The Shadow of Malabron

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Authors: Thomas Wharton
Stewards, and their long-ago war, he’d glanced at Rowen with a troubled look. The same look Will had seen in his father’s face before he told Will how sick his mother really was. He wanted to trust the old man, but he couldn’t. In a place like this, he wasn’t sure he could trust anyone.
    At the door, he remembered what Pendrake had told him, that the way home was his to find. Which must mean he was on his own. And this Marshal of the Errantry would probably order him out of the city, once he heard what Pendrake had to say. They would get rid of him before anything else happened, before he brought something worse down on their heads. He would be back
out there
, alone.
    “Sleep well,” Rowen said, turning to go.
    “Wait. You know how to use a sword, right?”
    “I’ve been learning,” Rowen said. “Why?”
    “How long does it take to learn?”
    Rowen gave him a puzzled look, and then understanding came into her eyes.
    “They won’t send you off on your own,” she said firmly. “And if they did, I’d go with you.”

Travellers who have just arrived from Elsewhere usually have a very dim understanding of what they will encounter here, but indeed we who call these strange lands home must admit we know little more. How well can you know a story, after all, when you’re still in the middle of it?
    — Redquill’s Atlas and Gazetteer of the Perilous Realm
    H E WAS WALKING IN A GRASSY MEADOW. The sun was shining. The world was bright and green. He could smell the scent of flowers in the warm air and hear the birds chattering and singing in the trees. The cloven tree, half in shadow and half in light, stood alone on its rise. Now that he had found it, he had no need to hurry. His search was over.
    He walked, and gazed around him, and saw that there were stones in the grass. Small grey stones, scattered everywhere he looked. They were not here when he came to the clearing the last time, he was sure of that. He stopped and picked up one of the stones. It was heavy, its surface cold and smooth. He turned it over in his hand.
    The stone opened an eye and looked at him.
    He cried out in fear and dropped the stone, backed away from it. In the grass all the other stones were watching him now with unblinking eyes.
    He ran for the tree, but as he came nearer the leaves on its living half began to fall. As they drifted and spun through the darkening air they turned grey and then white.
    The leaves were becoming huge wet flakes of snow, falling more and more thickly until he could see nothing beyond them. He stopped running, shouted for Dad and Jess, but the wind that had risen with the snow drowned out his voice, even from himself. His panting breath turned to steam in the cold air.
    He started forward again cautiously, holding his hands out in front of him and blinking to see through the flurrying snow.
    The hairs rose on the back of his neck. He turned.
    Through the veils of falling snow came a dim figure. Will’s first thought was that the fetches had found him again. Then he saw how the figure moved, with slow, careful steps, and he knew that this was no ghostly shape but a being of flesh with its own will and purpose.
    As the figure came closer Will saw that it was a tall man dressed in a dark crimson robe. His long hair was as white as the snow, though he appeared to be young. As he walked his eyes searched the snow-covered ground, as if he was looking for … footprints.
    The man had not seen him yet, but in another moment he would cross the tracks Will had made in the snow. Will’s first impulse was to flee, but he didn’t move. He watched the tall man draw closer. Something in this stranger’s look or bearing reminded him very much of Moth.
    Then it was too late.
    The man came to Will’s tracks, halted suddenly, and looked up. His icy, almost colourless eyes found Will and held him.
    The man opened his mouth to speak, but instead of words there was only silence.
    The snow fell thicker and faster, and the

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