The Forked Path

by T. R. Thompson

  He shook the water from his hair and wiped his eyes. He squatted on a rooftop, the rain streaming down upon him, a heavy rain that had set in hours ago and showed no sign of easing. It cut visibility to only a few feet, but that was all he needed. Below him, huddled under a poor excuse for a shelter, lay his father.

  He twisted the knife in his hands, the point digging into the callus on his index finger.

  It would be so easy to end it here. To never have to feel the brunt of that man’s anger ever again.

  Do it.

  No one would see, not in this weather. There would be no consequences.

  Do it.

  He leaned over the edge of the rooftop and eased himself down the wall, toward his waiting victim.

  No.

  The weld snapped free and Wilt stumbled back as he found himself standing in the queen’s chamber, at the foot of the dais on which her throne rested. The thick silver weld that had joined their minds faded as he watched, melting into the air.

  The queen stared down at him from her throne, her mouth set. ‘You do not wish to test your strength in this way? To fully appreciate your potential?’

  Wilt shook his head, as much to jolt the troubled memory free as in answer. ‘That wasn’t … That memory wasn’t mine.’

  ‘Oh? Whose was it then? You doubt the truth of what the weld has shown you?’

  Red Charley. That was one of Red Charley’s memories.

  ‘Future and past entwined. Why would you have access to another’s memories, wielder?’

  ‘He is—he was, an enemy of mine. He is no more.’

  ‘Ah! You mean you ended him yourself. This is intriguing. If the welds give you access to other minds, other memories, then the possibilities …’ The queen seemed to be struck by this thought, and her voice trailed off. She sat up straighter in her throne. ‘Rest for now. I will have to think on this. Your potential may be even greater than we realised. We will have more to show you this evening. I have been assured Vargul has our specimen ready.’

  34

  Petron still felt the echo of the moment when he had held that spark in his hand. The feeling of being more than one mind, in more than one place, in more than one time. It comforted him, though he knew trying to pin down the thought, interrogate it and pick it apart, would only cause it to dance out of reach. It was a breath of wind at the back of his mind, something he was aware of but could not access. Much like the ability to change form, something he could no longer do, a doorway that still existed somewhere in his mind but was now walled off and hidden. He didn’t feel this was a loss, however; it was a distant, reassuring memory, vague and unreal yet undeniable.

  He shook his head and realised he hadn’t been listening to the report the young soldier in front of him had been giving. When the guard finished talking, he nodded and waved his hand vaguely, and that seemed to be response enough. The soldier saluted sharply and marched from the room, pulling the door closed behind him. Petron watched him leave, still amazed at the age of these children acting in the roles of men.

  ‘They seem younger every day, do they not?’

  Petron turned to see Nurtle and Jasper standing at the edge of the large opening in his chamber wall. His desk no longer faced that direction.

  ‘You’ve made adjustments to your quarters, I see,’ Nurtle continued.

  ‘Fewer distractions this way.’ Petron smiled. ‘And there aren’t too many with the skills to take me by surprise from the air.’

  Nurtle walked toward the fire, one hand still clasped, as ever, in Jared’s. Jared looked pale, his face drawn and his eyes distant. He moved stiffly across the room as though no longer comfortable in his own body. Petron held his tongue.

  It was Nurtle who spoke first, acknowledging what Petron was polite enough not to voice. ‘We are needed elsewhere now. The time has come sooner than we thought.’

  ‘I see. You have been a great help, to all of us here, and elsewhere. I thank you for it.’

  Petron’s honest, open tone brought a wide smile in return.

  ‘You sound revitalised, Petron. It is good to see our last little adventure has had no lasting effects.’

  ‘No bad ones, at least. I do feel more energised—all of Redmondis does, it seems. We are making progress.’

  ‘Good.’ Nurtle nodded. ‘You may be needed all too soon.’

  ‘There is time yet. There is hope.’

  ‘Not so much, Petron. Not as much as we need.’

  Nurtle turned and pushed Jared down into a chair. He seemed dazed, only half aware of his surroundings. He clung to Nurtle’s hand, as though it were the one lifeline remaining that stopped him drifting out to sea.

  Petron watched him, that lost, private part of his mind recognising the distance in Jared’s gaze, the farseeing sight that was focused on a different way of viewing the world.

  ‘Jared,’ he whispered, but the man showed no sign of recognition.

  ‘We have less time than all of us hoped,’ Nurtle said, sinking down into the chair beside Jared and patting his hand.

  ‘So soon?’

  ‘I think so.’ Nurtle’s voice was low. ‘Jared and I have spent many years as wildlers, perhaps too many. Too long in foreign minds. I think the only thing keeping us still anchored here all these years was Shade. Now that he’s … no longer with us, our link to this human world is fading. My love can no longer completely find his own way back.’

  Petron nodded, recognising the pain in her tone. He was familiar with the risks all wildlers took, the sacrifice they made when spending so long in other forms. He’d felt that pull himself many times when in the eagle form that Wrexley and he had shared, but had always held himself back from the brink. True wildlers such as Nurtle and Jared took things more than one step further and hadn’t benefited from the training Redmondis had given him to deal with the dangers of their craft. It was yet one more crime to lay at the feet of the Nine Sisters.

  ‘We have had a good run though, haven’t we, old friend? Besides, we have other adventures ahead of us, in other forms.’

  Nurtle patted Jared’s hand again and stared out over the top of the Tangle stretched far below, the trees swaying as ever in the breeze, waving their subtle invitation.

  ‘You are ready to take that final step?’

  ‘Almost. We fulfilled our last promise to the Guardian to give him some time with our young friends. We have ensured they got to Sontair in good time. Now, well … We shall see. The Tangle itself is much changed. Closed. Wary. Perhaps it is for the best we help bring part of it back.’

  ‘And you are still convinced the Tangle shares our goals?’

  ‘No.’ Nurtle chuckled. ‘Never that. But I am convinced that we share the same enemy.’

  Petron considered her words. ‘Very well.’ He reached out his hand to her. ‘Thank you again for all you have done. For me, and for all of us. I assume we will not meet again.’

  Nurtle took his hand and pulled herself to her feet. ‘Do not assume so much, Petron. None are wise enough to see so far into the mists of the future. And please, do not waste your time feeling sorry for us. We go where all true wildlers belong.’

  She smiled, taking the edge off her words. ‘Besides, it’s about time our strange young son looked after us. And how many do you know are lucky enough to share themselves completely with their true love?’

  Petron stepped aside to let the two wildlers past. He watched them walk to the open window, aware that he was perhaps witnessing their final moments in human form.

  ‘Goodbye, friends. May your winds be favourable.’

  ‘Goodbye, Petron,’ Nurtle replied. ‘We may yet meet again. One day.’

  With that Nurtle and Jared turned to each other, clasped each other’s hands and blurred together. A giant eagle let out an exalted cry of freedom before launching into the infinite sky.

  35

  Wilt and Higgs stood on the riverbank under the looming city walls, picking through the rocks and pebbles at their feet, trying
to find suitable slinging stones. The wide river bubbled past them, the only movement on its clear surface caused by the breeze from the south, bouncing across the water to ruffle Wilt’s hair. On the far bank the thick trees of the Tangle swayed with the same wind, silently watching them.

  Higgs was building a small pile of perfectly sized stones—he always seemed to find the right ones so easily—and Wilt took a few steps away to try his luck further down the bank. The toe of his boot kicked a likely candidate and he bent down to grab it, weighing its heft in his hand. Higgs was behind him, out of sight now. He somehow knew he couldn’t turn around to see him even if he wanted to.

  Wilt pulled his sling out of his pants and dropped the stone into the roughened leather cradle, giving the sling a few practice spins in the air. It felt right. Solid. Much more real than the rest of the scene, which now faded into the strange dim mist of dreams.

  Stone and weight. The high walls of Greystone rearing up behind them, containing them. Keeping them safe from the world. And something else, a new presence, a voice.

  Wilt spun his sling up to speed and released it with a snap, the stone arcing high over the water toward the trees on the far bank. He watched it disappear into the green and turned to the voice.

  He sat up, instantly awake, his breath coming in quick gasps. He stared around the room, taking a moment to remember where he really was. He was in Sontair, in the capital. A guest of the queen. Sleeping in the small comfortable chamber a nameless servant had led him to that afternoon.

  Wilt’s skin was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, though the air in the room was cool. The small fire in the grate had burned low, almost extinguished, its coals a weak orange glow in the darkness. He swung his feet over the side of the bed and lowered his head into his hands. A dream, just a dream. A nightmare, he supposed.

  Greystone. You were dreaming of Greystone. You haven’t done that in ages.

  You could see it? My dream?

  Not while it was happening, but I know what you know. I can see the memory, though it’s fading fast. You were dreaming of me and the river and Lodan. The day he approached you about joining the Grey Guild, remember?

  Lodan. That had been the voice he heard. The public face of the guild in Greystone, next in line to the Hand himself. Higgs was right, he hadn’t thought of him since …

  Since before Redmondis.

  That’s right. When the cantors took us.

  An awful lot has happened since then. I wonder what Lodan would think of us now.

  Wilt smiled at the thought and felt better. The strange dread the dream had caused him was melting back into his unconsciousness.

  What would Lodan think? The last time he’d seen him was on the flagball court, when he was just a scruffy young thief.

  A loud knock on the chamber door snapped him out of his musing. He was already pulling his boots on when the door swung slowly open and a servant poked his head in, eyes downcast to save his guest’s modesty.

  ‘My apologies, my lord. The queen has requested your presence immediately.’

  ‘I’ll be right there.’ The servant withdrew to wait in the hall.

  She mentioned her specimen. I wonder what she meant.

  Wilt stomped his foot to knock his boot into place and started out the door, buckling the weld blade onto his hip as he went.

  There’s only one way to find out.

  As soon as they were on their way, it was clear something was different. It was still the heart of night, for one thing, and the torches hanging at intervals along the stone castle walls threw threatening shadows across the wide hallway, glimpses of tapestries and looming statues appearing suddenly out of the darkness as the firelight flickered. As they passed an open window, Wilt noticed the full moon high in the sky, and the lack of lights from the other buildings stretching out beneath them. It was very late, or very early. A time for secrets.

  The servant leading Wilt seemed determined to get his job done as quickly as possible, hurrying along the corridor with his head down, his shuffling trot somehow remaining almost silent. Wilt winced as his own boots echoed in the silence and tried to adjust his gait as he walked to reduce the noise.

  Some thief you are. Forgotten everything I showed you?

  Wilt grimaced at the thought, settling into the old creeping rhythm of the travellers on the night highway. They hurried along, turning this way and that through gloomy hallways until Wilt knew he was hopelessly lost. This had to be a different path than the one he had taken earlier in the day, so they weren’t going back to the queen’s audience chamber. Where then?

  Wilt was nervous about what he was being led into. The servant stopped in front of a simple wooden door cut into the stone wall. It looked like an entrance to a pantry or storage room. The man opened it outward and gestured Wilt toward the waiting shadows.

  Stepping inside, Wilt saw immediately that his expectations for the room were wrong. It was large, larger even than the queen’s audience chamber that he’d found so imposing. Flaming torches lined the walls, marking out a wide curve that sunk down into a central pit of shadows, almost like he was standing at the top row of a viewing chamber or theatre. In the centre of the pit the darkness was complete, the flickering light from the torches unable to penetrate it.

  Wilt felt his eyes drawn to that point, his wielder instincts alive suddenly, aware that there was more than shadows waiting there.

  ‘Thank you for coming so quickly, young wielder.’

  Wilt turned to the voice and found the queen sitting only a few feet from the door, on a row of seats lining the central pit. She looked tense and excited, leaning forward in her seat, eager for the show to begin.

  Wilt looked back toward the dark centre of the room, not wanting to take his eyes away from the threat he could feel waiting there. ‘What is it?’

  The queen smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, you feel it too, of course. The pull. The promise of power.’

  Wilt was about to disagree that promise was not what he felt at all. What he felt was something closest to dread, but the queen had already turned back to the centre of the room and was waving her hand high in the air as a signal.

  At the sign another row of torches in the central pit sprung into life. Wilt blinked the stars from his eyes as this new light blazed into being. These torches weren’t lining the walls, they were being held aloft by a circle of robed men. Wilt focused on the closest one, studying the hunched figure and the face that danced in and out of sight beneath the shadowed cowl of his hood. It was Vargul, no, another man similar to him. Same drawn features, same glinting, golden eyes.

  Wilt turned his attention back to the centre of the pit where impossibly a circle of darkness still resisted the light. He frowned and moved his eyes briefly into their cat form, but even their heightened vision couldn’t penetrate the blackness. It was more than just lack of light, it was a viscous, liquid thing, shifting and morphing as the light from the torches bent toward it.

  ‘Wondrous, is it not?’ The queen’s voice was barely more than a whisper.

  Wilt tore his eyes from the shifting mass in the centre of the room to look at the queen. The Sister. At that moment he was most struck by her resemblance to the Sister he had known in Redmondis. Her green eyes shone with a mad hunger.

  Watch yourself. She looks like one ready to sacrifice anything for power.

  Higgs’s voice felt different in Wilt’s mind. Quieter, almost muffled, as though it were speaking to him through a thick blanket, all echoes and sharpness buffed away. Instantly he realised what Higgs was doing, trying to hide his shared thoughts from the queen.

  You don’t need to tell me anything twice, you should know that by now.

  It seemed to be working, the queen showed no sign of having heard Higgs’s interjection. She was bent forward in her seat, her hands curled into tense claws on the arm rests.

  She waved again, impatiently now, and the men holding the torches stepped closer, toward the strange black mass, crowding the darkness
in until it would have disappeared entirely were it at all natural.

  Wilt watched, aware he was holding his breath.

  The next moment the solid bubble of shadow seemed to pop, and something like a massive black spider or crab stood in its place, its evil-looking claws snapping at the air in front of it.

  It was another of the shadow creatures that had attacked them in the Tangle, and again from the river. Much larger though, as though the others had only been children and this one was fully grown. Wilt started to draw his blade, but was halted immediately by a stern command from the queen.

  ‘Hold, wielder!’ The queen’s words were wrapped in power, binding Wilt’s arms in place as he strained against them. ‘Be still. We have it under control.’

  Wilt felt the bonds holding him loosen as he stopped pushing against them, until finally he was free of them entirely, and let go of his blade.

  He stared into the pit at the nightmare creature, a shifting mass of limbs and claws snapping at the air, struggling against some invisible barrier that held it back from the men surrounding it.

  ‘A gloomclaw,’ the queen whispered, a strange awe tingeing her words. ‘Though the legends have given them many names. Dreamflayer, weldreaver. A creature from the nightmare depths. And yet here it is, under my power.’

  No. This is wrong. This is—

  ‘These creatures have been attacking townships from the south coast to the very walls of the Tangle for months now, almost entirely unmolested. It seems my success in holding this one captive has only increased the frequency of their attacks. I had hoped my puppet king would remain weak enough to allow time for further study, but news of their threat has found its way into even his befuddled mind. We must act before more concrete efforts are made to repel them.

  ‘You saw the weakening barriers that have allowed their kind through. They attack in moments and leave nothing but death and dust in their wake. They appear from nowhere and disappear just as readily. But we have found a way to leash this one, to hold it on this plane.’