The Lost Heiress #2 (2 page)

Raffi nodded, crossing to the window and leaning his hands on the sill. He knew that whatever the weather, the Watch would be prowling tonight. In the damp chill of the autumn twilight the countryside beyond was misty, the far hills faint blurs. In the cloud-ragged sky the moons were bright, all seven of them, with Pyra a fiery-red point in the east. There were no other lights, anywhere.

“Raffi!”

He turned instantly.

Galen was standing, tall and dark, his hawk-face sharp in the firelight. Power was moving around him; Raffi could see it, the blue tingles and sparks. It made him shiver.

“I’m ready,” the keeper said softly. “Let them in.”

The room was dark, as it should be, with no light but the fire. As the door opened Raffi saw the shapes of Rocallion’s tenants slip into the room, twelve or so men, the ones he could trust, with their wives and a few children. In the dimness they were nervous shadows, the creak of a bench, a whisper.

The air of the room was sharp with sorcery and fear. All of them knew that if the Watch caught them they’d pay heavily. Money, cattle, even their children might be taken away. Rocallion would lose most. But they wouldn’t die, Raffi thought bitterly. Not like he and Galen would die. Slowly.

He shivered. But Galen had begun.

“Friends. This is the night of Flainsdeath. Tonight we do what the faithful have done for centuries, since the Makers themselves were here.” He frowned. “In these days of evil we have to meet in secret; I salute the courage of each of you in coming. Tonight the Watch will ride out. But if you have kept the secret, we may be safe.”

His black eyes watched their tense faces. So did Raffi.

They were scared. That was natural. Or he hoped it was.

Galen paused. Then his voice lowered. “Before we start, I have some news for you. Two months ago the boy and I came out of Tasceron, the Wounded City, the City of the Makers. While we were there we saw and heard things I couldn’t explain if I wanted to. But this is the point. The Makers, at last, have spoken to the Order. They’ve sent us a message. They’ve promised us they will return.”

The silence was complete, as if no one breathed.

Then someone said, “Is it certain?”

“I heard the voice myself, across space and time. The boy heard it, and others. They told us to wait.” He rubbed the edge of his hand wearily down his cheek. “How long, I don’t know. We must all pray it will be soon. Kest’s creatures multiply, and the Unfinished Lands still spread. The Watch grows in strength. We need it to be soon.”

They were astonished. Their amazement was so strong Raffi felt he could almost have touched it; it was sharp as the holly hanging from the roof, bright as the berries the fire scorched. But they believed.

The keeper turned abruptly, ignoring the sudden buzz of whispers. “Are your sense-lines out, boy? I may be too busy.”

Raffi nodded; he’d already checked them, a net of energy lines around the house, stretching out as far down the moonlit lanes and trackways as he could manage. If anyone crossed them, he’d know.

“Then we’ll start,” Galen said.

He sat, waved a hand, and Raffi climbed to his feet, nervously waiting for the whispers to quiet.

Finally they were all looking at him.

He had only done this once before, though he had heard the story of Flain’s death most years since he was small. Now he would recite it, from memory, from the Book of the Seven Moons. After that the keeper would enter the Silence, maybe for minutes, maybe for hours. Until he woke, like Flain had woken, bringing them the secret Word. And then the candles would be lit and, at last, they’d eat. Raffi was desperate for food. He’d been fasting all day, and now his stomach rumbled quietly. Gripping his fists, he began quickly.

“The soul that had been Flain traveled deep into the Otherworld, always seeking the way back. After hours and years and centuries he came to a low place, no higher from the floor than his knee, and he crawled among the veins and wormholes of the Underworld. Through the mines and tunnels of Death he crept, to a wide cavern lit only by red flame. In the center of the cavern lay a casket, made of gold and calarna wood, and the soul of Flain crossed the soft sand to the casket and opened it.

“In the casket was a Word. And Flain saw the Word, and as he saw it, all the secrets of the world came to him, and he knew the way out from Death, and the future; and far off and very faint, he heard the voices of the Makers—Tamar, Soren, Theriss—calling for him.”

Raffi stopped. In the silence the fire crackled, smelling of pine and furzewood. Faces were red glimmers, sharp angles of shadow. As he sat down, all eyes turned to Galen.

The Relic Master sat upright in his chair, his black hair glossy in the dimness, his eyes catching the flame light. He sat easily, without moving, his face gaunt and calm. And as they watched, in the smoky hall, through the wood crackle and the soft patter of hail on the shutters, they saw something begin to form, in the air before the fire.

A bench creaked, bodies leaned forward. A child said something and was hushed.

It came out of nowhere, out of the dark, and though they had all seen this happen before, the eerie chill of it was always new. Even Raffi felt the ice of fear touch his spine.

The casket was large, and strange, made of gold and calarna wood: Flain’s casket, with its hinges gleaming. Slowly it became solid, until it was heavy, on a small table, the wood richly oiled.

Raffi stared. Every keeper made the casket differently; he had seen Galen perform the Flainsdeath summoning before, but never like this. It was so quick. Something was strange. Something was different.

Outside, the rising wind beat at the shutters. For a long moment Galen waited. Then he stood up, his hands on the lid.

“I open this,” he said, his voice hoarse, “as Flain did. Let the Word speak to us, let it teach us the secrets.”

It was back, the power that had possessed him before; the power that was the Crow. Dizzy with it, Raffi felt it crackle and rustle around the room like dark wings, making his fingers jerk and tingle, blurring some deep uneasy nagging in his head.

Now Galen was opening the lid, and as he lifted it all the people gasped, because light came out of it, a widening slit, stabbing up into the smoke, throwing a brilliant glare onto Galen’s face as he stared down into it, undazzled.

Raffi stood up. Something snagged in his mind, some warning. Outside, the wind howled and rattled.

With both hands, Galen was reaching eagerly into the casket. There were things he should have said, parts of the Litany. He wasn’t saying them. Uneasy, Raffi shifted. “Galen. The Responses.”

There was no sign he was heard.

“Galen?”

No one moved. Turning his head, Raffi saw why.

Shapes and swirls of energy were everywhere in the room, sparking up paneling, the folds of hangings, spitting along the tables. Amazed, the tenants stared around them. Small blue coils unwound, snapping back on themselves around Galen, leaving a faint smell of burning. Raffi had never seen anything like it before.

Then Galen spoke abruptly. “I see the Word!”

He lifted his eyes. They were black, as if blinded. Rocallion was standing; everyone was. A boy called out; there were noises from outside, horse hooves, running, a banging on the door. With a guilty shock Raffi dragged his mind back to the sense-lines; they were snagged open, torn wide.

“The Watch!” he hissed, but the keeper was rigid, the box in his hands pulsing with light.

“Would you hear the Word?”

“Speak it!” someone murmured, remembering the answer.

“I speak it.” Galen breathed sharply, as if a knife had stabbed him. “The Word . . .” He sought for it, hands gripped tight, until suddenly his eyes cleared in shock. “The word is . . .
Interrex
.”

The whole room stared at him in astonishment.

Then the casket vanished soundlessly.

Raffi moved. “Rocallion, the Watch are here!” Shoving through the crowd he grabbed Galen’s arm. “They’re here! At the door!”

“What!” The franklin stared at him in horror. “But I’ve got men out.”

“They’re through that! Listen!”

Voices were loud in the courtyard. A horse neighed, hooves clattered over the cobbles.

“Flainsteeth!” Rocallion leaped across the room and grabbed Galen. “With me, keepers, now! Hurry!”

He dragged them through a door in the wall. Behind them Raffi could hear the table hastily pulled out, candles lit, the hurried children being pushed into seats. A Flainsnight supper was not illegal. Not yet.

They raced down a tiny stair, Raffi stumbling in the sudden dark. “Your friends . . .” Galen gasped.

“Don’t worry. They won’t talk. Just a party.”

“Unless the Watch know we’re here,” the keeper growled.

At the bottom was a corridor. Rocallion looked up and down it, then opened a door opposite, hustled them through, and bolted it behind him.

“Stillroom,” he hissed.

It was musky with herb smells, bunches of them hung from the ceiling. A bench was littered with glass vials and bowls. Someone was calling, far off in the house, but, ignoring it, Rocallion crouched and pulled a hidden catch near the hearth. Instantly a small panel slid open in the wall.

Galen crawled in, Raffi scrambling after him.

Rocallion’s white face filled the gap. “No one else knows about this. I’ll get you out when I can. You’ll be safe.”

The keeper nodded. “Good luck,” he said.

But the panel was slammed tight.

Sorrows of Kest

T
HEY WERE CROUCHED in some black, dampsmelling place. Raffi stretched out his hand and touched a cold wall.

“So.” Galen’s voice came grimly out of the dark. “They timed that well.”

“Will they find us?”

“It depends on how suspicious they are. Can you see them?”

Raffi tried, opening the third eye, his mind’s eye. “Six?”

“More like ten.” Galen sounded distant, as if his mind was listening to the uproar in the house. “Hard to tell. There’s a lot of confusion.” He must have eased his leg then, because he hissed with the ache of it; Raffi felt a faint echo of pain.

“Make a light, boy. Let’s see where we are.”

It took Raffi an effort; concentrating made him dizzy. But finally he managed a weak globe of light in the air before him, wobbling.

“Hold it still!” Galen snapped, looking around.

They were in a tiny cell, hardly tall enough for Galen to stand. The walls were damp brick—plastered once, but most of that lay in lumps on the floor. There were no windows. A crack in one corner let in an icy draft. In another corner was a basket, with a pile of blankets on top.

The globe faded. Raffi sweated with the effort of keeping it.

“Leave it.” Galen had the basket open, rummaging inside. A tinderbox sparked; Raffi saw the faint glow of kindling being blown red.

“Save your energy. We may be days in here.”

If we’re lucky, Raffi thought. He let the globe go out. Then he asked, “Any food?”

“Some. Rocallion seems to have been prepared.”

“Unless he knew they were coming.”

Galen looked up sharply, his face dark. “You think so?”

Raffi shrugged. “No.”

“In that case, keep quiet, and don’t slur a good man. Take the blankets. They’re damp, but thick.”

Raffi tugged one around himself and shivered. Galen handed him bread, an apple, some strips of dried meat. “Flainsnight feast,” he said.

Raffi stared at it in disgust. Then he ate. He was used to being hungry. Any food was something.

“We have enough for about two days.” Galen crunched an apple absently.

“Will it be that long?”

The keeper shrugged. “If the leaf-fall is too thick the Watch will stay in the house.”

“He could bring us food.”

“He’ll be followed. Everywhere.” Stretching his legs out, Galen considered. “If no one else knows about this hiding place, we’re dependent on him. At least his housemen can’t betray us. If he has—” He stopped instantly. His hand shot to his neck.

“Oh God!” he said.

“What?” Raffi knelt up. “What is it?”

Galen had flung the apple down, was searching his pockets, inside his jerkin, desperately. “The beads! The awen-beads!”

They started at each other in blank horror.

“Did you pick them up?”

“No, I . . .”

“God! Raffi!” Galen slammed one hand furiously against the wall.

“There are other things too,” Raffi realized miserably. “Your stick. Our bags.”