Freeglader: Third Book of Rook

by Paul Stewart

  ‘Ooh, no,’ said the marshal. ‘You don't want that one. It was ridden by Graze Flintwick, a flat-head. Cut down in the Battle of Lufwood Mount, he was. Won't let anyone else near it. I only keep it out of respect for old Flintwick…’

  But Rook was intrigued. There was something about the way the prowlgrin with the beautiful markings skittered about, its gaze flickering anxiously, that caught his eye. Passing through the more docile prowlgrins which nuzzled against him as he went, he approached the skewbald creature slowly. Ligger and the marshal went with him.

  ‘What's his name?’ said Rook.

  ‘Chinquix,’ Rembit replied. ‘But believe me, he can't be ridden. In fact, I'm amazed he's allowed you to get this close.’

  Rook nodded and, with his head lowered, but eyes holding the gaze of the nervous beast, moved towards it. ‘Chinquix,’ he said softly. ‘It's all right, lad.’

  Approach a nervous prowlgrin from the side, maintaining eye contact at all times, and blowing softly …

  The prowlgrin reared up and let out a yelp of distress.

  ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ Rook whispered. ‘Steady now. Steady…’

  Keep hands at one‘s side, and head lowered…

  ‘I really can't advise this,’ Rembit began, but Ligger took his arm and stilled him.

  … Introduce oneself to the prowlgrin by means of smell …

  Rook stepped closer to the creature. He licked his fingers and traced them gently round the prowlgrin's flaring nostrils, whispering as he did so.

  ‘Chinquix, Chinquix…’

  As he did so, the prowlgrin breathed in. It stopped pawing the ground and seemed to listen. Rook smiled softly and, still holding the great creature's nervous gaze, he leaned forwards and blew softly.

  The prowlgrin blew back and its bright blue eyes softened. The yelping sound subsided, and in its place, rumbling from deep down inside its throat, came a low, contented purr.

  ‘Good lad, Chinquix,’ said Rook, throwing the saddle over its back and tightening the straps under its belly, tickling and stroking it all the while. ‘Good, good lad!’

  ‘Well, I never,’ said Rembit. ‘Most incredible thing I've ever seen. Where on earth did you learn to do that?’ he asked.

  Rook turned towards the marshal, only to find Chinquix nuzzling against him, greedy for more attention. He patted the barkscroll in his top pocket. ‘Just something I read,’ he said.

  Rembit shook his head. ‘If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes…’

  Behind him, Ligger had mounted his own prowlgrin, an orangey-brown beast by the name of Belvix. He trotted over to Rook.

  ‘Very impressive,’ he said. ‘Now, let's see how you get on in the upper branches.’

  Rook didn't need telling twice. Steadying his prowlgrin, he swung himself into the saddle and gave the reins a small flick. Almost immediately, Chinquix bounded into the air, and Rook found himself racing through the branches, the blood coursing along his veins. Not since Stormhornet had he felt such exhilaration.

  ‘I'm alive, Chinquix!’ he cried, his voice echoing round the Ironwood Glade. ‘I'm alive!’

  • CHAPTER SIXTEEN •

  CANCARESSE

  Inside the tall, dense ring of spike-briars and milkthorn trees, their curved thorns sharp and forbidding, Waif Glen was bathed in the pale yellow light of early morning. Everything had been made ready.

  The winding gravel paths were newly raked, the pools and waterfalls clear, the rockeries tidy, while the ornamental evergreen trees with their small, dark, waxen leaves, had been freshly clipped into intricate, angular shapes. Arbours and alcoves had been prepared for those who would soon sit in and walk around them. At the centre of the garden was a circular lawn of fragrant herbs, recently mown, out of which towered an ancient gladewillow, its mighty branches falling like a golden curtain to the ground.

  Cancaresse the Silent, Keeper of the Garden of Thoughts, stood in the shadows beneath the glade-willow, her shimmering robes hanging loosely from her bony shoulders and the tips of her long, spidery fingers pressed together in concentration…

  They were coming, that much was certain. As her large, papery ears fluttered, she could hear them – all the ones who had been summoned to the Reckoning, plus those others who, for their own reasons, desired to be present.

  Even now, her waif attendants were helping the visitors to navigate the seemingly impenetrable wall of thorns that kept the sounds of the outside world at bay. She sensed their amazement as the path through the treacherous thorn trees and briars opened up before them and felt their jolt of unease as they noticed the various waifs – ghostwaifs, greywaifs, flitterwaifs, night-waifs – staring back at them from out of the shadows. One by one, they began to appear, emerging from the thorny wall of undergrowth and blinking into the light.

  Welcome, she said, her soft voice cutting through the cluttered thoughts in their heads.

  Keeping largely to themselves, the visitors moved round the garden, unknowingly seeking out the places where they felt most comfortable. Some contemplated their reflections in the deep, limpid pools, some sat beneath the swaying sallowdrop trees, while others continued walking, lost in contemplation, their footsteps crunching softly in the gravel. And, as more and more individuals joined the slowly growing number, the sounds of their thoughts filled Cancaresse's head.

  She trembled, her frail body quivering at the jumble of voices as they hummed and buzzed like woodbees. Already though, as the calming atmosphere of the garden took hold, they were beginning to quieten down; to be stilled and soothed and steered to clear, uncluttered thought.

  A faint, inscrutable smile plucked at the corners of her mouth as she slowly parted the gladewillow curtain and cast her gaze round the garden. Normally, there would be a troubled cloddertrog or two soothing their anger by the pools, or a solitary gyle goblin easing his melancholy on the gravel paths. But on days like this – Reckoning Days – it seemed as if all of the Free Glades had turned up, their heads filled with noisy thoughts.

  As they moved around, Cancaresse began to listen in to them, one after the other. Some had dark thoughts, full of anger and blame. Some had sympathetic thoughts, full of sadness, whilst the majority had minds buzzing with the inquisitiveness and gossip-fed interest of the casual onlooker. Cancaresse moved swiftly over these and concentrated on only the strongest emotions she could sense coming from the various corners of the garden.

  There was a young sunken-eyed librarian knight brooding by the healing-pools. And there, a fussy under-librarian delicately sniffing a sallowdrop blossom to ease his pain. And over on the straight gravel path, the High Academe himself, head down and hands clasped behind his back, while in the wicker arbour there lounged a tense and fidgety ghost, his muglumpskin jacket bright against the dark evergreen bushes behind him. A little way beyond, two Freeglade lancers edged their way round the waterfalls of memory. Their thoughts intrigued her – she would get to them in due course.

  A soft, scent-laden breeze wafted across the manicured lawns and neatly clipped bushes. Cancaresse paused. Her ears trembled and twisted round.

  ‘Aah,’ she sighed.

  Behind her, standing in the deep shadows by the gnarled and knotted trunk of the gladewillow, was the object of all their thoughts: a youth with short cropped hair. He was pale and looked anxious, like a startled lemkin – but then, she thought, who wouldn't at his own Reckoning?

  She closed her eyes for a moment and breathed in, her frail body quivering as she did so. It was time to begin.

  She stepped through the curtain of gladewillow leaves and made her way across the lawn and onto the gravel paths, stepping so lightly that her feet made no sound.

  She wandered unnoticed, mingling with the visitors, seeking out those whose emotions ran deepest…

  In front of her, kneeling on the marble surround of a pool, was the sunken-eyed librarian knight, his thoughts as deep and dark as the water he was staring into. There was pain and hurt in his thoughts, and a rage so strong, i
t made her papery ears flutter with its intensity. She approached him, and laid her spidery fingers against his chest.

  Show me, she spoke inside his head.

  The youth unbuttoned his flight-jacket and hitched up his undershirt. A jagged scar crossed his ribs. Cancaresse reached out and traced a finger along the angry red line, staring deeply all the while into the youth's eyes.

  Yes, she said, her voice full of sadness and regret. Yes, I see. An ambush – in the terrible city of the bird-creatures … Your friends, so young, so brave, hacked to pieces, one after the other by the vicious shryke-sisters. The blood, the screams, one, two, three, four – and now it is your turn …

  She shuddered, her tiny body quivering as it felt the librarian knight's pain.

  A slash of a razor-sharp claw … And then you're running, running! Running!

  Cancaresse closed her eyes and probed deeper into his memories.

  Cowering in the shadows of a walkway; watching, waiting, praying that the shrykes won't find you. The terror. The pain. The sound of the bird-creatures' triumphant cries … ‘Betrayed by their own! Betrayed by their own!’

  She opened her eyes and stared into the librarian knight's face, the memory of the shrykes' taunting screech still fresh and raw.

  ‘Thank you, Xanth!' the shryke's voice cackled. ‘Xanth Filatine!’

  Cancaresse let her thin arms fall limply to her side. She turned and walked away from the pool and across the gravelled paths, leaving the youth to his brooding. There were others whose thoughts she must hear. She crossed the scented lawn and wandered through the sallowdrop trees, their branches heavy with yellow and white blossom, stopping in front of the fussy under-librarian. She regarded him with large unblinking eyes.

  He was slight, but spritely-looking, with half-moon spectacles which had slipped down over the bridge of his long, thin nose. His thinning hair had turned to a shade of grey, yet from the way the bright sun glinted on it, Cancaresse could see that once it had been as red as copperwood leaves. Inside him, the waif sensed a hole, a gap – something missing that could never be replaced.

  Tell me, she said. Open your thoughts to me.

  She leaned forwards, reached up and placed her hands on either side of his head, and gasped as his pain washed over her.

  Your son. Cancaresse's heart ached. Your poor, dear son … Artillus, rosy-cheeked, ginger-haired. Your pride and joy. You told him not to wander off in the sewers; you told him it wasn't safe, but he didn't listen … So young, so impetuous …

  The waif shuddered.

  You only found out the true horror later … A sky patrol high over old Undertown saw it and reported back … Captured by Guardians, dragged into the Tower of Night and … and …

  The pain was almost too much to bear. Cancaresse trembled.

  Your son, and another young prisoner, lowered in a cage from the tower, into the ravine below … A ravine full of hideous creatures – rock demons … They didn't stand a chance. She shook her head. Sacrificed by the High Guardian of Night and his young deputy – interrogator of all prisoners brought to the Tower of Night … Xanth. Xanth Filatine …

  Cancaresse moved away, leaving the stricken under-librarian to the thoughts that time might soften, though never heal.

  Ahead of her on the gravel path, she saw an elderly academic dressed in simple, homespun robes, staring into space. His eyes were green and kindly, yet behind them the waif detected years of pain and torment, with every line on his wrinkled face telling its own tragic story. Despite all this, Cancaresse could sense that the Most High Academe, Cowlquape Pentephraxis, was not a bitter man – indeed his thoughts about the youth were kind and warm. And yet, behind them, deeper down…

  The waif took his hands in her own, and squeezed them lightly. Cowlquape's thoughts echoed inside her head.

  So, she said, you consider him a friend?

  A smile passed over the High Academe's thin lips. Cancaresse smiled in turn.

  Yes, a friend. So many, many hours talking together of the Deepwoods … Its mysteries and wonders … Of your adventures there with the great Captain Twig … Oh, how Xanth loved to hear you speak of them!

  The waif frowned.

  But what is this? In what dark, fetid place do you two friends sit talking?

  An involuntary shudder ran down the length of her spine.

  A prison! A terrible prison, deep in the bowels of the Tower of Night … How you suffered … The stench, the filthy rags, the lice and ticks … Year after year, on a jutting ledge in the darkness … And … The key in the lock … The heavy door opening … Your jailer entering …

  Xanth. Xanth Filatine!

  As the waif pulled away from Cowlquape, he had already immersed himself once more in the colour and grandeur of the Deepwoods – the place which, throughout his long years of incarceration, he had returned to in his thoughts time and time again. There was a smile on his lips and a dreamy look on his face. The Most High Academe was truly happy.

  But what of the youth? Cancaresse sighed.

  Xanth Filatine had clearly done much to be ashamed of. He had been a spy, a traitor, a torturer, a jailer … He had caused great suffering and pain, strong emotions that flowed through the thoughts in the garden.

  The waif paused in her tracks, and looked round. There, to her right, was the youth in the muglumpskin jacket whom she'd noticed earlier. He looked more fidgety than ever now, pacing up and down beside the wicker arbour.

  Ah, the bold young Ghost of Screetown, Cancaresse thought. Let me see now what he has to say.

  She stole up beside him and took him by the hand. The frenetic pacing slowed. The youth turned and looked deep into her eyes, and as he did so, Cancaresse felt a hot rush of anger boiling up in his thoughts.

  Your best friend, Rook, betrayed by this Xanth creature! … Once a Guardian, always a Guardian …

  It was so hot and fiery inside the ghost's head that Cancaresse felt almost as though she were passing her fingers over a flame…

  He lured him off into the Edgeland mists – he was almost killed thanks to him. Then he steals Rook's sword … The sword you gave him! Typical of a Guardian, and no more than you'd expect of Xanth Filatine!

  Cancaresse dropped the hot-blooded ghost's hand and sighed. It seemed that Xanth Filatine really was no good. All around her she was aware of the thoughts of the Freegladers.

  Worthless traitor!

  You can see the evil in his eyes.

  The Free Glades are better off without his sort!

  She brushed them away, as if swatting troublesome woodmidges, and walked on. When she reached the waterfalls of memory, she stopped and gazed at the cascading water. And as she did so, Tweezel's thoughts came back to her.

  She had taken tea with the great spindlebug the previous evening, just as she always did before a Reckoning, in order to benefit from his wisdom.

  ‘I have looked into his heart,’ the old spindlebug had told her. ‘There is a lot of guilt there. Guilt that grows like a great mushroom, but only because it has the soil of goodness to grow upon. Beneath the guilt, I believe Xanth Filatine's heart is good.’

  Cancaresse's thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a high-pitched cry of joy, and she turned from the waterfall to see a gnokgoblin young'un come bounding past her, a delighted look on her face. She rushed towards one of the two Freeglade lancers who were standing to one side of the flowing water, and threw herself into his arms.

  ‘Rook! Rook!’ she squealed. ‘It is you!’

  ‘Gilda!’ cried the Freeglade lancer. ‘Gilda from the misery hole in old Undertown! I can't believe it! You made it to the Free Glades!’

  The pair hugged each other delightedly. Cancaresse approached and held out her long-fingered hands.

  What joy! What delight! her voice sounded in both their heads at the same time. Come, take my hands and share it.

  The Freeglade lancer and the gnokgoblin each took Cancaresse's hand, and the three of them walked together.

  Two friend
s reunited! A joyful reunion …

  She looked down at the little gnokgoblin, who smiled up at her. You have suffered, little one … First the misery hole … And then the long journey to the Free Glades. But you carried something with you … A sword … A sword that belongs to Rook, the librarian knight who risked his own life to save yours in old Undertown! You kept it safe on your journey, and then … Oh, little one! You didn't want to disturb him!You left it outside the banderbear nest in the Deepwoods …

  Cancaresse felt Rook's hand tighten around her own. She looked up into his eyes.

  Yes, Rook! Her voice was light and joyful in his head. Xanth didn't steal your sword. He found it! And that's not all … Her eyes narrowed as she gazed at him. Your thoughts are hidden deep … Confused and blasted by the sepia storm … But I can bring them back within your grasp … Yes … There it is …

  The Edgelands … You, in a sepia storm, being swept across the rocky pavement towards the Edge itself … A hand reaching out, grasping yours and pulling you back to safety …

  Xanth's hand, Rook. Xanth Filatine!

  Rook frowned. ‘Yes,’ he whispered softly. ‘I remember.’

  And there is more, the waif continued. At great risk to himself, he picked you up, cradled you in his arms, and carried you back across the Edgelands and through the Deepwoods. He did not rest until he had delivered you safely to the banderbears.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Rook. He remembered it all now; every terrible step of the long journey. ‘He rescued me,’ he murmured. ‘Xanth Filatine. He saved my life.’

  Cancaresse smiled and let go of his hand. He has been a faithful friend to you. Now enjoy this happy reunion.

  She smiled as Rook took Gilda's hand, and the two of them strolled across the scented lawn. Behind her, she was aware of another voice – hard, callous, and yet with a tender edge to it. She turned and gazed into the eyes of the second Freeglade lancer, a short, stocky slaughterer with spiky flame-coloured hair.

  So you were at Lufwood Mount? she asked.