The First Dragon (Chronicles of the Imaginarium Geographica, The) (18 page)

Rose, Charles, and Edmund followed Samaranth back to his Library, where he remained only long enough to retrieve a few items. It appeared to Rose that the objects he chose were more out of sentimental value than practicality—but then again, it was hard to imagine an angel being sentimental, so she assumed the things he gathered together had some sort of meaningful purpose.

“There is no stopping it now,” Samaranth said, addressing those who had assembled at one of the towers. “The waters will come, and they will all but destroy this world. But they will also cleanse it and restore it to the state it was in before it was severed from the Un-Made World. But now,” he continued, his face a mask of incredible sadness, “we must do what the Nephilim and the principalities had wanted all along, and separate the worlds as definitively as we can. If we can preserve as much from this world there as possible, then both may be rebuilt. And perhaps,” he added, briefly glancing back at Rose, “someday both may be reconnected, and restored, as the Word intended from the beginning.”

He turned to the angels. “Seven are needed for this. Seven, and the world will be divided—and protected.”

There was no hesitation. Seven Seraphim—four female and three male—stepped forward and bowed their heads to Samaranth. He moved to each of them in turn, whispering words meant only for them, then embracing them. All the Seraphim appeared older than Samaranth, so it was an unusual sight to see
grown men and women being comforted by a youth—but then again, Rose especially understood how appearances were not necessarily reality.

Samaranth stood back from the Seraphim and raised his hands. “I release you from your covenants,” he said, voice cracking, “but not from this life. Go forth, and guard the Un-Made World, as your brethren guarded the Garden, and guard it still.”

The Seraphim drew swords of flame and raised them to their lips. Then they began to expand. Swiftly the angels became giants, and as they grew they changed: They became less corporeal and more intangible, and they took on the appearance of massive thunderheads. The flaming swords became lightning; and the cries of the Seraphim as they left the life they knew became the thunder.

In moments the seven angels had become a dark wall of storms, which moved past the city and out over the water.

“The Frontier,” Charles breathed.

“As good a name as any,” Samaranth said. His face was red from the angst and great strain he was feeling, but his expression was once again resolute. “None will pass, save they are given the Mandate of Heaven. A vessel touched by divinity may cross, but none other. And no Fallen may cross over, unless given passage by one of us here. And that,” he said with finality, “is
never
going to occur.”

In the distance, more crashing and explosions could be heard, and the Corinthian Giants loomed over the eastern horizon like a counterpoint to the Frontier the angels had created. “They may survive,” Samaranth said, “but their parents will not. Nor will any of the principalities who sided with the Nephilim. Fortunately, some have proven wiser than others.”

He gestured at the assembly, and the companions realized he
was correct—a number of the younger gods were present, and appeared to have sided with Samaranth. Odin was there, and young Zeus, and the god Prometheus, who still carried the staff of fire.

“The Nephilim have gone,” said Odin, “along with the star Rao, to do battle with the Jade Empress.”

“I know where her power comes from,” said Samaranth. “It will be a terrible battle, which she may lose. But it will give us the time we need. . . . Just enough, I think.”

“There is one Nephilim still in the city,” Prometheus said, “although he seems to be allied with at least one Seraphim and some members of an unknown principality. He is not flying himself, but is traveling in a flying vessel being drawn by goats.”

A huge smile spread over Rose’s face. “Does that sound like a Caretaker operation to you?” she asked, beaming.

“It certainly does,” said Charles. “Look!”

The
Indigo Dragon
had just rounded one of the towers, avoiding flying directly through the smoke now billowing up from the giants’ path. A shrill cheer sounded from Laura Glue as she spotted her long-missing friends.

Rose had expected some sort of rescue party and was not surprised to see Uncas, Fred, Laura Glue, and Quixote—but she was completely taken aback when the airship landed and her father stepped to the ground.

“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 . . .

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.”