The Shadow of Malabron (4 page)

When there was time he would remind them who they served. He would drag them to the edge of the void and make them gaze into it, as had been done to him. But that would have to wait. There was a trail to follow, and it was already going cold.

Somewhere in the dark an owl hooted. The keeper of the shards paused and looked about the clearing. For the briefest instant there was the sense of a presence near by, a shiver of recognition, and then it was gone.

He had been in this borrowed shape for many long years, and his memory of the life he once knew was cold and insubstantial, like the creatures that served him. But it returned to him now, that other life. A memory that flared brightly and swiftly faded. The faint tang of sea air. The gleam of sunrise on the highest turret of a white tower. The carefree laughter of a girl.

The heart of the keeper of the shards had burned to ash in another age. But the body he wore now was still capable of faint shadows of feeling. Enough that his flesh could still crawl with foreboding when his memories were stirred. That long-abandoned story was not over. His master had not yet devoured it. And with that troubling thought, as always, came rage, and hatred, and beneath them the emptiness he carried within like a gaping mouth. These goads were enough to move him to greater urgency.

The disturbing new thread in the weave of things had eluded him, for now. But he would find it again. He was a hunter of the Shadow Realm. There were other paths open to him than those of the daylight world. Other ways to lure his prey. He could walk in the dreams of those who had looked into the shards. He could search for them within their own desires and fears.

In moments the cloven tree was free of the mirror shards and stood alone in the clearing, gazed upon only by the stars.

The girl hurried on and Will struggled to keep up with her. The wind had risen and branches whipped into his face as he plodded on. Finally, to his immense relief, the girl stopped. She still held the lantern before her, but now it had begun to glow, giving off a pale blue light.

Will turned in a circle. The woods looked the same as they did everywhere else, shadowy and cheerless.

“There’s nothing here,” he said, close to her ear. And then, as soon as he said it, he turned once more and peered into the darkness. A faint blue light glimmered in the dark, so faintly that he wasn’t sure it was really there.

Will nudged the girl and pointed.

“That’s it,” she nodded. “Every snug has its own waylight. It glows only when another one draws near. Come on. There will be shelter, and food.”

She started off in the direction of the light. The word
food
made Will aware how hungry he was. Despite the strange things the girl was saying, the thought of a roof over his head and a meal was enough to spur him on.

They hurried as quickly as they could, and the light grew stronger and flickered less, until at last they came to a sort of bower formed by many intertwined branches, like a huge bare wreath. In the midst of this cave-like hollow, almost invisible in the shadows, stood what appeared to be the gnarled trunk of a tree, until Will saw a polished wooden handle and realized it was a door. A small wicker lantern hung above it, and as Will and the girl approached, its light shone out even brighter, then dimmed to a faint pulsing glimmer and went out.

The girl turned the handle and pushed the door gently, opening it only a little way. Warm yellow firelight spilled out through the gap. She ducked her head inside and back out again.

“Come on,” she said to Will, and he followed quickly, not wanting to be left outside alone even for a moment. He slipped sideways through the door as she had, and stepped into the snug.

Inside there was no one to be seen, but everything looked as though it had just been prepared for their arrival. Burning logs snapped and crackled invitingly in the stone fireplace at the far side of the small round room, and a large iron pot of something that smelled delicious bubbled and steamed on the hearth. A ladder against the wall rose through an open trapdoor to a loft where Will guessed there would be beds. Everything was polished and tidy, and true to the name, looked snug. Even the keening of the wind outside seemed pleasing from inside this warm, cosy space.

The girl quickly shut the door behind them. She set the waylight on a chair by the door, took off her cloak, slid the ring from her long red hair and shook it out.

“What if those … things find this place?” Will asked.

“Let’s hope they don’t,” the girl said, glancing at the door. “But anyhow it’s better being in here than out there.”

He wanted to ask what the pale figures were, and why they looked like his family, but he had the feeling he wouldn’t like the answer any more than her other explanations.

“Something drove them away,” he said. “It sounded like people singing. Sort of.”

The girl grinned. From a pouch at her side she drew a small wooden object on a string. It looked something like a narrow spinning top. The girl spun it swiftly round on the string and the eerie voices started up, like a warning siren beginning to wail. The girl caught the thing with her hand and the voices stopped.

“My grandfather made this,” she said. “It mimics the sound of something even ghosts are afraid of. I wasn’t sure if it would trick those things, but it seems to work. I’ll have to tell Grandfather, when we get home.”

She tucked the top away again, and together she and Will approached the fire, drawn by its light and warmth. The girl took a ladle that hung by the pot, spooned up some of the steaming broth and blew upon it.

“Don’t we have to ask?” Will whispered.

“Ask who?” the girl shrugged. She sipped the broth, smacked her lips and smiled to herself. Will took a good look at her. Her face was thin and pale, but something in the way she stood, and the steadiness of her slender hand, gave him the feeling that she was stronger than she looked. Under her dark brows her green eyes glittered in the firelight.

There were clay bowls and spoons on the mantel above the fire. The girl reached for two of the bowls and filled them with broth. She handed one to Will. He took it hesitantly, raised a spoonful to his lips, and tried the briefest of sips. It was tasty. Very tasty. He looked up at the girl, trying not to smile.

“I’m Rowen,” she said. “Rowen of Blue Hill.”

Caught off guard, Will stammered his name. Hungrily he took a bigger mouthful of the broth, and dipped the spoon for another, then paused.

“You’re right, I am from far away,” he said. “Before I crashed the motorcycle we were…”

He stopped when he saw the girl’s brow wrinkle.

“Motorcycle,” she echoed. “That sounds like one of the Steam Guild’s inventions. What does it do?”

“It … well, it carries you,” Will said. “From one place to another. I was trying to get to the Perilous Realm but then—”

“You did.”

“What?”

“You did get to the Perilous Realm. You’re in it.”

“No, that’s not right. It can’t be. I saw the sign by the road. But when I came back it was … different, and then I crashed the bike and when I woke up there wasn’t…”

He broke off, overwhelmed by all the strange things that had happened to him since he had taken off on the motorcycle. Could all of this really be the amusement park? If this girl was acting a part, she was doing it very well.

She studied him intently, as if he might be the one playing a role.

“When we get home we’ll talk to my grandfather,” she said. “He’ll explain things better than I can.”

She began to eat, and so did Will. After hours without food, he thought he had never tasted anything so delicious. The soup was made of potatoes and carrots and grains, as far as Will could tell, but the hot, peppery broth went a long way towards warming the chill and even some of the fear out of him. He finished quickly and reached for the ladle to pour himself another bowlful. Then he stopped and looked round the room.

“So we just … take whatever we want.”

“Yes.”

“But there must be a lot of people using these snugs.”

“Only those who know how to find them.”

“What happens if someone else comes here tonight?”

“In that case,” said a voice behind them, “you’ll have to fill another bowl.”

Will and Rowen whirled round. There in the doorway stood a tall figure in black.

“Moth?” Rowen said.

T
HE FIGURE STEPPED FROM THE SHADOWS
into the flickering firelight. Will saw that it was a man, dressed all in worn-looking garments, his long hair as sleek and dark as a crow’s wing. He carried a short curving bow and a leather quiver of grey-feathered arrows over his shoulder. His eyes glittered in his dusky face. Will’s first thought was that he was a performer from the amusement park but he quickly banished that idea. There was something unusual about the man’s look and manner, something that held Will’s attention. There was a sense of purpose about this stranger, as if now that he was here, he was
meant
to be here. He belonged here, in some way that Will, and even Rowen, did not.

“How did you find the snug?” Rowen asked warily, moving closer to Will. “You don’t have a light.”

“I have eyes, ears, and a nose,” the stranger said. “And this wood is my home. I should know it pretty well, don’t you think?”

His voice had a cold, ringing quality that reminded Will of the sound of the mirrors. He stood on his guard, ready to make a break for the door should Rowen give any sign, but she merely stared at the man as if undecided what to do.

“Why are you here?” she said at last.

The man called Moth turned and shut the door before answering.

“I might ask the same thing of you, Rowen. I doubt your grandfather knows you’re out here tonight.”

“I was just…”

“Looking for adventure, perhaps? Well, you found some. More than you wanted, I think.”

Rowen appeared to be about to reply, but under Moth’s icy gaze she kept silent and lowered her head.

“As for me, I came looking for foolish travellers with no idea what danger they are in,” Moth went on, a darker tone in his voice now. “And here you are, tucking in to a pleasant supper. Fetches have come to the Wood, Rowen. Hasn’t your grandfather told you about them?”

“Fetches,” Rowen said in a shocked whisper. “So that’s what they were. You saw them too?”

“I did,” Moth said, and his arresting eyes fell upon Will. “And there are other strangers in the Wood tonight, I see,” he added.

“This is Will,” Rowen said. “The fetches were after him.”

Moth made Will a slight bow.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said with a cold smile. “I am, as you have probably already gathered, the unwelcome Moth. Will, is it?”

Will looked at Rowen, who gave the slightest, almost imperceptible nod. There was something in Moth’s manner, a warning edge even to his smile, that kept him on his guard.

“Will Lightfoot,” he said finally.

“I met a Will once,” Moth said. “A fine wordweaver. Will Break Spear, or Shake Spear… It was a long time ago.”

“Oh, him,” Will said dubiously. “We had to read one of his plays in school.”

“Perhaps you and he are kindred.”

“I don’t think so.”

Moth’s way of speaking was strange. Old-fashioned, like Rowen’s clothing. And now he was telling them he had met someone who had lived hundreds of years ago, even though he looked no older than Will’s father.

Will noticed then that Moth carried two swords. One was long and slender, and sheathed in a scabbard of finely worked leather, but it was the other sword that held Will’s gaze. The scabbard and the hilt were pitch black and both appeared to be made of some darkly lustrous stone.

“We must warn the Errantry about this,” Rowen said.

“I have already done so,” Moth said. “And as pleasant as it is to chatter here by the fire, we had best leave. Someone or something set the mirror shards as a snare and it wasn’t the fetches. I will take you as far as the high road, and from there you will go straight home, Rowen, or I can not answer for the consequences.”

Rowen kept silent and nodded her head.

Moth went to the door, opened it and looked out. Lifting his arm he whistled, two strong, shrill notes.

“What’s he doing?” Will whispered, but Rowen did not answer. She looked up and he followed her gaze, then jumped back in alarm as a large black bird swooped out of the darkness. The bird alighted on Moth’s outstretched arm. Its feathers fluttered a moment as it settled, and then it peered with its shining black eye into the snug.

“Morrigan, you know Rowen,” Moth said to the bird. “And this is Will Lightfoot. Will, this is Morrigan.”

“Hello,” Will said, and then felt foolish, for the bird only blinked and tilted its head inquisitively, as any bird might. It was a raven, Will guessed, that Moth had caught and trained. Then, to his surprise, the raven climbed Moth’s arm to his shoulder and uttered a series of soft croaks, purrs and clicks in his ear.