Raffi bit his lip. He had no idea what Galen was planning. It would be reckless; Galen always was. But how could they ever hope to get away, unless it was to try and lose themselves in the crowd?
The drums stopped.
Dead silence.
The prisoners gathered in a huddle, the silver-haired man looking out at the crowd. His eyes seemed to scan their faces, as if he was alert, sensing something. Raffi ducked under a woman’s arm and crouched in the front. The Watchguards held their bows ready, facing the crowd.
The first to be hanged was a woman; young, barely out of her teens. As two Watchmen dragged her forward she turned to the silver-haired keeper, arms stretched out. He put his hand out and gripped hers, then blessed her, the sign of Flain made clear and proud.
Around Raffi, the crowd seemed to become stiller, totally silent. The nearest Watchman fidgeted with his bow, his eyes nervous over the dark scarf that covered his face.
The woman was forced to the gallows. Above her the black ropes swung in the icy wind; she glanced up at them once. Raffi felt sick and panicky. He wanted to turn away, not to see. Where was Galen? What if he wasn’t even here?
Someone in the crowd yelled something. A guard aimed his bow ominously. The girl was pushed up onto the first step. She cried out, a great gasp of terror.
And at that instant Raffi felt a quiver under his feet, a faint vibration in the frozen lake growing quickly, forcibly; a tension building up like the pressure of a blocked waterspout. He glanced down, sensing with sudden amazement what Galen must be doing; then he was running, ducking under the ropes, dodging the guard, racing over the ice toward the gallows.
The crowd sent up a yell. Crossbows swiveled. One bolt shot past him and skittered over the frozen lake, but he was already at the gallows, almost with the prisoners.
And the ice heaved!
He fell, sliding on hands and knees, sprawled.
Behind him, the lake shattered with an earsplitting crack. Plates of ice tilted up, sharp-fanged. The Watchmen toppled, grabbed each other to stay upright. Between them and the prisoners a vast crevasse was opening, a gaping black chasm in the ice, and the whole surface under the fair was shuddering up. Booths and stands went crashing; terrified bulls trampled out of their stalls. People were shouting, screaming.
The prisoners stood as if in shock; then the silver man whirled suddenly, barging into the guard behind, knocking him off his feet.
Raffi tried to stand.
“Galen!” he yelled.
“Get him, Raffi! Get him to the forest!”
The voice was close, in his head. Scrambling up he raced over and shoved the other guard hard in the back, sending the raised crossbow out of his hands and whirling across the ice. One of the Sekoi dived after it.
The keeper had the guard’s knife; he was slicing the ropes. Crossbow bolts clattered around him. From the Watchtower a brazen horn rang out.
The keeper looked up. “Where?” was all he said. “The forest,” Raffi gasped.
The keeper caught the bald man, who waved him off feebly. “Leave me! Just get clear!”
“Oh no, my son. Not while there’s a soul to save.” With an effort he heaved the man up. “Go on!” he yelled.
Raffi ran. The lake was slipping away under him; the fringes of the forest seemed miles away. Furious yells behind them terrified him. The chasm must be wide, he knew, but he could already hear stalls being torn down, wood slammed on the ice. And still the lake buckled, splitting with enormous cracks, so that he went sprawling with the aftershocks, the surface crumpling beneath his feet.
He glanced back. The two men were close. All the other prisoners had already scattered; he saw a Sekoi firing a crossbow and another lying still on the ice. Panicstricken sheep were rampaging among the wreckage of the fair, but that was far away. And where was Galen?
Ahead, the forest loomed, the vast quenta trees spreading their roots far under the frozen water. Raffi scrambled through frosted reeds and turned to help. “I’m all right,” the bald man snapped, but the pain in his arms and shoulders shimmered out of him; Raffi caught the edge of it and gasped.
They fell over tree roots, the gloom of the forest enclosing them. A little way in, the keeper stopped. He eased the bald man down and spun around, breathless.
“Followers,” he gasped. “Need to deal with them.”
A twig cracked. Someone was close on their trail, and rounding the trees a Watchman came, low under the branches, the crossbow armed in his hands. He stopped instantly and said, “It’s all right. It’s me.”
Raffi grinned with relief.
Galen pulled the dark wrappings off his face.
“Can you still run?” he asked quickly.
The two men nodded, silent with surprise. Then the tall one said, “My name is Solon. This is Marco. Who are you?”
“That can wait.” Galen grabbed the bald man and hauled him up. “We have to get farther in,” he said anxiously. “They’ve got razorhounds.”
Raffi went cold.
Far back over the shattered lake, terrible snarls rang out.
6
The hardest thing to keep will be trust. When a man may be an enemy, to trust him may lead to disaster. And yet God works his purposes in strange ways.
Third Letter of Mardoc Archkeeper
THE QUENTA FOREST was said to stretch for miles, but only after a few minutes the tangle of vast trunks became impassable. Branches knotted together, split and interlaced. There was no way through. Paths led in circles back to the lake.
The fugitives ran till they were breathless, then crouched against the bole of a king-quenta, the man called Marco clutching his shoulder in agony.
“How far have we gone?” Raffi gasped.
“Not far enough.” Galen threw down the crossbow, dragged the black gloves off, and hurled them angrily into the knotted darkness. “We need to speak to the trees. Get them to let us through.”
He turned quickly to Solon. “Will you do that?”
The older man stared back, his face calm, his blue eyes shrewd and deep. “I would be able to, if I were one of the Order.”
“There’s no time for that,” Galen snapped. “I know you are.”
“Do you?”
“So am I. You can feel that, can’t you?”
Solon’s stare was even. Then to Raffi’s horror he said, “No. What I sense about you is strange and utterly dark. Not like any keeper I may ever have met. I’m sorry,” he said, half turning. “I can’t take the risk.”
What he did Raffi barely saw. There was a crack of light. Galen staggered back with a gasp of pain. Then he was down, crumpled against the tree roots. Still.
“Galen?” Raffi whispered.
A rustle made him turn. The bald man, Marco, had the crossbow. Painfully he aimed it at Galen’s head.
“NO!”
Raffi ran forward, right in front of the tense bolt.
“How can you do this?” he yelled, wild with fury. “We got you out of there! We helped you to escape!”
“The ice cracked. And we ran,” Solon said.
“But Galen did that! He cracked the ice!”
“I’m not a fool, my son,” the man said mildly. “No keeper, not even the most learned, could do that on his own. He’s part of some Watchplan. For all I know, so are you.”
“I’m his scholar!”
“I’m sure you are. Keep the other one covered, Marco.” Briskly, almost kindly, he came and tied up Raffi’s hands and feet with the ends of rope, then with a strip torn from his shirt gagged him gently and pushed him over. Raffi sat down hard next to Galen.
Solon crouched. “I’ve been a prisoner of the Watch for a long time,” he said, his voice strangely quiet. “I’m never going back alive. You might be spies—I can’t take the risk. You may also be what you say. If so, I pray to Flain to forgive me. And that they don’t find you.” Turning, he said, “Come on.”
He took the bald man’s arm over his shoulder, sagging a little wi
th the weight. “You should leave the bow.”
Marco grinned. “Good try, Your Holiness. Maybe later.” He clutched it tight, like a crutch.
Then they were gone, lost in the tangle of quenta trees like shadows, the only sound a rustle and a cracked twig.
Raffi kicked and struggled. Furiously he squirmed around onto his side and nudged Galen with his tied feet, then shoved harder, trying to call the keeper’s name. Only stupid muffled sounds came out.
Far off, where the lake must be, a razorhound howled. Another answered it. Galen didn’t move. Raffi tugged his wrists frantically, feeling the tight bonds scorch his skin. Then, deliberately, he lay still and opened his third eye.
He was tired and scared, and it was an effort. But after two minutes’ forced concentration he managed to make a small circle of light and let his mind crawl through it, into a room. Dimly he recognized it, the lamp, the bare, dusty floorboards. Galen lay here, crumpled and still, one arm flung out. But now there were flowers scattered on him, over his back and hair and all around him, the fresh strange yellow flowers of Flainscrown. Raffi brushed them off hastily, grabbing the keeper’s shoulder.
“Galen!” he said. “Wake up!”
Galen’s eyes snapped open. He rolled over, looked around at the room and the flowers, picked one up. “These again?” he muttered.
And suddenly they were back in the quenta forest, and in his fingers there was only a shriveled leaf.
“Raffi!” Instantly the keeper was on his feet. He rolled Raffi over, whipped off the gag, and fumbled for a knife. “What happened?”
“Solon. He used the Third Action. Thinks we’re Watch.” Raffi wriggled out of the ropes hurriedly. “They can’t have gone far. Are we going after them?”
“Of course we are!” Galen’s eyes were black with annoyance. “He’s a keeper! We need him!”
“But if he won’t believe us . . .”
“I’ll make him.” Galen hauled him up roughly and grabbed the pack. “Go on! Quickly!”
They hurried, following broken leaves, branches. There was no need for anything more; the trail was only too obvious. Behind them the razorhounds snarled and spat, answering each other across the lake, always closer.
Galen burst through a hanging curtain of leaves, Raffi breathless behind. The keeper stopped dead; peering past him, Raffi saw why.
Solon was kneeling, deep in the leaves. He wasn’t touching the tree, but they could feel his contact with it, his struggle to reach its deep intelligence.
Galen stepped forward. To his left, a crossbow swiveled up.
“My God, you’re persistent!” Marco muttered.
“He needs me to help him. Or none of us will get out of this.” Without moving from where he stood, Galen sent sudden sense-lines of energy flickering between the trees, their power raw and sharp. Instantly Solon glanced back. He looked amazed, then afraid.
“Who are you?” he breathed.
But Galen spoke to the forest. “Let us through,” he said quietly. “Make a way and close it after us. The men behind us are despoilers, burners of trees. We need to escape from them. Will you do this for us?”
Like the stirring of many leaves the forest answered him, its voice rustling and multifold. It has been many years.
“I know that. But you see who we are.”
We see. You are Soren’s Sons.
Raffi was surprised. It was a name for the Order rarely heard now, written only once or twice in very old books, like the Prophecies of Askelon.
Something dragged and slithered next to him, so that he turned in fear. Branches and leaves were drawing back. Beyond them was a dim green darkness.
We make a way for you, the wood whispered. Go through.
The hole led deep into the forest. It was a network of spaces, the knotted boughs easing apart, leaving gaps to scramble through and over; far in front of them Raffi could see it unfurling, a dim tunnel of branches. He went in front, pushing and climbing. Galen came next with Marco, Solon was last, and behind him with scarcely a sound the trees closed their mesh again, the giant branches sprouting and interlocking.
Down here the gloom was so deep nothing else grew, only pale toadstools and ghostly threads of fungus fingering up from the accumulated springy mattresses of a century’s dead leaves. Stumbling, Raffi remembered Galen once telling him that the quenta forest was supposed to be all one tree, a vast, sprawling entity. If that was the case, they were deep inside its body now, miles inside, the smooth green-lichened trunks rising above him into rustling canopies.
After what seemed an age Galen gasped, “All right, Raffi. This is enough.”
It was a small clearing, musty-smelling. When Raffi sat down he sank into leaves to his waist, dry and crumbling.
Galen, limping now, eased Marco down. The bald man still held the crossbow. Leaning over, one hand on a tree bole, Galen dragged in deep breaths. He looked haggard, as if his old leg wound ached, but his eyes were sharp with that reckless triumph Raffi knew only too well. When Solon caught up, they were all silent a while, recovering. Raffi lay on his back and listened to the forest, the cold wind making an endless whistling in the high leaves above him, though down here everything was still, as if it had never moved. Lichen grew thick on trunks and bark; hanging green beards of it, as if snow or wind never penetrated, never disturbed it. Only the slow drip of the rain would reach this place.
Slowly the terror died in him. They were safe here. No one else might ever have come this far in, not since the Makers walked the world.
Solon must have thought so too. He sat down wearily and looked up at Galen, rubbing one hand through his smooth silver hair. “It seems we have much to thank you for.” Then he stood up abruptly and held out his hand.
Galen took it, their fingers tight in the sign of Meeting.
“Another keeper,” Solon breathed. “I hardly believed there were any left!”
“A few.”
“Flainsteeth,” Marco muttered. “More fanatics.”
Solon smiled at him. “Excuse my friend. He is something of an unbeliever. But still I have to say I don’t understand how you could do all this.”
Galen looked at him sidelong. “When we get to Sarres, I’ll explain everything. Not before. We may still be captured.”
“Sarres!” Solon’s eyes went wide with intense curiosity.
“Sarres is a lost place! A place in legend!”
Galen smiled a wolfish smile. “That’s what you think,” he said.
Mardoc’s Ring
7
Artelan traveled. He never knew how long or how far. He never knew how he was brought to the hidden island.
Artelan’s Dream
CARYS PUT THREE CARDS DOWN carefully. “Crescent,” she muttered.
Sitting cross-legged opposite her on the grass the Sekoi smiled. Its seven fingers plucked out an Emperor and pushed it carelessly into the last gap in the ring.
“Circle,” it said smugly.
Carys swore. “You can’t have!”
“I have.” The creature smirked, its yellow eyes bright. With both hands it gathered the great pile of withered chestnuts toward itself. “So all these are mine. I make that four thousand gold marks exactly that you owe me.”
Disgusted, Carys flung the cards down. “You were cheating. You had to be cheating!”
“Prove it.”
“You deal too fast.”
“Skill,” the creature said, crunching one of the nuts.
“And these.” It waved its fingers at her.
Carys leaned back against the calarna tree, folding her arms. “You know you’ll never see the money.”
“I live in hope. But I would have thought that a Watchspy would have been able to teach me a few tricks in card-sharping. What do you people do in your time off?”
“There isn’t any.” Carys brushed the blown hair from her eyes irritably. She didn’t want to think about the Watch, let alone discuss it. But she said, “And I’m not a Watchspy. Not anymore.
”
“Ah.” The Sekoi looked over the smooth lawns of Sarres to the house, and the strange green hill beyond. Geese wandered under the trees, pecking at grass. “My people have a saying. ‘Darkness is a stain that will not wash away.’”
Carys’s eyes went hard. “Meaning?”
Idly it stroked the tribemark on its furred face. When it looked at her again its eyes were sly. “I think you know I’ve never been quite sure of you, Carys,” it said quietly.
She laughed bitterly. “Only too well. What do I have to do to convince you? Isn’t it enough to be on every death-list for miles?”
The Sekoi lounged elegantly on the grass. “Ah, but I know the Watch. Anyone can be on a list. Anyone can seem to be an outlaw, and still be working undercover.”
“Galen trusts me. And Galen—”
“Is the Crow. I know. He is also a man wholly possessed by his faith. Sometimes I think that makes him blind to danger. Certain dangers.”
They looked at each other in silence, Carys hot with annoyance. In the stillness the birdsong seemed louder. The endless ripple of the hidden spring, Artelan’s Well itself, bubbled from under the yew trees.
When she spoke again her voice was spiteful. “Time will tell.”
The Sekoi closed its eyes against the sun. “Indeed. I will be watching.”
“So will I, Graycat. Because the Sekoi would sell their only sons for a bent button. That’s an old saying too.”
As it opened one eye and stared at her, surprised, the door of the house flew open and Felnia ran out, racing wildly over the grass, her short hair flying. She flung her arms wide.
“They’re coming! The Guardian says they’re coming!”
Carys scrambled up, the Sekoi tall beside her. “Now?”
“Soon. Any time!” The little girl was breathless with delight, her face somehow smeared with soil from the gardens. Behind her the Guardian, Tallis, came slowly, in her old-woman shape, wiping her hands on her dress. She looked uneasy, her face tense with worry. “They’re not alone,” she said as she came up.