The Tree of Story (10 page)

Captain Thorne reached the door first. He was a large man with a craggy face and thick black brows. An imposing figure, Brax thought, if you didn’t notice his darting eyes and the nervous pursing of his lips. Thorne was one of those men with dreams much greater than his abilities. There were always a few like that on the council at Kyning Rore. If you knew what men like that wanted, you had them.

Brax drew a deep breath and gripped his ivory staff tighter. If this attempt to take back the toyshop failed, it was all over for him in Fable. He needed the Loremaster’s power. He needed to control that mysterious, secret force that some called werefire. Without it, he would have no choice but to flee back to Kyning Rore and wait with the other mages as their powers slipped away and the destruction that was about to fall on Fable came to their doors, too.

The fading had begun quietly, with rumours of far-off lands falling into shadow and silence. The council of mages had watched and waited, unwilling to intervene in matters that seemed remote and of little consequence to them. Too late the mages understood that the fading had already reached them: their own power had begun to wane. They still knew all the spells and incantations, but there was little force in them anymore. Water, earth, fire and stone: the elements no longer obeyed their will. And as they felt their magecraft dwindle, their trust in Brax waned, as well. At times he had been reduced to conjuring tricks, mere sleight of hand, to maintain his hold over the council.

What power still remained to him was contained in the staff, and even that was not his own: he had wrested it from the dead hand of a sorceress he’d been forced to kill after he stumbled upon her secret lair. No one at Kyning Rore had suspected the staff was a weapon of dark spellcraft, for he himself had banned such things from the island. He had kept it as a last resort should his enemies on the council attempt to depose him. He knew the staff held enough power to unleash one last deadly strike, and so he’d held it in reserve and waited while he watched his own powers trickle steadily away.

And then word had reached him of the rebel mages at Skald and how they had unleashed a plague of werefire. The name of his old teacher, Nicholas Pendrake, was mentioned by those who brought the news. Pendrake, they said, had tamed the dreaded fire single-handedly and driven it back to wherever it came from. It was then that Brax knew what he had to do. The risk had been tremendous, leaving the council leaderless to make the long journey in search of the old man. But that danger paled against the threat of Malabron and the possibility of learning Pendrake’s secret, of seizing control of
the secret fire. Only the fire could save him from the power of the Shadow Realm.

The captain lifted a hand to knock on the door, then he paused and turned to the mage.

“Master Brax, you said the boy had the wolf with him,” Thorne began. “He’s said to be very strong.”

Hodge whimpered and Flitch muttered a spittle-flecked curse at him.

“Listen to me, you two,” the captain growled at the brothers. “You’ll be going right back to your cell once this is over, make no mistake about that. You conduct yourselves well here, though, and you might just earn your freedom one day.”

“We understand,” Flitch said sullenly. “We will not disappoint you, Captain.”

Thorne turned back to the mage. “Master Brax, tell my men what you told me at Appleyard. About what we might be facing here.”

Brax faced the six uneasy-looking troopers.

“You’ve all heard of this boy, whom some call the Pathfinder, and his protector, the wolf,” the mage said. “They are friends of the Loremaster’s granddaughter and they will fight for her if she tells them to. They must be prevented from interfering by whatever means necessary. If force is required, do not hesitate. You may not get another chance.”

“What about the old toymaker?” asked one of the troopers, a burly man with a shaved head. “They say he’s got
powers
.”

The old toymaker, Brax thought. He recalled how strange Pendrake had seemed when he’d returned from wherever the thrawl had taken him. There was that strange yellow gleam in his eyes, and he had glanced at the girl nervously, as if taking his cues from her. It had struck him then, with absolute certainty, that this was not Nicholas Pendrake. The girl had ound
someone—or
something
—to impersonate her grandfather. She was far more resourceful than he’d suspected.

“Listen to me,” he said now to the troopers, “the man who returned to the toyshop earlier today may look and act very much like Nicholas Pendrake, but he is an imposter. I know this for a fact. Whoever he is, he has none of the old man’s powers or he would have tried them against me already. Still, he is cunning and desperate, and therefore dangerous. Do not heed anything he says. And do not listen to the girl. She is under the imposter’s spell and will obey his wishes. As long as she stays in the toyshop, she is in grave danger. We must take her into custody, too, for her own good.”

“He’s lying,” Freya shouted, starting forward. “He’s just after Father Nicholas’s secrets.”

At a gesture from Thorne, Flitch grabbed hold of Freya’s arm. She struggled, her eyes fixed on Brax.

“I’m here to save your friends, Freya of Skald,” Brax said in his most calm and reasonable voice. “I know they do not trust me, any more than you do. That is why I brought you along. I’m hoping they will listen to you. Please, help me to help them.”

In Freya’s eyes he saw anger wrestling with doubt. She knew he might be telling the truth about this false loremaster. At last she stopped struggling against Flitch’s grip.

The Skalding woman’s outburst had unsettled the troopers, but Brax saw that his words had worked on the captain. Thorne’s eyes narrowed and glinted like those of a hunter who has just caught the scent of his prey. The thought that he, Emric Thorne, might unmask a dangerous imposter and bring him to Appleyard was a powerful goad to the captain. Such a coup would only make it clearer to everyone that he was the best man to lead the Errantry.

Thorne stepped up to the door and knocked on it sharply. He waited, then tried the door handle.

“Locked,” he said to Brax.

The mage stepped forward. He touched his fingers cautiously to the door handle and in a low voice uttered an unbinding charm. He felt the lock resist the charm, and as he had so often lately, he silently cursed the fading of his magecraft. Not long ago, opening a door like this would have cost him little effort. Now he was thankful the others could not see the strain on his face. After a long struggle the lock finally gave way and the door swung slowly inward without a sound.

Brax let out his breath and carefully turned. Thorne’s troopers were hunched and ready, their hands on the hilts of their swords.

Brax raised his lantern and the light fell into the dark front hall of the toyshop.

There was no one to be seen.

Thorne took the lead again. He stepped past Brax and strode into the hall, his shadow rising menacingly in the lantern light. “Master Pendrake,” he called. There was no answer. “Master Pendrake, it’s Captain Thorne. I’ve come at the request of Master Brax. I wish to speak to you about matters of importance to Fable.”

Silence.

Brax stepped through the doorway, followed by the Errantry troopers.

The hall was cold and unlit, and for an instant Brax wondered if the girl and her friends had abandoned the toyshop. But he stood still and waited, and his keen senses, honed over the years to detect anything threatening, told him that the silence was not that of an empty house. He and the others were being watched.

The mage glanced back and saw that the hogmen were still standing just outside the entrance with Freya Ragnarsdaughter between them, their gross, sweating faces more pallid than usual. It was the wolf they were afraid of, Brax grasped. In his need to learn what they knew about the werefire, he had been forced to sit and listen to Hodge’s blubbering story about their long, weary travels with their older brother, Tuck, and how a garm-wolf had torn him to pieces and everything had gone wrong for them after that. The boy’s companion, the creature Shade, half looked like a garm-wolf. Not for the first time Brax doubted the hogmen would stand their ground, but at the least they might keep the beast busy long enough for the mage to launch his own attack. Angrily Brax gestured for them to get inside, and after exchanging a nervous glance, they obeyed.

“Master Pendrake,” Thorne called again. “If you’re here, answer me. We’ve brought a friend of yours.”

Brax took another few steps into the hall. A floorboard creaked under his boot and he heard one of the hogmen catch his breath at the unexpected sound.

“Nicholas,” he said, “we have Freya Ragnarsdaughter with us. She has been very worried about you and Rowen, as you can imagine.” He eyed Freya as he spoke, saw the distrust in her face, but she remained silent.

Brax turned and kept on up the passage. When he came to the kitchen doorway, he paused and looked in. The room was empty, but just as spotless and tidy as he remembered it. That thought gave him another idea.

“Madam Edweth is waiting anxiously at Appleyard, too,” he called out. “She’s afraid that some harm may have come to Rowen. We are all very concerned about her.”

The silence remained unbroken. There was only the library left on this floor. Brax reached it and peered in. There was no
one to be seen. He motioned to the hogmen. Reluctantly they joined him at the doorway into the library.

“This is where Master Pendrake was taken away by the servant of the Night King,” Brax said. “It may have been a creature of werefire. Do you sense anything?”

He knew that the hogmen, having been in close quarters with werefire in the sewers of Skald for so long, could sense its presence. Especially Hodge. They were terrified of the fire, but their familiarity with it could be of great help to him now.

Hodge leaned warily into the room and sniffed. He turned to the mage with a shrug. “I don’t know,” he breathed. “I can tell something happened here, something magic. But it was days ago.”

“I know that much already,” Brax said tersely. “Go in. Check around.”

“But the wolf …” Hodge murmured.

“He’s not here,” Flitch said, keeping a grip on Freya’s arm. “Get in there, fool.”

Hodge stepped cautiously into the room, for some reason on tiptoe. He looked absurd, Brax thought, like an enormous bloated child playing hide-and-seek. The hogman turned quickly in a circle, then gazed at Brax, his eyes wide with fear.

“There’s nothing in the room, but … something’s
here
.”

“Brax,” Thorne said in a warning tone.

The mage pivoted—and saw what the captain and his troopers were staring at.

On the staircase at the end of the hallway stood Nicholas Pendrake—or someone who looked very much like him. The old man was silent and unmoving, his eyes cast downward and his face shadowed by the overhanging arch of the stairwell.

“Father Nicholas,” Freya cried. “Don’t listen to him. He’s a liar. He only wants—”

“Silence,” Brax growled.

“Why have you come to my house with weapons?” Pendrake asked in a calm, quiet voice. “There’s no need for any of this. Let Freya go and return to your business, all of you. There are far more important matters for the Errantry to deal with than bothering an old man in his home.”

Thorne regarded the toymaker and swallowed hard. For a moment Brax feared he would give in, but then the captain drew himself up and stepped forward.

“I’m sorry, Master Pendrake, but a grave accusation has been made and it must be answered. You will accompany us back to Appleyard or I shall have no choice but to take you there by force.”

“I am needed here, Captain,” Pendrake said firmly. “If you wish to question me, you may do so now, but I will not leave the toyshop.”

As he spoke, the old man raised his head. His eyes came into view and Brax caught the strange yellow gleam in them. He gave a shout of triumph.

“This is
not
Pendrake, Captain,” he said. “Look at him. Look at his eyes. He’s some kind of changeling or shapeshifter.”

Still he felt the hesitation in the men behind him. The Loremaster was deep in the counsels of Lord Caliburn and was respected, even a little feared, as a figure of wisdom and a wielder of mysterious power. Brax, an outsider to them as yet, had crossed an invisible line. Even Thorne had frozen where he stood and seemed at a loss now.

“Go home to Kyning Rore, Ammon,” Pendrake said in a voice of gentle chiding. “Your fellow mages need their leader. Men of the Errantry, return to your duties. You are not at fault here and you will not be held accountable for the folly of others.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Brax yelled. “Arrest him before it’s too late. This imposter puts us all in danger.”

“There is great danger to Fable,” the old man said, “but not from me.”

“Where are Rowen and the boy?” Brax shouted. “What have you done with them?”

“I have done nothing with them and you will do nothing to me,” the old man said, his voice deeper now and carrying a trace of threat. Some of the Errantry troopers shifted uneasily and a whimper of fear came from Hodge.

Brax took a step back to where Freya stood with the hogmen. He reached for her arm and held the obsidian blade of his staff to her throat.

“Reveal yourself,” he said, “or the Skalding woman dies.”

“What are you doing? I did not agree to
this
,” Thorne hissed.

“I’m doing what’s necessary and so must you if you care about the safety of this city. Arrest him, Captain. Now. Do you want the blame if he escapes?”

But still Thorne did not move or give any command to his men.

The Loremaster took one slow, cautious step down the staircase and raised his hand. “Do not harm the girl,” he said.

Brax saw the yellow glow in his eyes flicker and brighten, as if whoever or whatever had assumed the form of the Loremaster was tensed and ready to leap out.

But it was the Skalding woman who surprised him. Freya drove her elbow hard into the mage’s ribs. He let go of her with a gasp, and before anyone could move, she darted up the stairs and threw her arms around the old man.