Fable: Edge of the World (20 page)

“All right,” the king said. “Tell me about the darkness in Samarkand … and how it has been defeated before.”

And so Percy did. He still refused to define his exact nature, but revealed that he had worked to assist most of the Thousand Guardians in the Cave. In recent years, fewer of the Heroes bothered to visit the Cave to give their respects to their predecessors, and so missed out on the opportunity to have … whatever Percy was, serving them. “I’ve not been disturbed for a few centuries,” he said.

The darkness, he said, was always changing. “Because the darkness feeds on hatred and fear, and every person’s hatred and fear is unique.” In its purest essence, it was as the king had seen it before—black, tarry fluid that had a direction and sentience all its own. And it was fond of using other sentient beings as its tools, corrupting them and using them to betray those they loved best.

“I am familiar with that tactic,” the king said, his heart heavy.

Sometimes it tainted living things in other ways. It would seep into soil, poisoning the roots of plants so that their fruit was deadly. It turned clean water toxic, spreading its contagion to those who foolishly drank of it.

“We encountered that right before we met you,” the king said. “We found a kannat of water that turned many of my men into jakala. Part jackal, part human.”

“I see you are rather more experienced than I had anticipated,” the dragon said. “That might actually give us the tiniest shred of hope.”

“Your confidence in me is overwhelming.”

“I’m glad you think so.” The king was starting to enjoy the banter. After so many dangers and grim events, humor was as welcome as fresh water.

The worst manifestation of the darkness, and the hardest to defeat, Percival continued, was the nonphysical. You could fight the black goo. You could slay those who had unwillingly betrayed you. “But how do you fight your own thoughts?” asked Percy, presumably rhetorically. “It whispers in your ears, in your mind … that you have failed, that all are against you. That nothing you do will ever matter. That the darkness is eternal and can never be vanquished. And most of the time, you don’t even realize that the thoughts aren’t actually coming from your own head.”

The king felt cold. He recalled traveling with Walter in Aurora, the whispers that were barely heard, the despair and terror they inspired. He, at least, was aware of what was going on, and no matter how convincing the evil words sounded, he knew they were not his own. How, then, could anyone overcome it when they
didn’t
know?

“So … understanding what’s going on. Knowledge of its methods. And hope,” the king said. “That’s what’s needed to defeat the darkness.”

“Fireballs and bullets help also,” Percy provided.

“They often do,” the king said.

The trip passed quickly. The king used the aerial advantage to correct and refine Shan’s map, realizing how useful such knowledge would be in the coming battle. “You know, we can even scout out Zahadar once we get close enough,” he said. “It would be amazingly useful to be able to see where the Empress has troops gathered and what the state of the countryside is like.”

“It would indeed,” said Percy, “if you’d like to advertise that you’re on your way and you’ve got a dragon on your side.”

“Oh,” said the king. “I suppose you’re right.”

They reached the monastery shortly before sunset. For most of the king’s life, Samarkand had been a place of mystery and imagination, of tales woven in rich hues and singing of marvels. Other than the Cave of a Thousand Guardians, little he had seen of the place seemed to support that notion. But now, gazing down on the several buildings that dotted the monasterial grounds, his breath caught.

Nestled in the embrace of the eastern mountain chain, reachable on foot only by a narrow, zigzagging mountain pass, the monastery lay in a fertile green valley. He could see the silver glint of lakes and waterfalls as they caught the morning sunlight. The buildings themselves were domes, their roofs gleaming almost blindingly as if diamonds had been inlaid upon them. Small figures were milling about, tending crops, performing what appeared to be ritual exercises, or simply seated in what looked like meditation.

“It’s all right!” he cried happily. “The darkness hasn’t found it yet. Neither has the Empress!” Even from above, the peace of the place was apparent, and the king no longer wondered why an elderly Hero might come here to live out his days. It tugged at him too, and he realized that because of the additional obligation as king, such an option would be denied to him. One didn’t “retire” from being king.

“My, my,” Percy said, genuine fondness in his voice, “it hasn’t changed at all. I’m so pleased.”

He flew in closer, and the figures on the ground grew larger. They had obviously spotted the figure hovering above them and were gathering.

“Um,” said the king, “it’s probably a bit late for me to be
thinking this, but—do you think they’ll understand we’re friendly?”

“Let’s hope so,” said Percy. “I intend on landing a fair distance away, to be on the safe side.”

He suited action to words, coming to earth with a gentle
thump
and crouching so the king could easily slip off his back. A few grains of sand pattered down as the monarch did so. The monks, dressed in robes almost the same color as the dragon, were running toward them. They carried staffs, spears, swords, ropes, axes, hammers—

“They’re much better armed than I thought they would be,” the king murmured.

“Why do you think they call them warrior monks?” sighed the dragon.

“I just thought they’d be good with fisticuffs or something.”

“Well, for goodness’ sake, put your own weapons down and kneel.”

The king wasn’t used to kneeling to anyone, but in this instance he was willing to forgo his land’s niceties. He quickly divested himself of his weapons and knelt as Percival suggested. The dragon himself did the same thing, folding his wings and crouching down in a nonthreatening posture.

The monks continued to race toward them, men and women both, slowing to a halt as they drew closer. They held their weapons at the ready but did not attack. One of them, an older man with a shaved head, approached. He was obviously the head monk. He carried no weapon; the king had the sneaking suspicion that the man really didn’t need one to break every bone in the royal body.

“Who are you, who comes on the back of the hated enemy dragon, to disturb the peace of this place?” the head monk demanded.

“I am the King of Albion, and a Hero,” the king said. “As was my father before me. This dragon is no enemy, but a friend, to me and to you all, if you wish it. He is an ally to all Heroes.”

“He is … made of sand,” a woman said, puzzled.

“He is not a true dragon. Merely the image of one. He is known as … Percy. I come not to show disrespect but to seek both your aid and counsel with one who lives here. His name is Garth … and he traveled with my father.”

“There is no one here by that name,” said the head monk. Startled, the king glanced over at Percy, who shook his head slightly. Garth was here, Percy was telling him … but the monks weren’t going to reveal that. “What aid would you have of us?”

“Your land is falling into darkness,” the king said bluntly. “And it is my understanding that your leader, the Empress, could be in league with it.”

“So,” another monk said, “you have come to overthrow our Empress. Perhaps you think to marry her and take the Emperor’s place?”

The king shook his head. “I have a lovely queen awaiting me, and I think ruling one country is more than enough.”

“I believe him,” came a deep voice from the back of the crowd. Everyone turned to regard the man who had spoken. He was of average height but much older than even the head monk. He, too, had no hair on his face or head. His skin was quite dark, almost as dark as Page’s, and his eyes were utterly piercing. But what was most arresting about him was that glowing blue lines adorned his face, scalp, and body—a testament to the power of his Will. He leaned on a staff, but the king suspected he didn’t really need it for support, despite the age lines etched on his face. The king got to his feet.

“Garth,” he said quietly.

“It has been a long time since I have been called so,” Garth replied. “Here, I am Taron, the Seeker.”

“Seeker? Of what? You were a Hero, one of the greatest masters of Will anyone has ever heard of.”

Garth smiled. “I sought not to be that anymore,” he said simply. “In exchange for food and a place to sleep, I teach the monks how to harness their own wills. It is something that everyone has, not just Heroes, and a strong discipline over one’s mind can only aid the monks in their calling—which is battle in a righteous cause.”

“Surely there can be no more righteous cause than the defeat of the darkness!” the king exclaimed. Garth’s eyes clouded.

“So always speak the young,” he murmured, more to himself than to the king. Recalling himself, he turned to Percy. “You are welcome here—I can sense the bond between us. No doubt this is how our feisty young Hero king found me when I did not wish to be found.”

“No doubt indeed,” said Percy, inclining his head. “He roused me from my centuries of slumber and gave me this form, and so he is my master. But I will also serve you, where such service does not conflict.”

His voice sounded the same to the king, but richer, deeper; more formal, and certainly more respectful. The king was mildly irritated, then remembered just how important and powerful Garth really was. And then he wasn’t offended at all but rather flattered that Percy was even willing to talk to him.

“The boy and I will share a meal,” Garth said. “I will listen to what he has to say. And then … we will see.”

Garth led the king up a gently winding stone path to a small dwelling that was revealed to be built partially into the mountain
itself. Outside, there was a garden, where fragrant blossoms were blooming. When Garth opened the door, the king stepped into a cool and pleasant space.

To the right of the door, a woven rug lay near a window. Several colorful cushions were strewn on the floor, and the afternoon sunlight streamed in. Opposite what the king assumed to be a meditation space was a simple wooden chair and table. A small cot was placed on the floor to the left of the door, and a tall cabinet stood beside it. And that was it. The king had grown up in lavish surroundings, lacking for nothing, and yet the spare simplicity of the room was soothing.

“Please, sit,” Garth said, indicating the single chair. “As you can see, I am not one for visitors. The community does much together, so in my private space I am … private.”

“Thank you,” the king said, taking the seat as invited. Garth moved about, reaching into the cabinet and pulling out odd-looking fruit, a selection of cheeses, and fresh-baked bread that smelled so good the king’s mouth watered. Garth prepared a plate for each of them, gave one to his visitor, then settled himself on the cushions. He indicated no discomfort at sitting on the floor and folding his legs into what seemed to the king a very odd position as he began to peel a knobby fruit.

The king imitated Garth and bit into the fruit. It was delicious. He realized that he was actually ravenous and had to fight to not appear a glutton as he ate. At last, still hungry but needing to talk, he turned to Garth.

“In Albion, people think you are dead,” he said. “There are rumors that Reaver killed you.”

Garth made an annoyed face and waved a hand. “Of course there are,” he said. “He tried. No doubt he was so embarrassed at his failure that he concocted some lavish tale about my demise at his hands.”

“That certainly sounds like the Reaver I know,” the king said. “We’ve not seen him around Albion for a while, thank goodness. He’s smart, and he’ll help you if it’s in his interests, but he’s—”

“Always out for himself, and has an ego larger than our friend out there,” Garth finished.

“Exactly!”

“Well, he’s off somewhere causing trouble if he’s not doing so in Albion,” Garth said. “Yet I think the trouble here is not of his making.”

“What do you think it is?”

Garth paused in his eating and gave the king a piercing look. “What do
you
think it is? You’re the Hero, not I.”

The king bit back the comment,
but you live here!
and instead told Garth what he and Percy had discussed. “I don’t know what form it is taking now, nor who or what is responsible for its being here. You might have a better idea than I.”

“There is no doubt in my mind that if the Empress is not actually creating it, she is in league with it,” said Garth. “And not just in league, but in … partnership, somehow. There is a personal feel to this darkness.”

“You’ve been in this monastery for years, haven’t you?” At Garth’s nod, the king continued, “Then how can you know? You’ve been a hermit, not out in the world, and the darkness hasn’t come here yet. Thankfully.”

Garth smiled and tapped his temple. “I know here,” he said. “When you open the mind and the heart, many things are revealed to you.” He grew thoughtful. “Perhaps …”

The king held his breath.

“Yes,” Garth said at last. “I will instruct you. We don’t have that much time, and usually apprenticeships last years. But I will teach you the best that I can. Send Percy back to the army.
He will be able to protect them during their march. I will have one of the monks teach you what they can of their fighting style, and I will work with you on meditation and Will.”

“I would be very grateful,” the king said. “And … you will come with us? Against the Empress?”

Garth raised an eyebrow. “It depends. I am willing to be impressed, young Hero. But
you
have to do the impressing.”

P
age and Timmins walked along a narrow road, snow-covered save for the lines made by cart wheels and horses’ hooves. Wrapped tightly in cloaks and shivering, she reflected that she was grateful that people seldom questioned what they thought they saw. They had only been intercepted once during their escape from Bowerstone Castle. Page had simply turned her face away and lifted a dark hand, and the guards let her through with a deep bow. They had assumed they were seeing Queen Laylah.