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

by Owen, James A.

“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.”

  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,” Salathie
l 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.”

  Chapter TWELVE

  The Tears of Heaven

  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 hu
e 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.