“It’s all right!” he cried happily. “The darkness hasn’t found it yet. Neither has the Empress!” Even from above, the peace of the place was apparent, and the king no longer wondered why an elderly Hero might come here to live out his days. It tugged at him too, and he realized that because of the additional obligation as king, such an option would be denied to him. One didn’t “retire” from being king.
“My, my,” Percy said, genuine fondness in his voice, “it hasn’t changed at all. I’m so pleased.”
He flew in closer, and the figures on the ground grew larger. They had obviously spotted the figure hovering above them and were gathering.
“Um,” said the king, “it’s probably a bit late for me to be thinking this, but—do you think they’ll understand we’re friendly?”
“Let’s hope so,” said Percy. “I intend on landing a fair distance away, to be on the safe side.”
He suited action to words, coming to earth with a gentle thump and crouching so the king could easily slip off his back. A few grains of sand pattered down as the monarch did so. The monks, dressed in robes almost the same color as the dragon, were running toward them. They carried staffs, spears, swords, ropes, axes, hammers—
“They’re much better armed than I thought they would be,” the king murmured.
“Why do you think they call them warrior monks?” sighed the dragon.
“I just thought they’d be good with fisticuffs or something.”
“Well, for goodness’ sake, put your own weapons down and kneel.”
The king wasn’t used to kneeling to anyone, but in this instance he was willing to forgo his land’s niceties. He quickly divested himself of his weapons and knelt as Percival suggested. The dragon himself did the same thing, folding his wings and crouching down in a nonthreatening posture.
The monks continued to race toward them, men and women both, slowing to a halt as they drew closer. They held their weapons at the ready but did not attack. One of them, an older man with a shaved head, approached. He was obviously the head monk. He carried no weapon; the king had the sneaking suspicion that the man really didn’t need one to break every bone in the royal body.
“Who are you, who comes on the back of the hated enemy dragon, to disturb the peace of this place?” the head monk demanded.
“I am the King of Albion, and a Hero,” the king said. “As was my father before me. This dragon is no enemy, but a friend, to me and to you all, if you wish it. He is an ally to all Heroes.”
“He is … made of sand,” a woman said, puzzled.
“He is not a true dragon. Merely the image of one. He is known as … Percy. I come not to show disrespect but to seek both your aid and counsel with one who lives here. His name is Garth … and he traveled with my father.”
“There is no one here by that name,” said the head monk. Startled, the king glanced over at Percy, who shook his head slightly. Garth was here, Percy was telling him … but the monks weren’t going to reveal that. “What aid would you have of us?”
“Your land is falling into darkness,” the king said bluntly. “And it is my understanding that your leader, the Empress, could be in league with it.”
“So,” another monk said, “you have come to overthrow our Empress. Perhaps you think to marry her and take the Emperor’s place?”
The king shook his head. “I have a lovely queen awaiting me, and I think ruling one country is more than enough.”
“I believe him,” came a deep voice from the back of the crowd. Everyone turned to regard the man who had spoken. He was of average height but much older than even the head monk. He, too, had no hair on his face or head. His skin was quite dark, almost as dark as Page’s, and his eyes were utterly piercing. But what was most arresting about him was that glowing blue lines adorned his face, scalp, and body—a testament to the power of his Will. He leaned on a staff, but the king suspected he didn’t really need it for support, despite the age lines etched on his face. The king got to his feet.
“Garth,” he said quietly.
“It has been a long time since I have been called so,” Garth replied. “Here, I am Taron, the Seeker.”
“Seeker? Of what? You were a Hero, one of the greatest masters of Will anyone has ever heard of.”
Garth smiled. “I sought not to be that anymore,” he said simply. “In exchange for food and a place to sleep, I teach the monks how to harness their own wills. It is something that everyone has, not just Heroes, and a strong discipline over one’s mind can only aid the monks in their calling—which is battle in a righteous cause.”
“Surely there can be no more righteous cause than the defeat of the darkness!” the king exclaimed. Garth’s eyes clouded.
“So always speak the young,” he murmured, more to himself than to the king. Recalling himself, he turned to Percy. “You are welcome here—I can sense the bond between us. No doubt this is how our feisty young Hero king found me when I did not wish to be found.”
“No doubt indeed,” said Percy, inclining his head. “He roused me from my centuries of slumber and gave me this form, and so he is my master. But I will also serve you, where such service does not conflict.”
His voice sounded the same to the king, but richer, deeper; more formal, and certainly more respectful. The king was mildly irritated, then remembered just how important and powerful Garth really was. And then he wasn’t offended at all but rather flattered that Percy was even willing to talk to him.
“The boy and I will share a meal,” Garth said. “I will listen to what he has to say. And then … we will see.”
Garth led the king up a gently winding stone path to a small dwelling that was revealed to be built partially into the mountain itself. Outside, there was a garden, where fragrant blossoms were blooming. When Garth opened the door, the king stepped into a cool and pleasant space.
To the right of the door, a woven rug lay near a window. Several colorful cushions were strewn on the floor, and the afternoon sunlight streamed in. Opposite what the king assumed to be a meditation space was a simple wooden chair and table. A small cot was placed on the floor to the left of the door, and a tall cabinet stood beside it. And that was it. The king had grown up in lavish surroundings, lacking for nothing, and yet the spare simplicity of the room was soothing.
“Please, sit,” Garth said, indicating the single chair. “As you can see, I am not one for visitors. The community does much together, so in my private space I am … private.”
“Thank you,” the king said, taking the seat as invited. Garth moved about, reaching into the cabinet and pulling out odd-looking fruit, a selection of cheeses, and fresh-baked bread that smelled so good the king’s mouth watered. Garth prepared a plate for each of them, gave one to his visitor, then settled himself on the cushions. He indicated no discomfort at sitting on the floor and folding his legs into what seemed to the king a very odd position as he began to peel a knobby fruit.
The king imitated Garth and bit into the fruit. It was delicious. He realized that he was actually ravenous and had to fight to not appear a glutton as he ate. At last, still hungry but needing to talk, he turned to Garth.
“In Albion, people think you are dead,” he said. “There are rumors that Reaver killed you.”
Garth made an annoyed face and waved a hand. “Of course there are,” he said. “He tried. No doubt he was so embarrassed at his failure that he concocted some lavish tale about my demise at his hands.”
“That certainly sounds like the Reaver I know,” the king said. “We’ve not seen him around Albion for a while, thank goodness. He’s smart, and he’ll help you if it’s in his interests, but he’s—”
“Always out for himself, and has an ego larger than our friend out there,” Garth finished.
“Exactly!”
“Well, he’s off somewhere causing trouble if he’s not doing so in Albion,” Garth said. “Yet I think the trouble here is not of his making.”
“What do you think it i
s?”
Garth paused in his eating and gave the king a piercing look. “What do you think it is? You’re the Hero, not I.”
The king bit back the comment, but you live here! and instead told Garth what he and Percy had discussed. “I don’t know what form it is taking now, nor who or what is responsible for its being here. You might have a better idea than I.”
“There is no doubt in my mind that if the Empress is not actually creating it, she is in league with it,” said Garth. “And not just in league, but in … partnership, somehow. There is a personal feel to this darkness.”
“You’ve been in this monastery for years, haven’t you?” At Garth’s nod, the king continued, “Then how can you know? You’ve been a hermit, not out in the world, and the darkness hasn’t come here yet. Thankfully.”
Garth smiled and tapped his temple. “I know here,” he said. “When you open the mind and the heart, many things are revealed to you.” He grew thoughtful. “Perhaps …”
The king held his breath.
“Yes,” Garth said at last. “I will instruct you. We don’t have that much time, and usually apprenticeships last years. But I will teach you the best that I can. Send Percy back to the army. He will be able to protect them during their march. I will have one of the monks teach you what they can of their fighting style, and I will work with you on meditation and Will.”
“I would be very grateful,” the king said. “And … you will come with us? Against the Empress?”
Garth raised an eyebrow. “It depends. I am willing to be impressed, young Hero. But you have to do the impressing.”
Chapter Eighteen
Page and Timmins walked along a narrow road, snow-covered save for the lines made by cart wheels and horses’ hooves. Wrapped tightly in cloaks and shivering, she reflected that she was grateful that people seldom questioned what they thought they saw. They had only been intercepted once during their escape from Bowerstone Castle. Page had simply turned her face away and lifted a dark hand, and the guards let her through with a deep bow. They had assumed they were seeing Queen Laylah.
Reaver had been swift about putting up the Wanted posters. A mere two days after their disappearance, Page had spotted them going up on trees along the main roads. “He must really dislike you,” she had commented to Timmins. “Look at that nose!”
“What about you?” Timmins had replied. “You look positively cross-eyed.”
It was weak humor, but it helped. Their first task was simply to put distance between themselves and Bowerstone, and stick to side roads where possible. Last night, they had slept in a farmer’s barn, their lullaby the lowing of cows and their food dried apples filched from said cows’ feed.
“We probably ought to have a plan,” Page said as they trudged along.
“Stay alive,” Timmins said. “Prove our innocence.”
“Ha-ha,” Page replied. “I was thinking about something more immediate. We could go to Mistpeak. Sabine would certainly believe us over Reaver—or even over Laylah.”
“I’m sure that’s the first place Reaver has sent men to,” Timmins said. “For the exact reasons you mentioned. Reaver knows Sabine would ally with us, and the Dwellers are not to be discounted in battle. So we need someplace—or places—that are less obvious. Someplace where Reaver wouldn’t think to look for us.”
“Good luck coming up with even one place,” Page sighed.
“Blackholm, for one.”
“Are you mad? You were arrested there, and several villagers along with you!”
“Which is precisely why Reaver would never expect us to go there. Page, you’re a hero at Blackholm. And they know exactly what that cache was for—I gave it to them so they could protect themselves. Blackholm has good people. They won’t turn us in.”
“Even though some of their own were arrested alongside you?”
“The faster my innocence is proven, the faster those poor sods will be released,” Timmins said. “And you know Her Majesty. Reaver might have convinced her to execute me, but she wouldn’t execute anyone else without a fair trial, no matter how hard that rat pushes her. And trials can take a long time.”
Page did know Laylah, and thinking about her was painful. “All right, we can go to Blackholm. I remember there were a lot of little places that His Majesty had resettled. They were doing fairly well, as I recall. They’ll likely be isolated enough so that those Wanted posters might not have reached them yet. And while we’re on the run and figuring out how to convince Laylah that Reaver is the real culprit, we might as well do some scouting. I’ve not heard any evidence that the darkness has been encroaching anywhere in Albion yet, but at the least, we can observe for ourselves.”
Timmins glanced at her and sighed. “I begin to think perhaps you were right, Page. I pushed the queen too hard.”
Page shook her head. “You were trying to keep her safe, Jack. Nothing more. And Reaver’s forgeries were masterful. Neither of us stood a chance once he got the idea into his head.”
“Still … we played right into his hands.”
“Nearly everyone does,” Page said morosely. The sky was gray and she expected snow before the end of the day, and hoped fervently that they’d find another barn tonight.
They finally reached the outskirts of Blackholm. Timmins steeled himself. “Wait here,” he told Page. “If this goes poorly, I don’t want you caught in the cross fire.”
“I think I should be the one to tell you to wait,” she said. “As you pointed out earlier, I helped defend this town once at the risk of my own life, and they won’t forget it. You, on the other hand, got some of their citizens arrested.”
Timmins hesitated and Page rolled her eyes. “I’m nearly as good a shot as you are, and that’s saying something. I can take care of myself if something goes wrong. And if it does—one of us needs to stay alive and free, or else Reaver will be running this country before you can say ‘rat bastard.’ ”
“I despise your logic, Page. Because it is irrefutable. I’ll be here with my rifle at the ready. All you need to do is shout.”
Page gave him a reassuring smile. She was fairly certain she’d be welcomed, at least for a brief while, Wanted poster or no. The more she thought about that, the angrier she got. The artist had made her eyes look crossed. Confidently, she strode up to the gate and knocked.
“A traveler seeks a hot meal and a place to stay!” she called. For a long moment, nothing happened. There was a flutter of anxiety in her chest, but she reasoned, if the darkness had indeed started to threaten this little town, of course they would be cautious. She readjusted her grip on the pistol hidden in the fur muff. “I am an old friend of Russell’s,” she said. “And still a friend to Blackholm. Will you let me in?”
There was still no answer, but the gates creaked open. All of Page’s senses were on heightened alert. Subtly she removed the pistol from the muff and dropped the hand by her skirts. No one was milling about, but she sensed eyes watching her. Were they all clustered inside, in the safety of their homes? What had happened to this place?
“I am Page,” she called. “What’s going on? What’s happened here? Perhaps I can—”
The word “help” was never uttered. She heard the crack of a rifle and sensed movement behind her. Whirling, she fired directly into a falling body clad in a shirt, short trousers, boots, and a cap.
A very short, strangely shaped body, that was dead before she had even put a bullet in him.
“Behind you, Page!” shouted Timmins, running in the gate. Page heard giggling, chittering sounds, and by now she knew exactly what she faced. There was no time to reload the pistol, so she drew her sword instead.
Hobbes were always hideous, but there was something even worse about these. She’d seen them don bits and pieces of human clothes before, almost like trophies collected from their kills, but these ones were completely dressed. They carried guns and swords of their own, and they swept upon her like a wave. She heard the crack of gunfire as Timmins fired, d
ropping one of the grotesqueries with every shot. One of them reached her, brandishing a short sword and wearing a pink, frilly dress. Unnerved by the sight, Page hesitated almost too long before slicing open the creature’s potbelly. It dropped, squealing.
More converged on her, all wearing the villager’s clothes. She sliced off a long-eared head wearing a fetching bonnet, ran her blade through another wearing short trousers and suspenders, and again and again had the strange sense that she was fighting—
No, she couldn’t think that, not if she was to defend herself. Even as Page gritted her teeth, she was careless in blocking a blow from a farmer’s scythe, and it tore a gash down her arm.
The hobbe was felled before it could swing again. Timmins was beside her now, wielding two swords, his plain-featured face hard with determination. Back-to-back they fought, until at last, squealing in anger and disappointment, the remaining creatures fled.
There was utter silence in the town now. Page caught her breath and lowered the sword. Timmins noticed red seeping across the fabric of her arm. Grasping her other arm, he steered her back against the gate and sat her down. He tore a piece of fabric off her skirt and made a makeshift bandage.
“Hey, you realize that half yard of dress cost more than your annual salary,” Page joked.
“Well worth it,” Timmins said. If it had been any other man, Page would have thought he was flirting, but this was Timmins. He handed her rifle, powder horn, and bullets. “Stay here. I’m going to make sure there aren’t any more lurking about.”
“No,” Page said in a tone that brooked no disagreement. “I’m coming with you.”
“I’m not sure that’s such—” He sighed and held up his hands resignedly at the look on her face. In all honesty, Page wasn’t sure it was such a good idea either. But she had a horrible suspicion, and wouldn’t rest until it was either dispelled or confirmed.
Fable: Edge of the World Page 16
