added, “we’re already pointed in the right direction, so we should make it that far without incident. After we’re there, then perhaps we can locate a scholar, or appeal to the Parliament for access to the king’s archives and library for help. “Cheer up lad,” he finished. “We still have options.” “Maybe,” Bug offered from the nook in the cabin where he’d been observing, “the Council will decide on a new king, and you won’t have to worry about it anymore.” “Think good thoughts, lad,” Bert said as he left the cabin, closing the door behind him. The sun was nearing the apex of its arc across the sky when the crewman in the crow’s nest called out, “Land, ho!” They had arrived at Paralon. The island was far larger than Avalon, or any of the Shadowed Lands they had passed. In the distance a mountain range could be made out, as well as the dark greens of what could only be great forests. The vista was stunning enough that even the taci-turn fauns paused in their labors to watch as they approached. The harbor toward which they sailed was formed around a natural river basin that emptied into the sea, just deep enough for ships to moor. The ground beyond sloped up gently to a landscape of low rolling hills and fields, then abruptly shifted to a domineering ridge of plateaus that rose straight up from the valley floor. On the tallest of these stood a massive stone fortress, gray and forbidding: The Castle of Paralon, wherein sat the Silver Throne of the High King of the Archipelago. This was not Camelot, as they had suspected it might resemble, but something far more primal, which shimmered with the raw energies of living myth. It was the archetype of archetypes; Paralon was the reality that the legend of Camelot aspired to be. “Dear Lord,” Charles breathed. “It’s magnificent.” John and Jack both nodded in agreement. Even Mad King Ludwig had never imagined a castle such as this. “There are a number of ships in the harbor,” Aven noted. “The council may already have begun.” “So this Paralon,” Charles said as they began to disembark, “is the largest military power in the Archipelago?” “Why would you think that?” Bert said in surprise. “How else would it become the locus of power?” “See those forests in the distance?” Bert asked. “Apple orchards—hundreds, if not thousands, of years old. Military might is transferable, losable, comes and goes. But good produce,” he finished with a wink, “good produce is very difficult to attain.” Jack busied himself trying to be helpful to Aven, who did her best to ignore him without seeming to. His reckless but successful move during the encounter with the Winter King, as well as his sympathetic distancing from John, had emboldened him, much to her dismay. Bert helped a still downcast John secure the Geographica inside a sturdy leather case with straps that could be slung over his shoulders for easier carrying, which Bug offered to do. He took his role as John’s squire seriously and was attentive to any ways he might be helpful. Besides, there was no way to suggest that he stay behind—not when the prospect of seeing real knights and kings lay before him. Charles was already at the far end of the dock, where a small figure was cursing and banging at the insides of an odd contraption that appeared to be the offspring of a clockwork automobile and Cinderella’s pumpkin carriage. “Keep at it,” Charles said. “I’m sure you’ll get whatever the trouble is sorted out.” “I’ll do my best, which is all any of us can do, in’t it?” came the reply. Charles yelped and jumped back as he realized the creature that had answered him was not a man, or even one of the fauns. It was a badger. In a vest and waistcoat, walking upright, with a pince-nez in one eye and spats on both furred feet. Charles was still stammering in disbelief as the others came up behind. “A waistcoat, but no trousers?” John asked. “It’s very impolite to take notice,” said Bert. “Be ye royalty types, or officious emissaries?” the badger asked. “Scholars,” said Charles. “We be…ah, that is, we are scholars.” “Scowlers, are ye?” said the badger. “And whereabouts do you do yer scowlerin’?” “Ah, Oxford, actually,” Charles said. The animal seemed to take this as a matter of course. “Oh yes, Oxford. A place of scowlerly knowledge and Druidcraft. Lord Pryderi of the race of Man was an Oxford scowler.” “And you,” said Jack. “What’s your name?” “Pardon my manners, young scowler,” said the badger with a gesture that was halfway between a squat and a bow. “I be called Tummeler, and Tummeler is me.” “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Tummeler,” said Jack, who, to the badger’s delight, shook his proffered paw. “I’m Jack. These lot are my friends and fellow, ah, ‘scowlers,’ John, and Charles, and our captain, Aven. The fellow with the hat is Bert.” “Welcome, scowler Jack and all,” said Tummeler. “Be ye here for the Council?” “We are,” said Bert. “Has it begun?” “Not yet,” said Tummeler, “as a number of designates such as y’rselves are only just arrived, and the Council at Paralon asked ol’ Tummeler to escort any last-minute princely sorts and emissaries as may be expectin’ to attend.” He beckoned at them with a paw and turned away. “This way, if you please, young scowlers and company. The Council awaits.” In short order Tummeler had the vehicle running (with a discreet assist from Aven, who didn’t want to embarrass the small mammal in front of visitors by pointing out that a clump of badger fur was obscuring one of the contacts in the engine) and they started across the valley to the castle. “We calls ’em principles,” said Tummeler, referring to the steam-belching vehicle in which they traveled. “As in, ‘you can get from here to there, but it’s easier to do it with principles.’ That’s in general. This ’un,” he continued proudly, “I calls the Curious Diversity.” “Fascinating,” said Charles. “How does it run?” “Well enough for all practical porpoises,” said Tummeler. “No—I mean, what gives it motive power?” “We gots to go somewheres,” Tummeler replied. “What gives you motive power?” “I—I just decide to go where I need to, and then I do,” Charles stammered. “Well, it’s the same with principles,” said Tummeler, “’cept I do the decidin’.” Aven smiled. “It’s a design manufactured by one of his predecessors,” she said, tilting her chin at John. “There is an element of steam involved, and often electricity, but no one truly knows how they run. Bacon only passed on the secret of their construction to certain animals and to Nemo. The animals can’t explain it well enough, and Nemo has never shared.” “Bacon?” said John. “Do you mean Roger Bacon, the Franciscan friar? He was a Caretaker too?” Tummeler nodded. “As I be telling you—always good eggs they be, those Oxford scowlers.” The Curious Diversity passed through an immense stone gate, bracketed by two equally massive statues. The statues’ left hands were outstretched in a gesture of warding; their right hands were held closer to the breast in a gesture of beckoning. “Th’ Great Kings of Paralon,” said Tummeler. “There be two outside each of the gates as th’ compass spins—east, west, north, and south.” “Incredible,” said John. “Hah!” said Tummeler. “Wait’ll y’ see th’ Great Hall.”
