dewdrops, but not of just any water! They were the Tears of Heaven, and they will multiply a millionfold, a billionfold. More. More.”

“Oh dear,” said Charles.

“Yes,” Samaranth said. “Within the day, the entire world will be covered with a great flood, and there is nothing any of us can do to stop it.”