James A. Owen - The Search for the Red Dragon (Chronicles of the Imaginarium Geographica)

The Angel in the Garden

The Reluctant Caretaker

The Lost Boys

A Dragon Restored

The Errant Knight

The Weaving

The Great Whatsit

The Friars Tale

Shadows in Flight

The Tower in the Air

Chamenos Liber

Dantes Riddle

Croatoan

The Imperial Cartological Society

Haven

Echos Well

The Tunesmiths

Shadows of History

The Gilded Army

The City of Lost Children

Shadows and Light

The Thimble

Unraveled

Second Star to the Right

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 Im 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 hadnt realized were there, and in the process have become my good friends.

David Gale continues to be my ideal editor, and Ive 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 doand 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 outonly 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, Nathanielwho, more than anyone, inspired me to write this book in the manner that I did.

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 wasthe 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 lurebut not so completely that she couldnt 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.