He stood up abruptly, emptied the fat from the pan, and swirled it in the river, leaving a greasy trail. Then he tossed the pan down next to Raffi. “Pack up. You can carry it.”
“But where?”
“Over the bridge, where else?” Galen dragged his stick up and gave a sudden, sidelong grimace. “I may have lost my powers, but I still have my memory. Words may be enough, if you know the right ones.”
At the bridge end he took some red mud and crouched, making two images on the carved posts, waving Raffi back so he couldn’t see what they were. Then he pushed the tangled nettles back over them. Sucking the edge of one hand, he stood up.
Raffi watched. A tingle of excitement stirred in him. Already he could sense something new; it leaked from the hidden signs like a faint aroma.
Galen stood on the bridge and began to murmur. It was an old prayer, one Raffi had heard only once before, littered with the ancient half-understood words of the Makers. The keeper’s deep voice hoarsened as he spoke them; the air lightened, as if something in the mist curled up, retreated. Raffi came forward quickly.
Galen fell silent, listening. “Well?”
“It feels as though something’s changed.”
“Then I was right. Stay near.” They stepped out onto the bridge; it slipped and swayed under them. Mist swirled over the sedges; Raffi gripped the worn wooden chains, feeling the whole shaky contraption rattle under him. But this time it was different. As they crossed he saw trees loom out of the damp, not beeches but oaks—old, squat, hollow trees—and holly, and thorn, crowding right to the bank.
“You did it!”
Galen nodded. He stopped at the rotting end of the bridge and looked around. “But this isn’t the other bank. It seems to be some sort of island in the river. Tiny. And overgrown. No one’s been here for years.”
The disappointment was hard in his voice.
Crushing foxglove and bracken, they pushed their way in. The island had a silence that made Raffi uneasy. No birds sang. Above the gnarled branches the sky was blue, pale as eggshell. He realized the morning was half over.
Galen stopped. Before them was a house, or it had been, once. Now only a few fragments of wall rose among a thicket of elder; red wall, made of mud brick. A single window with a black shutter hung open. Trampling down nettles, Raffi clambered up and looked inside.
The room was a grove of trees. Oaks had splintered it; over the years its outline had faded under ivy, swathes of fungus on rotting wood. Half a chimney still rose up, weeds waving from its top.
A crash made him jump; Galen had forced his way in, through a cloud of seed and gnats.
Raffi followed. “Was it ours?”
“I should think so.”
“But why the protection spell? There’s nothing here to protect.”
Galen threw him a scornful look. “That’s what we’re meant to think. Go and get the pack.”
When he’d dragged it in, he found Galen kneeling at the hearth, brushing earth and worms from flat red bricks that were smashed and broken. The keeper eased his filthy nails in and forced one up; it moved with a strange hoarse gasp.
The earth underneath was smooth. Galen tugged the next stone out.
“What are you looking for?”
“Anything. The spell was strong. Something’s here worth guarding.”
“Relics!”
“Almost certainly.” Another tile came out and left a dark gap. Raffi crouched down quickly. He had felt the shock of power, faint but unmistakable. “Something’s in there!”
Galen widened the hole, reached in, and seemed to scrabble and dig with his fingers. He paused, then he pulled his hands out in a shower of soil.
He was holding a small packet, wrapped in layers of waxed cloth. Shuffling back, he turned and carefully laid it on a flat stone.
“Is it dangerous?” he asked without looking up.
“I don’t think so.” Raffi felt inadequate, the old feeling. “I don’t really know.”
Galen shot him a glance. Then he unwrapped the packet, his fingers working eagerly. Raffi knew he was taking a chance.
The cloth opened. They saw a small glass ball, and a piece of rough parchment made from some thin bark. This had rotted and, even as Galen opened it, infinitely carefully, pieces flaked off. Then it split, and he hissed with frustration.
The writing was faint, barely a scrawl, and some words had gone. Galen read it out grimly.
Kelnar, of the Order of keepers. To any others of the Sacred Way who still live and . . . come this way. The Watch . . . from the chalk hills. The Archkeeper Tesk died yesterday, they took him. They know I’m here, I have to go to find . . . I have little time. Understand this. I have seen the Crow. The Crow still lives in the dark places of Tasceron, in the House of Trees, deep underground, guarded with spells. I cannot say. . . .
Galen frowned. “This bit’s very broken. I can just get words: hollow, sacred, the messenger. Then, Find him. Find him. Prayers and blessings, brothers. Strength of the rock, cunning of the weasel be yours.”
He looked up. “That’s all.”
Carefully, he sifted the tiny scraps that had fallen, trying to find more.
“The Crow!” Raffi breathed the words in awe. “Still alive!”
“Tesk died twenty years ago. That dates it.”
But Raffi could see the news had shaken Galen, stirred him deep. He wanted to ask more, about what it meant, but instead he picked up the ball carefully. It was cold, heavy, quite transparent. He turned it in his fingers. Nothing came from it now. It was silent.
Galen took it from him. “A relic. But of what?” He muttered a prayer over it, a brief blessing. “Once I saw an image of the Crow carrying such a glass ball in his mouth. A most secret sign. But what it means, I never learned.”
“Did you know him?” Raffi asked.
“Kelnar? No. Not even the name. But the Order was great when I was a scholar. There were hundreds of keepers.”
“I wonder what happened to him.”
Galen scowled. He wrapped the ball back in the waxed cloth and, picking the letter up, read it again. Then he crushed it in his strong grip. Fragments of desiccated parchment gusted in the river breeze.
“Dead,” he said softly. “Like all of them.”
THEY DECIDED TO SLEEP on the island. With the spell on the bridge, and on the second bridge that led through a great bank of nettles to the far shore, there was nowhere safer. Raffi was too tired to think about what they had found. He drank hot tea made of nettle leaves and curled up hastily in a blanket in the shelter of the ruined wall.
His dreams were strange. He found himself walking endlessly over a grassy plain; a great city lay before him, its spires and towers rising over the horizon, but he could never reach it, never get any closer. And behind him his shadow stretched, long and black, and it danced and capered with glee, he knew it did, but every time he turned and looked at it, it kept still. Walking on, he felt the evil dance break out again behind him. There was nothing he could do about it.
When he woke, he lay with his eyes closed, sleepily, trying to remember. Dreams were important. Perhaps someone was following them. The Watch, he thought, in sudden terror. Or Alberic. But whoever it was, the bridge would stop him. Relieved, he knew that was true. No one else could cross that.
When he sat up, the sky was dim—the sun had set into red streaks toward the west. Cloud was building there, a sullen bank of weather; gnats and humflies gathered in twisting columns among the sedges.
He made the fire, boiled water, found some roots and a solitary duck’s egg. When Galen woke they said the long chant of the day solemnly, sitting under a willow, their hands spread. Then they ate. Galen halved the egg, though it was his by right. Spitting out some shell, he said, “We’ll stay here tonight and go on in the morning. It’ll be more dangerous, but we shouldn’t cross the burial hills at night.”
“Good,” Raffi muttered, his mouth full.
Galen sat back, folding his arms. Th
en he said, “Who is the Crow, Raffi?”
Raffi swallowed hastily. But he knew the ritual; the Litany of the Makers had always fascinated him.
“The Crow is the messenger. In the beginning the Crow flew between the Makers and God. He carried their words, written in gold letters. He spoke their words to God. Later, when the Makers left Anara and went to the seven sisters in the heavens, the Crow brought messages from them to the keepers and Relic Masters of the Order.”
“Is the Crow a bird?”
“The Crow is a bird and not a bird. He is a man and not a man.”
“Is the Crow a voice?”
“He is the voice of the Makers.”
Galen nodded. “Good. I’ve neglected the Litany with you lately.”
“Knowing the answers is one thing,” Raffi said. “I’m still not sure what they mean.”
Galen stirred the fire and laughed harshly. “Wise men have spent their lives on them. A four-year scholar knows nothing yet. The Crow is a spiritual being. He can take many forms. He’s real.”
“Have you ever . . . seen him?”
Galen looked up, surprised. Then he shrugged. “I was no older than you when the Order was destroyed. Such visions were far above me. What I’ve learned since then has been from Malik, my own master, from the Book, from the few of the Order I’ve met. The great visions are shattered, Raffi. Our knowledge is in pieces, in the ashes of burned libraries. Only in Tasceron might there be someone who knows the answers.”
Raffi looked up at the moons; Atterix and Pyra, almost together. “The man who wrote that letter—he says he saw the Crow.”
“A lot can happen in twenty years.” Galen’s eyes were shadows, but as he shifted, Raffi saw them glint strangely. “And yet the Crow is immortal. If we could find him, speak to him . . . If he could take our message to the Makers . . . If the Makers would come back . . .”
He was silent, choked with the joy of it, and Raffi too, hearing the ripple of the sluggish water, the splash of a bird settling for the night. Then, with a hiss of pain he snatched his hand up.
Galen looked over. “What’s wrong?”
“A bee sting!”
A small red lump was swelling on his wrist. He put it to his mouth, sucking at the pain.
“At night?”
Raffi let the throb subside. Then he said, “It’s not a real bee. I put the sign of the bee on a stone at the bottom of that track we came down. Someone just stood on it.”
9
The Watch is unsleeping. Never relent in the search; never turn back.
Rule of the Watch
Journal of Carys Arrin
Larsnight
7.16.546
I’ve lost them.
And this is so infuriating I can hardly get the words down, but what stopped me was a spell.
There’s no other word for it. Every time I tried to cross that bridge I found myself back where I started! It seems to be some sort of power field to confuse the mind—I can’t believe that it actually changes matter in any way or that the bridge can have only one end. In all my training, the Watchleaders insisted that the powers of the Order were an illusion—I can see fat old Jeltok now, banging his cane on the table. Well, it’s an illusion that’s worked on me.
Galen Harn had crossed. I found traces of a campfire on the bank and scraps of food—fungus of some sort. Maybe they brew a concoction of this and drink it to counteract the spell. Too risky to try without knowing more.
In the end I had to give up. Even leading the horse into the swamp would have been useless—the whole area was thick with seedbeds and alder; soft, probably deep. I almost screamed with frustration, and kicked the black rotting chains of the thing with hatred.
What makes it worse is that they’re traveling by night. Harn is cunning. He’s been hunted all his life; he knows how to blend with the leaves and the land, though I don’t believe that nonsense that the keepers can turn into trees and stones.
It was well after dark when I turned back from the bridge and though I’d slept a little, I was tired. Yesterday I sold the pack-beast and most of the goods in a village beyond the fields—speed is more important now. But I kept the horse, and that’s one advantage. They’re on foot.
I rode the horse back up the stony gully and turned east, quickly crossing the fields in the dark. My plan was to follow the river upstream until I could cross it. The wind was chill and the stubbly ground uneven; worst of all it rose constantly, and the river ran below in a steep cleft with ash and elder springing out of the sides. There was no way down—I just had to keep going, farther away from the bridge all the time.
Furious, I strapped my jerkin tight and kicked the horse on; we galloped now, leaping small walls and hedges, four moons watching us through cloud. Down lanes bordered with stone walls, past a dark farmhouse, skirting tangled copses; the search for a track seemed endless. It was almost light before I found it. A narrow, beaten trail. It looked as if animals had trodden it; it led into a dark stand of juniper and fireberry bushes, and smelled of night-cat.
The horse didn’t like it. Neither did I, I suppose, but time was pressing and I was angry and a bit reckless. So I rode down. I can see old Jellie shaking his head now.
It was dark among the trees, the branches low and tangled. I had to dismount, slashing them aside, leading the horse. Uneasy, fly-bitten, and scratched, we scrambled down, tread muffled on a springy mattress of needles, the winter’s shriveled berries. The track dropped steeply and the horse kept whickering, the smell of its fear sharp on the air. I swore at it, then swung my crossbow out and racked it hastily. In the undergrowth a twig had cracked.
I stopped, raising the bow. The copse was dim. Ahead, somewhere below, I could see a pale daylight, but here the trunks crowded, silent.
I heard it before it leaped and squirmed around; the yowl was in my face, past me, then the lithe black shape had fastened onto the horse; it reared, screaming with terror. I aimed too fast; the bolt shot wide, crunched in an ashbole. Then the horse was gone, in a heedless bloodstained panic, the night-cat streaking after it like a shadow.
Furious, I scrambled down the track, all hope gone. I’d seen what a night-cat could do—there’d be no chance of riding back to the bridge. And I was scared, believe me. But I needed the food and money in the saddlebags. Everything was on that wretched horse. Then as I came out of the trees, I fell smack over something lying in the path, and stared at it, on hands and knees.
The night-cat lay sprawled, mid-jump. One paw was flung up, the snarling mouth wide in the agony of its death. It was still hot. Fleas jumped off it. I reached out cautiously and touched it. The great head slumped; blood clotted the black fur, just congealing. A crossbow bolt stuck out of its neck.
I rolled under the nearest bush, racked the bow hastily, and reloaded it. I’d missed the cat. This was someone else’s work. And they’d be back for it. Steadying my breath, controlling, I waited for them under the leaves. Always see what you’re up against, Jellie used to wheeze. I’d never believed he’d been a field agent, not then, but his captures were listed in all the Watchtowers, so he must have been thinner once.
Two minutes later a blackbird screeched and flew off. I heard voices coming up the path from the river. Putting my eye to the sight of the bow I watched them come, two men, shouldering through bracken, my sweating, nervous horse dragging behind.
I could have killed them both. Or maybe one; the other would have gone before I could reload, and then it would have been cat and mouse, and I had no idea who else might be around. Safer to wait.
They stood over the cat, laughing, more than pleased with themselves. The bigger one gazed up the track. “The rider might still be alive.”
“Maybe.”
“Should we look?”
The smaller one laughed and shook his head. “Not me. Cat’s had him. Or he broke his neck coming off. This horse is worth at least fifty marks, never mind the stuff in the bags.”
“What if he turns up?”
They looked at each other. Then they laughed again.
I had to take my finger off the trigger, force myself to be calm. I get angry too easily, and an agent needs control. They didn’t know I was Watch. I could have gotten up and told them—they might have backed off. Or might not. Bitterly I lay where I was, deep in leaves, woodbugs crawling over me. And all the time Galen Harn was slipping away.
They were in no hurry. They skinned the cat on the spot, taking the soft thick pelt, the teeth, the paws, some of the innards. Soon the air stank of blood; flies buzzed in clouds over the carcass. Finally, well into the morning, they gathered up their packs, loaded them onto the horse, and set off, down toward the river. They talked loud and easy, but their bows were ready.
Stiff and filthy, I watched them go, then got up and followed, silent, from bush to tree. I may not be one of the magical Order, but even as kids in the Watchhouses, we played this game. No one caught me then. Or now.
It took over an hour to reach the farm. I smelled it first, the tang of cattle over the marshy ground; then I saw the low rise of the roof, close to the water. The river was narrower here, still sluggish but shallow; I could see cows knee-deep in it on a bank of shingle. I could have crossed. But I wanted the horse.
The men tied it up and went inside.
Flat behind low scrub, I looked the place over. Not a village, as I’d feared, but a house, isolated. Maybe fewer than ten people. Abruptly the door opened; the two men were back, women with them, an old man, children. They fed the horse an apple, walked around it, slapped its legs admiringly. A small girl in a tattered dress was lifted onto its back.
There were dogs, of course. Two. I was downwind, which was just as well, but they terrified me. Dogs you can never trust. Then I saw the saddlebags were open. Bit by bit, my food supplies went into the house. I saw them holding up my clothes, surprised, and managed a sour laugh. I was small, even for a girl. What were they thinking now?
Finally, when I’d almost wriggled away and given up, they all went in. I slid forward quickly, through the marshy tussocks. Frustration broke out—suddenly I was reckless and fierce. I’d lost so much time; if I was to act it had to be now, before they came back!
The Dark City Page 5