The place where Rose, Edmund, and Charles had appeared was a grassy hill on the other side of the estuary that separated the island where the city stood from the mainland. A conversation with a passing angel called Nix had some unusual results: First, Charles was mistaken for a Seraphim, which was not necessarily a bad thing; and second, when they asked for further information about the city, and the summit that was to take place there, Nix instructed them to seek out what he referred to as a minor angel with the unlikeliest of names.
“Samaranth?” Charles said for the umpteenth time. “That just can’t be a coincidence. It can’t be.”
“I agree,” Rose said as they walked down the path taken by Nix, but at a discreet distance. They had decided that following someone who was attending to official city business would be the most direct route into the city, but they preferred not to arouse his suspicion any further than they already had. “He may be the reason this is a chronal zero point. After all, the trump could take us to the city, but something else had to influence the reason we arrived at this specific point in time—and Samaranth’s presence might be it.”
“We had some help, remember?” Edmund interjected. “The old man, in Platonia. He has involved himself in things before, to help you out. He must have known.”
“He knew something, that’s for certain,” Rose answered as they approached the bridge. It was made of the same glowing green material as the city and was several hundred yards wide. At both ends and at several points across the width of the entrance were guard towers manned by watchmen who were paying scant attention to most of those crossing—almost all of whom seemed to be boylike angels like Nix.
As the companions approached, Edmund and Rose whispered back and forth about what possible ruse they could use to pass, but the guard in the nearest tower simply looked up, nodded at Charles, then went back to his other work.
“Interesting,” Charles murmured as they passed. “I would have at least expected to be stopped and questioned.”
The guard overheard this and leaned out of his tower, shaking his head. “You are Seraphim, are you not?” he asked.
“Er, ah, yes,” Charles said hesitantly. “I am.”
“Then you are Named,” the guard replied, “Naming is Being, and there is no need to ask about your business.”
The three companions walked past, and for a moment, it seemed to the guard as if the girl’s shadow was moving independently of the person casting it. He watched a moment more, then shook it off. After all, there were no shadows in the City of Jade that the Makers did not intend to be there—not even those that moved of their own accord.
♦ ♦ ♦
“Back there, on the hill,” Rose said to the others as they crossed the bridge, “when Nix asked if you were Nephilim, and you said you were Seraphim . . . You Named yourself, Charles.”
The Caretaker and the Cartographer both nodded in agreement. “I think you’re right,” said Charles. “Somehow, how I identified myself is reflected in my countenance. It’s probably a good thing I didn’t identify myself as an editor or an author. We’d probably have been taken prisoner and put to work in a labor camp somewhere, just out of compassion.”
There were no other guards, and no gates to pass through on the other side of the bridge—simply open boulevards between massive buildings and towers, all of which were buzzing with activity. There were angels like Nix walking to and fro, all focused on whatever was on the tablets they carried. Above their heads were other beings the companions assumed were also angels, but these creatures had wings and were flying between the great towers.
Also walking the streets were humans, who were distinguishable from the angels by the fact that they were more elaborately dressed and carried the burden of aging more obviously.
Humans could grow old, it seemed. Even in Atlantis.
Another personage paused and turned to look at the companions as they passed. He was tall, taller than anyone they had yet seen in the city. He was silver-haired and wore a silver tunic that was shot through with a streak of crimson that matched the glowing red of his eyes.
In response, Rose took both Charles and Edmund by the arms and led them around a corner, out of his sight.
“What’s wrong?” asked Charles. “Who was that?”
“I’ve met him before,” Rose answered, still hurrying them along, “twice. The first time, he said he was a star named Rao, and he had been banished to a Ring of Power on an island past the Edge of the World. And the second time,” she added, unable to suppress a shudder, “was when he destroyed Paralon and revealed himself to be a Lloigor in service of the Echthroi.”