“No,” said Samaranth. “Only he who created it can destroy what he has wrought. It must be taken,” the dragon finished with a smoky exhalation, “to the Cartographer of Lost Places.”
“That brings us full circle to our original problem,” Aven said with a contemptuous glance at John. “We don’t have any way to read all but the most basic maps and annotations in the Geographica—and with no way to translate the rest of the maps, we can never find our way to the Cartographer’s island, even if he still really exists.”
“Oh, he still exists,” said Samaranth. “He created maps constantly for the Caretakers in years past, although he has since come to distance himself from contact with anyone from either world.”
Bert nodded in agreement. “I never met him myself,” he said, “but Stellan did on several occasions, very early on in our Stewardship of the Geographica. The last three maps were all added under our watch. Unfortunately,” he added, “they are all for islands on the outer edges of the Archipelago, and will be of no use to us in finding the Cartographer.”
“So,” the dragon said, turning to John, “you were not properly trained as a Caretaker?”
“I was trained, but I never knew the import of my studies,” said John. “I have a basic functional knowledge of several languages, but know almost nothing of the rest of them.”
“Nothing?” snorted Samaranth. “Not even a single letter?”
“Single letters, sure,” John said, “but not enough to translate from map to map.”
“Nothing?” the dragon repeated. “Not even a single recurring phrase?”
“That’s right,” John said. “But wait, I forgot—there was one thing I could translate right away.”
He took the oilskin-wrapped book from the pack on Bug’s back, unwrapped it, and flipped to a map near the center of the book.
“There,” he said, pointing to an engraving of a dragonlike creature and the annotation below it. “It’s much like the caution on an old mariner’s map I once saw: ‘Here, There Be Dragons.’”
“Correct,” said Samaranth. “With one difference.”
The companions crowded around John and the Geographica, but none of them understood what point the dragon was making. Finally, the realization dawned on John.
“It’s to the east of the lands depicted,” John said. “On the mariner’s map at the British Museum, the caution is on the western edge—the outermost edge of the world as it was known then; but all these,” he continued, paging through the maps, “are on the eastern edge.”
“Correct again,” said Samaranth, leaning closer to John. “One more gives you the tournament.”
John studied the maps, paging from one to another before he saw it. “It’s on every one,” he said.
Samaranth bowed his head. “That same phrase, in one variation or another, is on every map, and,” he concluded, “in every language.”
“A primer,” Charles said. “John, you said you’d studied all of the languages, at least a little.”
“Yes,” said John. “I see where you’re going. I can use the common phrase as a primer to work out grammar and syntax, based on the differences between versions.”
“If you work from the back of the atlas forward,” offered Bert, “you can also unravel the languages chronologically. Most recent languages first.”
“What do you say, John?” Charles asked. “Do you think you can do it?”
John looked doubtful, but he was quickly becoming absorbed in the maps. “Old English to Teutonic, to Italian, and…mmm, Latin…,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
Aven and Jack exchanged skeptical glances, but Bert smiled broadly, as did Bug. Charles offered a pencil from his vest pocket, and without another word, John sat on the rug and began to make notes, now fully absorbed in his task.
“Well,” said Samaranth. “It seems as if you had your translator with you all along.”
As John worked, Bug and Aven cleaned up the tea service while Bert, Charles, Jack, and Tummeler discussed their strategy with Samaranth.
“The seas will be treacherous,” said Bert. “The trolls will be out en masse, if they are not already.”
“Arawn,” Samaranth said with a hiss, spitting embers across the rugs that Jack hurried to stamp out. “Spoiled brat of a troll. His father is a diplomat—but that one would burn a tree to cook an apple. And then he’d discard the apple, and beat his servants for not putting out the fire.”
“If only something of the old Royal House of Paralon remained,” sighed Bert, “then we could simply have a coronation and get back to business.”
Samaranth laughed in that huffing way and arched an eyebrow at the little old man.
“If only it were that easy,” the dragon said, “you’d already be done.” Bert started to ask what he meant by this, but Samaranth continued speaking. “Quests are never easy—at least, any that are worth their while.
“You want a coronation?” Samaranth said, rooting around in one of the honeycomb caches in the walls. “Take this—maybe you can put it on anyone foolish enough to sit on a throne, who seeks to rule a kingdom.”
With that, the dragon tossed a small object to Bert, who looked at it briefly before tossing it back, eyes wide.
“Hah!” Samaranth snorted. “So quick to turn away a kingdom, are you, little Traveler?”
“What is it?” Charles asked.
“A ring,” said Bert. “The High King’s ring.”
“Indeed,” said Samaranth. “It was I who made it, and I who gave it to each king in turn as they assumed the Silver Throne. And it was I who took it back, when the last king demonstrated through the choices he had made that he was no longer worthy to bear it.”
“But it’s just a ring, isn’t it?” asked Jack.
“The High King’s ring—called by some the Ring of Power—was the symbol of his office,” said Bert, “and was said to be the source of his power in the Archipelago.”
Samaranth seemed surprised by this. “You think so? There are many rings in the Archipelago. The Elves bear rings, as do the Dwarves. And Men. Is it the ring that makes the wearer, or the wearer that makes the ring? It makes no difference to me whether you take it,” he finished, proffering the ring in his open claw.
“Although,” the great dragon added, considering, “it may not be what you—or the Winter King—expect it to be.”
“That’s all right,” Jack said, reaching to take the ring from the huge palm of the dragon. “Maybe we’ll discover its power along the way.”
“Power is a thing earned,” Samaranth said, “not something that may be passed along with the possession of objects like thrones…or rings, for that matter.
“Power, true power, comes from the belief in true things, and the willingness to stand behind that belief, even if the universe itself conspires to thwart your plans. Chaos may settle; flames may die; worlds may rise and fall. But true things will remain so, and will never fail to guide you to your goals. Isn’t that so, Master John?”
As they talked, John had come up behind his companions. There were graphite marks on the corners of his mouth, and oddly, on his forehead, but his eyes were shining, and there were a dozen strips of cloth with scribbled notations sticking out of various parts of the Geographica.
“John, dear fellow,” said Charles. “What is it?”
“I’ve done it,” John said, his voice trembling in triumph and excitement. “There’s still a lot of footwork to do, but Samaranth gave me the key, and I’ve been able to make sense of most of the maps.”
“Does that mean…,” Bert began.
“Yes,” said John. “I’ve found the island. I know how to find the Cartographer of Lost Places.”
The companions’ farewells to Samaranth were considerably less strained than their introduction. The great dragon showed them how to reach a northern inlet where the Indigo Dragon would most likely be waiting, far removed from the fray at Paralon, and then saw their provisions for the ship restocked fro
m his own stores.
Each of the companions thanked him in turn for his assistance and hospitality, save for Bug, who jumped when Samaranth winked at him, and John, who was too consumed with notetaking and translating to notice they were leaving until they were actually sitting in the Curious Diversity. A short ride later, and they were once more out of the canyon and approaching the inlet. Sure enough, the Indigo Dragon was there, gangplank at the ready.
In less than an hour, they had unloaded their supplies and were prepared to set sail for the Cartographer’s island. Somewhat shyly, Tummeler tugged at Charles’s coat.
“Master Scowlers?” said Tummeler. “I—I have somethin’ I’d like t’ be givin’ y’, if you don’t mind.”
Charles and John knelt down next to the small animal, as he offered them a largish book that smelled of crisp ink and freshly bound leather. “What is it, my good fellow?” said Charles.
“I wrote an’ published it myself,” Tummeler said, twisting the ends of his vest in his paws. “It’s a cookbook.”
The cover was embossed with the title: Mr. B. Tummeler Esquire Presents Exotik Foods of the Lands and How They Is Cookt.
“Very impressive,” Charles said with genuine sincerity. “How’s it doing for you?”
“Oh, y’ know how it goes, bein’ an Oxford scowler an’ all,” said Tummeler. “I published it durin’ th’ high season, and set up shop on Rivington Lane down at th’ merchant district. I even had a sign what said ‘Locale Author’ on it, but, ah…”
“Haven’t sold any?” said Jack.
“Not a one,” admitted Tummeler. “But I’ve got prospects.”
“Well, I think it’s an admirable effort,” said Charles. “Thank you, Tummeler.”
“Y’know,” the badger said, “bein’ as I’ve not sold any, I’d have more than enough f’r you all t’ have copies of y’r own….”
“No, no, one will be fine,” said John. “We already have one very important book to look after, remember? Having one more will be as much as we can handle.”
Tummeler beamed so much at the compliment it seemed the buttons on his vest were about to pop off. “Very wise, Master Scowler. Be well on your journey.”
The badger stood on a small rise, waving his farewells, as the Indigo Dragon pulled away from the inlet and headed for open waters, and he continued to wave long after the ship had disappeared from view.
Part Three
The Children of the Earth
“Arm yourselves, and prepare to be boarded.”
Chapter Nine
Into the Shadows
Jack stood near the prow of the ship, a bit put out at John’s newfound confidence. Aven and her crew were taking direction from the Caretaker as if the fiascoes of the previous days had never occurred. It was bad enough that the potboy from Avalon acted as if John were a knight and not just a mediocre scholar from Oxford, but Jack couldn’t understand why Aven seemed to forgive and forget so quickly. He didn’t resent the fact that as captain, Aven had to consult with John about the navigation. He just couldn’t understand why she had to keep smiling at him as they conferred.
The fauns seemed to have the ship’s operations well in hand, so Jack excused himself from the group and went belowdecks to do whatever it was that could be done on a ship to look productive and kill time.
“There are a few gaps in the order,” John was explaining as Jack elbowed his way past to the hatch, “due to the Shadowed Maps. I don’t think the maps have disappeared entirely. If we knew what caused them to vanish, we might be able to reverse it—but it may be that the only one who does know that is the Winter King, and I’d rather avoid asking, if we can help it.”
“When the Winter King conquers a land, its map disappears from the Geographica?” Bug asked.
“Yes,” said John. “The outlines of the lands themselves remain, but they are covered in shadow.” He thumbed through several pages until he came to one of the vanished maps. It was a yellow-tinged sheet of parchment, like many of the others, but taking the place of the illuminations and notations were several large, indistinct smudges, as if the drawings had been hastily rubbed out.
“What happens to the people?” said Bug. “The ones who live in the Shadowed Lands?”
“They become something called ‘Shadow-Born,’” said Bert, “although I’ve rarely seen any myself.”
“Is that like a Wendigo?” asked Charles.
“Worse, if you can imagine that,” said Bert. “Wendigo, as bad as they are, are little more than mercenaries. Shadow-Born have long been rumored to be the darkest of the Winter King’s servants. They are shells, living without true life—dark, cloaked figures, mute, who do his bidding without question. Or remorse,” he added. “How it is done, I cannot tell—all I know is what the stories say: that the Winter King somehow steals and traps the shadows of his victims, and forever after compels them to serve him.”
“What do you mean, ‘true life’?” said Charles.
“That’s another rumor,” said Bert. “It’s said that the Shadow-Born cannot be killed. If it’s true, then they would be worse than any Wendigo.”
Aven looked at John. “How many maps in the Geographica are Shadowed?”
“Perhaps a quarter of them.”
No one had anything to say after that.
John estimated that the Cartographer’s island was maybe a full day’s sail away, give or take a few hours. Aven conferred with Bert, while Jack and Bug pretended to examine one of the ramshackle cannons near the cabin—where they could also keep an eye on Aven.
Aven glanced around and caught Bug staring at her. He blinked and immediately began examining knots in the rigging—which came loose, much to the dismay of the fauns.
“Sorry,” said Bug, who moved quickly to the other end of the ship while the crew re-drew the rigging.
Aven smiled, then frowned and furrowed her brow.
“What is it?” asked Bert.
“There,” she said, pointing behind them.
On the horizon, moving fast from out of the setting sun, was the shape of a ship. The Black Dragon had found them once again.
The crew quickly mobilized, and in moments there was no question: It was definitely the ship of the Winter King.
Aven continued watching through the spyglass, as if confirming something she hadn’t expected to see.
“What is it?” asked John.
“Trouble,” said Aven.
“Really?” John said. “I hadn’t guessed.”
Aven shot him a poisonous look and turned to her father, handing him the spyglass. “That’s not what I meant. He has Shadow-Born on board the ship. Four of them.”
“Four!” Bert exclaimed, peering at the pursuing ship. “I’ve never heard of more than two ever being together at any time. If he’s brought four Shadow-Born, that bodes very badly for us.”
“You can stop trying to cheer us up now, Bert,” said Charles. “I think I’m about as happy as I’m going to get.”
“Our only hope is to outrun him,” Aven said, “and I don’t think that’s possible—not without Nemo to buy us time.”
“I’ve been examining the weapons stores below,” said Jack. “We don’t have much, do we?”
Aven shook her head. “We’re stripped for speed—and we were never really equipped for battle to begin with.”
“I have an idea,” said Jack. “Hey, potboy,” he called to Bug. “Give me a hand belowdecks.”
“What are you thinking, Jack?” said Aven.
“No time to explain,” Jack shouted. “Just get the fauns to prepare a cannon on the aft deck.”
“Aft?” Aven exclaimed.
“Just do it!” said Jack, as he disappeared below.
In moments Jack and Bug had brought up a massive cannonball and were loading it into the cannon.
“A few of those would show them what’s what,” said Charles.
“It’s the only one we have,” said Jack.
“Oh. Well then,” said Ch
arles. “Aim like an Oxford man, Jack.”
“That’s my plan,” said Jack. “Turn us around,” he called to Aven. “Quickly!”
“They’ll be prepared for that,” she yelled back, “since your stunt the last time.”
“That’s what I’m counting on,” said Jack. “Turn us around! Quickly!”
The crew turned the ship and pointed it at the Black Dragon. As Jack had predicted, the bigger ship slowed down so as not to lose too much distance when the Indigo Dragon passed.
A hail of arrows and spears showered the deck as they sped past the Black Dragon, and Aven climbed onto the rigging to get a better look at their adversary.
“That’s our advantage, used and gone,” she called down to Jack. “They’ll not let us get the distance to turn again, and they’re too fast to evade.”
“It won’t matter if they’re faster if they can’t steer,” said Jack as they passed the aft of the Black Dragon. “Fire! Now! Now!”
The fauns lit the fuse, and an instant later a booming cough erupted from the cannon, expelling with it their solitary cannonball.
The iron ball shot through the air and found its mark, exactly where Jack had intended it to hit. The Black Dragon’s rudder shattered in an explosion of splintered wood and iron.
The crew of the Indigo Dragon let out a cheer and hastened to raise the sails for speed. John, Charles, and Bert clapped Jack enthusiastically on the back, and, best of all, Aven climbed down from her perch and kissed him on the cheek. Only Bug was nonplussed.
“I don’t want to be a wet blanket,” he said, “but I don’t think this is over yet.”
He was right. Despite having lost their rudder, the crew aboard the Black Dragon were making no efforts to even respond to the loss. They were still milling about, cursing and waving weapons, and looking for all the world like they hadn’t even completed the preamble to this nautical overture.
Suddenly, inexplicably, the Black Dragon turned sharply, and, picking up speed, began to come straight at the Indigo Dragon.
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