At first there were a lot of people about; as it got dark and the weather closed in, they went indoors. A fine, gray drizzle fell, but I was well sheltered. After the light flashed out, I lay along the branch and thought about it. First, it had to mean that Galen Harn was inside the fortress. Only he could have done that, or his scholar—though according to our information Raffael Morel has only been with him for four years, since Harn took him from his father’s farm.
And they must have used a relic. This was no wood and water mumbo jumbo, no sacred trees or spirit journeys. This was something brimming with power, blinding. Something of the Makers.
For a long time I waited, fidgeting with curiosity. What was going on in there? Harn and Alberic must be in some plot together, brewing something against the Watch. If only I could have gotten inside!
Ten minutes later, the light came again.
I was ready this time, and it may have been nearer the window, or simply stronger, because the ray was breathtaking—pure white, so that in one instant I saw all the roofs of the buildings below lit in a sudden stark glare; squalid walls and rain and a pig lying on its side in a sty. Then blackness.
It seemed to shock the people of the fortress just as much—they came running out of all the doors and clustered, staring up.
Nothing else, all night. I ate cold food and put the beasts in shelter, then lay on the branch and watched. Three moons shone on the thieves’ tower—even in the dappled moonlight the pale walls gleamed. Whoever the Makers were, they could build. An owl is hooting in the wood; the wet branches stir around me, dripping on this page.
Tomorrow, if nothing else happens, I’ll have to try and get inside. This might not be too difficult. My face isn’t known—after all, this is my first real mission, first time outside the Watchhouse. And according to what I’ve heard, Alberic’s tower is a nest of cutthroats, poachers, thieves, renegades. People come and go there all the time, with no real rules except Alberic’s orders. Maybe no one will notice one more vagabond.
Especially if she is a girl.
Karnosday, early
No need. They’re coming out. Two figures have just left the gate, and they look like Harn and the boy. They must be in some plot with Alberic—he’d never let them go otherwise. It’ll take me a while to get down the hill and after them. But this is luck, real luck.
Dead or alive, say the orders. And I won’t lose them now.
7
The Order will survive. They can never kill us all. Underground, well hidden, we have knowledge that can outlive the world.
Reputed last words of Mardoc Archkeeper, from the rack
“ARE YOU SURE?” Galen stood on the grass under the oak and stared back at the misty country they had crossed.
“Not sure.” Raffi shrugged, uneasy. “Just a feeling. As if someone touched me and drew back. It may have been nothing.”
“Unlikely.” Galen hadn’t moved; shading his eyes from the rising sun, he stared east. “It could have been an animal.”
“Do you think Alberic is having us followed?”
Galen came and sat on the wet grass. “I doubt that.”
“But he knows we could go anywhere!”
“He has the box.”
“Yes, and that was a big mistake.”
Galen gave him an icy glare. “If I want your opinion, boy, I’ll ask. The box is nearly dead. And he’s greedy but wily. He’ll keep it for himself, a personal weapon to keep his rabble in order. He won’t risk wasting it.”
Raffi simmered, his back against the ridged oak bark. Galen was right. He was always right. Except about Tasceron.
“Well,” the Relic Master said grimly, “if you think someone’s following, you’d better look back.” He looked resentful. “Take your time.”
Raffi sat back, tried to relax, breathed in the cold damp. Under his palms he felt the crushed stalks of grass. Slowly, his third eye opened. He looked back along the paths of the last day and night, felt the stir of small animals along the hedgerows, the giant ant-castle where the track crossed the stream. He tasted the dreams of the sleepers in the village they had skirted, smelled the great silent strength of the trees, the leaf-rot, the strange nightwalkers among them. Along the waterlines he went, and the earth tracks, back, far back, as far as he could reach, and all he felt at the edge of the land was the sun, a red heat, a blaze that rose with a searing pain out of the steams of the valley.
His lips opened; no words came.
Galen grabbed his arm. “Stop it. You’re burning.”
Raffi dragged himself back, such a long way. Opening his eyes, he felt drained; he was sweating, dizzy.
“Don’t look into the sun!” Galen was angry. “How many times have I told you that! Was there anyone?”
“I don’t know,” Raffi said faintly.
Galen stood up and limped around. “If only I could see!” he cried, raging, banging down his stick.
“Don’t shout,” Raffi moaned.
Galen glared at him, then nudged the pack with his foot. “Drink something. It helps.”
Feeling a failure, Raffi got the water out and drank thirstily. It ran down his chin; he dragged the cool drops over his hot face. He was tired and wished they would stop; it was dangerous to travel in the day.
A few minutes later Galen came and stood over him. “Not your fault,” he said gruffly. “Not enough practice.”
“Not your fault either,” Raffi said quietly.
The keeper jabbed the turf with his stick. “Isn’t it?” He looked up, out ahead. “Come on. Let’s find somewhere to lay low.”
IT WAS STILL EARLY, and the fields were waist-deep in damp mist. Walking through them seemed more like wading; browsing flocks of tiny birds rose up in clouds before them. This was someone’s pasture, lush and green, the hedgerows thick with leaves and bines, the trees already losing their leaves. A herd of tawny cattle wandered in the fields beyond, staring, chewing, at the passing strangers.
Raffi chewed back at them. It was easy country to walk, low and firm underfoot. Lanes and small tracks crisscrossed it; gates were in good repair. It was a different world to the forest. But the people also made it dangerous.
Climbing down a hedge bank into a deep hollow lane, he saw that Galen had stopped. The Relic Master stood tall among the white flowers of the hedge, the pack on his back, listening. Then he turned. “Anything?”
“Someone ahead. Near.”
As Raffi said it, she came around the corner of the lane: a large woman, wrapped in rough shawls, avoiding the puddles. She carried a small sack in her arms; it seemed heavy as she put it down and straightened wearily. Then she saw them.
“Be careful,” Galen whispered.
“You don’t need to tell me that!”
There was no way of avoiding her. The lane was deep, the hedges high on each side, spiny and tangled. They walked on quickly, Galen’s staff sticking in the soft ground.
The woman waited, hands on hips. She probably had some weapon, Raffi thought. He put his head down and tried to look pitiable. As he was wet through and tired, that was easy.
“Fine day,” Galen said quietly as they came up to her.
The woman nodded; she looked at them both with a shrewd interest. “For traveling, it is. Have you come by the village?”
“A different way.” Galen rubbed his chin with the back of one hand, then he stopped, digging the stick in and leaning both hands on it. His long strings of black jet and green crystals swung in the pale light. “Can you tell me about the pathways hereabouts?”
She didn’t seem afraid. “I could. Where are you going?”
He hesitated. “The coast.”
“It’s four days’ walk.” She turned slightly, but still watched them both. “You should keep heading west. Make for that stone on the ridge up there.” She pointed, and far off Raffi saw a tiny pillar on the skyline, dark against the clouds. “From there the track goes on, clear over the chalklands. Lots of old tombs up there—Sekoi country. I wouldn�
�t pass it at night.” She scratched her neck. “But you may not mind.”
If that was a hint, Galen ignored it. “Where do we cross the river?” he asked.
She laughed shortly, then looked at him carefully. “Well upstream. Almost at the top of the valley. Half a day’s tramp.”
“Isn’t there a nearer ford? Or a bridge?”
For a moment she said nothing. Then, strangely, “Oh, there’s a bridge, master. At the bottom of the gully. But no one can cross it. Take my advice and keep away from it.”
Raffi felt Galen’s interest. “Why?”
Instead of answering, she said, “We all fear the Watch, stranger, don’t we?”
“Indeed we do,” Galen said very quietly.
“Then listen. The bridge is a thing of the Makers. Many have tried to cross it and can’t, that’s all I know. Go upstream.” Then she almost smiled. “I see I’m wasting my advice.”
Galen looked at her steadily. “Thank you.”
“Take care. If you were one of the old Order I might ask for your blessing.”
“If I were one of the old Order I would give it.”
She nodded briefly, then picked up her sack and trudged past Raffi. He moved aside for her; saw her glance at him, sharp and interested. She knew who they were. But none of them would say anything, just in case.
At the end of the track she turned. “Keep that boy of yours fed,” she called. “He looks half starved.”
Then she was gone, brushing through the wet sprays of hawthorn, so that the drops fell in a glinting shower.
Raffi glanced at Galen. “So.”
Galen tugged his stick out of the mud. “Let’s go and see this bridge.”
Raffi sighed. “I knew we would.”
At the end of the track was a field path, and then a tiny stone-lined gully, leading down to the left between dripping trees. The going was steep; the wet stones slippery and so overgrown that Galen had to slash away the weeds.
“Not many use this,” Raffi gasped, slipping.
“They did once.” Galen snapped a branch with an effort, muttering the prayer that would calm the tree. “It’s cobbled. That was done for a reason.”
As they went down, Raffi felt the age of the rutted way. It became a green tunnel of leaves; great ferns and banks of cowflax and horsetails, meadowsweet and tiny carpets of purple flowers that climbed and sprouted between the stones.
Crouching, pushing the wet leaves aside, he found that both sides of the track were walled; Galen was right, it had once been important. But now it was dim and dripping with rain from the trees overhead, so that small runnels of water slid down through the red mud and over the stones where Raffi’s feet slithered and splashed.
Down they went, into the valley’s depths. The air became sticky, clammy with pollen; small flies droned in the clumps of white umbrels, their sweet stench pungent. Below him, Galen was flecked with light, gold tints of sunlight on his back as he passed through a brighter patch. “Coming out,” he muttered.
Raffi scrambled down, one ankle aching. At the bottom, balanced on two stones with the water trickling between, he turned and looked back up the green hollow. It dripped silently. If anyone was following, he’d have to come down the same way. For a moment he thought, then crouched to the stone under his boot and, putting a finger in the wet mud, drew a design carefully on it. A black bee, gatherer and storer—one of the signs of the Order. He threw a handful of clotted leaves to cover it. Now we’ll see, he thought.
The hollow widened onto the riverbank, a steep incline of red mud, the exposed roots of great beech trees sprawled over it like a natural stairway. Galen was already climbing down. Beyond him, Raffi saw the bridge.
It was a bizarre structure. Low, only inches above the water, and made of chains; black, seemingly wooden chains that had splintered and split in places. Planks hung from them, looking half rotten. On the two heavy posts rammed into the shore were carvings—faces, grotesque and snarling—and a few snags of cloth and feathers hung from poles nearby.
Jumping down, Raffi stood by Galen. “People are still afraid of it.”
“I’m not surprised.”
The river was sluggish and choked with weeds and sedges; mist hung over it, so that the bridge led into gray uncertainty. Thick green weed trailed under the surface like hair.
Raffi swiped at mosquitoes. “It’s becoming a swamp.”
“What about the bridge?” Galen asked coldly.
Sighing, Raffi tried to sense it, but it was just mist and drift, and he was tired. “Can’t we sleep?” he muttered. “The sun’s up, we’ve been walking all night. No one’s likely to come here.”
“We stop when I say!” Galen shrugged the pack off and threw his stick on it. He walked to the bridge and put a hand on each of the black posts and stood there a moment, looking into the mist. Raffi knew he was straining to feel something. Anything. When he spoke, the keeper’s voice was harsh with defeat.
“I’m crossing. Stay here. If I call you, come.”
“Look.” Raffi hesitated. “Shouldn’t I . . . ?”
“No! I’m still the Master.”
Galen edged forward cautiously. The black chains tightened; the bridge creaked and swung, but it seemed strong enough to hold him. He walked on, step by step, avoiding the broken planks, merging into the mist that rose from the stagnant water. Slowly it closed around him, and he was gone.
Raffi waited, anxious. The river rippled quietly, stinking of rot. A snake slithered between reeds and flicked away. Nothing else moved. The silence was intense, suddenly eerie. Raffi came to the end of the bridge and gripped the posts. “Galen?”
Before he could call again he caught a movement in the mist. Galen’s dark figure loomed out of it, walking carefully. When he looked up, he seemed astonished.
He stared at Raffi strangely. Then he stepped off the bridge and stood in the mud. He looked around.
“What happened?” Raffi demanded. “Why did you come back?”
“See for yourself.”
“What?”
Galen sat on the bank. He seemed bewildered and amused about it. “Go on. Take a look.”
Raffi stared, then turned abruptly and walked out onto the bridge. He went quickly, jumping the splintered boards, avoiding the gaps in the rail. When he looked back, the bank was lost in mist. Mist drifted all around him; a waterbird croaked in it.
Ahead of him, as the bridge swayed, he saw something. Trees on a bank, beech trees, high and green. One plank went soft underfoot; he stepped over it quickly and looked up. The bank loomed out of grayness.
Raffi stopped dead in astonishment.
Galen was sitting by the pack, legs stretched out. He waved a long hand. “So,” he said sarcastically. “What happened? Why did you come back?”
“I didn’t! I went straight across!”
The keeper laughed grimly. “So did I, Raffi. So did I.”
8
“Now,” Flain said, “we must have a messenger to go between us and God.” The eagle said, “Let it be me.” But the eagle was too proud.
The bee-bird said, “Let it be me.” But the bee-bird was too vain.
The crow said, “Let it be me. I’m dark, an eater of carrion. I have nothing to be proud of.”
So Flain chose the crow, and whispered the secrets to it.
Book of the Seven Moons
IT WAS AMAZING. And infuriating. Three times now, Raffi had crossed the bridge. Each time he came back to where he’d started from.
“It’s impossible,” he muttered. “I mean, it’s not circular, it doesn’t turn! I don’t understand!”
Galen sat on the bank, legs crossed. He had pulled some orange fungi from the bole of a dead tree; now he was frying them in the small pan over a carefully smokeless fire.
“What have I taught you?” he said. “Understanding’s not enough. Understanding is from outside; merely a function of the mind.”
Raffi sighed. “I know.”
“To enter, t
hat’s the secret. To become the bridge, to crawl into its sap, to sway with it, to rot over centuries as its heartwood rots. When you are the bridge you will know what the bridge knows. It takes time. A lifetime. And skill.”
Sullenly, Raffi sat down. Galen gave him a sharp glance.
“You know it but you don’t apply it. You’re lazy. Now think. How could the bridge be like this?”
Raffi was scowling at the sizzling mushrooms, counting the pieces. He said, “It could be a device of the Makers. Though it doesn’t look that old.”
Galen nodded, shaking the pan. Pig fat spat and crackled. “Possible. The entire bridge a relic. It could be older than it seems. The wood is from no tree I know. What else?”
Raffi swallowed. “Aren’t they ready yet?”
“Concentrate. What else?”
He forced himself to think. “A protection spell. Someone who lives on the other side.”
“Also possible. Here, take some now.”
Raffi jabbed his knife in and dragged out one slice carefully, waving it, eating it before it cooled so that it burned his mouth. He gulped down three more without speaking, then paused, with another on his knife.
“What about the Sekoi?”
“No.” Galen chewed slowly. “Not this. I have a feeling this is one of ours.”
“Ours.”
“The Order.”
Raffi sat up. “Someone alive?”
“Maybe.” Galen stared at the bridge, his eyes deep and dark. “There were men in the Order once with great skills, boy. They knew the mightiest relics—handled them every day. The power of the Makers lingered in them. They knew strange things—things that have never been written, maybe even the secrets of the Makers themselves. An old man once told me that when the Makers departed the world, they left behind a certain book of their deeds wrapped in black cloth. Only one man knew the script it was written in. The knowledge was taught, from one Archkeeper to the next, till Mardoc was betrayed. Maybe someone still knows it.”
The Dark City Page 4