Magwich shrieked again and started to run until he realized John’s suggestion wasn’t intended to be taken seriously—mostly, anyway. “None of this matters,” said Aven, “because he got what he was looking for. The Winter King has the Imaginarium Geographica.” “No, he doesn’t,” said John. He took his bundled jacket from underneath his head and began to unfold it. “If you hadn’t been so determined not to lose your coat,” said Jack, “I wouldn’t have had to save you, you know.” “Don’t think I’m not grateful, but wasn’t the coat I was trying to save,” John retorted. “It was what I’d wrapped inside.” John pulled open the flaps to reveal a slightly damp but otherwise unharmed Imaginarium Geographica. All of the companions crowded around him with exclamations of surprise and astonished whoops, save for Magwich, who stood a distance away, sniffing in disdain at the camaraderie of the others. “My lad,” Bert said, beaming, “today you have done the role of Caretaker proud.” “Bravo, John,” said Charles. “I’ll admit, I’m impressed,” said Aven. “But if you had the Geographica, what was wrapped in the oilcloth the Winter King stole?” Jack realized it before the others, and convulsed with laughter. “Of course! It was the right shape, the right size…” John grinned. “I thought it might buy us a few minutes, but I never really expected it to work. “I gave him Tummeler’s recipe book.” “So for the moment,” Charles said, “we appear to have regained the upper hand, at least with regard to what he wants and what we have. But the question still remains: Why does the Winter King want the Geographica so badly that he would destroy the Archipelago to get his hands on it?” As one, the companions all turned to look at Magwich, who sighed in resignation. “The Ring of Power,” Magwich said sullenly. “He needs the Geographica to find the High King’s ring.” The companions exchanged astonished looks, and Charles crouched down in front of the pouting Steward of Paralon. “What does he need with the High King’s ring?” he asked. “What makes it so important?” “The dragons,” said Magwich. “It says as much inside your book there. The proper summoning, read by the High King while wielding the Ring of Power, calls the dragons.” “So that is the real power of the Silver Throne,” said Bert. “The ability to control the dragons would be the ability to control the border between the worlds, if not the entirety of the Archipelago itself.” “Precisely.” Magwich nodded. “The Winter King believes the location of the ring is hidden within the Geographica. Used together with the summoning, he thinks the dragons would return to the service of the new High King—himself.” “Well, he’s out of luck twice then,” said Jack, tossing a bauble from his vest pocket into the air and then catching it again, “because I have the High King’s ring right here.” “What?” Magwich shrieked, abruptly standing up. “You mean you’ve had it all along?” “Since that mess at Paralon,” said Jack. “We were given it by—” “By an ally of the old king,” Bert interjected. “But remember—we were warned that it may not be what we think it is.” “I wonder if that’s why the Winter King tried so hard to convince you to join him,” Charles said to Jack. “Maybe he sensed that you had it.” “Not likely,” said Aven. “He thought he was taking the Geographica. Why leave the ring behind when that was part of the reason he needed the Geographica to begin with?” “I think I’ve found the summoning he’s talking about,” said John, who’d been leafing through the Geographica. “It does say something about a ‘Ring of Power,’ and calling on the dragons, but it’s in some combination of Latin and Egyptian. It’s going to take a while to work it out.” “What else is new?” said Aven. “At least you kept him from getting the atlas,” she finished in what was practically a compliment. “You’re not nearly as stupid as I thought you were.” “Thanks a lot,” said John. “Not to interrupt your discussion, Sir John,” said Bug, who’d been observing the proceedings from a distance, “but a very, very large cat is watching us.” An immense golden creature, mane flowing to and fro with the breeze, was sitting just inside the treeline about thirty feet away. It watched them with a lazy, disinterested expression, as if it came across marooned travelers every other day. “That’s not a cat,” Jack said, his voice as still as he could manage. “That’s a lion.” “Oh!” Bug said. “The Green Knight told me about them. He said lions were called Kings of the Forest.” Before any of the companions could stop him, Bug strode quickly toward the great cat, hand outstretched. Instead of turning the boy into an opportune snack, as they half expected would happen, the lion allowed Bug to stroke its mane, then scratch behind its ears. A low rumbling sound began to emanate from the beast, and after a moment they realized it was purring. “I hit my head,” said Charles. “I hit my head in the wreck, and I’m seeing things again.” The companions’ attention had been so drawn by the lion that they only just realized it was not alone. Throughout the woods, under trees and in them, were hundreds of cats, and they were all watching the arrivals on the beach. “I can’t tell if we’re in trouble or not,” said Charles, “but I’m glad Bug made friends with the big one first.” “Cats…,” Bert mused. “An island of cats…That sounds very familiar to me. John? May we consult the Geographica?” “Sure.” They opened the book, and John handed it to Bert. “I know it’s here somewhere,” said Bert. “It’ll be among the pages in the back, near the map to the Cartographer’s island—if I’m right, this is one of the elder islands.” As they looked, the others tried not to notice the fact that the cats came in all shapes and sizes—including more than a few in the predator class, a fact that Jack mentioned to Charles. “Aren’t all cats predators, though?” Charles responded. “Probably,” said Jack. “But this is the first time I’ve ever wondered if I classified as prey.” After a few minutes, Bert thumped a triumphant fist on an open page. “There! I knew it!” He summoned the others to where he and John were examining the Geographica and pointed to a map of a roughly oval-shaped island. “I think I know where we are,” he began. “You are on our home,” a voice, amused but welcoming, said from the trees. “Uninvited, but welcome nonetheless.” The cats parted like clouds of dust in a monsoon, and an ancient man, gray-haired and white-bearded, moved through them to the beach. He was carrying a gnarled staff, which spouted a flame from its top. Seven other men, the youngest of whom seemed of an age with Bug and Jack, were also approaching from the treeline. “I am Ordo Maas,” said the ancient man. “Welcome to Byblos.” It was a tradition common throughout cultures of the world to revere the elders of a society, and since the days of Methuselah, it had simply been assumed that the older a person was, the more life experience they’d had: Therefore, they were probably wiser than anyone else. By that measure, John surmised, Ordo Maas might have been wiser than every other living being on Earth. He emanated the aura of such advanced age that one could suppose he might have predated the great Mesopotamian cities of antiquity, the Chinese Empire, and several of the lesser mountain ranges like the Andes and the Alps (being merely a contemporary of the Himalayas). At the very least, he was probably wiser than anyone John had ever met, or was likely to meet, short of Adam himself. If there had been any question as to whether or not Ordo Maas deserved a large measure of respect, it
