They tried to stay together. Wasps dived at them; Carys found her shoulders so tense, they ached.
“What are these?” the Sekoi murmured.
They were passing one of the globes; carefully, without touching it, Galen took a sideways look. “Plants.”
“Pods.” Quist pointed. “Our movements might have triggered it.”
The pod trembled. Abruptly Galen stepped back. He whispered something, but the word was lost as the thing gave a great crack and instantly exploded, seed blasting out like pellets, deadly as shot. He took the full force. He went down hard; the Sekoi, half blinded, crashed into him. The Maker-power went out like a light.
Carys raised the bow, but it was useless. “Quist,” she screamed. “Do something!”
HIS MIND TOUCHED WATER. It was so tiny; a thread of moisture the sense-lines barely registered, but it was there. He stopped still in the dark corridor. Then he began to move his mind up along it, higher and higher, along the minute gritty channel it had made.
The rock shuddered. Someone screamed. Raffi opened his eyes wide in shock. “Carys?” he whispered.
THE WATCHMAN GRABBED GALEN and hauled him up. Carys caught the Sekoi’s arm, beating wasps off her face and clothes, screaming in utter fury and terror. The things stung her arms and hands, crawled into her clothes. She squirmed sideways, lost her footing and slipped, pulling the creature down a low bank, splashing into water.
Water! Instantly she plunged in, the Sekoi and the men close behind. Quist held Galen’s face above the surface, but already the keeper was flailing for himself, his black eyes open.
It was a river, and it stank. Foam swamped its surface, and the undercurrent was strong; they were bumped and whirled along in it, with dead animals and logs of wood and terrible slicks of foul rainbow oil. She tried not to get it in her mouth, but that was useless; it stung her eyes and made her retch, and when suddenly the Sekoi’s long arm wrenched her out onto a shelving spit of shingle she was violently sick, head down, on hands and knees. The filthy water ran from her clothes.
Behind, the creature’s fingers held her tight till the spasm was over. “Better than wasps,” it muttered. It almost sounded as though it was laughing.
RAFFI RAN DOWN THE CORRIDOR. He had already met one Sekoi; it had simply stood aside and let him pass. He couldn’t get used to their silence. It chilled him. But this was the room. The door slid open. He was lucky. It was empty. He went straight to the screen; it was blank, so he said, “Operate!” but nothing happened. So he opened his third eye and went into the relic at once, drawing its power into himself. After a few seconds it crackled into life.
He saw the tower of Maar. All around the dark cube were camped the forces of the Watch, rank on rank of them, silent as if waiting some signal. From the Watchtower a light suddenly hissed out, a blue searing bolt that struck the ground and made a patrol of horses rear and panic.
Then behind him a voice said, “Enough.” The screen blanked; the Margrave came and put its hand on his shoulder.
He pulled away, turning instantly. “Someone is holding the tower. It’s Galen, isn’t it?”
“Galen is not in the tower.”
“Liar!” He felt oddly betrayed. “They’re alive! Carys is alive. I know that!”
The Margrave watched him for a moment, then gave a small shrug. “Very well,” it said quietly. “She is alive.” It looked up at the screen. “As you can see.”
GALEN DABBED THE OINTMENT on her face. “Keep still.”
“It stings. For God’s sake, Galen.” She pulled away. “I’ll do it myself.”
He sat back, letting her take the small pot. They were both soaked and shivering.
“I detest this darkness,” she blurted out desperately. “It’s like that hell-hole Tasceron.”
Galen almost smiled, pushing his dark hair back. As the Sekoi drank and washed its swollen bites, Galen said, “Tasceron was beautiful once. Imagine the great processions there on Flainsnight, and Tamarsday, the people carrying the images, the music, the women throwing armfuls of red spindleflowers in all the streets. Imagine the joy of it.”
She nodded wryly. “Only you could think of that now.”
“We’ve lost so much,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard her. “And I have borne all of that. I’ve endured it. But to lose Raffi . . .” He glanced up at her, his face gaunt, edged with something dark that made her afraid. “That would break my heart, Carys.”
She swallowed, and looked at the others. Quist was somber. The Sekoi looked away.
RAFFI TURNED IN FURY, HIS EYES WET. “You told me they were dead!”
“Yes.” The creature’s eyes were bright. “So I did. But what a touching moment to witness, Raffi. You must be so happy.”
He tried to ignore its mockery. “They’re coming here!”
“Indeed. But they will not get through.” It looked up at the empty screen. “You would think, to hear him, that he had forgotten his words to you. When he told you you were no use to him. Will he ever realize how much that hurt you? I doubt it.”
“I told you not to talk about Galen.” He backed away, his throat hoarse. “I see what it is now. You’re jealous of him.”
“Jealous!” the Margrave hissed; its misshapen face turned quickly. For a second there was a look on its face that shocked him; then its eyes blinked, the long tongue flickered.
He felt the two Sekoi grab his arms.
“I have no reason to be jealous,” the Margrave said quietly. “I have what he wants.”
THEY WALKED ALL NIGHT. Through chasms and a rocky world, through marsh that gave way under their feet. Weary to the bone, Carys almost ceased to care or notice how the land changed, how the weather churned, remembering only the orchard, the fragment of cherry orchard, all its trees in miraculous flower, askew in the middle of chaos, tilted like a beached fragment of some lost beauty in the light of the moons. Slowly she came to see that Agramon had risen, and all the sisters with her, and that as Galen climbed to an outcrop of rock, he paused there, framed by the coronet of moons. She dragged herself wearily up beside him and stood silently, doubled up and breathless. In front of them, like the wounds of the world, gaped the Pits of Maar.
The Makers
24
There are seven wounds in the world.
They are deep. They lead to dread.
Chaos overwhelms us; we have allowed it.
The world bleeds. Who will save it?
Litany of the Makers
IT WAS A VORTEX, A GREAT SPIRAL.
Looking up now, Carys could still make out the circle of dark sky far above their heads, and for an instant one of the moons, Atterix, among rags of cloud. She turned and clambered down, jumping into the Sekoi’s awkward catch.
Once these might have been smooth ramps, a double helix winding down on itself, level below level, but now they were broken, contorted. She felt as if she were crawling down into some vast seashell, or through the complexities and whorls of a gigantic ear into the very body of the sleeping world, of Anara itself. Only it wasn’t sleeping.
There had been shocks of white sparks that Galen had managed to stop, but only after a long struggle to gather enough power. Farther down, whole sections of the walkways had suddenly slid and retracted; no one had fallen, but they had had to set up ropes and slide down; the skin on her hands was raw from it. The farther down they went, the darker and more echoing the caverns became. Hour after hour the vast spiral closed over them; near the top, they had barely been able to make out the walkways in the gloom opposite; down here they were close, slithering to the utter blackness of the pit.
Stopping for breath now, she realized how silent it was without their own slips and stumbles and small voices. She turned on her stomach and wriggled to the edge, looking down. For miles below, smaller and smaller, the walkways descended. She could not see the bottom. It made her dizzy.
The Sekoi’s long fingers found a fragment of broken rock and held it out over the abyss, then dropped it.
The stone fell endlessly; even out of sight they heard the whisper of its bounce and rattle as it rebounded from the leaning rails, deep into silence.
“Thanks for warning them,” Quist said acidly.
The Sekoi shrugged. “Oh, they know. You, a Watchman, do not think these energy fields are accidents?”
Quist gave a sour laugh. “I never thought one of you would be teaching me about defense.”
“The Sekoi are masters of defense,” Galen said quietly. He looked so gaunt and weary that Carys was worried.
“We should rest awhile.”
“No.” He gave her a black look. “That creature knows we’re coming. He could kill Raffi, do anything. I’m not stopping, Carys.” Scrambling up, he walked on down the metal ramp, a tall shadow lost quickly in the gloom.
She grabbed the Sekoi. “Come on.”
It was Quist who muttered, “What he’s not telling you, is that someone is watching us.”
RAFFI SQUIRMED, but the Sekoi put firm hands on his shoulders; he flung them away. The Margrave turned from the screen in irritation. “This is not good. They should never have got this far!” It paced the floor, its robe rustling, then hissed, “Control!”
A panel rose smoothly out of the floor, the cover rolling back. Small lights winked green on it; a soft whining chatter came and went. The Margrave entered a combination with its scaly fingers.
“Don’t hurt them,” Raffi begged. “Please.”
“If they keep coming, I have no option.”
“I’ll do anything. Let me speak to them. I’ll tell them to go.”
The Margrave’s voice was a mass of crackles. “And what of Galen’s terrible vow? I swear the Crow will hunt the Margrave down into the deepest pit of hell. He swore that by the Makers. Do you think anything will turn him back now?”
In despair, Raffi clenched his hands together. “No.”
“Nor do I. So I have to stop him. I’m sorry, Raffi.” Its fingers pressed one button. The console glowed red.
“GALEN!” AFTER ANOTHER LONG drop down the ropes, it was Carys who saw them first. They came out of nowhere, tiny scorpions, their stings menacing.
“Leave them to me.” Quist pushed her on. Out of his belt he took some powder and scattered it over the mesh of the walkway. The scorpions stopped as they touched it, a row of venom.
“Amazing,” the Sekoi muttered. “Some potion? A secret concoction?”
“Pepper. An old Watch trick.”
“Do you have one that can deal with these?” Galen’s voice was grim. Sitting across the walkway, four black shapes waited. They were huge, so dark their features were impossible to see, but in the faint starlight from above, their eyes glinted, alert and watchful.
“What are they?” Carys whispered.
Galen shook his head. “The sense-lines say nothing is there.”
“They’re not real.”
“I think they are. There are things so alien we cannot feel them.” He glanced at the Sekoi. “Any ideas?”
The creature’s eyes were narrow. It bit one nail nervously. “In stories, such things are. Shadow-beings, made of evil dreams. Half real, half terror.” Its whisper echoed down the silent walkways. One of the things raised its head, as if it listened.
“One each,” Quist said drily. He looked at Galen. “What can we do?”
Galen was silent. Then he said, “I will go first. You can do nothing against them. Wait and come behind. As soon as you can, pass them. Don’t turn your heads. Don’t come back. Understand?”
“Galen . . .”
“Whatever happens, Carys, get to Raffi.”
The Sekoi was as disturbed as she was. “Keeper.” Its seven fingers caught his arm. “I fear these beings. More than anything we have seen. Even the Crow may not—”
Galen laughed his harsh laugh. “Maybe. But I’m not planning to die here. Flain will guard me.” He stalked forward, down the steep ramp. Before him the four great beasts waited, unmoving.
“IF HE DIES . . .”
The Margrave shot him a sideways look. “There are worse darknesses than death.” It gestured to the Sekoi. “Get him out of here. Down to the sphere.”
“No!”
“I’m sorry, Raffi, but there’s no reason why you should suffer this.” It turned back to the screen. At the door, Raffi wrenched free desperately.
Galen had reached the dark beasts.
HE HELD OUT HIS HANDS. Deep in the silence of the awen-field he spoke to them, and he knew they heard him. “We have met before.”
The answer was unheard by anyone but himself. “Many times, keeper. In the Underworld. In the madhouses. In the cells and prisons. In the silence. You know our names.”
Galen was very still. “I know what the Order calls you. You are Hatred, and Untruth, Violence, Despair. But I am the Crow. I command you to let me through.”
“We are stronger than you. We have often defeated you.”
“No.” He fought for control. “Not defeated. All my life I have fought against you.”
“And lost.”
“And won. The very struggle has made me what I am. Let me through.”
“You have failed. The Order has gone. Anara is dying. Your scholar has deserted you.”
“That was my fault,” he hissed. “I know it.”
“You have despaired. You have seethed with anger.”
“I have. All my life. But even in the darkest times I have never lost faith.” His hands were shaking. All the power of the Crow had drained out of him; he felt weak and the old pain in his leg throbbed. He clutched the stick hard.
“We will overwhelm you.” Their eyes glinted in the metallic light; they seemed bigger, towering over him. “You will be lost in us.”
“No.” He straightened, lifting his hawk face to them. “I am a Relic Master of the Order, and I am the Crow.” The words were hard to say; he had to force them out, his whole body icy with sweat. “You will let me through. I command it. In the name of Flain, and Soren and Tamar.” The names gave him some strength; he could breathe. “Of Halen, and Theriss. And yes, even in the name of Kest I command you. In the name of his sorrow, and shame, and his bitter repentance. In the name of the planet he betrayed, of its suffering, of all its peoples, all its defiant, beautiful life.”
At his neck the crystals sparked; their energy flooded him. Behind, all around, darkness gathered, the dark of the Crow, deep and strange. He reached out to it; it streamed into his hands. “I am not ready,” he snarled, “to be overwhelmed.”
“WHAT’S HE DOING!” Carys caught the Sekoi’s arm. The creature grabbed her. “We must do as he said. Quickly.”
The thread of light was tiny and growing. It was so brilliant, it hurt their eyes, and it was as fine as a thread of gold, as the light Flain had found in the Underworld. Purest sunlight, it bled from between Galen’s fingers, sticky and scorching, dropping onto the ground, spreading to a shining, straight path. The dark beings jerked away from it.
“Now!” the Sekoi hissed. It pushed her ahead and she edged past Galen; as she entered the awen-field the shock of it seemed to go right through her and she gasped, the sunlight a tingle in her fingers and feet and she walked down it, never turning, never looking back, under the very shadows of the vast silent beings. Finally the Sekoi said, “Wait.”
She stopped. It was hard not to turn. The vast cavern was silent; her heart hammered.
“Where is he?”
“Carys, don’t . . .”
But she had looked, over its shoulder. Galen walked tall and strong down the silver stairway, and it seemed to close up behind him. As he passed the beasts, they turned their heads, their eyes watching him angrily, but he did not even look at them. She had never seen him so calm.
Quist had turned too. And as Galen came up she saw to her astonishment that the creatures were not even there at all, but had been only strange outcrops of oddly shaped rock, the starlight glinting on fragments of quartz embedded in their grotesque heads.
T
he keeper stopped and looked at them and all power went from him instantly. He staggered, and Quist had to grab him. His face was white and drawn, full of pain. His hands bled.
THE MARGRAVE SNAPPED the screen off. “Come here. Now.” It pulled out two small boxes and threw them at the Sekoi, who caught them; Raffi recognized them as copies of the blue box Galen had once had.
“Weapons?” he gasped.
“Guard the upper entrance. Don’t leave it.” The Sekoi fled like shadows. The Margrave caught hold of Raffi and pushed him out. “Down. Quickly.”
His heart was racing with a strange joy. “You can’t stop him, can you?” he hissed.
It rustled along the dark corridor; behind it, doors snapped shut. “Don’t be so sure. I admit he is surprising me.”
“Let me go. I might . . .”
“Oh, no.” The Margrave pushed him toward the curving stairs. “You’re my best weapon, Raffi. My last weapon.”
But he could feel it now, far above, exultant, the power of the Crow. It was flooding the pit, storming every tunnel, moving through rock, all the lights flickering on, far behind. Instantly Raffi ran. He raced down the stairs, jumped into the steamy cavern. Leaping the hot lava flows he came up to the crystal sphere. It was empty. The rustle of the Margrave was close behind him. “Raffi!” it hissed.
But Raffi had opened the curved entrance and stepped inside.
“WHERE ARE THEY!” Another blue flash sliced rock next to her face; she jerked back, whipping the crossbow up.
The Margrave Page 18