Read Online The Shadow of Malabron by Thomas Wharton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Thomas Wharton
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And he seldom leaves the Wood. It is one of the last remnants of the lost Realm of Faerie, and he has guarded it for a very long time.”
“I know he left the Green Court,” Rowen said, “but I never heard why.”
“We will save that story for another night,” Pendrake said. “I’m sure Will is feeling overwhelmed with all of this.”
They both looked at him.
“This Story of stories you talked about…” Will began. He
was
overwhelmed, but there was more he had to know.
“The Kantar.”
“Yes. Do you know how it ends? Because if you do, then you can just tell me, can’t you, and we can just go to that part. Like skipping pages in a book. Can’t we?”
Pendrake smiled and set down his cup.
“I wish it worked that way. I’ve spent my life learning what I could of the Kantar, but what I know is like a drop of water from a mighty river. The Kantar is boundless, it seems. Everything that happens in the many realms, even our conversation this very moment, becomes part of its weave. I certainly don’t know the ending, if there ever will be an ending. No, like a character in a book you cannot jump to the ending before its time. You must play out your role. As everyone must.”
“Isn’t someone
telling
the story?”
To his surprise, Pendrake shrugged.
“That’s a question for the Enigmatists, I suppose. It is said that ages ago, in the morning of the world, the Stewards spun the Deep Weaving into twelve great realms of Story that are yet one, the Perilous Realm. An endless, everrenewing ocean of myths, legends and tales. The Stewards, the
Innathi
, were ageless beings of wisdom and grace, who taught Moth’s people, the Tain Shee, much of their lore and craft. The Stewards are gone now. And yet the stories go on.”
“So this … Master of Fetches. He was the one in the mirror…”
“That is what I fear.”
“Who is he?”
“One who wishes all stories to be his. Even though the Kantar belongs to no one and everyone, he would have it all for himself.”
Pendrake rose slowly from his chair and went over again to the fire. His grey locks hung over his face as he gazed into the flames.
“Malabron the Night King, Lord of the Shadow Realm and Master of Fetches. Why is it the very worst have the most names? Where he came from, no one knows. But with him fear and shadow entered the realms. And oblivion. The twelve great realms were engulfed in war and broken, sundered. In those dark days, the Tain Shee armed themselves and came to the aid of the Stewards in their struggle against Malabron. Their alliance was a bright host unlike anything seen in the realms before or since. The fair city of Eleel stood then a beacon to those under Malabron’s shadow, until one of their own, a prince of the Tain named Lotan, betrayed his people. The city was thrown open to its enemies. Its bright towers burned.”
As the old man spoke Will watched the light and shadows dance on the walls, and it seemed to him he could almost see the city in flames, its towers shuddering under the blows of the enemy. In the sound of the fire he heard the roar of battle, the cries of Moth’s people as their beloved city fell.
“Did Moth and Morrigan live there?” Rowen asked, and Will realized she had never heard most of this story.
“They did, and like their fellow Shee, they fled, into a realm that lay in ruins. In his lust for power, Malabron struck at the Deep Weaving itself. The damage he wrought was like a terrible wound to all the storylands. Much perished, much was changed for ever. So many stories consumed, abandoned, forgotten… That time became known as the Great Unweaving. Eleel itself sank beneath the waves. Prince Lotan, who had taken lordship of the city in his master’s name, perished in its ruin, or so it was believed. The Tain themselves became exiles in a broken land. The Shee n’ashoon they are called now. The Hidden Folk. Their home is the Green Court, a wandering kingdom of tents and pavilions that never
“I know he left the Green Court,” Rowen said, “but I never heard why.”
“We will save that story for another night,” Pendrake said. “I’m sure Will is feeling overwhelmed with all of this.”
They both looked at him.
“This Story of stories you talked about…” Will began. He
was
overwhelmed, but there was more he had to know.
“The Kantar.”
“Yes. Do you know how it ends? Because if you do, then you can just tell me, can’t you, and we can just go to that part. Like skipping pages in a book. Can’t we?”
Pendrake smiled and set down his cup.
“I wish it worked that way. I’ve spent my life learning what I could of the Kantar, but what I know is like a drop of water from a mighty river. The Kantar is boundless, it seems. Everything that happens in the many realms, even our conversation this very moment, becomes part of its weave. I certainly don’t know the ending, if there ever will be an ending. No, like a character in a book you cannot jump to the ending before its time. You must play out your role. As everyone must.”
“Isn’t someone
telling
the story?”
To his surprise, Pendrake shrugged.
“That’s a question for the Enigmatists, I suppose. It is said that ages ago, in the morning of the world, the Stewards spun the Deep Weaving into twelve great realms of Story that are yet one, the Perilous Realm. An endless, everrenewing ocean of myths, legends and tales. The Stewards, the
Innathi
, were ageless beings of wisdom and grace, who taught Moth’s people, the Tain Shee, much of their lore and craft. The Stewards are gone now. And yet the stories go on.”
“So this … Master of Fetches. He was the one in the mirror…”
“That is what I fear.”
“Who is he?”
“One who wishes all stories to be his. Even though the Kantar belongs to no one and everyone, he would have it all for himself.”
Pendrake rose slowly from his chair and went over again to the fire. His grey locks hung over his face as he gazed into the flames.
“Malabron the Night King, Lord of the Shadow Realm and Master of Fetches. Why is it the very worst have the most names? Where he came from, no one knows. But with him fear and shadow entered the realms. And oblivion. The twelve great realms were engulfed in war and broken, sundered. In those dark days, the Tain Shee armed themselves and came to the aid of the Stewards in their struggle against Malabron. Their alliance was a bright host unlike anything seen in the realms before or since. The fair city of Eleel stood then a beacon to those under Malabron’s shadow, until one of their own, a prince of the Tain named Lotan, betrayed his people. The city was thrown open to its enemies. Its bright towers burned.”
As the old man spoke Will watched the light and shadows dance on the walls, and it seemed to him he could almost see the city in flames, its towers shuddering under the blows of the enemy. In the sound of the fire he heard the roar of battle, the cries of Moth’s people as their beloved city fell.
“Did Moth and Morrigan live there?” Rowen asked, and Will realized she had never heard most of this story.
“They did, and like their fellow Shee, they fled, into a realm that lay in ruins. In his lust for power, Malabron struck at the Deep Weaving itself. The damage he wrought was like a terrible wound to all the storylands. Much perished, much was changed for ever. So many stories consumed, abandoned, forgotten… That time became known as the Great Unweaving. Eleel itself sank beneath the waves. Prince Lotan, who had taken lordship of the city in his master’s name, perished in its ruin, or so it was believed. The Tain themselves became exiles in a broken land. The Shee n’ashoon they are called now. The Hidden Folk. Their home is the Green Court, a wandering kingdom of tents and pavilions that never
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