Chapter 3

Wyl’s progress along the Darkstream was slow as he traveled against the current back toward the thicket. his mind felt burdened rather than lightened by his meeting with Elysius and his heart was especially heavy at leaving Fynch. Further, his emotions were still in turmoil at the loss of his sister, Ylena, whose body he now inhabited, and by the disappearance of Aremys. He had precious few friends in his life now. To lose one so soon—especially one he trusted as he did Aremys—was devastating.

But it was leaving Fynch behind that troubled him the most. As he inched his way toward the Thicket, Wyl realized how important the youngster had become to him. Others, such as Elspyth and Aremys, had accepted the strangeness of his life, but Fynch had guessed his secret from the start and had protected him. Little Fynch, so humble and yet so wise, had saved not only Wyl’s life but also that of a sovereign with his ingenuity. And then, following his own path, he had left the safety of Werryl, first to track down Romen’s killer, and after obeying the pull of the Wild. The boy was deeply enmeshed in this whole business of Myrren’s Gift, or at least in the curious life that Wyl was now leading, and Wyl was angry at himself for not insisting that Fynch leave Elysius and travel with him.

The truth of it was, he suddenly felt he needed Fynch. Their lives, strange though they both were, were entwined, and it suddenly occurred to Wyl that Fynch’s involvement might be more than pure coincidence. Fynch had been at Myrren’s burning; was it possible that he was magically tied to her gift, too?

Wyl sighed. Fynch aside, he was concerned about so many people that his only plan at this minute was to return to Timpkenny. He would stay overnight there before making a decision on his next move. The remainder of his journey up the Darkstream was curiously and happily uneventful—Ylena’s fears mercifully remained at bay—and Samm was nowhere to be seen when he alighted, relieved, from the small craft. His intention had been to avoid the boatman and so it suited him that the cottage appeared deserted.

Wyl did not relish the notion of passing again through the mysterious Thicket, but he knew he could not wait too long to find the courage. Dark fell heavily and fast in this place, and he did not want to risk Samm coming across him. He walked briskly toward the dark line of yews that marked the border of the Thicket. Wyl was convinced that he could hear a dim buzz emanating from the enchanted forest; it frightened him, but as he had been allowed to pass through once before, he was counting on similar generosity again.

Wyl took a deep breath, closed his eyes reflexively, and pushed into the tangle. The Thicket’s cool atmosphere chilled him instantly. The silence was disturbing. It was clear that the forest knew he was there, and the thought that this place could sense, think, and make decisions for itself was the most disconcerting notion of all.

Oddly, this time there were no snagging branches and no confusing pathways. Previously, when Knave had led him through, Wyl had felt sure that alone he would have lost himself among the yews for good.

This time paths seemed to open themselves up to him. He shook his head with wonder. The Thicket was guiding him swiftly through its depths. It wanted him gone, was as glad to be rid of him as he was to have his back to it.

“Thank you,” he whispered in genuine relief Whether or not the Thicket heard he could not know, but he felt better for having offered his gratitude.

It was then that a terrible thought struck him: If the Thicket could guide him out, it was just as able to keep Aremys in. Was the mercenary still blundering around in the forest, trying hopelessly to escape?

Wyl overcame his intense fear, took the chance, and began to call to his friend. The somewhat desperate edge to his voice carried loudly through the dense overgrowth but did little more than scatter small animals he could not see. As if in response to the tension his concern for Aremys had created, Ylena’s fear of enclosed spaces began to threaten again. He felt it first as a tightening in her chest, and recalled the identical tautness of emotion that had occurred just before he’d lost control of himself during his first journey on the Darkstream.

The familiar shallowness of breath hit him and he stopped moving. Was the Thicket’s magic acute enough to sense this change in him? Instinctively, he began breathing into his cupped hands. He could not imagine how he remembered this trick, but it was something his father had taught Ylena when she was an infant.

Panic, he recalled, had often overcome his young sister, prompted by any suggestion of being enclosed or hidden: the game hide-and-seek, looking into the dark depths of the well, or playing under Wyl’s bed.

To his knowledge, Ylena had not experienced this terror since she was a child, but obviously its ability to strike had traveled with her into adulthood. Wyl was grateful now for his memory of Fergys Thirsk’s trick to calm his daughter; he quickly noticed a marked change in what had been steadily rising panic levels.

Whether or not the Thicket was aware of his discomfort, Wyl was fairly sure it deliberately steered him toward what might, at a stretch, be described as a clearing. His relief—or, more to the point, Ylena’s—at the space was evident as her legs buckled, dropping him to the ground. It remained cool beneath the yews, but the oppressive atmosphere was not as marked, and Wyl knew that if he could get his breathing under control he would feel less anxious. He put Ylena’s pretty head between her knees and forced her lungs to breathe slowly and deeply, as foot soldiers, suddenly overcome by fear of battle, were taught to do before the command to charge. He held this position for several minutes and was relieved that he could feel the anxiety lessening.

A soft sound above prompted him to raise his head and he was confronted by the largest owl he had ever seen. Strikingly marked, the majestic tawny blinked slowly and deliberately in the way owls do. Wyl watched it as intently as it was regarding him, wondering which of them would turn away first, if that indeed was what was expected.

He lost the staring contest. “And you are?” he said, feeling ridiculous but reminding himself that he had spoken to Knave without embarrassment. Why not this curious owl with such intelligence lurking in its large yellow eyes? He was rewarded for his faith.

I am Rasmus, the owl said into his mind, startling him.

“I hear you,” Wyl replied, in awe of the splendid creature before him.

That was my intention, Rasmus said somewhat disdainfully, rotating its head in a disconcerting manner.

“How is it that we can communicate?” Wyl persisted. “Is it because of Myrren’s Gift?” The owl made a disgusted sound. It is because I allow it, and because you are here.

“In the Thicket, you mean?”

Where else could I mean?

Wyl felt an apology springing to his lips but resisted it. This creature was either baiting him or simply did not like him. “What do you want with me?” he asked, his tone direct.

Again the owl blinked. We want you to leave, it said firmly.

“Well, can’t you just rid yourself of me?” Wyl replied, determined not to be cowed by this strange creature.

If we choose to.

Wyl sighed, irritated by the owl’s superior manner. “Then choose it, owl, for leaving here is what I want too.”

If you want to be gone from here, why do you linger? Rasmus asked, his tone suggesting he too was losing patience.

“I am not lingering,” Wyl snapped. “I was guided to this spot, and if you’re as magical as I suspect, you can probably sense the sorcery that has touched me.”

I can.

“Then you know that this is not the body I was born with.” And so?

“And so this particular body does not care for the density or fearsome atmosphere of your Thicket.” It is not mine, the bird countered.

It was Wyl’s turn to blink—with exasperation. He took a steadying breath; showing his fury would not help here. “The person whose body I walk in is scared of this place and was having breathing difficulties.”

We gathered.

“Was this clearing deliberately created for my benefit?” Wyl was determined to find out the extent of the Thicket’s abilities.

Yes. Are you ready to leave?

“Not until you answer a question.”

I am not beholden to you.

Wyl took a gamble. “If you trust Knave, then you should trust me, for he and I are friends. I mean you and the creatures of the Thicket—or indeed the Thicket itself—no harm. The secret of your magic is safe with me.”

There was a long pause. Wyl stood up, frustrated by the owl’s stare and its silence.

“You have let me pass through before. I know you have no intention of killing me.” Ask your question, the owl finally said, irritably.

Wyl curbed his enthusiasm and took a moment to consider how best to phrase his question. He sensed the owl would answer, at worst cryptically, and at best literally, so his question would have to be very clear.

“Where is Aremys living?” he asked carefully.

There was no hesitation from the owl. He lives in the Razors.

Wyl’s relief spilled over. “Is he safe?”

I have answered your question, the owl replied, fractious now.

“Please,” Wyl beseeched.

Rasmus made a peevish clicking noise. Aremys is safe.

Wyl wondered how much more the owl knew. The Thicket held many secrets; perhaps they could help him as he journeyed on. He had nothing more to lose other than the owl’s patience, and that was already fast depleting. “Rasmus,” Wyl began reasonably, “you have shared your name. Mine is Wyl. But then I’m sure you know that. Can we not be friends?”

Yet another tiresome question?

Wyl sat down deliberately. “Yes, I have questions. I know what you are concerned about, and I will not betray the Thicket. I owe it for keeping my friend Aremys safe and for helping me so far. I am your friend also.”

The Thicket has no friends of your kind, save one. You are not he.

Wyl assumed the bird referred to Elysius. “Then let me ask what I need so I can help the others you do trust—Knave and…Fynch.”

He had intended to say “Elysius,” but “Fynch” came to his mind and slipped out first. He saw the bird react as he spoke his young friend’s name, and the shrubs around him seemed to shudder. Was it the boy who interested the Thicket?

“I will protect Fynch always,” he risked.

And was rewarded with a testy reply. He does not require your protection. He has the protection of the Thicket.

“I see,” Wyl said, not really seeing anything but harking back to his earlier suspicion that Fynch had some special purpose in this dangerous game they were playing. Then a notion came to him as suddenly as a wasp sting and causing similar pain. “He’s not coming to Werryl, is he?” The bird said nothing at first, then sighed. At that soft sound in his head, Wyl felt hollow. He had lost Fynch. Fynch has his own path to follow now, Rasmus confirmed.

Although he had suspected as much, Wyl felt his heart sink at the owl’s sorrowful words. Fynch’s new path must be a dangerous one, he realized, or the owl would not have mentioned protection. Wyl also realized there was precious little he could do about it. The Thicket would not permit him to return to find Fynch, he knew. It obviously had its own reasons for helping the boy to follow this new road.

“Knave will be at his side, of course?” he ventured.

Always, Rasmus said.

“Thank you,” said Wyl, and meant it. “I shall leave now. I am grateful to you, Rasmus, and the ‘we’ you speak of, for allowing me this time and for answering my questions.” He stood and bowed to the huge bird with marked respect, then walked away, presuming the Thicket would now guide him quickly to its fringe and toward Timpkenny. He was surprised to hear Rasmus call to him.

He turned. “Pardon?”

I said, where are you going? the owl repeated.

“I must make my way south to Werryl as quickly as I can.”

We will send you there.

Wyl looked at the large bird quizzically. “Send me?”

Come back to the clearing.

“I don’t understand.” Wyl felt a thrill of fear run through him.

You will. Stand before me and close your eyes. Do not open them.

“I won’t.”

If you disobey us, we shall never allow you to leave, the owl warned.

Too much depended on his safe departure from this place. Wyl did as asked, wondering if this “sending” business was a small show of friendship after all.

Be still, the owl cautioned. It will feel strange but you must trust us. Do not resist. Just let your body float. Remember, do not open your eyes.

Wyl understood none of it but obeyed as a man used to taking orders.

Farewell, Rasmus said, and then Wyl felt a vast, chest-crushing pressure against his body. He wanted to open his eyes but fought the urge, having given his word. Breathing was all but impossible, but he refused to panic. He had to trust the owl.

Had he disobeyed the owl’s strict instructions, he would have seen Fynch before him. Wyl could not see the tears on Fynch’s face or the goodbye the boy mouthed to his friend, but he felt the touch of the Gate Wielder as Ylena’s trembling body was pushed through a thickened disk of air and disappeared.

It is done, Rasmus said. Be at rest, Faith Fynch.

“Why do they refer to me as Faith?” Fynch whispered to Knave, who sat tall and imposing beside him in a special sunlit divide. Had he not seen it with his own eyes, Fynch would never have believed such a clearing existed in the Thicket. Curiously, the small light-drenched space added no particular cheer to the dense, dark, and brooding atmosphere, but Fynch was nonetheless glad for the brief respite from the chill.

It is how we think of you.

“What do you mean?”

We have faith in you.

Fynch wanted to ask more, but the words stilled in his mouth as creatures—many known to him only from folklore—began to gather at the fringe of the clearing.

“These are your friends?” he asked, his voice filled with wonder.

They are the creatures of the Thicket.

Fynch’s attention was caught by a magnificent lion that watched him from the shadows. The animal shook itself and Fynch gasped to see wings extending from the proud cat’s shoulders.

“Knave, that’s the winged lion of legend.”

No legend as you can see, son. He exists.

“I only know of him from the old tales and the carvings at Stoneheart. He… he is Wyl’s mythical animal, who protects him.”

And yours?

“Mine?” the boy said, awed as he caught sight of the equally legendary great bear. “My creature is…” He hesitated as a different animal invaded his mind, demanding to be named. He felt treacherous and pushed the thought away. “My animal is the unicorn.”

He comes to you now, Knave said.

The other creatures fell silent as the beautiful animal emerged into the light. Its coat had a hue of the palest of blues, but the overall impression was of a pure, dazzling white; even its famed horn was a silvery white.

It walked slowly and with such grace that Fynch held his breath, utterly captivated.

Tall and broad, the unicorn towered over the boy and his companion. Child, it said in a deep, musical voice. It is my privilege to welcome you among us.

Fynch was so overwhelmed that he began to weep. The unicorn bent its great head, careful not to touch the boy with its lethal horn, and nuzzled Fynch, who put his small arms around the creature’s neck in worship. My name is Roark, it added, for his hearing alone.

“The privilege is mine, great Roark,” Fynch whispered.

Be bright, Faith Fynch. You are our hope, the animal returned into his mind.

Fynch gathered his composure and dried his eyes. He looked about him uncertainly, registering the expectancy that hung in the air, and tried not to gawp at the amazing troupe of creatures gathered around him.

As one, they bowed, including Knave and the graceful Roark.

You must acknowledge them, Knave whispered into Fynch’s startled mind. Put your awe aside, son.

You are to whom we give our loyalty. Assume your birthright.

Fynch did not understand. He was a gong boy. A child of low birth and even lower rank. How could he acknowledge homage from these majestic creatures of legend? Who was he to assume such a role?

It was as if Roark could hear his thoughts. Fynch, will you accept our obeisance and loyalty?

Elysius’s words echoed in Fynch’s memory: Perhaps the Thicket needs you for more than simply watching over a Gate.

He could not escape his destiny, he knew this. His life was no longer his own to direct or to make decisions about. Choices had already been made and promises given.

Fynch steadied himself and found his voice. “Creatures of the Thicket,” he called, “I will make myself worthy of your faith.”

He bowed, low and long. When he stood upright again, he felt a new strength pulsing through him, from his toes through to the tips of his fingers. He realized that it must be the Thicket communicating with him, sending him nourishing power. He felt charged with it, and could not help the radiant smile that broke out onto his face.

“Tell me what it is I must do,” he asked the creatures. “I am your servant.” It was Rasmus who spoke on behalf of the creatures and of the Thicket itself. Be seated, Fynch, he offered from his perch.

Fynch lowered himself to the ground. Knave and Roark remained standing, flanking Fynch on either side.

Child, you already know what it is we ask of you, the owl said.

“I do?”

Elysius shared the same desire.

“Rashlyn,” Fynch murmured.

The creatures and trees all shuddered their shared hatred for the man.

Yes, Rasmus concurred. You must destroy him.

“What is it that frightens you so about this man?”

He is tainted, and he wants to use his power to corrupt all that is natural about the world. His evil is born of his jealously at being unable to manipulate Nature. More than anything, he passionately desires the power to control all creatures. With this at his disposal, he would rule all realms.

Imagine him being able to call upon eagle or zerkon alike? Imagine him commanding them to do evil, the other animals powerless to refuse him? You must destroy him!

“I don’t think I am capable,” Fynch protested.

The Thicket and its creatures will help you.

Strengthened by the thrum of power that bristled through him from the ground of the Thicket, and emboldened by the love and loyalty that surrounded him, Fynch took a deep breath. “Then I ask for nothing more than your faith in me.”

It was the right thing to say. Knave confirmed as much with a gently uttered Bravo, child into his mind while the creatures showed their trust and delight, some leaping into the air, others rearing to stand on two legs, still others squawking or braying.

Fynch laughed. He was filled with a joy he had never known before. He suddenly felt he belonged to all of them. He reached for Knave and touched the great dog’s head.

I don’t believe it, Knave said, his tone humble. The King comes.

“King?” Fynch repeated, puzzled. Since they had begun communicating via this special mindtalk, Fynch had found Knave’s manner to be mostly serious, like himself. The dog was not one for jests or shallow thoughts. He spoke only when there was something to say, and during most of their conversations it had been his role to counsel Fynch. The boy knew of Knave’s graveness, and the dignity that emanated from his solid, dependable presence, but never had he seen the dog show humility. And this was no small humility: Knave sounded filled with reverence for whatever it was that was arriving. “Knave—” Hush, said the dog, and a powerful beating sound made Fynch raise his head and squint into the light above. Something plunged toward them—a suggestion of a shadow at first, that darkened until it cut out the light entirely and Fynch no longer squinted but was wide-eyed with both fear and awe.

“The warrior dragon,” he breathed.

Our king, Roark said softly, veneration in his voice, as the mighty creature alighted in the clearing.

The creatures bent low to exalt the hallowed creature that stood before them, its famed, darkly shimmering colors gloriously filling the clearing.

Fynch needed no prompting. He fell to his knees immediately, then prostrated himself. Closing his eyes, he cast a prayer to Shar in thanks for the blessing of this day and what it had brought him.

Fynch, said a voice, as rich and mellow as treacle.

“Your majesty,” Fynch replied, not daring to raise his head.

Come stand before me, the voice commanded. Fynch summoned his courage. With Knave and Roark’s whispered encouragement, he opened his eyes and looked upon the King of all the beasts. There was no doubting that royalty stood before him, no wondering if this glorious creature was worthy of such exaltation. Fynch held his breath as every fiber of his being suddenly felt newly alive, restored somehow in the presence of such grandeur.

Like everyone else who looked upon the dragon pillar in the Pearlis Cathedral with awe, Fynch had believed the warrior dragon to be just legend. Associated with the Morgravian sovereign, it was the most impressive of all the mythical creatures but no more real than the winged lion. But now the King of Kings stood in all his glory before him, as real as Fynch himself.

Faith Fynch, the King said. Be welcome.

“Thank you, your majesty,” Fynch stammered, bowing. “I am proud to serve you.” And we are indebted for that service, child, which is given so bravely by one so young.

Fynch said nothing. He had no response to such generous praise.

The warrior dragon continued: And still we ask more of you.

“I will give my life if it is so required.”

The King regarded him through dark, wise eyes. We shall do everything in our power to prevent you relinquishing something so precious.

“Please tell me, my king”— my true king, Fynch thought to himself—“what it is that you ask of me.” The beast wasted no further time. The King of Morgravia brings shame to his kind. He is of the warrior clan— of my blood, you could say— but he disgusts me.

“Celimus is indeed shameful,” Fynch agreed quietly.

That said, there have been Kings before who have disappointed and we have ignored them. The Thicket and its creatures do not meddle in the affairs of men, child. We have watched you kill one another for centuries and we have not involved ourselves. But on this occasion we have been drawn into the struggles of mankind because of the misuse of magic.

“You speak of Myrren’s Gift, your majesty.”

The King hesitated briefly. That included, yes. It was wrong of Elysius to channel his power through his daughter to such a vengeful end. His power, once we granted him access to the Wild, was to be used only for the good of the natural world.

Fynch felt compelled to defend Elysius. “I don’t think he fully realized what the repercussions would be, your majesty.”

Magic is always dangerous, Fynch, even when used with the best of intentions. There are always repercussions, although sometimes we are unable to see what they are until it is too late. That is why the Thicket and its magic have been deliberately shielded from men. Myrren’s Gift has already claimed four lives. Wyl Thirsk should have died; instead he is abroad and carrying a deadly enchantment. None of us knows where it could end.

“Wyl didn’t ask for Myrren’s Gift, your majesty,” Fynch mumbled, trying not to sound petulant.

I know, my son, the King replied gently. I feel great sorrow for Wyl, who is one of the best among men— as was his father. It is the magic that troubles me, and how it will reverberate through the world of men. I mean to end it here.

“You don’t mean to destroy Wyl?” Fynch exclaimed.

In a way he is already dead, the creature answered.

Fynch did not like the resignation in the Dragon King’s voice. He grasped for placation, desperate to prevent this powerful being from hurting Wyl. “The Thicket and its creatures have asked me to kill Rashlyn, your majesty, and with their help I will endeavor to rid the land of the destroyer. Both brothers will be no more. The magic will end.”

Not really, child, for now you possess it. Rashlyn wishes to control the natural world. He is a corrupter of natural things. He wants power over the beasts. But Celimus is just as dangerous. He too wants power, although of a different kind. I fear that if we do not destroy Rashlyn, these two ambitious men might join together. I know how the minds of greedy men work, and should they claim the Razors and Briavel, they will almost certainly turn their attention toward the Wild. With Celimus’s help, Rashlyn will try to destroy the Thicket. The King sighed. We do not wish to engage in such a confrontation.

“What can I do to help, your majesty?” Fynch asked, desperation seeping into his voice.

I grant you permission to use the magic of the Thicket to aid Wyl Thirsk in his bid to rid Morgravia of its king, for without Celimus I do not believe Rashlyn’s madness can be fully unleashed.

Fynch nodded thoughtfully, relief flooding his small body to learn that the Warrior King did not mean to attack Wyl directly. He recognized that the dragon warrior had not offered his own mighty strength or powers, only that of the Thicket. Fynch also knew that the creatures of the Thicket would insist on keeping their secrets. He already felt a part of this mysterious community and knew he would do everything in his power to protect them and their magic.

“Celimus has no heir,” Fynch cautioned, even though he presumed the royal creature knew as much.

Morgravia will survive. Do what you must. Knave is your guide— use his wisdom well, child, and your own powers sparingly. I presume Elysius explained the price you may be required to pay?

Fynch nodded. “He did.”

The King waited, wondering whether the child would expand on his brief answer. A plea for mercy perhaps, a query as to whether his life could somehow be spared. But no further words came. The King beat his wings in appreciation of the boy’s humility; he was prepared to give everything of himself for those he loved and asked for nothing in return.

The warrior dragon’s gaze penetrated deep into Fynch’s heart and he was surprised to see there a startling and precious secret regarding this boy. He had not expected it, but the discovery warmed him.

Should he share it? The child’s life was already forfeit; what could be gained from adding more confusion? The King felt sorrow well up that they would use this boy so. But there was no other way.

Fynch was the sacrifice, though it cut him deeply to send his own to die.

Then we remain in your debt, Fynch. The Thicket and its creatures will always hold you in their hearts. We bless you and hold our faith in you with reverence.

There was too much emotion swirling through Fynch for him to risk another word to this mightiest of beasts. Instead he bowed to show his complete acceptance. The royal creature acknowledged it with another powerful flapping of his wings, driving Fynch to the ground as he lifted effortlessly into the air and disappeared.

Roark and Knave were at his side again.

He has not appeared to us in an age, Knave said, the awe still evident in his voice. He came to pay homage only to you, child.

Fynch, overwhelmed by this fateful meeting with the King of the Beasts, was unable to respond. Knave understood and nuzzled his friend’s small hand. Come, Faith Fynch, we have a journey to begin.