The Shadow of Malabron

by Thomas Wharton

  Will pondered this, and then a new thought occurred to him.

  “He told you to go straight home. Where’s that?”

  “I live in the city of Fable, with my grandfather. He can help you, if anyone can.”

  Suddenly Moth was there in front of them. He held a finger to his lips and beckoned them to follow.

  He led them mostly downhill now, past large mosscloaked boulders and over fallen logs. As they descended, thin wisps of fog curled about their feet. A fine drizzle began to fall. The thick woods had been left behind, and now they were descending a rolling meadowland dotted with clumps of fir trees.

  Moth halted and crouched. He gestured for Will and Rowen to do the same. “What is it?” Will said.

  “Silence,” Moth hissed. “Stay behind me and do not move.”

  He slid his bow off his shoulder and notched an arrow in the string.

  Will peered into the dimness, and after watching tensely for a while he thought he could see something moving. At first it was little more than a faint disturbance in the gloom, but slowly it grew and took form as a pale, shifting shadow. At one moment it had a man-like shape, with arms that groped through the murk, then it twisted and shrank, and then, as Will watched, it transformed again into something to which he could give no name: a wispy, churning formlessness that seemed to be little more than fog taking greater substance. Rowen gripped Will’s arm, and he realized that she was as frightened as he was.

  A shrill cry went up from somewhere near by. It sounded to Will like the terrified shriek of a child. The shapechanging form halted, and for the first time it made a sound, a kind of hollow, whistling moan that, if it had come from further away, Will might have mistaken for the noise the wind makes through a slightly open window. The shadowy shape turned slowly, swaying from side to side. The child’s cry sounded again, and the thing melted into the shadows.

  Rowen’s grip on Will’s arm relaxed. She let out a long breath.

  “What is it?” Will whispered.

  “That is a fetch,” Moth said. “We call them annai, hungry ghosts, with no story of their own. They are moved only by the will of the one that drives them.”

  “When I first saw them,” Will said, “they looked like… They reminded me of my family.”

  “They can take any shape, to fool the eye and the heart,” Moth said. “They can even inhabit the dead, and animate them. If a fetch took hold of you its deadly chill would seep in, like black water, and your spirit would grow cold and easily led. That sound is something they can send out to help them find their quarry.”

  “The child. Shouldn’t we help it, or…”

  “That was no child. It was Morrigan, leading the hunt away from us.”

  Again Will’s gaze was drawn to the strange black sword that swung at Moth’s hip. Moth noticed his look this time, and with a frown he gathered his cloak tighter round himself.

  As they set off again, there was a squawk from high above, and the raven came swooping down out of the mist to light on Moth’s arm. Morrigan spoke softly in her strange, guttural tongue, and then, with another loud squawk, she flew off again.

  “We are almost there,” Moth said. “Morrigan thinks we can risk the road.”

  He led them onto a narrow path, which wound through the meadowland and then dipped down sharply, curved round a rocky bend, and came out into a rolling plain, where it joined a wider road paved with flagstones.

  “Here I take my leave,” Moth said. “I will search for the mirrors, and drive off the fetches if I can. Morrigan will keep watch on you from above until you reach the city. Good luck, Will Lightfoot.”

  At a word from Moth the raven soared into the hazy air. Will watched her go. When he lowered his gaze, Moth was no longer with them.

  As we have now surveyed the geography and history of the city, it is fitting that we investigate the chief craft of its people, which is stories.

  — Wodden’s History of Fable, Volume Three

  ROWEN AND WILL HURRIED ALONG THE ROAD, passing stone farmhouses with pale smoke already rising from their chimneys into the air. The rain began to fall in earnest. Once a small dog darted out from an open gate in a hedge and trotted along with them a short distance before dashing back the way it had come. Such a familiar sight, like something he might have seen on his own street, cheered Will a little. Then he thought about his father and Jess. It had been hours since he took off on the motorcycle. They would have no idea what had happened to him. They would be searching everywhere. That would pay Dad back for taking them on this move in the first place, Will thought angrily. Then he thought about the cloven tree, and the mirror shards, and the fetches. Dad and Jess might be out there right now, where those things were…

  They passed a few other travellers approaching the city. Most plodded along wearily with bundles on their backs. There were also a couple of lone riders who seemed lost in their own thoughts. Most of the people heading to the city wore the same antiquated clothing as Rowen and Moth, but some were dressed in even more outlandish garb. And a few, Will noticed with a shock, might not be called quite human. He caught glimpses of a goatish face on one traveller, and eerie catlike eyes gleamed out at him from under the hood of another.

  “Who are these people?” he whispered.

  “Most are farmers bringing their wares to market. But some are storyfolk from other lands. That’s not unusual, but still, the high road is never this busy so late at night.”

  She sounded concerned, Will thought.

  After a time the walls and spires of a city on a hill appeared dimly through the rain. The gently rising approach to Fable led across a lamplit bridge over a swift, narrow stream. The outer wall of the city was not particularly high, and it seemed to have been repaired many times with stones of differing size, shape and colour, so that it resembled a mosaic more than a wall. Above its battlements rose steeply peaked roofs and slender spires that looked weather-worn and dismal. Will could imagine that rain had been falling on them ever since they were first built.

  They came at last to the city’s main gatehouse, which looked like a small castle, with turrets and many-coloured flags, and two arched windows of stained glass. The window on the left depicted a star-shaped flower with five white petals on a field of blue. The window on the right held an image of a gushing fountain of water in the shape of a tree.

  Will and Rowen passed through the gate, which was wide open and seemed to be unguarded.

  “Doesn’t anyone watch to see who enters?” Will asked.

  “Oh, the gate is well protected,” Rowen said mysteriously.

  Once inside the walls, they entered a wide, tree-lined street of shops and stalls, their brightly painted signs advertising food and drink of every kind. To Will’s surprise, the shops were open and doing business. People in cloaks and long coats were hurrying to and fro through the rain. From the open door of what appeared to be a tavern came rollicking music of flute and drum, and from another door wafted the enticing scent of baking.

  The street was lined with lamps that cast a pale blue light. Some of the new arrivals seemed to know where they were going, but others stopped and stared about them, clearly as unfamiliar with the city as Will was.

  “Fable is a kind of crossroads,” Rowen said. “Folk from all over the many realms pass through this city on their way to other places. Some come from very far away.”

  Despite the strangeness of what he was seeing, Will felt the desire to linger, but Rowen kept on, up along the steep climbing curve of the street. They crossed a wide square without shops or people. The grey terraced houses they passed looked silent and shut up.

  “These are the homes of the Enigmatists,” Rowen said. “They don’t come out much.”

  “Why not?” Will asked without much interest. His mind was still on the good smells from the bakeries and shops.

  “They’re thinkers,” Rowen said. “They try to solve the mysteries of the Realm. Mostly they come up with more questions.”

  “
You called this place the Bourne, not the Perilous Realm,” Will said. “Which is it?”

  “The Bourne is just one small part of the Realm. Most who live here are people like you and me. Storyfolk call us Wayfarers, even if we’ve lived in the Bourne all our lives. We’re the descendents of travellers who came here from Elsewhere and chose to remain, or couldn’t find their way home.”

  As she spoke the last words, Rowen looked at Will and bit her lip.

  “Sorry,” she said. “But sometimes it happens. Travellers from the Untold don’t always leave the Realm.”

  “I’m not a traveller,” Will shot back. “I didn’t mean to come here.”

  Rowen led the way up a narrow side street that climbed, in a series of worn steps, to a bridge over a canal. A tall, narrow building of stone and wooden beams stood over the midpoint of the bridge. Rowen and Will passed beneath, through an arched passageway. There was a staircase on each side, leading up into the building.

  “The Inn of the Golden Goose,” Rowen said. “Wandering storyfolk meet here to share tales, or hire themselves out for quests and adventures.”

  On one of the steps two figures stood, talking in low tones. One was a tall man in a patched cloak with a small black velvet bag in his hand. The other was a very short, stocky, long-bearded man in scuffed leather armour, who was shaking his head and laughing.

  “You must be mad.” He chortled at the tall man. “For that price I’d travel no further than the front gate of town. You’re talking to a dwarf, not some toadstool-hopping gnome.”

  “Fifty silver crowns, then, and all expenses,” the tall man said hoarsely, glancing over his shoulder at Will and Rowen. “It’s a matter of life and death.”

  “Not good enough,” the dwarf said with a sneer. “Not for the Caverns of Nethergrim. I wouldn’t set foot there again for twice that.”

  Rowen halted suddenly and turned to the dwarf.

  “You should go, Mimling,” she said firmly.

  The dwarf bristled, and then appeared to recognize Rowen. His face grew serious.

  “You’re sure, my lady?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. It’s the right thing.”

  He grinned, bowed to her, then turned back to the man in the patched cloak.

  “You’re in luck, my friend,” he said. “If the lady of Blue Hill says it’s what Mimling should do, there’s no more argument.”

  “Was that true, what you told him?” Will whispered as he followed after Rowen. She looked at him strangely.

  “Why would I lie? My grandfather and I go to the Golden Goose almost every night. We hear lots of stories, and sometimes, when we meet someone there, someone on a journey or a quest, I get this … feeling about them. It’s like I see what’s supposed to come next. How their story should go. Even if things don’t turn out as they hoped, it’s still what should happen. And they’ve always come back to tell me this, so I know I haven’t lied to them.”

  On the far side of the bridge they passed under a stone arcade, up a long curving flight of steps and out again into another crowded thoroughfare. Some passers-by had bundles of paper or books tucked under their arms and rushed along distractedly, while others strolled along leisurely or stood chatting together, as if the rain was no bother at all. Will was so busy taking everything in, he didn’t see the horse-drawn carriage that would have knocked him down if Rowen hadn’t grabbed his arm and pulled him out of harm’s way. The carriage’s tall wheels rolled through the gutter and sent up a spray of water that splashed Will’s cloak and soaked his shoes.

  “Don’t they have traffic where you come from?” Rowen asked.

  Will scowled. He saw then that they were standing at the meeting point of two streets. In the centre of the crossing rose a high pedestal of black marble, and upon it stood a lifesized bronze statue of a young man in ragged, patchwork clothes, striding along with a bundle slung on a pole over his shoulder. He had been posed with his eyes raised to the sky, while his feet were about to step unknowingly off the edge of the pedestal, which had been sculpted to resemble the jagged edge of a cliff. A little dog followed at the young man’s heels, its front legs raised and its mouth open as if it were barking a warning.

  “Sir Dagonet,” Rowen said, noticing where Will’s gaze was fixed. “The first Lord Mayor of the city.”

  Rowen led the way up one of the two main streets, which curved steeply upwards round a long bend. On one side she pointed out a dark, many-spired building with no windows. Rowen told him this was the Great Library.

  “If there’s something you want to know, Grandfather says, the Library is the best place to go looking for it.”

  A little further along the rising street ended at a high wall covered in thick ivy. In the centre of the wall stood two massive doors of dark polished wood braced with iron. They were closed, but within one of the two larger doors a smaller door stood open.

  “Appleyard,” Rowen said. “Home of the Errantry.”

  “You said that word before,” Will said. “Errantry. To Moth, in the snug. Who is he?”

  “It’s not a he,” Rowen said. “Errantry is what you learn here, and when you complete your training, you join the Errantry, the Guild of Knights-Errant.”

  “So it’s like a school then. Do you go there?”

  “I’ve started sword practice, and scouting training. My mother was a knight-errant, and I’m going to be one, too. Though my grandfather isn’t happy about it.”

  “So they teach you to become a warrior or something?”

  Rowen considered this for a moment.

  “You’ve heard of the Knights of the Round Table, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Errantry is something like that. In fact, when Arthur Pendragon stayed in Fable for a while he drew up the code of rules that the Errantry still follows.”

  “Wait. You mean King Arthur?”

  “Of course. Who else? After his last battle he came back to the Realm to be healed. I thought that story was well-known where you come from.”

  “I suppose so, but I didn’t think … I mean, he’s not real.”

  Rowen stared at him, then turned away and raised her hand.

  “Here we are,” she said.

  Will thought Rowen meant the door in the wall, but then he saw she was pointing to a narrow, curving lane that opened off the main street. They followed it to its end, passing several shops on the way. Will saw signs for a shoemaker, a bookseller, an apothecary (whatever that was) and a tailor. At the end of the lane stood a strange building, a tall terraced house, somewhat like those Will had already seen, but narrower and faced with dark green and grey masonry. Arched, shuttered windows climbed in a curious zizzag pattern to an ornate turreted roof. The house leaned slightly into the street and was so crooked-looking that it seemed only to be standing thanks to the two stockier buildings that flanked it.

  Rowen went up to the front door. She spoke a hushed word and a moment later it opened.

  “After you,” she said.

  Inside, Will found himself in a long hall that seemed brilliantly lit after the long walk though the dim streets. Once his eyes had adjusted to the blaze of the overhead lamps, he saw two things that struck him. First was that the house seemed larger on the inside, wider and more spacious, than it had from outside. And second were the toys.

  There were toys everywhere. Colourful marionettes and life-like birds hung from the ceiling. The shelves lining the hall were crowded with miniature animals of every description, including strange creatures Will had never seen before, as well as tops and whirligigs, boats, intricate little dolls’ houses and castles, chess sets, hoops and balls, marbles, and various odd, unknown contraptions made of wood, metal, wire and string.

  “This is how Grandfather earns his living,” Rowen said, “but he’s also a master of lore. He knows more stories than anyone in Fable.”

  At the far end of the hall rose a winding staircase. When Rowen reached it and bounded up the first few steps, she nearly collided w
ith a tiny, apple-cheeked woman in an apron who was coming down. The woman shrieked and the stack of folded linen she had been carrying flew up and scattered over the stairs.

  “Rowen!” the woman gasped, sitting down on the step and pressing a hand to her bosom. “You’ll send me to my deathbed someday, child.”

  “I didn’t think you’d be up, Edweth,” Rowen mumbled.

  “Waiting for you to get home, as always,” Edweth said sternly.

  “I’m sorry, but I need to see Grandfather right away.”

  “Who has been greatly worried about you, young lady, going off by yourself like that.”

  The woman glanced sideways at Will as she proceeded to gather up the scattered linen. Rowen hurried to help her.

  “Filthy!” Edweth gasped, batting Rowen’s hand away.

  “This is Will Lightfoot,” Rowen said. “He needs Grandfather’s help.”

  “Well,” the woman said with a curt nod at Will, “the master is not here at the moment and who knows when he’ll be back. He’s gone to an emergency meeting of the Council. Something has all the wise and mighty in a flap.”

  “I must find him,” Rowen said. “I have important news. Can Will stay here while I’m gone? He’s come from … from far away.”

  Edweth now took a long, hard look at Will. He felt himself turn scarlet.

  “I suppose he may stay,” she finally said. “I’m sure your grandfather will be happy to see you safe and sound, Rowen, but don’t be surprised if you can’t hold his attention. I haven’t seen him so distracted for a good long while.”

  “Did he say what…” Rowen began, and then went silent.

  The woman shook her head.

  “It’s business I don’t poke my nose into. But I know you won’t get into the council chambers dressed like that. Your clothes, child. You look as if you’ve been traipsing through the middle of Toadmarsh.”

  Rowen grinned.

  “Maybe I have. But I haven’t time to change. This is urgent.”

  Edweth sighed.

  “It always is. But you will take a dry cloak. That much I insist on. Your grandfather is untidy enough without you following in his footsteps.”