“I’m glad,” he said finally.
Will slipped on the cloak he had taken from the snug and went out onto the landing. The house was silent. With Shade at his heels Will started down the stairs, wondering if he dared sneak into Edweth’s kitchen for some bread, and then he stopped. He couldn’t just go, not without thanking them all, Edweth, Rowen and the toymaker, for what they had done for him. He would have to leave them something. After a long hesitation he turned and tiptoed back up the stairs.
“That’s as far as we’re going?” Shade asked.
“For now,” Will said. “There’s something I must do first.”
He went back to his room, sat down at the desk, and wrote a short letter, which he folded and tucked into his pocket. Slipping back out into the corridor, he paused, wondering where it would be best to leave the letter so it would be found. In the end he decided that slipping the paper under the door of the toymaker’s workshop was the best choice, and so he climbed the stairs to the top floor, trying not to make any noise as he ascended. The wolf’s claws clicked on the polished floorboards, and it seemed to Will that even this faint sound must be carrying all over the house. It also occurred to him that he didn’t know where the toymaker slept, if indeed he slept at all.
The top floor was dark. The door of the workshop was closed, but a thin bar of light showed at the bottom edge and streamed out into the corridor. Hurriedly Will bent and began to slide the letter under the door, into the light. At the last moment, just when it was almost out of sight, the door began to open.
Will snatched the letter back and stood up.
Pendrake stood in the doorway.
“Will,” he said sternly. “I was just thinking about you.”
Will remembered that he was dressed in a cloak, but the toymaker didn’t seem to notice. Fearing a lecture or worse, he said nothing.
“Come in,” the old man said. “It appears we’ve both had trouble sleeping tonight.”
“Sorry to bother you,” Will muttered, and could think of nothing else to say. His plan of slipping away in the night was laid bare, and he had revealed it himself, as if his own will was working against him. Reluctantly he followed the old man into the room and Shade padded in after him. A dying fire was glowing in the hearth, and on the toymaker’s desk, under the light of a lamp, lay a small wooden toy in the shape of a wolf.
“Is that me?” Shade asked.
“I suppose it is,” Pendrake said. “When I have something to think about or a problem to solve, I make a toy. Sometimes I barely notice what it is I’m making.”
Pendrake poured two cups of tea from the pot hanging over the fire, and handed one to Will. They sat in chairs by the fire and Shade sat between them, his calm amber eyes watching both of them in turn.
“I’ve done much thinking about you, Shade,” Pendrake said. “Wondering how you came to be in the Library.”
“I remember more now,” the wolf said. “More of who I was, before.”
“We would like to hear about it, if you’ll tell us.”
“There was a time,” Shade began slowly, “when my mate and I led our pack. We hunted in the forests. We did not speak as I do now. We knew the world with our eyes, ears and noses. Our life was sweet, and happy, until the ghool came who hunted us with fire and iron.”
“Nightbane,” Pendrake said. “Creatures from the shadow side of Story.”
The wolf made a noise of disgust in his throat. When he spoke again his voice was low and menacing. The change in it sent a shiver through Will.
“They snared us with nets and traps. The wolves they caught they bred to be like them, cruel and wicked. Then those wolves hunted us, too. Their own kind. One day the ghool found my mate alone and tried to take her. She was fierce and strong, my mate, and she fought. She fought, but they were too many.”
Shade was silent for a long time.
“I followed the tracks they left, to their camp,” he said at last. “I tore and killed many, and those that were left ran off, but they had pierced me with their iron in many places. I wandered, a fever burning in me. I could not hunt, could not eat. I came at last to a forest where I smelled a new scent, one that was unknown to me. The scent of folk like you. I did not know if it meant danger or not. I crept up to their dwellings, in a clearing in the woods, to see if this unknown scent meant danger. There were people there, working, talking, laughing together. I had never heard laughter. It sounded strange to me, and I think I would have liked it, but all I could feel was pain, and hate. And then I saw a child. A girl in a red cloak with a hood, going off into the forest by herself. She was carrying a basket covered in a cloth. I followed her. I was hungry, and I wanted to kill. The girl walked quickly, but I ran ahead of her and stood in her path. She was frightened, but she was brave, too. And she did not hate. I could see that in her eyes. She was not like the ghool.
“I turned and I ran. I ran without knowing where I was going, and then I came to a house that stood by itself in the forest. Good smells came from that house. Good things to eat. I could not stop myself this time. The door was open and I went in. There was an old woman there. She screamed and ran away. I let her go, and ate what food I could find. But it was too late. I felt the fever growing in me, from the iron of the ghool. I knew that no food would help me now. There was a bed in one corner. I climbed into it.
“I don’t know how long I lay there. After some time I heard a sound. The girl in the red cloak was standing in the doorway. She came towards the bed, but in the dark of the house she did not see me. She called out a greeting. She thought I was the old woman. I stood up in the bed, ready to flee. My limbs were shaking and there was a rasp in my throat. The girl saw me then. She screamed. I leapt over her and bounded out of the door. I ran, with what was left of my strength. And when I could not run, I crawled. I heard the sounds of the girl’s folk following me. Their shouts, their anger. They were hunting for me, to kill me.”
“I know that story,” Will interrupted. “But it’s not the same as I heard it.”
“Stories never are,” Pendrake said. “That is how they live on. How did you escape, Shade?”
“I did not,” the wolf said. “Not from the death that was already in me. When I could crawl no further I dug a hole in the wet earth to lie in. I waited for sleep, and it came, and I forgot everything. There was no more time. Nothing. Then someone was there. I heard the tread of his feet on the earth and in my bones, waking me, but I knew he would not harm me. He spoke a name, and I knew it was my name. I rose and came to him. He put his hand upon me and I could run again.”
“Who was he?” Will said.
“He gave me a voice, and taught me many things,” the wolf said, as if he hadn’t heard. “His name was … in the sound of the rain, and the light at sunset. We ran together in the moonlight. We rested under the trees when the sun was high. Sometimes we journeyed a great distance to meet the others like him. The First Ones. We would meet them under a tree on a green hill. The tiny annoying ones, the ones you call wisps, would be there, too. And others, like me.”
“Other wolves?” Will asked.
“They had been given speech, like me, but they had other shapes of bird and beast. On the hill the First Ones would dance and sing, and tell stories.”
“The hill of Tuath Dara,” Pendrake said. “The green mount of Peace. That was where the Stewards met every year at midsummer.”
“Yes,” Shade said. “Until it was … changed. By the sickness that came over the land. We marched then in a great company, and all who were friends of the First Ones joined us. We met the hosts of shadow and we fought. We fought for a long time, and finally we began to drive the enemy back. But then he came. The Storyeater. He came as a blinding light that was really darkness inside. Like a sun that gave no heat. He blinded and burned us and we were scattered far and wide, and many fell. Then my friend told me that there was something else for me to do. He told me to find the grove where he had woken me. He said I should wait there, and some
one would come. Someone lost who would need my help to find the gateless gate. My friend told me we would not see each other again. I did not want to leave him. But in the end … I did as he wished.”
The wolf nodded his head slowly.
“I did as he wished,” he said again, his voice little more than a whisper. “I ran, through forests and over hills, and everywhere was fear, and a shadow falling, but I did not stop. At last I found the place among the trees where he had woken me. There the sickness had not yet come, and I stayed and I waited. I waited a long time, under sun and stars, and at last I could not stay awake any longer, and I slept. Then Will Lightfoot came, and woke me.”
“I’m glad he did,” Pendrake said with a smile. “And I am very glad you are coming with us on this journey, Shade.”
Will had been caught up in Shade’s story. Now he remembered why he had come to the toymaker’s door.
“But what if Lord Caliburn is right?” he said. “What if I’m captured out there and turned into a … a weapon? What will happen to you and Rowen then?”
Pendrake set down his cup.
“Listen to me, Will,” he said. “What happens in this world, or in any other, is the result of many actions, both great and small. Nobody, not even Lord Caliburn, can weigh and measure the contribution each of us makes to that. I can tell you that your arrival has stirred up things that have remained quiet for too long, so that it was easy to ignore them. You’ve reminded me that I have spent far too much time cooped up in this house, when I should be out there, where the stories come from. Otherwise I cannot call myself master of anything but a pile of dusty maps and books.”
“But Rowen, and Finn Madoc…”
“Rowen, as you may have noticed, can hold her own quite well. And I have known Finn for a long time. He may not have been knighted yet, but anyone trained by the Errantry is a force to be reckoned with, believe me. And like you he has his own story, one that he must be given the freedom to live.”
“If I’m in a story, I wish I knew which one it was.”
“Perhaps that’s why you’re here. Some come to this realm because they have no story. Some because they believe in a story so passionately that it becomes their own. And some find themselves here because it is time for a new story, one that can’t be told without them. I don’t know which of these is your tale, Will. But we will take this road together, and perhaps we’ll find out.”
“But that’s just it,” Will said. “I don’t know what road to take. I don’t know where to start, or what direction to go in. Am I just supposed to start walking and see where I end up?”
“Why not?” Pendrake shrugged. “It’s what folk in stories have always done.” His face softened and he smiled. “From my experience it’s usually better not to set out on journeys like this with too many plans and expectations. Or even much hope. Do not forget your goal, but let the way to it find you, as a great knight-errant once said. We can discuss the various roads we might take, but I have a feeling you’ll know what to do, when the time comes. And it would be prudent, I think, to wait until the last possible moment to make the choice. That way there’s less chance of others learning our purpose.”
“You mean there might be spies here?”
“In Fable news spreads like fire in dry grass. Those who pass on such news might not intend harm, but it’s better to be cautious. If we don’t know where we’re going, no one else will, either.”
Will nodded. He was suddenly very tired. The day he had stolen the motorcycle seemed long ago and far away.
“The thing is,” he said, “it was running off on my own that started this whole thing.”
“Have faith in yourself, Will,” Pendrake said. “There is more in you than you know.”
Will sighed.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he said.
They did not set out for several days. Pendrake was waiting for the Errantry to report on any further sign of the fetches or others who might be servants of the Night King. Only when all of the scouts had reported that there was no stirring or rumour of danger in the Bourne did he feel it safe to leave Fable.
One morning, with Pendrake’s permission, Rowen took Will on a tour of Appleyard. They visited the lecture hall, and Will was surprised to see that the classrooms were very much like those back home, although the long wooden benches looked a lot less comfortable than the desks he was used to. In the grounds outside they met three novices, friends of Rowen, who had heard about the newcomer and wanted to see him for themselves. Pendrake had cautioned Will not to tell anyone he had come directly from the Untold, but he hadn’t thought to make up a cover story. Now he wished he had. One of Rowen’s friends, a tall boy named Peter, wanted to know what part of the Bourne he had come from. Will glanced at Rowen helplessly.
“He’s not from here,” Rowen said quickly. “He’s from a storyland in the east. The kingdom of … the motorcycles.”
“Never heard of it,” Peter said with a suspicious frown. He turned to Will. “Is it far away?”
“I think so,” Will said cautiously.
“You think so?” echoed one of the other novices, a girl named Maeve. “How can you not know?” Just then the bells at the Gathering House sounded the hour and Rowen’s friends hurried off to their lesson, much to Will’s relief.
Next they visited the smithy, a cave-like structure of black stone at the rear of the college, its air acrid and roiling from the forge fire. Through the smoke they could see a bearded man in a black apron working at an anvil, hammering at a red-hot bar of metal. Near him a boy not much older than Will, polished a breastplate. Rowen explained that knights-in-training were apprenticed for a time to the armourer. In this way they learned the lore and craft of weapons, and helped to make their own armour and their first sword.
“But they don’t wear armour,” Will said.
“They do in battle,” Rowen said. “The forges have been working day and night lately. It’s not a good sign.”
They watched for a while as the boy set down the breastplate and then took up a mallet and tapped away at the pieces of a steel gauntlet, smoothing and shaping the thin metal. Sweat dripped from his forehead and his face was contorted into a grimace of concentration.
“Galen will be going out soon on his first quest,” Rowen said as they moved on, a hint of envy in her voice.
“By himself?”
“He’ll be apprenticed to a knight, until he’s earned his spurs and can ride out on his own. That’s what I’ll be doing in a few years, if all goes well.”
When they returned to the toyshop for the midday meal, Pendrake was there. He thought it would be a good idea for Will to get some training in defending himself before they left the city. Will agreed, eager to try out a sword.
And so Will and Rowen spent part of each day at Appleyard with Finn. On the first day they waited for him in the sparring ground, a circular field ringed with colourful banners strung from tall poles. When the young man appeared he bowed slightly to them, his face expressionless. He had brought several wooden practice swords that he called bevins. Much of Will’s eagerness vanished when he saw them.
Finn handed Will one of the bevins and showed him how to stand and hold the weapon. They sparred several times, and while Finn carefully pointed out what Will needed to learn, he never smiled or said anything encouraging. Each time they began again, Finn would repeat his instruction about how to stand and hold the sword. After a while Will grew impatient.
“I understand all about that part,” he said finally.
In an instant, with a movement too quick for Will to follow, the bevin was out of his hand and in Finn’s, the point of the wooden blade at Will’s neck.
“How about this part?” Finn said coldly.
Will said nothing. He glanced at Rowen out of the corner of his eye and felt his face redden.
Finn handed back the bevin.
“In combat you always have two weapons,” he said. “Yours, and your opponent’s. Learn to use them b
oth and you’ll never be unarmed. Let’s start again.”
Will threw down the bevin.
“This is a waste of time,” he said. “Where I come from we have better weapons than this.”
Finn picked up the sword.
“My family came from Elsewhere too,” he said. “A long time ago. Here in the Bourne we know about the powerful weapons of the Untold, but we’ve learned to be careful about what we use to protect ourselves. There are creatures here that cannot be harmed by anything that doesn’t belong in their own stories. And we’ve found that some tools, no matter how helpful they seem at first, always end up serving the Dark Powers.”
“Did anyone in your family ever go back to Elsewhere?”
“Not that I know of. When you’ve lived here a long time, you become more like one of the storyfolk, I think. It’s very rare that one of them can cross over into the Untold. Some who try lose their way and are snared by the Night King, or choose to serve him because they believe he alone holds the keys to all doors in and out of Story. That lie has tempted many Wayfarers.”
As he spoke these last words, Finn looked searchingly into Will’s eyes. He’s wondering if I’ll be one of those, Will thought. He was about to answer Finn’s look with angry words, but they died in his throat. He didn’t know any better than Finn what was going to happen to him.
Finn held out the bevin.
“Again,” he said.
On the evening before their departure, the toymaker met Will, Rowen and Finn in his workshop. He swept aside the clutter on his work desk and unrolled a large parchment map, placing tea cups and stones at the corners to keep it flat.
“This is the task, and the danger, that lies before us,” Pendrake said, his hand on the map. “Will is setting out in search of a way home, and we are pledged to help him. Will’s gifts as a Wayfarer may lead him to the Green Court. We will do nothing to hinder this, if it happens, yet at the same time we must go warily, to elude any pursuers.”
It was the map that Rowen had shown Will earlier. The travellers gathered round it and discussed the merits of the various roads they might take. It became clear to Will that no matter what direction they set out in, they would eventually come to lands where friendly folk were few and far between, and one could never be sure what lay round the next bend. Once, these ungoverned and little-known regions were considered one of the Bourne’s best defences, but over the years foul and malevolent things had crept slowly into them and made their dwelling there.
The Shadow of Malabron Page 10
