Fisher, Catherine - The Hidden Coronet #3

“To keep my hand in.” She tucked the smooth hair behind one ear. “And to be ready for when we go.”

“We’re not going till after the Feast,” he said, his heart cold. “And Carys, you can’t come!”

She grinned at him. “Oh can’t I?”

“Your picture was on that death-list!”

To his surprise she just laughed. “Of course it was! Don’t worry, Raffi. I can cut my hair and change its color. They taught us all about that.”

“You can’t change your face.”

“You’d be surprised how bad people’s memories are. I’ll take my chance.” She wound the bolt back rapidly.

He wandered over, knowing it was useless to argue. “You’d be safe here.”

“I’m coming. If Galen’s going after this Coronet, then so am I.” She aimed deliberately. Watching, he felt the weight of the bow in his mind; then he opened his third eye and from the target saw the bolt explode into his chest with a wooden thump.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “Why weren’t we on that list? Galen and me?”

“They don’t have drawings of you.”

“Braylwin would have described us. They could have made some sort of picture.”

She looked at him, thinking. “There are lots of lists. Still, you’re right. It’s odd.”

A mere-duck flew over, its red tail flashing. She whipped up the bow, following it down among the trees.

“Don’t,” he muttered, nervous.

Carys looked at him irritably. “It’s not loaded.”

“I’m very glad of that!” Marco was walking through the trees. In the last few days his wounds had almost healed; looking at him now Raffi saw a stocky, broad-shouldered man in the too-tight red jerkin Tallis had found for him. Red of face too, a bold, blunt, cheery face. He sat himself down next to them.

“Now, I’d love to know why a scholar of the Order needs to practice with a crossbow. Maybe if I wasn’t a hated relic-dealer, and in Galen’s opinion lower than the muck on his boot, I’d ask.”

Raffi frowned. Carys laughed. Lowering the bow she kneeled on the grass. “I’m not a scholar. I’m ex-Watch. A bit like you, I suppose.”

“Ex-Watch!” Marco looked curious. “I didn’t think they allowed any ‘ex.’”

She shrugged.

After a silence he said, “My friend Solon tells me we’ll only be here three more days. Until after the Feast of the Field of Gold. Whatever that is.”

Raffi looked appalled. “You don’t know?”

Marco lay back on one elbow, ankles crossed. “Should I?” he teased.

“It’s Flain’s return. From the Underworld. From the dead.”

“Oh.” Marco winked at Carys. “I see. From the dead !”

Raffi felt himself going red. The man was making fun of him. And the Makers. It made him angry. “It’s important,” he muttered fiercely. “It’s the first day of spring.”

“I’m sure it is. Where would we be without the Makers.”

Raffi scrambled up.

“Wait. I’m sorry.” Marco sat upright, his grin suddenly gone. “Really, Raffi. I shouldn’t poke fun at you. Not after you all but took my head out of the noose. It’s just . . .” He shook his head in irritation. “How an intelligent man like Solon can believe all that nonsense . . .”

“Is it though?” Carys said thoughtfully. “How would you explain the world, Marco? Relics—you must have handled a lot of those. And Sarres?”

He pulled a mock painful face and rubbed an eyebrow; he had thick eyebrows, as if his hair had been dark, and across his knuckles the word ROSE tattooed in blue. “I’m a plain man, Carys. How should I know. There were Makers—there probably were—but I think they were people just like us. Well, cleverer. Where they came from, I don’t know, but I don’t believe they came down from the stars on stairs of silver! They knew things we don’t; the relics were things they made. Over the centuries the Order built up these fancy stories about them and forgot all the important bits. And why not? It gave them plenty of power. Men like Solon would have been respected. Before the Watch.”

She glanced over at Raffi. He looked hot and confused.

“And the power the keepers have? It exists. I’ve seen it.”

“So have I!” Marco laughed. “Oh, I can’t explain that. The ice-cracking was incredible, but when Galen got those trees to close in around us—that would have made my hair stand on end if I still had any!”

They laughed with him, Raffi uncomfortably.

“It comes from the Makers, I suppose. It still doesn’t make them gods.”

“They weren’t gods,” Raffi muttered. “They were the sons of God.”

Marco lay back in the grass, hands behind his head.

“Whatever,” he said lazily.

IT SCARED RAFFI. He couldn’t talk to Galen about it because for two days the keeper had been deep in the rituals of preparation—fasting, meditating alone, on the hill and by the spring. And anyway, Raffi knew Galen too well. He’d have laughed harshly, and given him some chapters of the Book to study. Or told him off for listening to unbelievers.

Sitting in the dark, silent room that night, with the fire and all the candles out, in the cold stillness before the day of the Return, Raffi found himself wondering about the Makers. Flain and Tamar, Soren, Halen, Theriss, Kest. All his life he had known of them, had spoken to them. Often he felt they were close to him, answering when he needed them. Sometimes there was just silence. He knew all the stories, had even stood in the House of Trees itself. And there he had heard a voice, a living voice, full of distance. A voice from beyond the stars.

Marco couldn’t explain that away, could he?

Raffi shifted. He was stiff and cold and almost lightheaded with hunger after fasting all day. Next to him Solon turned for a moment and smiled. It made Raffi feel better. He and Galen, Solon and Tallis sat silent. Even sense-lines were forbidden now, in the darkest time before dawn. All night since sundown they had waited, without food, without light, without speech. As Flain had done. Because this was what it must be to be dead.

With a creak, the door opened.

Carys put her head around and slipped in. After her came the Sekoi, a tall, thin shadow, carrying Felnia, looking tousled and half asleep, still clutching her worn toy, Cub.

At the back, Marco followed. The bald man closed the door silently and leaned against it, folding his arms. Seeing Raffi’s stare, he grinned.

Tallis stood up, stiff. Tonight she was an old woman, and wore a dark crimson dress.

“Keepers,” she said. “The night ends. The time has come.”

All the doors and windows were opened. Outside, the darkness was absolutely still, the sky mottled with high, pale clouds, moon-edged. Agramon and Cyrax were full, and Lar’s pitted face a ghostly shadow.

It was Solon who led them out, stiff with sitting, over the gray lawns in the night-chill and up the hill, climbing the long slope silently to the top, and as they stood there in a breathless line the wind gusted, lifted Carys’s hair and Galen’s coat. Felnia had gone back to sleep; the Sekoi propped her against its thin shoulder.

They waited, seeing all the darkness of Sarres below them, until Solon began the Canticle of Flain, his voice strange, as if someone else spoke through him.

I, who had been in the dark, am come into the light.

From the bitter places of the Underworld I bring all I have learned.

For without pain how can there be joy?

And without darkness how can there be light?

Without hatred how can there be love?

How can there be life without the selflessness of death?

He raised his hands. A few birds had begun to sing in the woods; the sky in the east was pale, the underside of the clouds lit with a red glow.