The Tree of Story

by Thomas Wharton

Then a young man stepped out from among the Errantry ranks. His head was bandaged and one eye was swollen shut. “Father,” he said. “It’s me.”

  One of the older Stormriders moved forward. “Caleb,” he said. “My son.”

  The Stormrider and the wounded Errantry soldier met in the space between the two armies and embraced. Soon many of the other Stormriders had found friends and relations among the Errantry ranks, and there were many tears and much laughter.

  To Balor’s astonishment, Corr approached him, unbuckled his sword belt and let sword and scabbard fall to the earth. Then he bowed his head and knelt before the wildman.

  “I have done terrible things,” he said in a strained voice. “Take my life now, for the life of your friend. For all the lives lost because of me. I only ask that you pardon my men and let all my Stormriders who are not Bournefolk—the mordog and those from other lands—leave in peace to return to their homes.”

  Balor stared down at Corr, then glanced up at the crowd of Stormriders, most of who were now laying down their own weapons. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat.

  “It’s not for me to decide any of that,” Balor said. “I’m like you now, Corr. I broke my oath and I’m no longer an officer of the Errantry.”

  “You are, Balor Gruff,” a voice cried. “One of its finest.”

  All heads turned. The Marshal, Lord Caliburn, was coming toward them, walking slowly with the support of two knight-apprentices. Captain Thorne followed behind, his head lowered as if in shame, though he darted anxious glances at the troops around him.

  “I submit to your justice, my lord,” Corr said as Caliburn halted before him. “Take my life in payment for your son’s.”

  “There will be justice, yes,” the Marshal said. “But not vengeance.”

  He gestured to one of the knight-apprentices, a young woman, who handed him something bundled in grey cloth. The Marshal unwrapped the cloth, which they all saw now was a stained and faded apprentice’s cloak. Inside the cloak lay a sword belt, a short knife and an Errantry brooch, a white five-petaled flower. The Marshal drew out the knife.

  “Rise, Corr Madoc,” he said.

  Corr climbed to his feet. His eyes met the Marshal’s.

  “This was my son’s knife,” the Marshal said. “He was wearing it the day he was taken from me. He was wearing this cloak, too, with this Errantry pin.”

  Corr lowered his head. “I know I cannot be forgiven,” he said. “I have never forgiven myself. Do as you will.”

  The Marshal took the knife by its blade and held it hilt-first toward Corr.

  “No one can bring my son back to me,” the Marshal said. “But you are a son, as well, Corr Madoc. You had a father who was taken from you long before he should have been.”

  Corr looked up, surprise and confusion in his face.

  “You are a son without a father, and I am a father without a son. You will live in my house,” he said. “You will be my son.”

  “My lord,” Captain Thorne said. “Are you certain you’re recovered from your illness? This man has caused much harm to the Errantry.”

  Caliburn turned. “We all have much to answer for, Captain,” he said.

  Thorne lowered his head.

  “Take my son’s knife and his cloak, Corr Madoc,” Caliburn said. “Serve the Bourne and the Errantry with all your strength and heart.”

  Corr stared at the Marshal. His eyes filled with tears and he fell to his knees before the old man, kissed his hand and began to tremble as sobs shook him. The Marshal placed his hand on Corr’s head, and after a while his shaking stopped. Then Corr rose again and took the knife and bowed.

  “I have no right to call you Father,” he said. “But I will live in your house, and I will serve the people of the Bourne as your son did.”

  The Marshal stayed to help direct the stretcher-bearers who had arrived to carry away the wounded, and a mount was brought to him and he rode to meet the allied commanders at the Duke’s pavilion. Captain Thorne returned to Fable with most of Balor’s Errantry troops. A few of the Stormriders went with them, to search for friends and family. Corr remained with his men for the time being, and Balor Gruff stayed as well, with Finn and Freya, as they had much to talk about.

  Brannon Yates came to see them, to say goodbye.

  “I’m going to find my mother and my sister,” he said. “If they still live.”

  “You haven’t been in the city yet?” Corr asked, surprised. “You were here days before us.”

  “I had to remember who I was first, like you, Corr,” Yates said. He turned to go and then paused. “Balor, I almost forgot. During the fighting I thought I saw you.”

  “You did see me, Brannon,” the wildman said with a puzzled look. “I was there.”

  “Yes, but the Balor I saw was older. With a grey beard. And there were others with him, like you.”

  Balor climbed to his feet.

  “You mean …” he breathed. “Where did you last see them?”

  Yates pointed across the Course, and Balor took off at a near-run in that direction. He hadn’t gone far before he caught sight of a tall figure looking over the battlefield as if searching for someone. The figure was manlike, but when he turned in Balor’s direction his face could be described as resembling a cross between a lion and an angry pug dog. His long beard was iron grey, as were his bushy eyebrows. His dark eyes widened when they caught sight of Balor.

  The wildman halted and then came forward more slowly.

  “I was told there was another like us on this field today,” the older wildman said. “I didn’t believe it. There are so few of us left. I was just about to give up searching and take my people home.”

  “I thought I was the last one,” Balor said with a catch in his voice. “I thought I was alone.”

  “My brother and his wife had a boy child,” the older wildman said. “When our people fled the plague that came into our valley from the ghostlands, they died on the journey. The child was lost. In the forest, near—”

  “The Fell of Thraws?”

  “Yes. Twenty-seven summers ago.”

  “That’s where the Errantry found me. They named me Balor Gruff.”

  The older wildman nodded.

  “Your name was Baikul,” he said in a strained voice, his eyes glittering. “I am your father’s older brother, Haggai. I never thought we would see you again. But our wisewoman said that if the wildfolk fought for this city, if we helped defend it, a great treasure would be restored to us. She spoke truly. You are alone no longer, Balor Gruff.”

  The Stormriders had begun salvaging what they could from the ships to set up their own encampment on the Course. Finn approached the golem, standing patiently at Corr’s side.

  “What will you do with Ord now?” Corr asked.

  “He’s not mine to command,” Finn said.

  “Perhaps not, but it’s better he stays in your keeping. I imagine he could be of great help rebuilding this city.”

  Finn gazed up into the stony grey face of the golem, a face that had never blinked or smiled or changed in all that they had gone through together. He remembered how they had first found him, relentlessly piling stone upon stone to build a tower doomed to sinking into the mire. If they freed him, would he simply return to that futile task? Not even a creature like Ord deserved such a fate. Finn had often wondered where this powerful being had really come from, and now the answer was clear to him.

  “Ord has done enough for us already,” Finn said.

  He reached up, and as he plucked the green stone from the golem’s forehead, he said, “Sleep.” He backed away.

  At first it seemed that this command was one the golem could not or would not obey. Then the grey stone eyes closed for the first time and the giant body of the golem began to sag and collapse in on itself. Ord’s face dissolved into a featureless mass. His hands became rough clubs. His legs fused. At last he toppled over, and there was nothing left of him but a lifeless mound of clay.

 
27

  LATE THAT AFTERNOON LORD Caliburn rode out to the stream with the Duke and King Shakya.

  A curtained litter appeared in the Nightbane camp, carried by four bearers and flanked by four riders in armour. The fetches parted long enough for the litter to pass through. It carried the same black standard that had flown above the viceroy’s carriage. As the procession came slowly up the Course, many wondered what sort of terrible being was hidden behind those black curtains, but when they were drawn back and the viceroy emerged, supported by two of the litter-bearers, those with keen eyesight or spyglasses saw that the viceroy was only a man like them. He walked haltingly, as if he might have been injured in the overturning of his carriage.

  The conference ended more quickly than anyone expected. The two parties soon went their separate ways, and those who watched from a distance feared that the negotiations had not gone well and that the fighting would begin again. But the Nightbane host began to take down their tents and fortifications, and the order sounded for the allies to do likewise.

  The siege and the battle were over. Many from both sides eyed the fetches apprehensively, but they stood motionless and seemingly dead, like cut stalks of wheat. What was left of the enemy forces began to trickle away in small companies, leaving most of their weapons and gear behind.

  King Shakya rode back to his men, and as he dismounted before his pavilion, a young man in an Errantry cloak approached.

  “I would speak with you, Sire,” the young man said. He was carrying a leather-bound book in one hand.

  “Who are you?” the king asked. Through his golden mask his voice seemed to come from far away.

  “I am Finn Madoc of the Errantry,” he said. “I’m here to keep a promise.”

  By sunset Brax’s labyrinth of walls and narrow, twisted streets had almost completely crumbled away. A few people were brought alive out of the rubble, while many others had died and some who had disappeared days before were never found.

  Rowen and Will found Pendrake in the ruins of the toyshop. He was still sitting in the chair, in what was left of his workshop. When Rowen knelt beside him, speaking his name softly through her tears, the old man lifted his head and opened his eyes.

  “My child,” he said, touching her wet face in wonder, as if he doubted what he was seeing. “How can this be? Where are we?”

  “We’re home, Grandfather. In the toyshop. I found a way home.”

  Pendrake rose with Will’s help and they took him downstairs to the library. It was still strewn with the books Ammon Brax had been searching through, but this was one of the few rooms the hogmen had not defiled, and the walls and roof beams were still intact. The old man sank into one of the armchairs and Rowen knelt beside him and held his hand. Will gathered the broken pieces of a shelf from the hall outside and got a small blaze going in the fireplace.

  “I turned the fetches back, Grandfather,” Rowen explained. “I turned them against the Nightbane. They obey me now, but I’ll release them from their armour once the enemy’s gone. The fetches will be free to return to the Weaving.”

  Pendrake was staring into the fire and didn’t seem to hear her.

  “No one understands what you’ve done,” Will said to Rowen. “Did you hear what people were whispering as we passed by in the streets? They think I did this. The Pathfinder. They don’t know it was you who saved them.”

  “Every story needs a hero, Will,” Rowen said with a smile, then she grew serious again. “It’s better this way. Most people aren’t ready yet to hear the truth. It will take time for the vision of the thread to sink in. For folk to understand we all created this story and we don’t have to believe in it anymore.”

  “So you don’t want me telling anyone what you’ve done?”

  “Not now. Someday you’ll tell the whole story. When the time is right.”

  Will glanced around uneasily.

  “What happened to Brax?”

  At the mention of the mage’s name, Pendrake stirred and looked up.

  “He’s gone,” the old man said. “The fire took him.”

  The Loremaster seemed to have recovered his presence of mind. He asked Rowen what had happened to her after he left the Shadow Realm. She began to tell the story in more detail, but there was much she had trouble finding words for. When she spoke of the Night King and what she had discovered, a light came into the old man’s eyes.

  “You would think,” he said with a bitter smile, “that a man who has told stories all his life might have understood.”

  Will asked about the Marrowbone brothers, and Pendrake related what had happened to them.

  “I’m sorry for them,” Rowen said. “Especially Hodge. It all could have turned out so differently.”

  “The story you saved us from, Rowen, has destroyed many lives,” Pendrake said. “There are many who can still be helped, many stories that need mending, but I do not have the strength anymore for the task.”

  Rowen stroked the old man’s hand.

  “All you need to mend is yourself, Grandfather.”

  “What will happen now?” Will asked. “If we’re beginning a new story, how will it end?”

  “It won’t,” Rowen said. “Or I can’t see an ending. I think the thread will allow us a way out of all endings, Will, so that no story can do what Malabron’s did. No story can make us believe it is the only story ever again.”

  They heard a noise at the door and hurrying feet, and Edweth entered, followed by Balor Gruff. The housekeeper threw herself at each of them in turn, holding them tight and weeping and stroking their hair. Everyone’s story was shared again, and when Edweth had listened and told her own tale, she insisted that the very next order of business was to make them all something to eat. She wept anew when she saw what had become of her beloved kitchen, but she didn’t weep long. Soon she had tied her apron on and was preparing a meal with her usual determined bustle.

  Balor put a hand on Will’s shoulder. “You’ve done all that a knight could expect of his apprentice and more,” he said. “I’m proud of you.”

  “We all are,” Pendrake said.

  While they were eating the meal Edweth had prepared, Finn and Freya arrived. Finn’s arm was no longer in its sling and the colour had returned to his face. Balor embraced him, and they spoke again of Doctor Alazar. Freya joined Rowen at Pendrake’s side and took the old man’s hand in hers and kissed it.

  “I had hoped you were safely on your way home to your family, my dear,” Pendrake said to her.

  “I will go home someday,” Freya said, and then glanced at Finn. “Not yet. I’m good with tools, Father Nicholas. I learned much from my father. I want to stay and help you rebuild the toyshop.”

  “It should be rebuilt,” Pendrake said with a nod. “But it won’t have a toymaker, at least not for a while. Perhaps, Freya, if you stay in Fable, you could take up my trade and make toys for the children. They will need toys as much as anything after all this.”

  “What do you mean, Father Nicholas? Are you leaving?” Freya said, and then understanding came into her face, and she leaned her head on Pendrake’s arm and wept.

  Rowen understood, too. But she had thought of an answer.

  “Grandfather,” she said softly. “Grandmother told me she had … become the past. She said she had woven herself into it, and that’s why she had to remain in the Weaving. I think that where she is, time doesn’t pass like it does here. Or maybe time doesn’t even happen there. I think that if you went there, if you found Grandmother, you could stay with her. You would be together again.”

  Pendrake nodded sadly. “I promised Maya that I would never leave you,” he said. “I can’t keep my promise, as it turns out. The werefire has made that a certainty.”

  “But you can be with Grandmother,” Rowen said through her tears. “She lives in a cottage like the one at Blue Hill. It’s peaceful there. And maybe someday, when I’m finished what I have to do, I can visit you. I know the way now.”

  “I will hold you to
that,” Pendrake said softly. “And now, Will, help me up. It’s time.”

  Will took the old man’s arm, and they helped him climb the stairs to the raincabinet. Edweth had come out of the kitchen and joined them, and when she understood what was happening, she struggled with her grief and embraced the Loremaster and wished him well.

  “If you’re with her, as you should be, Nicholas, then all will be well.”

  “What about you, Edweth?” Pendrake said, holding her hand. “I’m afraid I’ve left you without a house to look after.”

  “Don’t concern yourself about me, Nicholas,” Edweth said. “Believe it or not, there’s a man in this city whose things are maintained in a worse shambles than yours ever were. I’ve already had a go at cleaning up after him, being cooped up and having nothing else to do, and I can see it’s a job that will keep me busy for much time to come.”

  They gathered in front of the open door of the raincabinet. Only a few drops were falling softly in the darkness.

  “If I understand what you’ve done, Rowen,” Pendrake said, “this isn’t the only doorway in and out of the Weaving anymore.”

  “Maybe it never was, Grandfather,” Rowen said. “I think the Weaving isn’t really a place. It’s more like a way of seeing. Seeing how things really are.”

  Balor grunted in surprise and they all turned to the cabinet doorway, where a tiger stood watching them. It had come out of the rain without a sound.

  “Riddle will guide you to Grandmother,” Rowen said.

  The Loremaster said his farewells to everyone. He held Rowen for a long while before he let her go. But at last he turned to the raincabinet door and stepped under the falling rain with the tiger at his side, and they were gone.

  Everyone was quiet when they went back to the study. Without anyone having to speak, they all began the work of putting things to order as much as was possible: picking up books and returning them to their places, righting fallen shelves, sweeping the rooms and the halls of trash and broken furnishings. It seemed foolish to Will whenever he glanced up and saw daylight falling through the cracks and holes in the walls. The building itself was a ruin. But he understood. They were doing this for the Loremaster, and for themselves.