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that, if it had come from further away, Will might have mistaken for the noise the wind makes through a slightly open window. The shadowy shape turned slowly, swaying from side to side. The child’s cry sounded again, and the thing melted into the shadows.
    Rowen’s grip on Will’s arm relaxed. She let out a long breath.
    “What is it?” Will whispered.
    “That is a fetch,” Moth said. “We call them
annai
, hungry ghosts, with no story of their own. They are moved only by the will of the one that drives them.”
    “When I first saw them,” Will said, “they looked like… They reminded me of my family.”
    “They can take any shape, to fool the eye and the heart,” Moth said. “They can even inhabit the dead, and animate them. If a fetch took hold of you its deadly chill would seep in, like black water, and your spirit would grow cold and easily led. That sound is something they can send out to help them find their quarry.”
    “The child. Shouldn’t we help it, or…”
    “That was no child. It was Morrigan, leading the hunt away from us.”
    Again Will’s gaze was drawn to the strange black sword that swung at Moth’s hip. Moth noticed his look this time, and with a frown he gathered his cloak tighter round himself.
    As they set off again, there was a squawk from high above, and the raven came swooping down out of the mist to light on Moth’s arm. Morrigan spoke softly in her strange, guttural tongue, and then, with another loud squawk, she flew off again.
    “We are almost there,” Moth said. “Morrigan thinks we can risk the road.”
    He led them onto a narrow path, which wound through the meadowland and then dipped down sharply, curved round a rocky bend, and came out into a rolling plain, where it joined a wider road paved with flagstones.
    “Here I take my leave,” Moth said. “I will search for the mirrors, and drive off the fetches if I can. Morrigan will keep watch on you from above until you reach the city. Good luck, Will Lightfoot.”
    At a word from Moth the raven soared into the hazy air. Will watched her go. When he lowered his gaze, Moth was no longer with them.

As we have now surveyed the geography and history of the city, it is fitting that we investigate the chief craft of its people, which is stories
.
    — Wodden’s History of Fable, Volume Three
    R OWEN AND WILL HURRIED ALONG THE ROAD , passing stone farmhouses with pale smoke already rising from their chimneys into the air. The rain began to fall in earnest. Once a small dog darted out from an open gate in a hedge and trotted along with them a short distance before dashing back the way it had come. Such a familiar sight, like something he might have seen on his own street, cheered Will a little. Then he thought about his father and Jess. It had been hours since he took off on the motorcycle. They would have no idea what had happened to him. They would be searching everywhere. That would pay Dad back for taking them on this move in the first place, Will thought angrily. Then he thought about the cloven tree, and the mirror shards, and the fetches. Dad and Jess might be out there right now, where those things were…
    They passed a few other travellers approaching the city. Most plodded along wearily with bundles on their backs. There were also a couple of lone riders who seemed lost in their own thoughts. Most of the people heading to the city wore the same antiquated clothing as Rowen and Moth, but some were dressed in even more outlandish garb. And a few, Will noticed with a shock, might not be called quite human. He caught glimpses of a goatish face on one traveller, and eerie catlike eyes gleamed out at him from under the hood of another.
    “Who are these people?” he whispered.
    “Most are farmers bringing their wares to market. But some are storyfolk from other lands. That’s not unusual, but still, the high road is never this busy so late at night.”
    She sounded concerned, Will thought.
    After a time the walls and