"If my shadow was becoming a Lloigor," said Jack, "what happened to Mordred's shadow?"

"He was to become their greatest champion," said Aven. "A Lloigor who goes willingly is nearly unstoppable. That's why it was able to return so often, first as the King of Crickets, and then as the Shadow King."

"If such a creature is so powerful," said Jack, "then how was it Rose was able to defeat it with Caliburn?"

"Because Madoc chose," said Aven. "He chose to turn his back on the Echthroi and what they represented. And in that hour the Shadow King lost much of his power, and the Echthroi lost their great champion."

"But it isn't always those who choose the darkness, as I nearly did, who become servants of the shadows," said Jack. "What about those peoples of the Archipelago who were made into Shadow-Born by Pandora's Box?"

"Or the Dragons themselves, who were touched by the Spear of Destiny?" added John. "None of them were willing, but they became servants of the Echthroi nonetheless."

"Their minds were clouded," said Aven. "Samaranth told me that the Echthroi could compel obedience through magic, or lies, or betrayal. But that is only a last resort-they prefer to convert, not compel. And sometimes they appeal to the darkness in all men's souls, and can confuse good men into service. Surely you can understand this?"

"Yes," Burton answered, as if she'd been speaking to him. "Yes, I can."

"A century after the Day of Sorrow," she continued, "we discovered that lands along the western edge were vanishing-being covered in Shadow. At first we feared that the Winter King had in some way returned. But we knew his Shadow had been destroyed, as much by his own choice to aid you when he repaired the sword, as by the sword itself. There have been other agents throughout history, others who served the Echthroi, but Samaranth came to us here and said that it was far worse. The Shadow covering the lands was the Echthroi themselves.

"That was when Samaranth opened up his own archives to us and shared all the knowledge he could. And I realized that I would never be seeing him again."

"What did he do?" asked Jack. "Is that when he left?"

Aven nodded. "It was. He invoked the Old Magic, and as the first Caretaker of the Archipelago of Dreams, he took up all the lands and bore them away so they would not fall victim to the Echthroi."

"It seems that I've outlived my usefulness," John said ruefully, looking at the atlas in Fred's pack. "If there's no Archipelago of Dreams, then of what importance is the Imaginarium Geographica, or a Caretaker who can translate it?"

"Of great importance, John," Aven answered with a tone of reproach. "The greatest. Without the Geographica, it will be impossible to put them all back."

"What?" asked Jack. "The islands of the Archipelago? They can still be restored?"

"Yes," Aven said. "But not until you repair what was broken, and connect our worlds once more. Until then, only shadows remain."

"If all that remains of the Archipelago is shadows," Jack asked, "then will the images in the Geographica vanish?'

John understood the concern behind his friend's question. During their first conflict with the Winter King, they discovered that whenever a land was conquered, the corresponding map faded and vanished. The longer the Winter King was loosed in the world, the more likely he was to have control of all of the lands. Only restoring the shadows to the people of the lands brought the drawings back.

"Never fear, Jack," Aven answered. "The lands have not been taken by force, not even those of our enemies. They went willingly and unafraid, because they knew that taking them from these waters was Samaranth's responsibility, and his stewardship, as it has always been."

"What if Rose called him?" asked Jack. "Samaranth would come, wouldn't he?"

At once her expression grew dark and stern. "That you must never do," she cautioned. "You must never summon the Dragons again." This last she directed at Rose. "Even if Samaranth is the only one left, should he be summoned by one of noble intent, he would come and restore the Archipelago. And until time is properly restored, that cannot happen. Must not happen."

Jack was taken aback by the tone and fervor with which Aven spoke. Nothing else she had said had carried this degree of firmness. "We'll listen, Aven, and the Summoning will not be spoken. But why is it so important? Wouldn't Samaranth be a help to us?"

"It's too late for Samaranth to help you, even if he chose to," said Aven. "But there is still time to seek out his heir."

Rose looked sharply at John. Samaranth's heir? Could she mean the Dragon's apprentice?

"The two worlds were once one," the projection continued, "connected. And even when the connections were severed, and the worlds separated by the Frontier, there remained resonances ... reflections. What happens in the one is mirrored in the other. What happens in one can impact the other. And with the flow of time set loose here in the Archipelago, the effects were mirrored a thousandfold."

"There's a lot you need to know about what's happened," John began, but Aven cut him off.

"The film isn't an endless loop," she chided, "nor is it infinitely expandable. It was shot using Verne's processes, so that a time loop could be instilled within the frames-but once it has been exposed to the projector light, the frames are set. This film can never again be replayed as it is being played now. When our time has run out, you'll have a recorded copy of this discussion, but nothing more. I'll be gone, forever."

Suddenly the images on the wall began to flicker, and chemical burns began to strobe along the edges of the frames.

"Wait!" Jack shouted. "We aren't done yet! Wait!"

"We don't know what to do!" John exclaimed. "There's no way to repair the Archipelago!"

"But there is," Aven said, her voice strained and growing weaker. "I would not have charged you with such a task without giving you the means to carry it out."

Without any further warning, the projection went blank, then the end of the strip started flapping noisily through the reel until Jack reached over and shut it off.

"That wasn't really a very good story," said Coal. "Do we have any more?"

"She couldn't tell us," Jack lamented. "She said she left us the means, but we don't know what that is!"

"I know, Master Caretaker," said Myrret. "It is one of the greatest stories we have after the Day of Sorrows. The great quest of King Stephen. It cost him his life, but he was successful. And it will perhaps give you the opportunity you seek."

He motioned to the other foxes, who guided the companions into a second chamber in the Whatsit. This one was broader, and covered in sand and stone rather than crystal. But something stunningly familiar sat in the center of the chamber.

It was a door. One of the doors from the Keep of Time.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

The Passage

Cursing under his breath, Ernest McGee swept his arm across the table, scattering parchments and spilling ink. His family trade was mapmaking, and as far as Ernest could tell, it had brought both wealth and fame, and grief and misery in equal amounts.

His father's best friend, Captain Charles Johnson, had disappeared years earlier, and the subsequent deception that was put forth was an insult and a travesty.

True, the History was published, and it bore Johnson's name, but for Ernest's father Eliot to deny all knowledge of the man was not right.

It didn't bother Ernest that his father's collaborator claimed credit for work that was not his-it bothered him that they had created the fiction that Johnson never existed at all.

It had taken Ernest most of his adult life to properly assemble the two books that his father had worked so hard to complete: One described the wealth of the world, hidden in strange and curious places by terrible men who no longer sailed the oceans; and the other described entire worlds that might or might not even exist.

He might not have inherited the desire, or even the skill-but he was loath to deny the family a legacy. He only hoped that it would end with him, that perhaps his own son might choose to return to silversmithing, rather than follow the family heritage of making maps for pirates and madmen.

Even as he wished it, he knew it wasn't to be. Some things in life run too deep.

Some things are just in the blood.

Picking up the quill and a fresh parchment, he dipped the point into the ink and started to draw again.

"Oh my stars and garters," Fred whispered. "Is that what I think it is?"

"It's a door from the keep, you idiot," Burton said gruffly.

Rose laid a comforting hand on the badger's arm before he could draw a sword and defend his honor by having the stuffing beaten out of him by Burton. "He knows what it is," she said placidly, "because he's seen it before. We all have. That's the door we dropped over the waterfall.

"That's the door we gave to my father-to Madoc."

"So we may have a way out after all," said Burton. "Excellent."

"Is this what we want to do?" John asked the others. "We might be saving ourselves, but would we be giving up on the Archipelago?"

"Pardon my saying so," said Fred, "but what would we be giving up? Other than Paralon, there's nothing here. And the queen said that Stephen gave his life to give us this opening, so we could fix things. What else do you need to know?"

John scratched the badger on the head. "You may be the wisest of us all, Fred. We'll go through the door."

"Myrret," Jack said suddenly, "may I take the reel from the projector with me? Please?"

The little animal sniffed loudly and nodded its assent through a curtain of tears. "It was f'r you that we preserved it all these years, so it's well and just that you should have it. Besides, it can't be used again, so there's no point, is there? No point in us keeping our stewardship any longer."

"There's always a point, little fellow," Jack said, "and stewardships kept are among the noblest of causes."

"All we have to do now," said Myrret, "is say good-bye to her."

Jack's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"The queen," Myrret said, confused. "We promised that when you came, we would wake her. She sleeps in crystal, here in the Whatsit."

"I thought you were talking about the projection," said John. "A metaphor."

"Take us to her, Myrret," Jack said. "Take us to her now."

In another chamber adjacent to the projection room lay a deep cradle of crystal and silk, and in it, covered by a sheath of the clear stone, lay Aven.

"She's still here," Jack breathed. "She's alive."

Aven was ancient, impossibly old. Her face and hands were pale, and her hair, which was draped behind her as if it were floating, was pure, colorless white.

"I'll wake her now," said Myrret. He touched a contact at the base of the cradle, and the crystal sheath slid back. Exposed to the open air, Aven suddenly took a deep breath, then another, and another. Then, slowly, she opened her eyes.

"Ah, my young corsair," she said when she saw Jack. "You came back. You came back to me."

"Of course," Jack said, his voice choked with emotion. "Of course I did."

He leaned in close as his ancient friend slowly closed her eyes, then opened them again. They still sparkled, but the light in them was fading.

"We should ask her to answer more of our questions," Burton began, but Theo pulled him back, and both Houdini and Doyle stepped in front of him. The purpose of waking Aven was not to ask questions. It was to allow her, finally, to rest.

"You saw the message?" she asked weakly. "You understood?"

"We did," said Jack. "We'll use the door, never fear. We'll right this, Ave. And we'll look after the prince."

Her expression darkened. "What prince?"

"Coal," he said. "The little prince. Your heir."

"He mustn't leave," she said. "It isn't safe." She drew a shallow breath. "Look after Charles, will you, Jack? Take care of him. He needs you. He can help you."

"Of course," Jack said, looking over at John. She was obviously fading-her son was long gone.

"Ah, Artus ...," Aven breathed. "You don't need to wait for me any longer...." As the companions watched, the strength left her arms, and her eyes fluttered closed. Slowly she took a breath, her chest rising faintly with the effort. Then another. Then, nothing. She was gone.

Jack squeezed his eyes shut as the tears flowed down his cheeks, and he murmured a quiet prayer as he placed Aven's hands on her chest and stepped back from the cradle.

"It's decided," John said flatly. "We can't take the boy with us."

The companions had retreated to the projection room to decide what to do. They had already planned to go through the door-but there was some dissent about whether all of them should go.

"That isn't your decision to make, Caretaker," Burton said with obvious anger. "Not alone."

"I have to say that I agree with him," said Doyle, "and not just because we're both members of the Society."

"I agree with them," said Houdini. "After all we've been told, how can we consider leaving him here? There's nothing left, John. The Archipelago is a wasteland. There's no future for him here."

"That's part of the problem," said John. "It's all future here. We've already had too much experience with dropping people in the past, where they didn't belong. What kind of chaos will we cause if we bring back someone from the future?"

"That's not quite it," said Jack. "Remember what Ransom said? This isn't the future, not to us. It's our present. It's also," he added, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at where the boy was chatting with Fred and Laura Glue, "his present. It all moves forward."

"You're wiser than I gave you credit for," Burton said to Jack. "You're outvoted, Caretaker."

"I didn't say I was siding with you," said Jack. "I have reservations of my own. And Aven herself said he shouldn't leave."

"She's been sleeping in a crystal for two thousand years," said Burton. "She didn't know what she was saying."

"I still say we vote," said John.

"And of course the rodent will be voting with you," said Burton.

"Fred," Jack said pointedly, "qualified to be something you flunked, Burton. So try to have a little respect, if only for the office he holds."

"I have some respect for the badger," Burton shot back. "It's the office I think is weak."