The Margrave (11 page)

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 stood 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.

The words rose around him, the breath of them agitating the flames. He realized that for some of these people, these words had not been spoken aloud for decades, or not ever, not since the Watch had forbidden them.

The Litany ended. Galen turned to face Raffi. In the candlelight his eyes were black, pinpointed with tiny flames. “What is your name?” he asked, his voice low.

“Raffael Morel.”

“Why are you here?”

“To enter the Deep Journey.”

“Where does the Journey lead?”

“Through darkness, to light.”

“With whom does the Journey end?”

“With Flain and the Makers.”

Galen nodded, very slightly. A rustle came from behind him, a small commotion near the door. Alberic had come in, his bodyguard carrying a chair and a small scarlet cushion. He climbed up and sat, waving the proceedings on.

Galen turned back. He faced the relics, his face a mask of shadows. “Soren, Lady of the Leaves. On this, your day, this scholar takes the road that leads down into the dark, through the veins and hollows, through the mindthreads of your world. Come to meet him, lady. Lead him over the Plain of Hunger, through the Barrier of Pain. In the Crucible give him your courage, that he may return safely as one of your sons. Speak your word to him, that he might be transformed.”

He spread his hands. From each palm a blue thread of energy flickered briefly; it moved among the relics, sparking and cracking with a loudness that made the watchers uneasy, causing the small dials in the octagonal slab to whirl their needles wildly, and the buttons on the cubes to flicker on and off.

Out of the power, Galen made the seven moons. They hung in the air, huge, over the table, each seeming solid and real, glowing with their individual brilliant lights. Then he turned. “Raffi.”

There was a wooden couch before the relic table.

A small cushion lay at its head. For a moment Raffi knew that his limbs were too frozen to move; his bare feet frosted to the floor. But somehow he walked and kneeled down.

Galen laid both hands on his head. “Take the awen-power,” he said, his voice too quiet for anyone but Raffi to hear. “Make the Journey. Be free. Enter the world.”

The pain came suddenly. It surged into him, into his head so that he gasped and cried out. It was an agony of power, it burned his veins like inner fire, and as he plummeted into it, it was a darkness that swallowed him, hands that caught him as he fell.

Gently Galen laid him down on the wooden couch, crossed his arms, placed the cushion under his head. Raffi’s face was white, his eyes closed.

“How long will it be?” the Sekoi whispered anxiously.

Galen stood. “A day. Maybe two. He must wake before the third.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

The keeper turned and began snuffing out the candles, his hand shaking slightly. “Then we’ll have lost him.”

T
HIS WAS WRONG. Something was wrong. He had controlled the Ride, the first mad, headlong flight of his tumbling soul. He had seen, in the misty distance, the Great Tree, rising over the barren plain. For hours, it seemed, he had been stumbling toward it, over this endless scorching desert, where nothing grew, where tiny red lizards ran into holes and the unbearable sands blistered his bare feet. But the Tree was no nearer. If anything, it seemed farther than when he had started, and the sting of flies was tormenting him, and the pain in his chest hurt so much he had had to stop, crouching, reckless with thirst.

And now, someone was behind him. Standing. A shadow on the sand, long and dark, a cool shade. He wanted to crawl into its darkness. But he kept still, and didn’t look around.

“Are you hot?” a voice asked gently.

He nodded.

“Thirsty?” It was a voice of hisses and crackles; sounds that were dry and scratchy, as if the desert spoke. A croak was all he could make in reply.

“You could go back. Going back would be the wise thing to do.”

“No.” His tongue was swollen. It was hard to swallow. “I have to go on.”

“Then you need this.” A hand reached over his shoulder, a gloved hand, holding a small gilt cup like the one he had drunk from once on Sarres. He grasped after it desperately, but as he took the cup, the glove came too, and he saw the hand. It had seven fingers. Each was long and clawed, with tiny iridescent scales. He turned instantly. No one was there.