The Tree of Story

by Thomas Wharton

  Morrigan stood at the window, tall and regal in a dark green gown. She had taken off the shrowde cloak when they first entered the room, and it had slid away across the thickly carpeted floor like a snaking tendril of white fog, curling up at last in the farthest, darkest corner.

  “How can that be?” Rowen said, the colour draining from her face. “How can they be gone? Your people are powerful and wise and …”

  Morrigan turned from the window. She was as beautiful as Will remembered, but her dark eyes burned with a terrible half-mad light. Will had seen that look before, in the eyes of her brother, Moth, when he faced Lotan the Angel. It was the look of someone who had abandoned all hope and lived only to die for the sake of what she held dear.

  “Tell me what you see,” Morrigan said now to Rowen, her voice low and urgent. “You have the gift of the loremasters to see into the weave of things. Use it now.”

  “What I see? You mean of your people?”

  “Yes. Tell me what happened to them in this place.”

  “I saw them when we were in the Weaving, but now …” Rowen shook her head. She was sitting upright on the leather sofa with her hands braced on either side of her, like someone who’d just been through an earthquake and was waiting to see if any more tremors would come.

  “You are like me when I first found this place,” Morrigan said. “You do not wish to admit what your heart already knows. Tell me what you see.”

  Rowen drew a deep breath, then she nodded.

  “I do see them,” she said in a hollow voice. “The Fair Folk. I didn’t want it to be true. But it is true, isn’t it? Your people revealed themselves here to the Night King. It was like the sun emerging from behind clouds. The way we see them most of the time—the way we see you right now, Morrigan, wearing a disguise to keep yourself hidden. Your people took off their disguise.”

  She closed her eyes.

  “It happened down there, where the camp is now. I can see their bright armour. Their horses with snow-white manes. I can hear their spurs jingling and their banners snapping in the wind. And they’re singing. I don’t know the words, but I can tell what the song means. They’re singing a farewell to the Realm. To everything.”

  She kept her eyes closed and did not speak for a while. Her brow furrowed and her hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. She swayed a little as she stood and Will was startled to see beads of sweat on her forehead.

  “What else?” Morrigan said. “Tell me.”

  “Wait,” Will said. “Just let her rest, Morrigan. That’s enough for now.”

  Rowen opened her eyes. “No, Will,” she said. “I need to do this. I’ll tell you what I see, Morrigan. There’s a shadow rising in front of them, a huge dark shadow as tall as the sky. It’s alive. It’s a cloud of tiny flying things, so many of them they’re filling the sky. The cloud is growing larger. It’s blotting out the sun. I can hear it, too—a roaring sound, getting louder.”

  “I have seen and heard this cloud, as well,” Shade said. “Long ago, when we battled the Storyeater.”

  Rowen stared at the wolf as if she hadn’t understood what he’d said. Then she looked past him and seemed to be searching for something beyond the walls of the room.

  From below came faint sounds of voices raised in shouts and laughter. The Scholar’s play had begun.

  “But the Fair Folk are still there,” Rowen said at last. “I can see the light in their eyes, their faces. So bright. They’re raising their swords and their spears and charging forward. And they’re still singing. They’re riding into the cloud, and now it’s being torn open. It’s like a black curtain tearing and falling to pieces. The earth is shaking, and the light …” Rowen put a hand in front of her eyes. “It’s just the way Grandfather used to tell of the war long ago, when the Shee first battled Malabron. But this time the Fair Folk are alone. There are no Stewards. Your people are alone, Morrigan, against all the hate there is.”

  Tears slid down Rowen’s face.

  “Then the cloud returns,” she said in a whisper. “It returns stronger than before.” She shook her head slowly.

  “What is it?” Morrigan. “Go on.”

  “It swallowed them up. Their light went out. It took them. The Shadow Realm took them. All of them.”

  Her voice broke with a sob. Will put a hand on her shoulder. He looked up angrily at Morrigan and saw that her eyes had gone cold and hard.

  “Yes, this is where it happened,” she said, and her voice was like her gaze: there was no trace of the feeling with which she’d spoken when she first met them in the hotel lobby. “Or this place came to be because of the battle.”

  “What do you mean?” Will asked. “The battle created the Fair?”

  “My people know of many hidden paths between the realms, Will. Paths that people from the Untold have stumbled upon from time to time, as you did. I think that my people took one of these hidden paths in the hope of approaching Malabron’s realm undetected. They arrived at his borders and revealed themselves there or were discovered. Then the battle tore through the walls that keep the worlds apart, so that they have become entangled here. Like three broken threads knotting together, into something that was never meant to be. Now Malabron’s nightmare is bleeding into our realm, Rowen, and yours, Will, and poisoning them both.”

  “My world, too?” Will asked, and a cold dread slid through him. “But how could that happen? The Untold isn’t part of the Realm. It has nothing to do with any of this.”

  “You’re certain of that?” Morrigan said.

  For a moment Will caught a glimpse of Morrigan as he had first known her, the sleek coal-black raven who perched on Moth’s shoulder and fixed everyone and everything with a sharp eye. She had been enchanted by Lotan, a prince of the Shee who’d been corrupted by Malabron and turned against his own people. For years she’d been trapped in that shape, and so it didn’t surprise him to see that the raven was still there within this sad and beautiful young woman.

  “We call your world the Untold because it is so little known and its stories are so strange to us,” Morrigan went on. “But I have seen it, Will. I have travelled in the Untold.”

  “You’ve been to my world?”

  “My brother and I journeyed there once long ago. Our people often have, though few in the Untold know of it. We used the hidden paths between realms as a means of concealment from Malabron’s hunters. Sometimes we strayed too far on those paths and we would cross over into the Untold and walk among its people in disguise. This castle, the tools and weapons that some here carry with them—these are things of your world, Will. Surely you recognized them.”

  Will let out a long breath. “I did. I thought I was back home, but so many things are strange, too. This seems like a city in my world, but where are all the people? Why can we hear cars and sirens and all that but not see anyone?”

  “If I am right about what has happened, this place is not in any one of the three realms alone—it is in all of them at the same time,” Morrigan said. “You’ve seen the trees growing from the pavement outside. You’ve smelled the rot and ashes of the Shadow Realm. This is your world, Will, and yet it is not. It’s as if three different stories have been at war here, each struggling to be told.”

  “That’s why those people in the camp can’t find their way home,” Will said. “Now I see what the woman meant. Everything’s mixed up.”

  “Yes. The roads, the places, the landmarks they know are tangled with paths that lead elsewhere. Or nowhere. I fear there are many such lost places in the weave now. Places where the Shadow Realm has drawn close.”

  “Malabron’s story is winning the struggle?” Rowen said.

  “It is,” Morrigan said. “What is happening here will happen to the Bourne and every other part of the Realm if he is not defeated. And not just in the Perilous Realm but in your world, too, Will. That is why the people in the camp act out their tales and legends every night, why they hold on so desperately to them. The rise of the Night King is b
ringing forgetfulness with it. The past is being unwoven, along with what is and what will be. Soon we will all accept Malabron’s nightmare as the only story we’ve ever known.”

  Will sat down heavily in the armchair. His heart was thudding in his chest. Until now he had thought that his home, his family, his world were safely out of reach of the dangers that threatened Rowen’s. He remembered what had happened last night outside the cottage at Blue Hill, the strange feeling he’d had that his home was very close, that he only needed to walk a short distance through the woods at the edge of the farm and he would be there, back in his own world. That thought had comforted him then. Now it terrified him.

  “I still have to find Grandfather,” Rowen said. “Nothing changes that.”

  “What has happened to Nicholas Pendrake?” Morrigan asked.

  Rowen told her own story then in a frantic, jumbled rush. She told of her grandfather’s abduction by the thrawl and her search through the Weaving, where she’d met her grandmother, who’d revealed that war was coming to Fable. Then she told how she and Will had set out in search of the Fair Folk and had come to the mirror-lake, and what had happened after.

  “And now we’re already in the Shadow Realm,” Rowen said when she’d finished, “or at least on the edge of it. Isn’t that right, Morrigan? So from here we should be able to get there easily.”

  Morrigan had listened to Rowen’s tale in silence. Now she nodded to herself as though she had just made up her mind about something.

  “Come with me,” she said.

  She moved away from the window and crossed the room. Will, Rowen and Shade followed her through an open doorway and into the other half of the double suite. This room held more chairs and two large beds and had a bathroom and a small kitchen alcove, as well. Here the floor-length window looked out on the towers of glass and concrete they had seen from a distance.

  They saw the city at last.

  Grey ruins of buildings, many with shattered windows and stained, crumbling walls, marched off into an ashen haze. It was so unlike the view from the other window, with its rolling green countryside and warm glow of the camp lanterns, that Will wondered for a moment if they had come through one of the knot-paths that took you to another part of the Realm. Even the light was different here: a dim, sickly pall had replaced the soft blue twilight falling over the camp.

  “It used to be that the black river, the one that you saw in the Weaving, Rowen, was the only way into the Shadow Realm,” Morrigan said. “To cross it almost certainly meant that you would be without mind and will once you reached the far shore. But paths have opened now that never existed before. That city out there is another way into Malabron’s nightmare, a way that he may not even be aware of yet. The shrowde has been to the city and knows what lies beyond.”

  “The shrowde,” Rowen said. She and Will both turned to the doorway at the same time, as the living white cloak drifted like a ghost into the room. “I thought she was the Angel’s servant.”

  “She was bound to Lotan, yes,” Morrigan said with a nod, “though she no longer serves anyone, not even me.”

  “The cloak is a she?”

  “That is only one of the things I discovered when I took her from the Angel. The shrowde had been forced to do his bidding. After my brother destroyed him, the shrowde was finally free, as I was, but she was terrified and helpless. I took her with me when I rejoined my people and in time she came to trust me. She has no voice as we do, but when she submits to cloak someone of her own free will, the wearer can see and understand the shrowde’s thoughts and reply in kind. That is how we learned to understand each other. The truth is, after so many years wandering in the shadows I felt closer to her than to my own people. I have grown to care for the shrowde very much and she for me. We will not be parted again in this life.”

  The shrowde stirred and flowed soundlessly over the carpet. Morrigan extended her arms and the shrowde rose swiftly from the floor, covering the Shee woman’s green gown, flowing over her shoulders and down her back, mantling her once again from her feet to her neck, leaving only Morrigan’s head bare. When the shrowde had settled and gone still, it once again resembled nothing more than a long white cloak.

  Will thought how strange it was that Moth had given his life to save his sister from Lotan’s curse and here she was, clothed in the guise of the one who had killed her brother. He doubted that Moth would have wanted this.

  “She’s afraid of us, I think,” Rowen said.

  “It’s me,” Will said, recalling his last encounter with the shrowde. “I cut her with my knife when the Angel was fighting Moth.”

  “She remembers you both,” Morrigan said. “I have told her that you were only trying to help your friends, Will, but it is hard for her. She has known only fear and hatred for so long. It will take some time for her to trust you.”

  “The camp folk told us about the night you saved the girl,” Rowen said hesitantly. “About the man who stabbed himself.”

  Morrigan’s face gave no sign that Rowen’s words troubled her.

  “He was one of those who believe he can harm others without consequence to himself. The shrowde showed him what was hidden in his heart, all the fear and suffering he had caused others. It was there inside him, too, and it overwhelmed him. We did not intend he should die, but neither would we allow anyone else to be harmed.”

  “Why did you come here, Morrigan?” Will asked. “Did you get lost, too, like the others?”

  “We were seeking a hidden way into the Shadow Realm, like you,” Morrigan said. “Then we found the camp, and the shrowde feared for the people here; she would not have us leave until we were sure they were safe. Keeping our true identities hidden seemed the best way to spread fear among any who would harm these folk. Now we know we cannot protect them any longer, not by staying here. The camp is only a tiny rock against the tide, and soon it will be overwhelmed. We have to finish what we came to do.”

  “That’s what I was hoping when we found you,” Rowen said eagerly. “We can travel together, Morrigan, and the shrowde can show us the way. Once we find Grandfather and your people, we can return to Fable.”

  “We did not come to find my people, Rowen,” Morrigan said, her voice hollow and cold. “There is only one way to end this nightmare: a blade must be driven into the heart of the Shadow Realm. The shrowde and I will be that blade.”

  Will and Rowen stared at the Shee woman.

  “Morrigan,” Rowen breathed, “you mean to find him.”

  “I would not have the three of you set foot in that terrible place. Nevertheless I will not hinder you. It is not my place to do so. We will travel with you, the shrowde and I. We will help you search for the Loremaster. And when we have found him, you will return home to Fable and the shrowde and I will finish what we came to do.”

  Tears rose in Rowen’s eyes. “Thank you,” she said.

  “This is crazy,” Will blurted, unable to stop himself. “I never thought we had much of a chance, going to the one place we should be trying to stay away from. And now you want to march in there and challenge …” He shook his head. “Morrigan, if all your people together couldn’t defeat him, how can you hope to do it on your own?”

  “One, or two as one, may succeed where many have failed, Will. My people’s sacrifice has torn this hole between worlds, giving us this chance to slip into the Shadow Realm unnoticed, or so I hope. Besides, Rowen is determined to find her grandfather, and she would still go were I to stay here. Even with such a protector as Shade the three of you would not get far on your own. Malabron’s domain is inhabited by far more dangerous beings than fetches. And it is a place with no clear paths and many false ones. But the shrowde knows the Shadow Realm. She went there many times with Lotan, the Angel. She has told me of a place beyond the dead city where the Angel always took his prey. A plain of silence and dust. Nothing lives in that place. It is the heart of Malabron’s nightmare. The journey will be long and difficult, but the shrowde knows the way and c
an take us there.”

  “Then we should leave now,” Rowen said. “There’s no reason to stay here any longer.”

  “I understand your wanting to set out right away,” Morrigan said. “But you—all of you—are tired and hungry and there will be little rest once we are in the Shadow Realm. We will wait until morning.”

  Rowen was about to protest, but Will cut her off. “Morrigan is right,” he said. “We haven’t eaten anything in hours and you can barely stand up. We’re not going anywhere right now.”

  “I’m fine,” Rowen said angrily.

  “No, you’re not. For once just listen to me.”

  Rowen glared at Will. She looked from him to Morrigan and back again. At last she lowered her head and her shoulders sagged.

  “In the morning, then,” she said.

  “You may sleep in this room without fear,” the Shee woman said. “No one has dared set foot here since we came except you. The shrowde and I will keep watch.”

  “But then you won’t get any rest,” Will protested.

  “We do not sleep.”

  Rowen looked at the beds, one on each side of the window, with its view of the dead city.

  “I can’t sleep here,” she said, shaking her head. “Not while Grandfather is out there somewhere alone.”

  “There’s the sofa in the other room,” Will suggested.

  After a long silence Rowen nodded. Mutely she followed Will to the other half of the suite. She sat down on the sofa as she had before, with her arms braced on either side of her, as if she might spring up at any moment. Shade lay down heavily in the doorway.

  “I will stay here, Will Lightfoot,” he said.

  Rowen stared at the far wall without moving, then stirred and glanced up at Will as though she’d just remembered he was there. For the first time in a long while she looked at him with concern.