The Dark City (9 page)

Raffi barely knew how. Then training took over; he made a space in his mind, opened the third eye.
Please come out,
he asked, over and over. He knew it was close, and could hear him.

Galen crouched at his shoulder, his hand gripping tight. When Raffi looked now he saw rain, glinting on the trunk, dripping in places from above. The yew was huge; one edge of the split a bent contorted angle of wood, but as he looked closer he saw that he was mistaken, that it was a man, an old man in russet flaking, shapeless clothes, his eyes deep as knotholes, turning toward him.

Galen’s fingers shook him.

“Has he come?”

Raffi nodded, silent.

The yew-man smiled at him and nodded too.
I’ve come, keeper.

“He can’t hear you,” Raffi muttered, his throat dry.

How is that?

“There was an accident; he was hurt.”

Glancing up, Raffi saw Galen’s wild excitement. “Go on! Ask him! Can he help me!”

“There was an accident,” Raffi said again, stumbling for words. “The keeper has lost . . . He can’t enter the land now, or hear it when it speaks to him.” He felt torn with awe at the yew-man’s eyes, and embarrassment at Galen having to hear this.

The yew-man, too, seemed fascinated. He turned his brown old gaze on Galen, moved a fold of cloak to show two gnarled hands clasped on a root.

That must torment him. There is no loss as great as that.

“Yes . . .” Raffi wondered if Galen could hear. “Can you help? The yew is a tree of poison and healing. Do you have some way . . . ?”

No.
The old man shook his head.
Only the Makers can give back what they have taken.

“But the Makers are gone.”

Tormented with impatience, Galen hissed, “What does he say about the Makers?”

But Raffi waved him back.

Yes, they are gone.
The old man sighed.
I remember them, long since.

“Remember them!”

I’m old, child, older than anything here. I guard the bones of the cat-kings, but before them all, I was. And when the Makers came and walked on the grass I saw them when they were young, Tamar and Therris and Flain. Even Kest, whose sorrow burns us all. They could have helped your master.

“But . . .” Raffi grew dizzy; he shook his head, stunned.

“Hold on to it!” Galen’s voice snapped. “Hold on!”

“The Makers are gone. We can’t speak to them. The only messenger was the Crow.”

The Crow is still here,
the yew-man said calmly.

“Here!”

In this world. In this body. The Crow lives, for without him the world would die.
The voice became slurred, a harsh gabble of sound, then clear again.
Stone and tree miss the keepers. Other men do not speak to us. We do not know how to speak to them.

The tree blurred before him.

“Hold on!” Galen muttered.

Sweating, dizzy, Raffi gripped his hands tight on the old man’s. “Where is the Crow?”

In Tasceron. In you. In your master, if he knew it.

“But where?”

The answer was harsh and garbled; the sound distorted as if down tunnels and veins, deep in the earth. His hands clasped a wooden knoll. He felt sick and retched, choking.

“Hold it!” Galen was yelling.

“I can’t! He’s gone! He’s gone!”

Sweating, he was hauled up, dragged out from the tree on hands and knees. He collapsed in the grass, sick, shivering uncontrollably, his head throbbing with flashes of light and pain. After a while he realized Galen was holding him. Rain had soaked them both.

“Sorry.”

“You did your best.”

The keeper eased him against the tree, dragged the pack over, and pulled the blankets out. “Get these around you. It’s aftershock. We should have a fire.”

“Not safe.”

“What did he say, Raffi?” Galen clutched him on both arms, as if he couldn’t bear the suspense. “Can he cure me?”

Raffi shook his head. He looked away from the keeper’s face.

“He remembered the Makers. He said . . . only they can give back what they’ve taken. He said the Crow is in Tasceron. And in us, if we knew it.”

“In us?” Then Galen stopped.

Another wave of nausea shuddered through Raffi. “What’s wrong?” he croaked.

Galen had leaped up. He was looking down the hill, into the dark, and there was something in his look that made Raffi feel for his sense-lines.

They were all in shreds.

He staggered up and stood there, the blankets falling.

“Why don’t you come up,” Galen said grimly, “and see us from a little closer.”

A dim shape was down there just beneath them, crouching on the dark turf.

“Come on!” Galen’s voice was murderous.

The figure stood up, small and indistinct. Then the tiny moon, Pyra, came out. The light from it, ruby and warm, flickered over the girl.

The Watch, Unsleeping

11

Once you believe, you are lost. Anything you see or hear can be twisted against you. The Order are masters of nothing but falsehood.

Rule of the Watch

S
HE CAME A LITTLE CLOSER, then stopped.

“Is he all right?”

Galen glared at Raffi. “Is there anyone with her?”

Bewildered, Raffi groped for knowledge. “Only a horse, somewhere.”

The girl stared at him in surprise. “You can hear it?”

He shrugged, uneasy.

She was small, wearing dark blue and gray trousers and jerkin, her hair a shiny nut-brown cut against her cheek. She seemed remarkably unconcerned.

As no one said anything, she went on, “My name is Carys. Carys Arrin. I’m traveling west from here. Are you sure you’re all right?”

Raffi was surprised. It was a long time since anyone had asked him that. “Fine,” he said weakly.

“Why were you watching us?” Galen’s voice was cold; Raffi felt the tension behind it. For a moment he felt sick again, and sat down abruptly.

“He’s ill,” the girl remarked accusingly.

Irritated, Galen glanced down. Then he hauled Raffi up and turned, his hawk-face dark against the rainy moon. “Come under the tree. We can talk.”

Without waiting to see if she followed, he led Raffi in and sat him against the hollow trunk, tossing the blankets to him. Sensing the tree behind him made Raffi feel better, as if the strength of the wood and the spirit of it gave something back to him. His head cleared, and he looked up.

The girl stood hesitating under the thatch of branches. As she crouched he noticed the crossbow for the first time; it was wound back and loaded, he could see the bolt from here. She laid it on the dusty needles, but her hand stayed near it.

“I wasn’t watching you. At least, not at first.” She glanced curiously around at the enormous bulk of the yew. “I saw the trees and came up to see if I could shelter here. The rain’s getting heavy.”

Galen said nothing. He was still standing, his head bent under the low roof of twigs.

“Then I heard you talking.” She shrugged. “I crept up. I wanted to see who you were. You have to be careful, traveling alone.” Her fingers tapped the smooth shaft of the bow.

“Indeed you do,” Galen said. He sat down. “That goes for us too.”

She looked at him shrewdly. “I’m no threat to you. I think I know what you are.” As neither of them moved or spoke, she shrugged again. “All right, I won’t say it. But no one else could have . . . It was very dark under here, but I’m sure I heard him . . .” She glanced at Raffi and shook her head, as if she couldn’t get the words out.

“The tree spoke to him.” Galen’s voice was hard. “Is that so difficult?”

“For some.” She gave him a half smile.

After a moment he said, “Why travel alone?”

“I was with two friends of mine, but they turned back at the last village. They’d heard stories about the Sekoi tombs on the downs, and that scared them off.” She glared at her feet fiercely. “We had a terrible row and I stormed away. Told them I’d go on by myself. Then the rain came. They may be looking for me; but I doubt it. They had all the courage of jekkle-mice.” She looked up suddenly. “You haven’t got anything to eat, have you?”

Raffi’s hopes plunged. Galen shook his head. “No. So where is it you’re so eager to get to?”

For a moment she was silent, as if weighing him up. “I’m looking for my father.” Her voice dropped. “The Watch took him.”

Raffi peeled himself off the tree. “The Watch! Why?”

“Oh, you do speak, do you?” For a moment a laugh glinted in her face; then she turned it into the shadows. “I don’t really know the answer to that. I wasn’t there. When I came back to the village where we lived, he was gone. The Watchmen had come in the night—six of them, all armed, on black horses. They had broken the door down, dragged him out and taken him. It was so sudden . . .” Her voice was quiet; the rain outside hissed harder. Drops fell on Raffi’s shoulder. “There was talk later that a man and a woman—travelers—had come to the house two days before. My father gave them a room, for one night. They paid him. There was nothing wrong with that. But if they were keepers . . .”

They were silent a moment. Raffi knew the Watch wouldn’t have hesitated.

Carys looked up. “They came west, but I’ve lost the track. You would know, keeper. Where might they take him?”

Even Raffi wondered. But Galen said bleakly, “They want information. They’ll get it out of him, then kill him. It’s useless.”

Stubbornly she shook her head. “I’m not giving up! Where?”

In the darkness of the tree the three of them had become dim shapes to one another. Galen’s voice sounded strange. “I don’t know. Maybe to Tasceron.”

“Tasceron! Does it still exist?”

“It exists.”

The rain was lessening. Slowly it pattered into silence, but the slow drops still fell here and there through the thick growth, branch to branch, steady and relentless, and the scents of the wet night rose in the after-storm hush.

Carys looked at them curiously. “Is that where you’re going?”

Galen laughed harshly. “Us! It’s the last place we’d want to go.”

The girl was silent a moment. Then she said, “Look. Will you let me go on with you? I don’t like being on my own. Not out here.”

For a long moment the Relic Master watched the darkness outside. Then he said, “Until we reach a village, or a place you’ll be safe. But we’ve no horses. We walk.”

“So can I.” Carys knelt up eagerly on the crushed needles. “Thank you. So now I won’t need this.” She lifted the bow.

“Maybe,” Galen said stiffly. “Maybe we’re not so safe as you think.”

“I think you are.” She stood up against the sky. “I’ll bring my horse up.” Then turning, she said, “You didn’t tell me your names.”

Galen looked into the dark. “Galen Harn,” he said, his voice quiet. “And Raffael Morel.”

When she was gone he looked across. “Well?”

Raffi pulled the blankets tight. He felt better now, but tired. “She seems all right. And she’s on her own. She won’t be any threat.”

“But is she telling the truth?”

“I don’t know!” His throat was dry; he swallowed a few drops of rain from the ends of his fingers. “I don’t know how to tell.”