The Margrave (26 page)

Raffi turned to the Margrave. “That’s why you must join us.”

“Me!” The creature’s eyes blinked in astonishment. “You ask me to help you? And you believe the keeper would trust me?”

“I will trust you,” Galen said with immense difficulty. “If Raffi says so.”

“I do.” Raffi’s voice was quiet.

Carys felt the Sekoi’s disquiet. But neither of them spoke.

The Margrave was silent a moment. Then it hissed, “You make me feel something like shame, Raffi. But why should I care what happens to Anara?”

“We can’t do it without you.” He took a step closer. “And I will make a vow too. If we succeed, I will stay with you, here, in the darkness. For as long as you want. As your scholar. As your son.”

They were all silent, stricken. Only the machines roared. Small red reflections flickered on the Margrave’s scaly skin. “You swear this?” it whispered.

“Yes.” Raffi looked at Galen, then Carys. “I swear it by Flain.”

 

 

THE CAVERN RUMBLED.

Galen laid the last crystal in the hasty circle and stepped inside. Carys and the Sekoi, Raffi and Quist waited where he had put them, outside, four corners of an invisible square. The keeper turned. “Now you,” he said.

The Margrave entered the circle warily. Face-to-face, they looked at each other, the darkness between them. “We must touch?” the creature said. It held out its hands, but Galen gripped its arms at the elbows. “I should have killed you,” he whispered.

The Margrave smiled its lipless smile. “Have faith, Relic Master.”

 

 

THE SENSE-LINES CAME, out of nowhere. In the dark, for the first time, Carys could feel them, and she cried out with the pain they made, as her mind rippled, caught up in the sudden surge of power spinning from Raffi and Quist, and even the Sekoi, its lines of story circling her delicately.

And she joined with them, felt herself being drawn deep into the relics, down their dark circuitry, her senses choked with the rank smell of oil, scorched by tiny sparks, made and remade in a million instant connections. Spiraling down with her were all the things she had never known existed: voices of calarna trees, and sheshorn, birch and yew; the slow intelligences of tiny animals; fiery energies of birds and salamanders. All the complex tales the Sekoi tell were there and the stream of sounds and minds became a living thing, unfurling and uncoiling. It infiltrated the Maker-devices, growing into them; it sent out roots and uncurled leaves; it sprouted branches through the minute tunnels of wire and microchip, making a new thing, an organic machine, a great tree rooted in the ground, the seven moons high in its branches.

At the heart of the tree Tallis was waiting. She wore the Coronet of Flain, and all her three ages were in her at once, and over her in the filaments and branches a dark bird came down and perched, and at her feet a lizard slithered, its bright eyes unblinking.

Out from the tree all weathers came, and Carys became them, one by one, the frozen numbness of snow, the slash of rain. She became soil and rock; she ran and splashed and trickled and drowned in the deep hollows of great rivers.

She became all the people of the world, sick and well, young and old, male and female. She became Sekoi and Starman. She breathed air and water. She ached with every worker on the Wall. She became the dead, their lost consciousness all around her, their pain and longing and peace. She became her mother and her father, her small, sickly brother, all the long lineage of her family. She became the Makers, as wise as Flain, as strong as Tamar, as ingenious as Kest. She was the Interrex, and knew herself a queen. She squirmed with Alberic’s asperity.

Raffi was there, and she relived the terror of his Journey, and she knew Quist’s longing for Scala and the Sekoi’s secret name. She became the Crow, crackling with its darkness, the strength and compassion of its power.

And last of all she became the Margrave. Deep in its blind loneliness she was evil and she was lost; she was ashamed and exultant.

She became them and they were Anara. They had no end and no beginning, only the circular spin of the seasons. They were together and no one was alone. They were the tiniest seed, the greatest forest of quenta. They moved now, out over the planet, deep in its soil, through its oceans and hills and relics. They overran Tasceron, taking the darkness of its wound with them from streets and domed shrines and ruined houses, and sunlight filled the city, and deep in the House of Trees every relic of the Makers’ came to life. They crossed the Narrow Sea and spilled their joy over pasturelands, over woods and lanes, over Sekoi tombs and cromlechs, over the Wall, raveling up the land behind them, healing the hurts in atom and molecule, through enzyme and bacterium. They came to Sarres and swept up its power. They ordered themselves and aligned themselves.

They were dead. They were alive. They were in balance.

And they left the planet and turned outward, and sped through the stars. Galaxies flashed by them, novae flared and burned. All through the vast interstellar silences they spread, until far off they saw the point of light, tiny at first, that grew, as they hurtled into it, to a great inferno, the heart of an explosion of life that never stopped, that scorched them as they fell deeper and deeper, burning them, dissolving them, making them new.

 

 

“CARYS.” THE VOICE WAS DISTANT, a long way off. “Carys!” An arm was around her shoulders. “Drink this,” the voice said.

It was water. She gulped it, spilling it, suddenly deep in such a terrible thirst she thought it would kill her. The pain brought her sight back and she stared at Raffi.

“All of it,” he said quietly.

She emptied the glass, both hands shaking. “Is it always this bad?” she croaked.

He smiled. “Nearly.”

Over his shoulder she saw Quist looking down, and Galen kneeling over the Margrave. The creature seemed as distraught as she was; it was on hands and knees, and the keeper had to support it. “Did we do it?” she whispered.

“We did something.” He shook his head, overwhelmed. “Did you feel it, Carys? Did you feel the glory of it?”

“Get me up,” she said irritably.

Around them the Maker-machines hummed, a steady, efficient sound. Raffi had to hold her. She had never felt so weak, so utterly useless. “If this is being a keeper,” she muttered, holding on to one of the machines, “you can keep it.”

He grinned, but the Sekoi’s voice, oddly harsh to her raw nerves, interrupted. “I’ve got something, Galen.”

The creature had the control panel up and had found some image on the screen, blurred and grainy. Galen helped the Margrave to a chair and came over quickly. He seemed to have barely enough energy to control the screen, but finally they knew they were looking at the Unfinished Lands.

The silence was intense.

“It’s just the same,” Carys breathed. She felt devastated.

“Don’t be so sure.” Galen struggled to get the image closer; Raffi had to help him.

The land was barren, a chalky sand, but as they closed down on it, they saw rain was falling, a calm, steady drizzle.

“There!” Galen pointed. “Look there.” It was nothing much. A tiny green shoot, barely breaking the surface. But they all stared at it in stunned delight.

“Raffi.” The Margrave was standing, unsteady. “Did we succeed?”

Carys didn’t need sense-lines to feel that abrupt end of Raffi’s joy. But he answered calmly. “Yes. I think we have.” He turned to Galen, awkward. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “But otherwise it might not have . . .”

“You made your vow, and you at least must keep to it.” Galen’s eyes were dark; the darkness was in the hollows of his face and his long, glossy hair. He took something from his pocket. “These are for you. I made them ready a long time ago. I knew you would need them.” They were a keeper’s beads, green and black. Raffi stared, but Galen put them gently around his neck, all seven strands, and stepped back. “You have finished your Deep Journey after all, Relic Master,” he said.

For a moment in silence they both stood there as if they could not bear this. Then Raffi said, “I must go.”

Behind him, the Sekoi spoke. “Stay where you are, small keeper.”

“No!” He turned, sense-lines alert. “No.
NO!
” But the flash of blue light seared past him and past Quist. It flung the Margrave back against the machines, a shocked, crumpled heap, and as it lay there the Sekoi came forward, firing again and again into its chest, coldly accurate, until the air was acrid with a choking smoke and the stunned agony of the snapped sense-lines.

For an instant Raffi was blank; then he found himself kneeling by the Margrave, dragging it up, calling it desperately. Its soul barely flickered; the strange touch of it moved through him, and he lifted it, body and spirit, and it reached for him. “Kest,” it breathed, “my scholar.” And its life slid into the Maker-machines and was gone, a whisper in the darkness.

Galen’s hands were tight on his shoulders. Raffi turned to the Sekoi, his face drawn, searching for words. “I never asked you . . .” he screamed.

“It was not for you, Raffi.” The creature was tall and controlled; it dropped the weapon with weary distaste. “It was not for any of you. Or for Solon, or Marco. It was for a Sekoi cub that was lost from us eons ago. The only one we have ever lost.”

Raffi choked. He couldn’t speak.

Galen said, “It was captured?”

“Brought here. Experimented on. Altered.” Its voice was raw, almost unrecognizable, as if it could not bear to say the words, and it turned away quickly.

“The Margrave did it?” Raffi had to know.

The Sekoi did not turn. “It
became
the Margrave,” it whispered.

T
HEY SAT TOGETHER in the cluttered room, all but the Sekoi. Raffi had found some food, but no one even looked at it. Galen brooded in a corner, deep in prayer and remorse. It was Quist who looked up and said, “We will need to bury it.”

Raffi put a plate down abruptly. The shock of the Margrave’s death kept coming over him, like an unending series of waves, each time harder, more real.

Carys looked at him anxiously. “Yes. But we need to get out of here, and it should be soon. We have to find out what’s happening outside.”

“Alberic!” Galen looked up, remembering. He stood quickly. “Carys . . .”

“He’ll be gone, Galen! Long gone!”

“Not if he’s in the Watchtower,” Raffi said numbly. “I saw it, on the screen. There was an army all around it.”

Galen made straight for the door, Carys close behind. Then she came back. “Are you . . . ?”

“I’ll stay here.” Raffi glared at Quist. “On my own.”

 

 

THE SCREEN SHOWED CARNAGE. It looked as though there had been several attacks; the ground was churned with horse tracks, the black flowers mangled and bloody. The tower seemed to have held out so far; but the numbers of the Watch army made Carys turn cold.

“Well.” Galen looked up. “The thief-lord has done us proud after all.”

“He’ll never get out alive.”

“Of course he will.” The keeper gave her his wolfish smile. “When the Watch fall back.”

“You’re mad, Galen. They will never withdraw.”

“They will if they’re ordered.”

She stared at him, suddenly understanding. Quist said, “But who . . .”

“You. Or me. It doesn’t matter.” Galen adjusted the controls carefully. “They never saw the creature, remember? Raffi says it only spoke to them. They won’t know that their master has been replaced.”

The screen flickered. They saw a Watch commander with a bandaged face, his uniform torn. Galen glanced at Quist. The captain licked his lips, then said, “Report.”

“We have made five separate attacks. The rebels control the tower weapons, and have inflicted heavy losses. Commander Resh five forty-nine has been killed.”

“Enough. Listen carefully, this is a priority message.” Quist’s voice was hoarse. “The attack is to be called off. All troops are to be withdrawn to Cato’s Cleft.”

The commander’s face flickered with astonishment.

“Called off? Lord, we are so close . . .”

“Do you question your orders?”

Surprise vanished. The man’s face closed. “No, lord.”

“Then carry them out.”

The bandaged man nodded, and vanished.

Quist let out his breath.

“There is something to be said,” Galen muttered from the controls, “for such blind obedience.”

Quist glanced at Carys. “Not from everyone,” he said wryly.

She nodded. “And it will destroy them. It’s clever, Galen. Sly, in fact.”

Galen looked up. “In slyness, here’s an expert.”

Before the picture came, they heard the singing. Carys winced; Alberic’s poet seemed to be arriving at some tuneless crescendo. Then, in a flicker of light they saw him, and the dwarf, in a golden breastplate and greaves, picking moodily over a plate of stale dewberries.

“Hello, Alberic,” Galen said softly.

The song stopped in mid-note. The dwarf stood slowly, unsheathing a bright, curved sword. His bodyguards stood around him. Carys could see the back of Milo’s head, dirty and uncombed, turning this way and that.

“Keeper?”

“Yes, thief-lord.”

“Where in hell’s name are you?” He circled warily.

“You’ve got your back to me,” Galen said.

Alberic turned. His neck was scarred and raw from the burns; he moved painfully, but he was grinning from ear to ear. “Are you dead, or is that too much to hope for?”

“Far too much. You’ve cheated death yourself, I see. What’s in front of you?”

“A wall. With my idiot nephew against it.” But Milo had already scrambled up, and stood by Godric.