The Hidden Coronet #3

by Catherine Fisher

  Galen swung around. “And the Ring?”

  “They never found that. As you know it cannot be seen or felt unless I wish it. I managed never to wish it.”

  “You were lucky,” Carys said bluntly.

  “I was. I knew so little that was of any use to them. I had seen no other keepers for years, knew no safe houses, no passwords, no networks of hiding places. In the end, I suppose they just grew tired of me. The Watch always have more prisoners to ill-treat. I was left alone for weeks. Then, one day, we were chained up and brought to Telman, to the Frost Fair, eleven of us. One died on the way. Marco and I were shackled together on the journey, the iron cutting into our legs. We became friends—unlikely friends, I admit, but then, we both fully expected to die, and I wanted to convert him. I thought I had accepted death. Until you came running up to me, Raffi, and the ice shattered. I still do not understand how that was done. But I thank Flain for his mercy.” He smiled gently at Tallis, drawing his fingers back. “And you, Guardian, for your peaceful island.”

  She nodded, but from the window Galen said bleakly, “How much do you know about this Marco?” He turned, and they saw his face was dark. “Why were they holding him?”

  “Ah.” Solon looked awkward. His fingers stroked his neck as if he felt for awen-beads that had been long lost. “Yes. Marco. He’s a good man, Galen. He tried to get free one night and they beat him with chains for it. He may not think quite like us, but . . .”

  Galen came closer. He looked grim. “Archkeeper. What had he done?”

  The older man smiled unhappily. “You won’t like it.”

  “I can see that. Tell me.”

  Solon scratched his cheek. Then he said, “It appears Marco went back on a business deal with them. He cheated them. I’m afraid he is—was—a dealer, Galen. He sold relics to the Watch.”

  9

  I have done dark things. Dark and terrible. And I cannot undo them.

  Sorrows of Kest

  CARYS WINCED.

  Galen exploded into rage. “He does what?”

  “We must forgive him. He’s a good man.”

  “A good man!” The keeper lashed a chair aside in fury. “Do you tell me we’ve brought such a man here! To Sarres! Half carried him for miles through wood and fen! Dear God, Solon, if I’d known, I’d have put the noose around his neck myself!”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” the Archkeeper said mildly.

  “You don’t know me,” Galen snarled. He strode across the room in wrath. “Men like that are the scum of the world. To steal the gifts of the Makers and sell them for scrap! And you say he’s your friend!”

  “He is.” Solon stood up. “Come, Galen. We are here to help the fallen, even those who have sunk so low they believe in nothing. He needs us. He may not know it, but he does.”

  Galen folded his arms, fighting for control. He took a deep breath, but when he spoke his voice was still acid with bitterness. “No wonder Mardoc chose you if you have kindness even for a wretch like this. I am not so perfect, Archkeeper.”

  “You’ve had a hard struggle. We all have.” Solon came up to him hesitantly. “But he’s here now. And for my sake, Galen, let him stay.”

  Galen looked at him in surprise. “You’re the leader here, not me.”

  “I still ask you.”

  A shrill giggle interrupted them. They looked through the window and saw Marco limp painfully across the lawns, Felnia running in front of him. He sat carefully on a stone seat and gazed around, legs stretched out.

  “For your sake,” Galen said harshly. “But I pray he won’t steal all of Sarres before the end.”

  “You blindfolded him,” Carys pointed out.

  He glared at her. “So I did.”

  “And now . . .” Solon sat down quickly, as if anxious to change the subject. “I have told my story, and someone, please, must tell me yours. I am eaten up with curiosity.” He looked around the table at them contentedly. “I mean, how did you all come here? And if this is truly the island of Artelan’s Dream, how is it uncorrupted? Above all”—he turned to look at Galen, who was still staring darkly out the window—“above all, keeper, how did you break the ice and speak to the trees with such strength? Because I have never seen the like of that in my life.”

  Galen did not turn. He seemed too morose to speak. “We came together in Tasceron,” he said at last, heavy with irony.

  “Tasceron!” Solon’s eyes lit. “You’ve been there? There was a strange rumor going around the cells, that the Crow had risen over Tasceron. Is it true? Did you see it?”

  Raffi and Carys looked at Galen, who turned slowly.

  “No,” he said.

  The room went quiet. Carys saw at once that he wanted to keep the Crow a secret, and she thought he was wise. But Raffi was trying to hide his astonishment, and even the Sekoi’s yellow eyes widened a slit.

  “We brought the girl here,” Galen said.

  Solon looked at Carys.

  “Not me,” she laughed. “Felnia.”

  “The little one? But why?”

  “Because she is the Interrex.” Galen came and sat down.

  Solon stared. “The one spoken of in the Apocalypse? ‘Between the kings the Interrex shall come’? But the Emperor is dead . . .”

  “She’s the Emperor’s granddaughter,” Raffi said quickly. He looked flurried; Carys wondered whether Galen had given him some mental signal to talk, to keep the conversation off the Crow.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” Raffi rubbed his nose distractedly. “It’s a long story. We found her in a Watchhouse.” He explained, while Carys watched Galen. The keeper looked grim, his black hair pushed back. Through the window he watched Marco, sitting, eyes closed in the warm sun. It must hurt, Carys thought. Galen burned to tell Solon, to tell the world, that the Crow had returned, and yet it still wasn’t safe. Though if it hadn’t been for that man outside, Solon would know, she was sure.

  Raffi finished his story and Solon stared in solemn astonishment. Finally he said, “So that little minx out there is the ruler of Anara! But yes . . .” Excitedly he turned to Galen. “That must be right! In the sixth chapter of the Apocalypse, Tamar implies that the Crow and the Interrex are somehow linked! They come together. I remember reading various commentaries on it for my studies—the Apocalypse is one of the more enigmatic books, as you know.” He looked around. “My friends, this is a wonderful time we live in. Our next step is obvious. We have to find the Crow!”

  Galen fingered the jet and green beads at his neck. He looked almost sick. He was about to speak when Tallis said calmly, “That may not be so. We have something to tell you that not even Galen knows.”

  Carys glanced at the Sekoi. It was biting its thumbnail, and smiled back at her archly.

  Tallis turned to Galen. “While you’ve been away, we’ve made progress with the console.”

  “At last!”

  “The console?” Solon murmured.

  “A relic. Carys . . . brought it. From the Tower of Song.”

  Solon’s eyebrows shot up. “How?”

  “We’ll explain later.” Galen leaned across to Tallis, impatient. “What does it say? How much have you read?”

  For answer she got up and crossed to a small chest of cedarwood that stood next to the hearth, and opened it. The fire had smoldered low; the Sekoi put some logs on, stirring up the blaze. Tallis came back.

  Sitting down, she unwrapped a piece of black velvet and laid the console reverently on the smooth wood.

  It was a small gray thing, made of Makers’ material—not cold or warm, not metal or wood, a fabric unknown. Carys looked down at it, remembering the slimy stench of the worm she had fought off to get it. Small square buttons adorned it, each with a symbol. She had seen those many times in training, on relics studied in the Watchhouse, but not even the Order were sure what they meant anymore. Somewhere in the Tower of Song was the Gallery of Candlesticks, where thousands of clerks spent their lives making and breaking codes,
but had never managed to decipher these.

  Beside it Tallis laid some pieces of paper. Then she folded her fingers together and looked up.

  “Galen and I had been trying to study this before he was called away. It is very ancient. I believe the memories inside it are those of one of the Makers themselves, perhaps Tamar, though he never gives his name. It has been difficult to read, because very little power is left in it. Raffi had to use most of it to escape from the Watchhouse, if you remember.”

  She touched the papers lightly. “But last week, on the day of Altimet, which I thought might be a good time, we tried again. Myself, and Carys, and our friend the Sekoi.”

  Galen looked surprised. Carys grinned at him.

  “I needed stronger sense-lines than my own,” Tallis explained. “Carys has much awen, though undirected, and Sekoi energies are powerful, even though they are strange to me. But we had to work in silence for over an hour before we made the entry.”

  “Did you use a Web or a Link?” Galen interrupted, and Solon said, “Do the Sekoi have a third eye, then? I have never heard that.”

  Tallis smiled. “Keepers. The details can wait. Let’s just say that we managed to insinuate our minds deep into the cracks and crevices of the device. There was a faint stirring of warmth there still, but so thin a whisper that I had to bring it out word by word, in some places letter by letter. Carys wrote the message down. Often we had to stop. It was exhausting.”

  “And very peculiar,” the Sekoi muttered. It scratched its fur. “Small sparks like fleas crawled over my skull. And what a thirst I had afterward!”

  “Without you we couldn’t have done it,” Tallis said. She swung the plait of hair over her shoulder and picked up the notes. Raffi could see they were untidy, with words crossed out and altered in Carys’s regular Watchscript.

  “Fragments of this you’ve heard before. This is the rest, as far as we could make out. It seems to have been recorded in a time of great crisis for the Makers.”

  She pushed an escaped lock of hair behind her ear, and began to read:

  “Things are desperate; it may be that we will have to withdraw. There’s been no word from Earth for months and we don’t know how the Factions stand. Worst of all, we’re sure now about Kest. Against all orders, he’s tampered with the genetic material. Somehow he’s made a hybrid. He never told us, but Soren guessed.

  “The creature is hideous. Flain fears it has a disturbed nature, certainly a greatly enhanced lifespan. When it was let out of the chamber it destroyed all the lights and most of the test area. It seems to dislike light. Then it stood in the dark and spoke to Flain, taunting him. It is very intelligent.

  “We have flung it deep in the Pits of Maar. Kest called it the Margrave. I hope it will die, but in my heart I keep thinking we should have destroyed it. We should have made sure.”

  Tallis stopped.

  Solon had made a small gasp, an indrawing of breath. When they looked at him, his face was white with terror. Sudden cold tingled down Raffi’s spine.

  Galen leaned over. “Archkeeper? Are you ill?”

  He shook his head, his fingers vaguely rubbing over each other, as if he were washing his hands. “No. That name.”

  “The Margrave. You’ve heard it?”

  “I have. In the cells.”

  He seemed frozen with dread. Raffi shivered too. A ripple of horror swept across the room like a snowstorm. All the sense-lines swirled, and for a moment Raffi saw again the darkness of his dream-vision; the dark room he had once seen, the edge of a misshapen face, long as a jackal’s, turning toward him in the firelight. Then Galen said, “Raffi!” in an anxious snarl.

  He opened his eyes.

  Everyone seemed unsettled.

  “No. My fault.” Solon rubbed his forehead with the heels of his hands. “I must be more tired than I thought. Might I also have some ale, Guardian?”

  Carys fetched it, thinking grimly that if even a word could unnerve them, it was no wonder the Order had crumbled so fast. Raffi came behind her and drank a deep draft from the cold water jug. His hands were clammy with sweat.

  “All right?” she said.

  “All right.” He wiped his mouth.

  “You remembered about the Margrave, didn’t you? That time you saw it.”

  “I didn’t see it. Not properly.”

  She nodded. He was taut and unwilling to talk. Together they carried the jug and cups back to the table.

  Turning a page, Tallis read on:

  “Kest’s creatures swarm everywhere, multiplying and mutating. The geological patterns are uneven and yet the weather-net holds. When we withdraw we’ll have to leave the Coronet active as a stabilizer, even if neural access is not possible. It should hold off the disintegration of the weather-net for decades, maybe centuries. Until we come back. Also, it may provide an emergency portal. Flain says . . . ”

  She stopped and looked up.

  “Flain says?” Galen asked anxiously.

  “I’m afraid that’s all, keeper. Nothing else would come.”

  In the quiet the Sekoi picked up the jug and poured ale into the small wooden cups. Felnia came and looked around the door.

  “I’m getting hungry. Haven’t you finished YET?”

  “Soon,” Galen growled. “Keep him out there.”

  “Don’t shout at me!” They heard her shooing the geese out of her way.

  “They were in trouble,” Carys said. “There were few of them, and Kest’s interference had disrupted their creation of the world. They were in danger. So they left.”

  “Leaving us the Margrave,” Raffi muttered.

  “And Flain’s Coronet,” Galen said.

  They all looked at him. His eyes were dark, his face tense with energy.

  “Yes!” Solon nodded. “I had noticed that too.”

  “Is it a precious thing, this Coronet?” the Sekoi asked casually.

  Tallis shrugged. “It’s rarely mentioned in the sacred books. No one has ever thought it anything important. In images, Flain is sometimes shown as wearing a thin gold crown. As there.”

  The Sekoi’s yellow eyes turned with interest to the window. Flain wore his dark robe of stars, and now they noticed on his hair a delicate filament of gold, smooth and without decoration. It was easy to miss, Carys thought.

  “But it is important, obviously, and it’s what we need.” Galen stood up and walked across the room. “We must find it. All winter I’ve worried over this; we can’t deal with the Margrave with the world crumbling around us. This may be the thing that will keep the Finished Lands safe . . .”

  “But they’re not safe,” Raffi muttered. “They’re shrinking.”

  “Exactly!” Galen turned on him, dark hair swinging out of its knot of string. “And this relic might stop that! We have to find out where it is!”

  “And the Margrave?” Carys asked.

  “Can’t know about that. The Margrave is the secret power behind the Watch. If they knew, then the Watch would be looking for the Coronet. Unless . . .” He sat down suddenly. “Unless this is what the Watch are really seeking, when they confiscate relics.”

  They thought for a moment. Then the Sekoi said, “And how do we even know where to look?”

  “We ask.” Galen turned to Tallis, the air around him almost crackling with his conviction. “We use Artelan’s Well. One of us drinks the water, and this time”—he glared at Raffi—“there’ll be no mistakes.”

  “Sorry to interrupt,” a voice said wryly from the door, “but have you people finished your service? It’s just that the little one and I could eat skeats.”

  Galen straightened and stared at him. “You.”

  Marco stared back. Then he looked ruefully at Solon.

  “Thanks, Your Holiness. I see you’ve told our hosts all about me.”

  10

  Let the keeper beware men’s cold voices.

  The water and the wood

  Speak no empty phrases.

  Litany of the Makers
>
  RAFFI STOOD ON THE HILL, the sky above him a clear, warm blue. He could see the small red moon, Pyra, the youngest of the sisters and his favorite, very pale in the sunlight. Looking up at her, quite suddenly he remembered one time when he had been small, sitting on his mother’s lap, hearing the story of Pyra and the wolf, while his brothers and sisters ran and argued around him. When could that have been? His mother had always been too busy to pay much attention to him. How were they all? he wondered. It had been a long time since he had thought about home, though it had always been there, a place to go back to in the corner of his mind. He knew it had been dirty, noisy, full of arguments; he’d always been in the way, under people’s feet, a dreamer. He probably wouldn’t like it if he went back, he thought sadly, looking out. In a way, Sarres was home now.

  All the green island lay beneath him, its orchards barely breaking into blossom, its lanes and hedges, where already the white snowcaps and muskwort were out, and banks of yellow crocus sprouted from the rich soil. In Sarres spring came early, the ground ripe with Maker-power, and all over it, in the hush when the breeze dropped, you could hear the endless, invisible trickle of Artelan’s Well, the spring of water that ran clear as crystal, that Flain had promised would never dry up.

  Raffi let his mind slide deep in the energy lines of the island, sending small sense-filaments into branch and root, into worms and birds and water, feeling the green, fresh restlessness, the small pains of awakening.

  A sound brought him out abruptly; the soft whirr and thwack of a crossbow bolt. He opened his eyes, sense-lines swirling, then ran, slipping in haste down the steep, wet grass. Halfway down the sound came again, closer, but in complete silence. No one called or yelled.

  He slowed, sweating, letting the panic go. Stupid. There were no Watch on Sarres.

  Or rather, just the one.

  Ducking under the trees he came through the small iron gate onto the lawns and saw Carys. She had set up a circle of wood on a rickety open ladder and was aiming at it, standing well back. As he watched, her finger tightened on the trigger; from here he could see her one eye close, feel the strain of concentration swell inside her like a bright bubble. Then it burst, instantly, and the bolt thumped into the wood.