Rowen frowned and glanced at Will, her face flushing as red as her hair.
“But I have not forgotten the fetches, Rowen,” Pendrake added. “The Council met in emergency session when reports came in about strange ghostly creatures prowling our borders. Thanks to Moth we now know they are fetches, and this is of grave concern. Things are stirring in the world beyond the Bourne. More storyfolk driven from their lands by Nightbane arrive here every day. And we must assume the Master of Fetches has seen you, Will, through the mirror shard.”
“The Master of Fetches…” Will echoed. With a shudder he remembered the eyes in the mirror, the presence prowling in his thoughts.
“The Errantry has kept this land peaceful and safe for many years, and most folk who dwell here scarcely think about the world beyond,” Pendrake said. “They have heard of the wars of long ago, of the struggle of the Hidden Folk against their great enemy, of the fiery destruction of the city of Eleel, but they consider these only fantastic tales of a vanished age. Perhaps true, perhaps not. But either way as harmless as any other tale told to pass the time in this city of stories.”
“Who is this Master, Grandfather?” Rowen asked, her voice a strained whisper. “Why did he send the fetches after Will?”
“We don’t know for certain who their prey was. It may have been only chance that you fell into their clutches, Master Lightfoot. If anything in this world happens by chance. You’ve given me much to think about. Most people who open the raincabinet find only an empty room, or a puddle, and a fleeting scent of storm clouds. You are the only visitor to this house who has ever seen the unseen rain.”
“What does that mean?” Will asked. “I don’t understand.”
Pendrake set the poker back into its stand beside the fireplace, then leant a hand upon the mantel and seemed to be searching the fire as if within it lay the answer to Will’s question.
“The Realm is not just a world with stories in it,” he said at last. “This world is Story. It is the place that all of the tales in your world come from. Whatever you might find in a story, you will find here. Adventures, strange encounters, riddles. Elves, witches, ghosts, giants. Heroes and monsters. Bravery, goodness, and terrible evil. And many other things that have yet no name in your world. And you are here now, Will, and that means you are in a story, too.”
“Wait. You’re telling me that people like … like Robin Hood live here? Or the Big Bad Wolf? Or Harry Pot—”
“I’m telling you that the stories you know began here. The storytellers in your world have always travelled to the Realm, either in the flesh, as you have, or in their dreams or imaginings. The stories they take back to Elsewhere still go on happening here. The stories weave themselves anew. They change, and yet they remain.”
“So none of this is real, then,” Will said. “It’s what I thought. I’m dreaming this, or I’m…”
“Or you’re what? It’s all real. As real as the world you come from.”
Will looked desperately around the room.
“If this is a story, I don’t want to be in it. How do I get out?”
“You will have to see it through to the end. It’s your story now, as much as it is anyone’s. And that might mean a long and difficult road. Or it might be as easy as opening a door. I cannot say. But you should know that your story is part of a larger tale that began a very long time ago. Some call it the Kantar. It is the Story of all stories. The tale of everything that was, is, and will be.”
There was a knock at the door, and the housekeeper came in carrying a tray with tea and biscuits.
“Keeping these children up all night,” she muttered as she laid the tea things out on a small table. “They have to eat something more than stories.”
“True enough,” Pendrake said, clapping his hands. “I could use some refreshment myself. I don’t think any of us will get much sleep tonight.”
“You’re right about that,” Edweth muttered as she went out.
Pendrake poured the tea and served it. He sat back in his chair, twirling a spoon in his cup. Will noticed that his shirt front was spotted with old tea stains.
“Perhaps Moth can help Will, Grandfather,” Rowen said after a short silence. “He is one of the Fair Folk after all.”
“You know Moth does not travel with the Green Court, Rowen. It is hidden from him. And he seldom leaves the Wood. It is one of the last remnants of the lost Realm of Faerie, and he has guarded it for a very long time.”
“I know he left the Green Court,” Rowen said, “but I never heard why.”
“We will save that story for another night,” Pendrake said. “I’m sure Will is feeling overwhelmed with all of this.”
They both looked at him.
“This Story of stories you talked about…” Will began. He was overwhelmed, but there was more he had to know.
“The Kantar.”
“Yes. Do you know how it ends? Because if you do, then you can just tell me, can’t you, and we can just go to that part. Like skipping pages in a book. Can’t we?”
Pendrake smiled and set down his cup.
“I wish it worked that way. I’ve spent my life learning what I could of the Kantar, but what I know is like a drop of water from a mighty river. The Kantar is boundless, it seems. Everything that happens in the many realms, even our conversation this very moment, becomes part of its weave. I certainly don’t know the ending, if there ever will be an ending. No, like a character in a book you cannot jump to the ending before its time. You must play out your role. As everyone must.”
“Isn’t someone telling the story?”
To his surprise, Pendrake shrugged.
“That’s a question for the Enigmatists, I suppose. It is said that ages ago, in the morning of the world, the Stewards spun the Deep Weaving into twelve great realms of Story that are yet one, the Perilous Realm. An endless, everrenewing ocean of myths, legends and tales. The Stewards, the Innathi, were ageless beings of wisdom and grace, who taught Moth’s people, the Tain Shee, much of their lore and craft. The Stewards are gone now. And yet the stories go on.”
“So this … Master of Fetches. He was the one in the mirror…”
“That is what I fear.”
“Who is he?”
“One who wishes all stories to be his. Even though the Kantar belongs to no one and everyone, he would have it all for himself.”
Pendrake rose slowly from his chair and went over again to the fire. His grey locks hung over his face as he gazed into the flames.
“Malabron the Night King, Lord of the Shadow Realm and Master of Fetches. Why is it the very worst have the most names? Where he came from, no one knows. But with him fear and shadow entered the realms. And oblivion. The twelve great realms were engulfed in war and broken, sundered. In those dark days, the Tain Shee armed themselves and came to the aid of the Stewards in their struggle against Malabron. Their alliance was a bright host unlike anything seen in the realms before or since. The fair city of Eleel stood then a beacon to those under Malabron’s shadow, until one of their own, a prince of the Tain named Lotan, betrayed his people. The city was thrown open to its enemies. Its bright towers burned.”
As the old man spoke Will watched the light and shadows dance on the walls, and it seemed to him he could almost see the city in flames, its towers shuddering under the blows of the enemy. In the sound of the fire he heard the roar of battle, the cries of Moth’s people as their beloved city fell.
“Did Moth and Morrigan live there?” Rowen asked, and Will realized she had never heard most of this story.
“They did, and like their fellow Shee, they fled, into a realm that lay in ruins. In his lust for power, Malabron struck at the Deep Weaving itself. The damage he wrought was like a terrible wound to all the storylands. Much perished, much was changed for ever. So many stories consumed, abandoned, forgotten… That time became known as the Great Unweaving. Eleel itself sank beneath the waves. Prince Lotan, who had taken lordship of the city in his master’s name
, perished in its ruin, or so it was believed. The Tain themselves became exiles in a broken land. The Shee n’ashoon they are called now. The Hidden Folk. Their home is the Green Court, a wandering kingdom of tents and pavilions that never stays in one place for long. In their ceaseless struggle against Malabron, the Shee have become masters of concealment and illusion. They elude the Night King’s hunters, they strike against his minions and his armies, then they vanish again into the shadows of the forest.”
While the toymaker was speaking, the fire had dimmed to embers. He stirred the blackened wood with the poker and new flames leapt up.
“The Stewards could not defeat Malabron, but they did halt him for a time, and heal much of what he destroyed. He has striven ever since against their fading power, and now I fear he seeks again to dominate and conquer all.”
“But he’s not interested in Wayfarers,” Rowen said. “You told me that once, Grandfather. Why would he send fetches to the Bourne?”
“You’re right, Rowen, that folk from the Untold have never been of interest to him. He believes we have no stories. And so he has never turned his eye on the Bourne before. But it may be that our good fortune is at an end.”
“This is all happening now,” Will said in a stunned whisper. “He’s not just some … dark lord from a storybook.”
“There are some in the Bourne who would like to believe that. But the story of the war against the Night King is true, and it is not over. It reaches into the here and now, into this very room.”
At that moment there was a tapping at one of the windows. Will jumped. Pendrake strode to the window and pulled up the blind. A tiny ball of bright blueish light bobbed in the dark outside, flicking its fiery form at the pane. Pendrake turned the latch and swung the window open. The ball of light darted inside and hovered in the air.
“Ah, Sputter,” the old man said. “What do you have for me?”
The ball of light sped to the toymaker’s desk, where it danced over the surface of a blank sheet of yellowish paper. As Will watched, lines of flowing script began to appear on the paper.
“What is that thing?” Will whispered to Rowen.
“It’s called a wisp,” she whispered back. “They carry messages.”
When it reached the end of the page, the wisp rose sharply and then dropped with a hiss into a bottle of ink beside the paper.
Pendrake went over to the desk and quickly scanned the message.
“From the Marshal of the Errantry,” he said, looking up from the paper. “He’s heard about your arrival, Will, and asks me to report to him.”
Pendrake dipped a black-feathered quill pen in the inkbottle into which the wisp had disappeared. He scratched a few lines on another sheet of paper, and then to Will’s surprise, crumpled up the paper and tossed it in the fire. Almost instantly there was a crackle and a flash of light, and the messenger wisp, or one just like it, came zinging out of the flames. It buzzed around the room twice trailing sparks, bumped into a closed window, then into another. Finally it found the open window and shot out into the air, its hum swiftly fading.
“You must use up a lot of paper that way,” Will said, scarcely believing what he had seen.
“It’s salamander parchment,” Rowen said. “When the fire burns out, it will still be there, and blank, to be used again.”
“That wisp seemed a little … confused.”
“Sputter’s fine. An Enigmatist tried to take him apart once, to find out what wisps are made of. Grandfather patched him up as well as he could.”
“There is more to tell you.” Pendrake sighed, taking off his spectacles and rubbing his eyes. He got up from the desk and took his coat from the back of the chair. “So much more. But enough for now. While there is still some night left, get some rest. I’ll tell Edweth not to wake you too early. And, Will, do not fear. You’re safer here than anywhere I know.”
Rowen escorted Will to his room. He was exhausted, but too shaken by what he had heard to feel sleepy. And he had the nagging feeling that Pendrake had kept things from him. While he was speaking of the Master of Fetches, and the Stewards, and their long-ago war, he’d glanced at Rowen with a troubled look. The same look Will had seen in his father’s face before he told Will how sick his mother really was. He wanted to trust the old man, but he couldn’t. In a place like this, he wasn’t sure he could trust anyone.
At the door, he remembered what Pendrake had told him, that the way home was his to find. Which must mean he was on his own. And this Marshal of the Errantry would probably order him out of the city, once he heard what Pendrake had to say. They would get rid of him before anything else happened, before he brought something worse down on their heads. He would be back out there, alone.
“Sleep well,” Rowen said, turning to go.
“Wait. You know how to use a sword, right?”
“I’ve been learning,” Rowen said. “Why?”
“How long does it take to learn?”
Rowen gave him a puzzled look, and then understanding came into her eyes.
“They won’t send you off on your own,” she said firmly. “And if they did, I’d go with you.”
Travellers who have just arrived from Elsewhere usually have a very dim understanding of what they will encounter here, but indeed we who call these strange lands home must admit we know little more. How well can you know a story, after all, when you’re still in the middle of it?
— Redquill’s Atlas and Gazetteer of the Perilous Realm
HE WAS WALKING IN A GRASSY MEADOW. The sun was shining. The world was bright and green. He could smell the scent of flowers in the warm air and hear the birds chattering and singing in the trees. The cloven tree, half in shadow and half in light, stood alone on its rise. Now that he had found it, he had no need to hurry. His search was over.
He walked, and gazed around him, and saw that there were stones in the grass. Small grey stones, scattered everywhere he looked. They were not here when he came to the clearing the last time, he was sure of that. He stopped and picked up one of the stones. It was heavy, its surface cold and smooth. He turned it over in his hand.
The stone opened an eye and looked at him.
He cried out in fear and dropped the stone, backed away from it. In the grass all the other stones were watching him now with unblinking eyes.
He ran for the tree, but as he came nearer the leaves on its living half began to fall. As they drifted and spun through the darkening air they turned grey and then white.
The leaves were becoming huge wet flakes of snow, falling more and more thickly until he could see nothing beyond them. He stopped running, shouted for Dad and Jess, but the wind that had risen with the snow drowned out his voice, even from himself. His panting breath turned to steam in the cold air.
He started forward again cautiously, holding his hands out in front of him and blinking to see through the flurrying snow.
The hairs rose on the back of his neck. He turned.
Through the veils of falling snow came a dim figure. Will’s first thought was that the fetches had found him again. Then he saw how the figure moved, with slow, careful steps, and he knew that this was no ghostly shape but a being of flesh with its own will and purpose.
As the figure came closer Will saw that it was a tall man dressed in a dark crimson robe. His long hair was as white as the snow, though he appeared to be young. As he walked his eyes searched the snow-covered ground, as if he was looking for … footprints.
The man had not seen him yet, but in another moment he would cross the tracks Will had made in the snow. Will’s first impulse was to flee, but he didn’t move. He watched the tall man draw closer. Something in this stranger’s look or bearing reminded him very much of Moth.
Then it was too late.
The man came to Will’s tracks, halted suddenly, and looked up. His icy, almost colourless eyes found Will and held him.
The man opened his mouth to speak, but instead of words there was only silence.
The
snow fell thicker and faster, and the stranger receded into it, until his red robe became a faint blur and then vanished completely. Will found himself alone again in a nowhere of whirling whiteness, not even sure any more which way was up or down. The cold was seeping into him now, dulling his thoughts and making his limbs sluggish. He staggered backwards and fell, tumbling over and over. The snow was in his eyes, his ears, his mouth. He curled up into a ball.
It’s just a dream, he whispered feverishly. I have to wake up.
Rowen did not fall sleep for a long time. When she finally did, she dreamed of Will. She saw him riding the machine he called a motorcycle, and in her dream it was a bulky contraption of clanking metal parts and giant wooden wheels, with tall pipes rising from it that sent up hissing jets of steam. And then she was seated on the machine behind him, hanging on desperately as they sped through the streets of Fable.
“Where are we going?” she asked him over the roar and hiss of the machine.
“I have no idea,” he shouted back, a wild grin on his face.
The streets of the city had become steep, twisting canyons. They plunged down them at a terrible speed, shuddering over the cobblestones. The shrieking wind stung Rowen’s eyes to tears. Her hair whipped in her face. The motorcycle’s pipes screamed and bits and pieces of it began to fly off.
Below them, the street ended in a blank wall of stone.
Will turned to her.
“We’re going to crash now,” he said calmly.
“Can’t you do anything?” she shouted. “Can’t you stop it?”
“Not me,” he said with a shrug. “I don’t have any control over it at all.”
Rowen put her hands over her face and peered out between her fingers. Just before they smashed headlong into the wall, she woke up.
Sunlight was streaming through her window. She thought of Will. What was going to happen to him? And what was going to happen to Fable? Why were so many storyfolk coming here these days?
The Shadow of Malabron Page 6
