The Search for the Red Dragon Read online

  THE SEARCH FOR THE RED DRAGON

  ALSO BY JAMES A. OWEN

  The Chronicles of the Imaginarium Geographica Book One: Here, There Be Dragons

  Lost Treasures of the Pirates of the Caribbean (with Jeremy Owen)

  SIMON & SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020 This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2008 by James A. Owen

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  SIMON & SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS is a trademark of

  Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Owen, James A.

  The search for the Red Dragon / James A. Owen.—1st ed. p. cm.—(The Chronicles of the Imaginarium Geographica; bk. 2) Summary: Nine years after they came together to defeat the Winter King, John, Jack, and Charles return to the Archipelago of Dreams and face a new challenge involving the Lost Boys and giants.

  ISBN-13:

  ISBN-10: 1-1111-1111-1

  [1. Time travel—Fiction. 2. Characters in literature—Fiction. 3. Fantasy—Fiction.] I. Title. PZ7.O97124Sea 2007 [Fic]—dc22 2007006235

  Visit us on the Web: http://www.SimonandSchuster.com

  For Laura

  Contents

  List of Illustrations

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Part One Nine Years in the Summer Country

  Chapter One

  The Angel in the Garden

  Chapter Two

  The Reluctant Caretaker

  Chapter Three

  The Lost Boys

  Chapter Four

  A Dragon Restored

  Part Two A History Undone

  Chapter Five

  The Errant Knight

  Chapter Six

  The Weaving

  Chapter Seven

  The Great Whatsit

  Chapter Eight

  The Friar’s Tale

  Part Three The Search for the Red Dragon

  Chapter Nine

  Shadows in Flight

  Chapter Ten

  The Tower in the Air

  Chapter Eleven

  Chamenos Liber

  Chapter Twelve

  Dante’s Riddle

  Part Four Into the Underneath

  Chapter Thirteen

  Croatoan

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Imperial Cartological Society

  Chapter Fifteen

  Haven

  Chapter Sixteen

  Echo’s Well

  Part Five The King of Tears and the Queen of Sorrows

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Tunesmiths

  Chapter Eighteen

  Shadows of History

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Gilded Army

  Chapter Twenty

  The City of Lost Children

  Part Six The Ninth Circle

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Shadows and Light

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The Thimble

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Unraveled

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Second Star to the Right

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  List of Illustrations

  Sitting in a disarray…was a small girl.

  The small, slight man was barely five feet tall

  “…someone is always listening…and someone always comes.”

  “Someone give me a hand inside, will you?” Bert cried

  The armored scarecrow was chewing something

  …three youthful, graceful women of astonishing beauty.

  In response to his call, an enormous black crow dropped down

  “He refers to the ‘construction’ of two mechanical men…”

  “She’s out of your reach, and that’s all that matters.”

  High above them, like a great gray comet…

  “Cut the line, Jack,” she said softly.

  …the rotating water…was forming a gigantic whirlpool.

  “Hello, boy,” she said.

  “We are the Croatoans. And we are ourselves.”

  …a regal, thin-framed man…spread his arms in greeting.

  “Hello, Jacks. It’s good to see you.”

  They cared about running…they cared about climbing apple trees

  The crenellated towers extended all around the orchard and gardens

  The other wolves had already begun to growl

  “I’m sorry,” the six-armed creature said plaintively. “There have to be forms”

  Something else was coming through one of the rifts in Time.

  “The King of Crickets,” breathed Bert.

  They were chessmen that aspired to be continents

  Acknowledgments

  The Search for the Red Dragon was easier to begin than its predecessor but was harder to finish, for all the right reasons. I have been overwhelmed by the support and goodwill extended to me by the many people who have assisted me in this process and been supportive of my books.

  It was no small boost in publicity when Warner Brothers announced that they would be acquiring these novels for adaptation to film. My team of representatives, including Ben Smith, Craig Emanuel, and everyone at the Gotham Group negotiated an excellent deal, and I’m very pleased that the Warner executive who bought the books, Lynn Harris, saw the potential the minute we walked into the room. Marc Rosen, David Heyman, and David Goyer helped me overcome every obstacle I saw, and cleared away some I hadn’t realized were there, and in the process have become my good friends.

  David Gale continues to be my ideal editor, and I’ve been very spoiled by the graciousness, belief, and hard work he has extended on my behalf. Alexandra Cooper, Dorothy Gribbin, and Valerie Shea have also been invaluable to my development as a writer, and I am constantly blown away by the attention to detail they brought to this book.

  My publisher, Rubin Pfeffer, is someone who exemplifies the concept of action in publishing. Rarely have I met someone who was so willing to take risks with material he believed in, and make sure that it had all the support it needed to succeed. He and I have come to trust each other implicitly, while having a great deal of fun in the process.

  Elizabeth Law, who was our associate publisher, was and is a great booster of the work I do—and I suspect is the reason our studio was offered the chance to do Lost Treasures while I was in the middle of this book. As with Rubin, her decisiveness and support is a huge factor in why I am very happy being published by Simon & Schuster.

  Our art director, Lizzy Bromley, continues to demonstrate a keen design sense and made the book look wonderful; and our publicity director, Paul Crichton, helped turn some initial good buzz into a never-ending whirlwind of excitement.

  I am also grateful to the sales team, in particular Kelly Stidham, who has all but become my personal advocate and helped turn hopes into stability.

  Our electronic links to the world via the Web would not be what they are without the skill and generosity of Ariana Osborne; and would be much more cluttered without the help of Lisa Mantchev. Dear ladies, you have my thanks.

  There have been times when I needed a helping hand, and reached out—only to find Brett Rapier, Shawn Palmer, and Cindy Larson had already extended theirs, for which I am very, very grateful.

  Throughout
the process of working on this book, my brother Jeremy and our cohorts at the Coppervale Studio have remained steadfast; and my family has been supportive beyond measure, even as this ride has taken wilder turns and my schedule has often kept me at work home and abroad. But I think more than anyone, I am thankful for the support given to me by my son, Nathaniel—who, more than anyone, inspired me to write this book in the manner that I did.

  Prologue

  It was not the soothing notes of a lullaby that lured the children from their beds, but it was a song nonetheless. Their parents never heard it, for the tune had not been intended for them.

  It was a song played for children; and when they heard it, the children came.

  Half-asleep and barefoot, still in their nightshirts, the children climbed from their beds and through windows that had been opened, unknowingly, to let in the cool breezes of evening.

  They walked, entranced, down winding lanes that converged into a single path that none of them had ever seen before, but that had always been there.

  It had many names, for it was only ever walked by children, and children have a fondness for naming things. But each child, as they passed, knew it for what it truly was—the Road to Paradise. They knew this, because the song they heard told them so.

  The notes of the music seemed to emanate from all around them, played everywhere and nowhere all at once, and the music maker, when they glimpsed him in the twilight air, seemed to change shape in time with the music.

  His flickering, ghostlike form was sometimes a grown-up, and other times a child like themselves. And sometimes he seemed not to be human at all. The music told them his name: the King of Crickets. And none of them could resist the song he played.

  None, save for one.

  She had been cautioned that one day the King of Crickets would come, and that unless she was prepared, she would not be able to resist his song. No children could, unless they were crippled, and could not follow, or were unable to hear the tune and fall under its spell.

  The beeswax she put into her ears, as the dream had told her to do, kept out enough of the music for her to resist its lure—but not so completely that she couldn’t feel the desire, nor hold back the tears that streamed onto her pillow as she finally slept, still dreaming of Paradise.

  For some children, the path ended at a great mountain face that split open to embrace them, and closed as they passed through. For others, it ended at a great precipice, which they stepped over, willingly, because the song told them they could fly. But for most, it led them to the Men of Iron, and the great ships that departed with the dawn.

  In the light of morning, the path would again vanish, but it would have a new name: the Sorrow Road.

  As they awoke to find the beds of their sons and daughters empty, the mothers and fathers in the towns and villages would feel bewilderment, then fear, and then terror. And they would name the path with their cries.

  But it was too late. Much, much too late.

  The children were already gone.

  PART ONE

  Nine Years in the Summer Country

  Sitting in a disarray…was a small girl.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Angel in the Garden

  John rarely dreamed, and it was even more seldom that he could recall what he dreamed about. But as of late, he had had dreams every night, and he remembered them all—because when he dreamed, he dreamed of Giants.

  Massive continents of bone and sinew, creating their own topographies as they strode across the landscapes, giving little notice to the awed creatures watching from below. The Giants were so great it seemed they had both gravity and weightlessness; as if the next thundering step would suddenly launch them into space, to join with the gods and Titans among the constellations.

  Standing with the populace of his dream world (all of whom, strangely, seemed to be children), John watched in mute wonder as the Giants strode past with geological slowness. Then, as in each of the dreams, one of the Giants turned and looked down, directly at John. Shifting its weight, it bent and reached for him with a hand the size of a barn as the children around him began shrieking….

  The train whistle was shrill in the afternoon air, startling John out of his troubled reverie. He stood and quickly scanned the crowd departing the train that had just come in from London. The station at Oxford was not large, but the afternoon schedules were always full of both comings and goings, and he didn’t want to miss the person for whom he was waiting.

  He realized with a rising thrill that he was far more excited to see his old friend than he’d expected to be. They had, in point of fact, spent only a few weeks together a number of years before—but the events of those days were enough to make them closer than mere colleagues. And so when the thin, nervous-looking man with the high forehead and round spectacles finally emerged from the train onto the platform, John rushed forward and greeted him like a brother.

  “Charles!” he exclaimed joyfully. “I say, it’s terribly good to see you!”

  “I’m very pleased to see you, too, John,” said Charles, clapping his friend on the back. “It’s odd—as I got closer and closer to Oxford, I kept feeling as if I was coming home. But it wasn’t because of the place—rather because I knew I was going to be seeing you and Jack. Does that sound strange to you?”

  “Yes,” replied John, chuckling, “but in all the right ways. Come on—let me help you with your bags.”

  As they loaded Charles’s belongings into John’s vehicle, Charles looked around nervously and leaned closer to his friend. “I wanted to ask,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper, “do you, ah, do you, you know, have, ah, ‘it’ with you?”

  “Of course,” said John, pointing to a bundle of books and papers on the rear seat. “It’s there in the middle somewhere.”

  Charles’s eyes widened in shock. “Here? Out in the open?” he exclaimed. “Not locked away or anything? John, are you out of your mind? That’s, that’s…” He lowered his voice again. “That’s the Imaginarium Geographica. The single most valuable book on Earth. Don’t you think it’s a bit, ah, risky?”

  “Not at all,” John said with a trace of smugness. “Take a look at the lecture on top of the pile.”

  Charles adjusted his spectacles and peered more closely at the document. “It says, ‘A proposal for syllabus reform as regards the study of Ancient Icelandic.’ And the rest appear to be notes on courses in Comparative Philologies.”

  He climbed into the seat next to John and gave his friend a puzzled look. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but how many people, even at Oxford, would care about such things?”

  “Precisely my thinking,” said John as he started up the car. “I have a hard enough time getting the undergraduates to pay any attention to Anglo-Saxon, much less Old Icelandic. What better protection for the Geographica than to bury it amongst manuscripts that no one else will care about?”

  It had been nine years to the day since John and Charles had met each other in London. Nine years since they and the companion they were going to see had gone on the most extraordinary expedition of their lives.

  Exceptional circumstances had brought the three young men together at the scene of a murder. The dead man, John’s mentor, Professor Sigurdsson, had been one of the Caretakers of the Imaginarium Geographica.

  The Geographica was an atlas of maps of a place called the Archipelago of Dreams—a great chain of islands that had been coexisting with our own world since time began and had influenced many of the great men and women of history.

  But not all of those influenced by the Archipelago were influenced for the better.

  A man called the Winter King tried to use the Geographica and the knowledge found within to conquer the Archipelago. Another Caretaker, Bert, enlisted John and his two friends to travel into the Archipelago to try to stop the Winter King. And somehow, despite terrible odds, they managed to do it.

  The Winter King lost, and fell to his death over the edge of an endless waterfall. A ne
w order was established in the Archipelago, under a new king and queen. And the Geographica now had three new Caretakers: John, Charles, and the youngest of the three friends, Jack.

  But there had been prices paid for their victory. Allies were lost. Mistakes were made. And although there had been a measure of redemption, there were some events that would never be far from their thoughts.

  Events in the Archipelago resonate with those in our world—which was then still in the midst of World War I. John resumed his service in the military just as Jack began his. Only Charles was spared, due to his general nervous nature and age. And when finally, the war ended, they all resumed their lives as if the war, and their adventure in the Archipelago, had been imaginary aberrations, or dreams.

  And perhaps John could have convinced himself that it all had been a dream, if it were not for the great leatherbound book that he still possessed. He had not had so much as a message from Bert since the old tatterdemalion had returned them to London aboard the White Dragon—one of the great living Dragonships that were able to cross the boundary between our world and the Archipelago.

  At least, John mused, there hadn’t been any more murders. Or another war. He didn’t think the planet could survive a second war on the scale of the one they’d come through. But then again, much of the responsibility for those events could be attributed to the Winter King—and he had been dealt with.