“Call of nature.”
“Then I’ll get out.”
He stood aside, and she went out into the moonlight and slammed the door. Then she breathed deep, folded her arms, and looked out at the stars. She believed him just as much as he believed her.
THEY RODE WEST. It was a damp morning; the faintest of drizzles that they could hardly see, but it clouded the tops of the trees and clung like mist in hollows, turning the path into a muddy slough. They were three days out of the castle. Last night had been the first chance Carys had had to get a signal out, but she was sure it had been too brief. Her horse plunged into a puddle, and she swore, clutching tight. Still. At least Raffi would have had his warning.
“So why the Tower of Song?” Scala asked suddenly.
“What?”
“The Tower of Song. You asked for rooms there.”
Carys tried to remember her demands. “I stayed there last year. An amazing place.”
Scala shrugged gracefully. “I’ve never been. Quist used to work there.” She glanced at him, over the horse’s ears. “Didn’t you, lover.”
He had been quiet all morning. Now he pushed back his hood and let the branches drip on his hair. “Once.”
“In what department?” Carys asked casually.
“Records. In the Overpalace.”
“I thought that was classified.”
“It is.”
She looked at him thoughtfully. She had nothing to lose, so she said, “When I was there I tried to find out about myself. Where I came from. Against the Rule, I know, but the Rule isn’t everything, is it?”
Scala’s red lips smiled. “No indeed. And what did you find out?”
“Nothing.”
Quist’s horse brushed through a bush of springmallow that released clouds of white seed. “What year were you?” he asked.
She shrugged. “One forty-six WE.”
“What house?”
“Marn Mountain.”
Maybe his horse stumbled. He twisted, for a second seemed off balance, caught by surprise. More than that. Shock. Carys looked away. In that instant she sensed, without doubt, that he knew something. So being around keepers had some use. “Ring any bells?” She kept the anxiety out of her voice.
It took him a moment to answer, and when he did, his face was set. “Only that that was the house where they took the children of Mathravale.”
The name echoed vaguely. “Where?”
But Scala had stopped her horse across the path. She gave Quist a swift, angry look. “That’s classified,” she snapped. “And we don’t discuss it with renegades. Now speed up. And stop talking.” She turned.
Quist looked after her, a strange, half-resentful stare. Then he caught Carys’s eye and laughed sourly. “You heard the castellan. If the castellan commands, we must obey.”
“Even you?”
He looked away, into the misty trees. “Especially me.”
ALL DAY SHE HELD THE NAME steady in her mind. Mathravale. She had heard it before—or no, not heard it. Seen it. On some written page. Maybe in one of Galen’s books, or in the library on Sarres. But it took her all that day, the long ride down from the misty hills, the drizzling rain, the sparse supper in the tiny Watch outpost at Depra, the two women there flustered and Scala being gracious and sardonic, a whole day of mental struggle till she lay in a cold bed just about to fall asleep, for the memory, suddenly and completely, to come back.
She sat up in the dark. Watch history. Second lesson. Wednesday mornings. The thick yellow pages of clumsy print, four pages a week, to be learned by heart. Tactics, battles, the Sekoi revolt, the piecemeal destruction of the filthy and sorcerous Order. And on page 654 the word. Mathravale. The sentence came back to her; with all her training, she made herself remember it.
The supreme tactical triumph of the Watch, it had said, came at Mathravale, where . . . and they had turned over, bored and cold and weary, and every book in the class had had the next four pages torn out. Every book. No one had dared to ask why. Old Jeltok had mumbled and sworn in the dim classroom, then had creaked down between the rows of desks and muttered, “Get on. Get on!” and the boy reading had done just that, and the history had jumped a year, as if whatever happened at Mathravale had been blotted out.
It had just been one mystery among many. She remembered how she had rubbed the torn edges with her finger. And as far as she knew she’d never come across the word again. Until today. She lay back on the hard pillow. It made sense. If the children at Marn had been from this place, it made sense that whatever happened there wouldn’t be mentioned. It must have been important.
Galen would know. But Galen was far away. It was Quist she’d have to work on. Turning over, she closed her eyes. Was she one of the children of Mathravale? Was that home?
THEY LEFT EARLY IN THE MORNING, much to the Watchwomen’s relief, climbing again, high into woods. It was warm, and Carys took her damp jacket off, tying it to the saddle. These were sheshorn trees; they murmured and susurrated in the high winds, a gentle sound. Carys wondered what they were saying.
Near the top of the ridge Scala turned. “We’ll have to do something about you, Carys.”
“Do something?” For a moment she was chilled, but Scala only smiled coyly and held out a bronze insignia chain. “Wear this. I’m afraid it demotes you, but it’s the only substitute we have.”
Carys took it. The number was 2778. The name, Greta Rothesy. “Who was she?”
“An adjutant. She died.” The castellan turned and gathered up the horse’s reins in her small, gloved grip. “We’ll need to keep your identity secret from now on. The camp commander at Flor’s Tower is a very astute man; if he found out who you were, Quist and I would instantly be imprisoned for abetting a spy.” She smiled. “And you’d be hard put to make deals with him. Believe me. He always goes by the book.”
“Not like you. Or Braylwin.” Carys changed the insignia quickly.
“Arno Braylwin?” Scala laughed, amused. “Oh, you won’t come across him. He had to be ransomed from some petty warlord. Last time I heard, he’d been demoted to a supply clerk in some whaling station on the Ice Coast.”
Ducking under a branch, Carys grinned. “He’ll be back. He had a whole network of bribery and blackmail.”
The trees were thick now, the path dwindling to a thread of fallen leaves.
“How far are we from this place, anyway?”
Ahead, Scala came to the top of the ridge, and a stiff wind blew out her hair. “Not far at all,” she said.
Carys’s horse stopped; she swung herself off, pushed past Quist, who was standing on a rock, and stared down into the valley. It was like something out of one of the Sekoi stories.
Black, immense, unbelievable, crawling with men, littered with cranes and gantries and scaffolding, engines of wood hauling huge blocks, mountains of mortar and sand and viaducts of water, the noise and stink and squalor and splendor of it rising, even to here. It stretched into the distance, complete, towered, bristling with weapons. It had no end, as far as she could see.
It was the Wall.
11
Some never wake but die on the Journey. Others come back but their minds are broken, and ever after are vacant and foolish, and scream at night. Some lose their speech, some their eyesight. The Journey is a peril that must be undertaken, but its dangers are great. Those that live through it never forget it.
Second Letter of Mardoc Archkeeper
THE SINGING WAS DRIVING HIM CRAZY. Raffi threw the Book down and put his hands over his head; then he got up and flung open the window. He was not supposed to speak to anyone, but he couldn’t stand this. “Shut up!” he yelled savagely. “I’m trying to study!”
The scrawny man below stopped twanging the handharp and looked around, astonished. It took him a minute to find Raffi’s face at the window. “Nobody studies in Alberic’s army.”
“Well, I do!”
“Listen, lad, I’ve got a job to do. I’m Alberic’s poet an
d he’ll want a song about his battle.”
“I don’t care!” Raffi yelled. “Shut up or I’ll get Alberic to hang you from the keep by your harp strings!” He slammed the casement and turned away, leaning against the wall. Then he slid down it, and sat, knees up, hands over his head, in despair.
The Ordeals should have taken a week, but they didn’t have that much time. Galen had said two days would have to do, and that until sunset on Soren’s Day, neither of them would touch food, and would drink only water. He had been more morose than ever; Raffi knew he was bitterly regretting his lapse into despair, punishing them both for it.
Raffi was beyond hunger. He was empty and worn out. The first day he’d spent outside the castle, at first with Galen, then alone, moving his mind along the sense-lines, deep into the trees and into the soil of Anara until he had almost forgotten his own name or who he was; his self a broken, shattered thing, like the mountains, all fragmented. He’d wandered back late, and Galen had ordered him to bed, letting no one talk to him. All night he had dreamed strange dreams, tossing and waking and unable to remember what they were.
Yesterday, for hours, Galen had questioned him, on every chapter of the Book, the Litany, every prophecy, story, testing the details over and over, angry at every mistake. He’d had to recite the tale of Flain in the Underworld, of Kest’s fight with the Dragon, of the Makers’ war against the creatures of the Poisoned Sea, every one word-perfect. It had been exhausting, and when Galen had finally been satisfied, Raffi had wandered the corridors of the castle like a shadow, avoiding people and the smells of food, seeming always to end up at the room crowded with mirrors, sitting there, staring at his own pale reflection. Remorse was tormenting him. He should be meditating; he should be so filled with joy, with desire to make the Journey. But he wasn’t. He was terrified. And the hours seemed endless and yet went too quickly, and there was no one to talk to but Flain and Soren and Theriss and Kest, and though he longed to beg them to call it off, to make something happen, he couldn’t. “Give me the strength to get through it,” he muttered desperately. “Don’t let me let Galen down.” And silently, not even in words. Don’t let me lose my mind. But today was Soren’s Day. In an hour it would all begin.
Outside, the harp started again, a defiant twanging. Raffi gripped fistfuls of his hair. Then someone tapped on the door, and the Sekoi’s striped face peered around. “I know you’re in isolation, small keeper, but I wanted to say good luck.” It slid back.
Raffi jumped up. “Wait! Don’t go!”
The yellow eyes came back, surprised. “I thought . . .”
“I’m sick of being on my own. Please.”
The creature slipped quietly inside. “Galen will be angry.”
“Galen’s always angry.”
The Sekoi looked at him attentively. Then it went and sat on the bed, leaning against the straw bolster. There was a moment of quiet. Only the voice of the poet rose throatily from below. Finally the Sekoi said, “I’m sure everyone who attempts this ordeal must be apprehensive.”
“Galen wasn’t. He told me how he longed for the Journey.”
“In retrospect, maybe. But I’m sure at the time he was afraid.” The creature interlaced its long fingers. “Raffi, you must not think yourself unworthy. This is what you have worked toward for many years.”
“But I’m not ready! It’s too soon.” He paced anxiously. “I don’t remember half the responses, or the Prophecies. I don’t really know the Wisdom of the Calarna or how to open and close Flain’s Gate, how to make the awen-power come fully into the Blessing. Galen keeps drumming it into me, but I keep forgetting, and there’s so much else going on, with Carys missing, and all of it! I get everything wrong! Look at that business with those jeckle-things.”
The Sekoi was silent a moment. Then it said, “Maybe you should not just blame yourself. Has it never struck you that Galen might not be the best of teachers?”
Raffi stopped and stared. “He’s always making me learn.”
“Yes, but it takes more than that. It seems to me you were happier working with Tallis. Galen is not the most patient of men. And I think he finds it . . . difficult, to enter into what another might feel.”
Raffi shook his head sourly. “Someone with less faith, you mean.”
“Even Galen’s faith is not perfect.” The Sekoi bit a nail. “And, as we know, the Crow is in him. That alone makes him no ordinary master.”
Raffi poured some water into a bowl and soaked his face and hair. It made him feel better, but the chill of his nerves made his stomach ache and his breath come short. “There are stories,” he whispered. “Scholars whose minds have broken, who’ve never been the same after . . .”
“Raffi.”
“I’m sorry.” He turned abruptly. “Talk about something else. I feel as though I’ve been locked in here for weeks. What’s Alberic up to?”
The Sekoi laughed, an uneasy bark. “Ah, yes. Our gracious host. Well, it will surprise you—it astonished me—but the dreaded warlord has had a change of heart. Last night he summoned Galen to his upper room, so I went too, out of curiosity. Such nightclothes, Raffi! Palest blue silk . . .”
“Yes, but what did he want?”
“He was sly, as ever. He said that as Galen had proclaimed war and announced to the world they were allies, and as the news would be raging through every village and Watchhouse for miles by now, it may as well be true. He agreed to become the Crow’s ally for the price of one million gold pieces and the overlordship of Tasceron, if and when the city was captured.”
Raffi stared. “What did Galen say?”
“You know the keeper. He laughed. That laugh. He said the Order has no money and that this was a war of souls, not weapons. But that after Soren’s Day Alberic must lead a march on this Wall. The dwarf did not find that amusing. They argued hotly.”
“He wants to run things.” Raffi sat on the bed. “I don’t trust him.”
“Nor I, small keeper. He will always be a slippery friend. I hope Galen knows what he’s doing.”
A bell began to ring, far off in the castle. The Sekoi stood hastily. “I must go. Good luck, Raffi. Remember, you will emerge from this ordeal. You have grown much in the past years.” At the door it paused and looked back. “My people have a saying. ‘Even in darkness, the river runs.’ ”
WHEN GALEN CAME, he carried new clothes. A white shirt and dark green trousers. Raffi had to strip and wash himself from head to toe. The water was icy; he had to grit his teeth to bear it, and afterward he couldn’t stop shivering. Galen anointed his hands and neck and forehead with some pungent, sharp-scented oil.
The clothes felt fresh, smelling slightly of bergamot. He wondered where Galen had gotten them. Silently he dressed. His feet were bare.
Galen looked at him. “The beads,” he said.
Clumsily Raffi took them off. The seven strands of blue and purple crystals that marked the scholar; he had worn them now for so long his neck felt bare without them. As he handed them over, they were warm and heavy and slipped easily out of his hand.
“You are between the Branches now,” Galen said softly. “Between ignorance and knowledge. Between Darkness and Light. Let the visions Flain sends you be good ones.”
“And may I emerge from the darkness transformed like the satinfly from its sheath.” Raffi whispered the Response. He wanted to say something else, something of his own, but Galen turned away. Raffi felt numb and cold. So cold.
Only at the door did Galen turn. He looked dark and troubled, his hooked face sharp. “I know how you feel. But believe me, Raffi, tomorrow the whole world will be different for you. You’ll be a Relic Master and all Anara will be yours. The joy will be like nothing you’ve ever known. Keep the vision moving. Follow the Makers. Don’t let yourself be distracted. Remember all I’ve taught you.”
Raffi nodded. He couldn’t speak. His tongue felt swollen, his face white, drained of life.
AS THEY WALKED DOWN the corridors, Alberic’s people sto
od back to let them pass. Most didn’t know what was happening, but the keeper’s dark presence made talk falter and laughter fade. The place was busy. Rich cooking smells of meats and spices rose from the vast kitchens, making Raffi’s mouth water and his empty stomach rumble. Alberic was obviously going to celebrate Soren’s Day in some style.
The shrine was a large one, and had been cleared of the debris and stacked supplies of the Watch. As he came in, his feet cold on the stones, Raffi’s breath tightened in his throat. Miraculously, the frescoes had survived. High on the rounded wall they looked down at him; Flain the Tall, strong Tamar, dark Halen, and in the middle of them all Soren, Lady of Leaves, with seeds scattering from the hems of her green dress. She smiled at him, a kind, pitying smile. “Help me through this,” he breathed.
All around, on every shelf and in racks and rows on the floor, hundreds of candles burned and dripped, their spilled wax forming grotesque stalagmites; the warmth and flicker of them cheered the bare room. The floor was scattered with petals. They felt soft under his feet, petals of fireweed and primroses and early tormentil, blue and red and purple, and the smell of them was sweet, almost cloying.
On the low table in the center of the room the relics were waiting. They were all familiar, the objects he had known for years, the seeing-tube, the blue box, a crystal coil, the broken remnants of the Makers’ treasures. Galen must have found a few more around the castle, but the Watch had left little, and the collection looked suddenly small and sorry. Some power lingered in them. Raffi could feel it.
Beyond the candles, in shadow, people were standing. Raffi didn’t look around, but he sensed them, and as Galen began formally to chant the Litany, their voices joined in, hesitant, stumbling, and he was surprised at how many there were. Glancing sidelong, he saw women and small children, some of Alberic’s war band, a scatter of girls. The Sekoi was there, tall and elegant, and Godric next to it. The big man winked. Raffi turned quickly.
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