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Authors: Thomas Wharton
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assume the Master of Fetches has seen you, Will, through the mirror shard.”
“The Master of Fetches…” Will echoed. With a shudder he remembered the eyes in the mirror, the presence prowling in his thoughts.
“The Errantry has kept this land peaceful and safe for many years, and most folk who dwell here scarcely think about the world beyond,” Pendrake said. “They have heard of the wars of long ago, of the struggle of the Hidden Folk against their great enemy, of the fiery destruction of the city of Eleel, but they consider these only fantastic tales of a vanished age. Perhaps true, perhaps not. But either way as harmless as any other tale told to pass the time in this city of stories.”
“Who is this Master, Grandfather?” Rowen asked, her voice a strained whisper. “Why did he send the fetches after Will?”
“We don’t know for certain who their prey was. It may have been only chance that you fell into their clutches, Master Lightfoot. If anything in this world happens by chance. You’ve given me much to think about. Most people who open the raincabinet find only an empty room, or a puddle, and a fleeting scent of storm clouds. You are the only visitor to this house who has ever seen the unseen rain.”
“What does that mean?” Will asked. “I don’t understand.”
Pendrake set the poker back into its stand beside the fireplace, then leant a hand upon the mantel and seemed to be searching the fire as if within it lay the answer to Will’s question.
“The Realm is not just a world with stories in it,” he said at last. “This world
is
Story. It is the place that all of the tales in your world come from. Whatever you might find in a story, you will find here. Adventures, strange encounters, riddles. Elves, witches, ghosts, giants. Heroes and monsters. Bravery, goodness, and terrible evil. And many other things that have yet no name in your world. And
you
are here now, Will, and that means you are in a story, too.”
“Wait. You’re telling me that people like … like Robin Hood live here? Or the Big Bad Wolf? Or Harry Pot—”
“I’m telling you that the stories you know began here. The storytellers in your world have always travelled to the Realm, either in the flesh, as you have, or in their dreams or imaginings. The stories they take back to Elsewhere still go on happening here. The stories weave themselves anew. They change, and yet they remain.”
“So none of this is real, then,” Will said. “It’s what I thought. I’m dreaming this, or I’m…”
“Or you’re what? It’s all real. As real as the world you come from.”
Will looked desperately around the room.
“If this is a story, I don’t want to be in it. How do I get out?”
“You will have to see it through to the end. It’s your story now, as much as it is anyone’s. And that might mean a long and difficult road. Or it might be as easy as opening a door. I cannot say. But you should know that your story is part of a larger tale that began a very long time ago. Some call it the Kantar. It is the Story of all stories. The tale of everything that was, is, and will be.”
There was a knock at the door, and the housekeeper came in carrying a tray with tea and biscuits.
“Keeping these children up all night,” she muttered as she laid the tea things out on a small table. “They have to eat something more than stories.”
“True enough,” Pendrake said, clapping his hands. “I could use some refreshment myself. I don’t think any of us will get much sleep tonight.”
“You’re right about that,” Edweth muttered as she went out.
Pendrake poured the tea and served it. He sat back in his chair, twirling a spoon in his cup. Will noticed that his shirt front was spotted with old tea stains.
“Perhaps Moth can help Will, Grandfather,” Rowen said after a short silence. “He is one of the Fair Folk after all.”
“You know Moth does not travel with the Green Court, Rowen. It is hidden from him.
“The Master of Fetches…” Will echoed. With a shudder he remembered the eyes in the mirror, the presence prowling in his thoughts.
“The Errantry has kept this land peaceful and safe for many years, and most folk who dwell here scarcely think about the world beyond,” Pendrake said. “They have heard of the wars of long ago, of the struggle of the Hidden Folk against their great enemy, of the fiery destruction of the city of Eleel, but they consider these only fantastic tales of a vanished age. Perhaps true, perhaps not. But either way as harmless as any other tale told to pass the time in this city of stories.”
“Who is this Master, Grandfather?” Rowen asked, her voice a strained whisper. “Why did he send the fetches after Will?”
“We don’t know for certain who their prey was. It may have been only chance that you fell into their clutches, Master Lightfoot. If anything in this world happens by chance. You’ve given me much to think about. Most people who open the raincabinet find only an empty room, or a puddle, and a fleeting scent of storm clouds. You are the only visitor to this house who has ever seen the unseen rain.”
“What does that mean?” Will asked. “I don’t understand.”
Pendrake set the poker back into its stand beside the fireplace, then leant a hand upon the mantel and seemed to be searching the fire as if within it lay the answer to Will’s question.
“The Realm is not just a world with stories in it,” he said at last. “This world
is
Story. It is the place that all of the tales in your world come from. Whatever you might find in a story, you will find here. Adventures, strange encounters, riddles. Elves, witches, ghosts, giants. Heroes and monsters. Bravery, goodness, and terrible evil. And many other things that have yet no name in your world. And
you
are here now, Will, and that means you are in a story, too.”
“Wait. You’re telling me that people like … like Robin Hood live here? Or the Big Bad Wolf? Or Harry Pot—”
“I’m telling you that the stories you know began here. The storytellers in your world have always travelled to the Realm, either in the flesh, as you have, or in their dreams or imaginings. The stories they take back to Elsewhere still go on happening here. The stories weave themselves anew. They change, and yet they remain.”
“So none of this is real, then,” Will said. “It’s what I thought. I’m dreaming this, or I’m…”
“Or you’re what? It’s all real. As real as the world you come from.”
Will looked desperately around the room.
“If this is a story, I don’t want to be in it. How do I get out?”
“You will have to see it through to the end. It’s your story now, as much as it is anyone’s. And that might mean a long and difficult road. Or it might be as easy as opening a door. I cannot say. But you should know that your story is part of a larger tale that began a very long time ago. Some call it the Kantar. It is the Story of all stories. The tale of everything that was, is, and will be.”
There was a knock at the door, and the housekeeper came in carrying a tray with tea and biscuits.
“Keeping these children up all night,” she muttered as she laid the tea things out on a small table. “They have to eat something more than stories.”
“True enough,” Pendrake said, clapping his hands. “I could use some refreshment myself. I don’t think any of us will get much sleep tonight.”
“You’re right about that,” Edweth muttered as she went out.
Pendrake poured the tea and served it. He sat back in his chair, twirling a spoon in his cup. Will noticed that his shirt front was spotted with old tea stains.
“Perhaps Moth can help Will, Grandfather,” Rowen said after a short silence. “He is one of the Fair Folk after all.”
“You know Moth does not travel with the Green Court, Rowen. It is hidden from him.
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