The Fathomless Fire

by Thomas Wharton

  Then she thought of the mirror shard on the chain around her neck.

  She drew out the shard and held it so that she could see her reflection. Will had the other half, though she remembered that both pieces were only fragments of a much larger mirror, one that the Fair Folk had used, her grandfather had told her, to see what was happening in distant parts of the Realm. Did these broken pieces still have that power? Or was it a power that the one gazing into the mirror must have?

  Her reflection looked back at her with no answers. She slipped the mirror shard back beneath her shirt.

  She drifted through the house, wrapped in her thoughts, and eventually found herself in front of the raincabinet. When she realized where she was she stopped, went still, and listened. The faint, hollow sound of rain came from behind the door.

  The storystuff was everywhere, Grandfather had said. Just waiting to be drawn out of things…

  She held out her hand in front of her, palm upwards, and took a deep breath. Could she make something appear out of thin air, she wondered, or did she need something already here? What had her grandfather told her? Start with what is … and nudge it a little, with what might be.

  “What is Rowen doing?”

  Rowen jumped. Riddle stood behind her. He’d come up so quietly she hadn’t heard a sound. “Nothing,” she snapped, then sighed and leaned against the raincabinet door.

  “Is Rowen going to visit the rain again?”

  “Not today.”

  “Riddle wonders what you found in there.”

  “I thought you might. It’s very strange, Riddle. Like Grandfather said, it’s a place where things are always becoming other things.”

  “Yes, like Riddle.”

  “True. And the next time we go, Grandfather says you’re coming with us. We think maybe—”

  She didn’t finish because the cat’s ears twitched and every part of him seemed to become tense and alert.

  “Someone’s here,” he said.

  “Where?”

  “With the toymaker. Someone’s come to see him.”

  Rowen listened and heard the muffled sound of voices from downstairs. She hurried down to the main floor with Riddle at her heels, and found her grandfather in the library, the room they always used when they had guests. He was sitting near the fireplace but he was not alone. Another man sat in the chair opposite his. A man younger than her grandfather, though his long dark hair was greying at the temples. He had a flat, sallow face and thin lips that were curved in a slight smile. The long burgundy coat he wore looked well-made and expensive.

  “Rowen,” her grandfather said. “This is Ammon Brax, a mage from Kyning Rore.”

  The mage rose and bowed to Rowen.

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, young lady,” the mage said.

  Rowen nodded but made no reply. She was on her guard, having sensed from the moment she entered the room that all was not well. Her grandfather’s polite, forced smile was more proof of that.

  “Did your grandfather tell you that I was once his pupil?” Brax asked, resuming his seat by the fire.

  “He didn’t,” Rowen said. She had heard of Kyning Rore. It was a famous school for mages on an island in the Eastern Sea, an island of white stone carved in the shape of a great spiralling seashell. Her grandfather had taught there for a time, many years ago, but when he spoke of the place, which was rarely, it was always with a hint of disapproval.

  “Master Pendrake was kind enough to share some of his wisdom with eager young scholars like me,” Brax said to Rowen. “He taught me much. I can only hope I’ve put what I learned to good use.”

  “You’ve certainly been busy, Ammon,” Pendrake said. “I’ve heard your name here and there over the years, even in an out-of-the-way place like the Bourne. Head of the Council of Mages already, at your age. That is quite something.”

  Brax inclined his head at the compliment. His thin-lipped smile widened slightly.

  “One of the dangers of this strange profession of ours,” he said. “But being in demand does take one far and wide, and that’s how I was finally able to track down my old master. I have to say, though, I never thought to find you … here.”

  “I was hardly your master, Ammon,” Pendrake said with a frown. “And I’d like to think that back then I wasn’t so old, either.”

  Brax laughed.

  “And back then how desperately I wished I wasn’t so young,” the mage said. “But really, I have to wonder what keeps you in Fable, Master Nicholas. It’s a quiet haven in a troubled world, to be sure. I can understand the attraction of that, believe me. But you, you’re the great Nicholas Pendrake, and this, well… Fable is so far from where things are happening that truly matter. The places where mages and masters of lore are desperately needed in these dark times. Do you remember old Professor Wodden?”

  “A good man,” Pendrake said with a nod.

  “Remember what he used to say about magecraft? ‘In your hands lies the power to shake the thrones of the mighty.’”

  “I remember. He also used to warn his students not to get too cosy around the thrones of the mighty.”

  “But neither should one hide one’s gifts under a rock.”

  When Pendrake didn’t reply the mage turned to Rowen.

  “I hope he’s been passing his wisdom on to you at least, my dear.”

  Rowen glanced at her grandfather. She sensed now that this man was fishing for something and she needed to be careful how she answered.

  “I’m not really interested in that stuff,” she said with a shrug. “I want to be a knight of the Errantry.” She was trying to sound indifferent and even a little dull, and the condescending smile the mage gave her seemed to suggest it had worked.

  “An admirable goal,” Brax said to her, but his gaze had already slid away as if she was no longer worth considering. “This peaceful little land should remain peaceful, and for that it will need defenders. I’m sure you’re making your grandfather very proud.”

  There was no hint of scorn in his tone, but Rowen knew both she and the Errantry were being looked down upon. She decided she did not like this Ammon Brax, and hoped he would leave soon.

  Riddle had come into the room after Rowen and was crouching at her feet. The mage noticed the cat now, and his eyes gleamed with interest.

  “An unusual-looking animal,” he said. “Where in the Realm did you find it?”

  “If you want to know what keeps me in Fable, here she is,” Pendrake broke in suddenly, gesturing to Rowen. “I have looked after my granddaughter since her parents died. This is our home.”

  The mage lowered his head.

  “I am truly sorry for your loss,” he said. “And for my rudeness. Forgive me.”

  “There is nothing to forgive. But tell me now, Ammon, what has brought you here to our out-of-the-way part of the world?”

  “Trouble, I’m afraid. I don’t know how much you’ve heard of what’s happening out there in the great kingdoms of the Realm, but there is much turmoil and fear. Nightbane have been gathering and raiding in places they’ve never been seen before. Storyfolk are arming themselves for war, or leaving their homes and farms and taking to the roads with all their possessions piled on carts. Embassies from some of the afflicted lands have come to Kyning Rore over the last year, demanding advice and help from the Council. I thought it best to see for myself rather than depend on rumours and tales, so I’ve been travelling. Visiting towns and villages, speaking with folk, learning what I can. I’m on my way back to the Rore now, and I wasn’t even planning to stop in Fable, but then I heard that the elusive Nicholas Pendrake was living here. It has been a long time, master.”

  “It has, Ammon, and I appreciate your taking the time from such urgent matters to visit me. You must be eager to return home.”

  The mage rose from his chair.

  “I do have a long journey ahead,” he said, bowing slightly. “But I have decided to stay in Fable a few more days. Your Marshal wishes to consult me
, as does the Guild of Enigmatists. Such is the price of fame. So I hope I may visit again, if it isn’t a bother?”

  Pendrake stood, and Rowen did likewise.

  “Not at all,” her grandfather said with a strained smile. “You are most welcome.”

  When the mage had been seen to the door, Pendrake returned to the library with Rowen close behind. She could see that he was troubled, and she had her own unfavourable impression of the mage, but she waited for her grandfather to speak.

  He stirred the fire with a poker.

  “Ammon Brax,” he muttered to himself. “This is not the best time.”

  “Was he really your student?” Rowen asked.

  “He wished to be. He was determined, I’ll say that for him, and very clever. I almost considered taking him on as an apprentice. Almost. He had studied hard, it’s true, and had already learned a great deal when I first met him, but I soon realized the only thing he really cared about was Ammon Brax. He was too consumed by dreams of fame and power. I suppose he finally got what he was after.”

  “I think he was after something today,” Rowen said, and her grandfather glanced up at her and grinned.

  “Your answer to him was just right, Rowen. You sounded so uninterested in what we were talking about you almost had me fooled.”

  “What do you think he wants?”

  “I’m not sure he himself knows. But it’s clear he’s not convinced that I’ve settled in Fable only for the quiet life. Of course he suspects there’s more here than meets the eye, that Fable is somehow deeply involved in what’s happening in the wider world. He wouldn’t be a mage if he didn’t have a nose for such things. So now I imagine he’s planning to stay as long as he can and see what he can uncover. But Rowen, he mustn’t find out anything.”

  “Does he know about the Weaving?”

  “He knows it exists. Like all mages he can draw the fire from it, to make what credulous folk call magic. He can dazzle crowds, and sway kings and rulers with a show of spellcraft. But he doesn’t truly know the Weaving. Few mages do, because they derive their power from prising things apart. They pluck out a piece of the world and think they’ve understood all of it. That is why they so often do harm, even when they believe they’re doing good. As yet I think Brax doesn’t suspect just how important Fable really is, and we must keep it that way. That kind of knowledge in the hands of someone like him would be disastrous. For now I’m afraid we had better stay out of the raincabinet.”

  …food and fire are needful

  to one who comes from the mountains

  with winter at his heels…

  – The Kantar

  THE NEXT MORNING THE LOREMASTER was called again to Appleyard. Left to herself, Rowen sought out Riddle, who had disappeared from her room the previous day and had been making himself hard to find, for some reason. She found him at last, as she guessed she would, sitting at the door of the raincabinet. The cat turned and looked at her as she approached.

  “Today?” he asked.

  “It doesn’t look like it.”

  They left the raincabinet and without really thinking, Rowen wandered into her grandfather’s workshop. She had been in here many times, but to Riddle it was all new. He padded around the room, peering at the odd things in glass bottles and the various skeletons and stuffed creatures. At one point Rowen caught him taking the shape of a crow, like the stuffed bird of the same kind on one of the shelves. This reminded her of Morrigan and the Tain Shee. Rowen wondered where they were now. Had the Fair Folk already gone into battle with the Night King? Had they defeated him? And if they had, or hadn’t, how would she and her grandfather find out?

  Just then Rowen heard a high-pitched humming and turned to one of the open windows, where a messenger wisp suddenly appeared. The tiny, pulsing star of white light sped into the room and hovered above Riddle’s head, emitting crackling sounds, like a lit sparkler. The cat swiped at it with a claw, but the wisp darted away and stopped in front of Rowen, bobbing as if with excitement.

  “What is it?” she asked. This wasn’t Sputter, their own wisp, but another one she didn’t recognize.

  The wisp landed on a sheet of parchment on her grandfather’s desk, danced over it quickly, leaving the image of a horse rearing on its hind legs.

  “That’s Captain Thorne’s sign,” Rowen said aloud. “The captain of the guard. He hardly ever calls for Grandfather’s help.”

  The wisp was already leaving another image: that of an arched gateway, and within the gate, a hammer and anvil. Then the wisp rose from the parchment and dropped with a tiny hiss into a nearby bottle of ink.

  Someone’s come to the main gate, Rowen thought, and she felt a rush of excitement. The hammer and anvil gave her an idea of who it might be, and why the captain had called for Pendrake. She dipped a pen in the ink bottle, wrote a quick note to her grandfather on another sheet of parchment and tossed it into the embers in the fireplace. An instant later the wisp reappeared out of the flames and zinged away out of the window again, carrying her message. Then Rowen hurried downstairs to the kitchen, where Edweth was making bread.

  “Grandfather sent for me,” she said, trying to sound breathless and in a hurry, to hide her unease at lying.

  Edweth slapped down a cake of dough. Flour billowed up around her.

  “I thought you were going to help me with this,” the housekeeper said.

  “When I get back,” Rowen called, already halfway out of the door.

  A party of over two dozen men and women had arrived at the gates bearing weapons and dressed in mail and leather helmets. Watchmen had challenged them, and one of them stepped forward and answered, a tall, ruddy-faced young woman with long blonde hair in braids. She announced that she and her companions were folk of the city of Skald, in the mountains west of the great forest, and that she herself was a friend of Nicholas Pendrake the toymaker.

  Freya Ragnarsdaughter and the other Skaldings were still standing outside the walls of the city when Rowen arrived. Captain Thorne was there, on horseback, with a contingent of city guards.

  “Where is Master Pendrake?” the captain asked with an impatient glare at Rowen.

  “He’s on his way,” Rowen said.

  “This woman says she knows you and your grandfather,” the captain said doubtfully, as Freya hurried to Rowen.

  “Freya,” said Rowen excitedly. “Grandfather will be so happy to see you.”

  “Not when he’s heard my news,” Freya said. She had broken into a beaming smile when she first saw Rowen, but now she was frowning as if troubled. “Something happened in Skald that Father Nicholas must know about. But the captain won’t let us into the city. You can tell him who we are, Rowen.”

  Rowen turned to Thorne, who seemed to be waiting for her to speak. She remembered how, on her journey with Will, they had unwillingly taken refuge from their pursuers in the fortress-city of Skald, whose folk were said to be untrustworthy and warlike. But they had found the people of Skald to be kind, generous and brave, especially Freya and her family. And Freya had come with them on the rest of their journey and had shared all of their hardships and dangers.

  “Freya Ragnarsdaughter is a friend,” Rowen said, speaking as loudly as she could to keep the trembling out of her voice. “These are good, honest folk. You should trust them and let them in.”

  “Thank you,” Thorne said to her in an acid tone. “We’ll be sure to consult you on all such matters from now on.”

  There were low chuckles from some of his men. Freya stepped forward.

  “Master Nicholas said that Skald and Fable should become friends and allies,” Freya said to the captain in a louder voice. “We’re here in the hope of beginning that friendship.”

  The captain smiled coldly.

  “It takes twenty-four or-five warriors armed to the teeth to deliver a gesture of friendship?”

  “I would have come alone, but my father insisted I travel with others. The roads between here and Skald are dangerous.”

 
“True enough. All manner of suspicious characters travel them these days, usually in armed gangs. If you have a message for the loremaster, you may give it to me and I’ll see that he gets it.”

  “There’s no need for that,” a voice said, and Rowen turned gladly to see her grandfather making his way through the crowd that had gathered to see what kind of trouble was happening at the gates. Rowen smiled at her grandfather, but to her dismay he gave her only a quick, frowning glance. Once again she had disobeyed his orders.

  “The people of Skald are no threat to us, Captain,” Pendrake said. “I can assure you these men and women have come only on a friendly errand, and after such a long journey they deserve our hospitality.”

  “You know I must take the proper precautions, Master Pendrake,” said Thorne archly. “My orders come from the Marshal.”

  “I will personally vouch for Freya Ragnarsdaughter and her companions,” Pendrake said. “While they are in Fable they will be my responsibility.”

  Thorne frowned and looked out over the assembled Skaldings.

  “We will give you food and lodging,” he announced, “but only on the condition that you surrender your weapons right here and now. Otherwise no Skalding will pass through these gates. As for those Nightbane they brought with them, they will not be setting foot in this city.”

  The Skaldings parted and in their midst were revealed two alarming-looking manlike creatures with bloated faces resembling those of pigs. Their wrists were bound together with thick rope and another rope was tied between them. They were dressed in the tattered remnants of fancy velvet coats, and filthy white wigs were perched, askew, on their great heads. Their beady eyes darted furtive glances all around, and the fatter of the two began to blubber as if he might burst into tears at any moment. The other, who had a scarred, leaner face, gave him a vicious jab with his elbow.