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 from 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
