Fisher, Catherine - The Hidden Coronet #3

“It has been foretold. The Coronet is only a circle of gold. It can do nothing to stop the decay.”

“But it can!” Galen couldn’t keep silent any longer. He leaped up, the shadow of the Crow crackling around him. Side by side with Solon he faced them. “We know it can! Surely your obsessed lust for gold is . . .”

“You do not understand.” The Karamax pointed. “Your friend there. He understands.”

The Sekoi was huddled miserably among the cushions, gnawing at its nails. It gave Galen a bitter look. “It’s no use. They won’t give it up.”

Galen spun back. “Explain. Tell us!”

“It concerns the Great Hoard.”

Immediately the owl made a small chirring noise. The female Karamax went to it and spoke, then stroked its plumage. “For hundreds of years my people have collected gold. Your Order and the Watch have always wondered where it went. Some thieves”—its glance flickered to Marco—“have even tried to find it. No one ever has. The purpose of the Hoard is a hidden one, but because you are the Crow, Galen Harn, and this is the end of the age, I will tell you what it is.”

It stepped away from the owl, slipped its mask back on, and moved to the center of the Seven, sitting complacently on the silk cushions.

“The purpose of the Hoard is to buy Anara.”

Outside, the wind gave a great roar. The canvas billowed, slapping against its ropes and pegs. Raffi’s sense-lines swung with it, dizzying, a huge aftershock.

“Buy?” Solon whispered.

Galen’s stare was dark and even. “From the Makers!” he said.

“Exactly.” Another of the Karamax was speaking now. “The world was ours once. When the Makers return, it will be cleansed, and we will ransom it with an enormous treasure.”

Solon looked at Galen. He seemed too astonished to speak. Finally he plunged his hands through his silver hair. “You really believe this? That the Makers will . . . sell the world?”

“Yes.”

“But you have no idea . . .”

“And you have never seen the Great Hoard.” Behind its mask the creature’s eyes were bright with greed. “It holds more riches, keeper, than you could ever imagine. It will buy the Sekoi their world back. And every fragment of it, every ring, every coin, every little gold circle, will be needed.” It looked at the other six, who nodded. “The Coronet will not be given up. That is our decision.”

“No!” Solon threw his arms out. “Those who die . . . !”

“Must die.”

The wind screamed. For a moment Raffi thought Solon would fling himself to his knees in complete despair but Galen gripped him gently and turned him, small energies rippling around his hands.

He looked down at Raffi and Carys.

There was nothing left to say.

25

I had betrayed my people and they me. I was sick with shame and could not show it.

Sorrows of Kest

THEY WERE GIVEN A SMALL TENT but none of them could sleep.

Outside, another squall raged, sleeting in through the entrance, hissing out the fire. It was Solon who seemed most devastated by events; the Archkeeper usually cheered everyone up, made small teasing jokes, but he was drawn and white now, as if some great pain had struck him. And the Sekoi had gone, stalking off into the rain.

Galen took down the lamp, spread the awen-beads carefully around it, and began the Litany. His voice was grave but even, and the familiar Maker-words seemed slowly to take some chill out of their hearts and the damp night. Raffi joined in, and after a while Solon murmured the responses, as if he clutched at them for comfort.

Carys sat in a corner, watching. Marco cleaned and loaded his crossbow.

When the prayer was over, the silence seemed worse, until the curtain was whipped back and the Sekoi ducked in.

They stared at it. It was drenched, its brindled gray fur dark and sopping, water trickling down its neck and sleeves.

“Galen, I’m sorry,” it said, its voice strangled.

“Not your fault.” The Relic Master stood, his dark hair brushing the tent roof. He smiled sourly. “I told you a long time ago I knew the Sekoi had their own ways.”

“I didn’t know we had it! I swear!”

Raffi had never seen the creature look so wretched. It crumpled and sat, arms around knees. All its airy confidence had been knocked right out of it; it even looked thinner, its fur scraggy.

Galen sat beside it, his hooked face half in shadow.

“I believe you,” he said softly. “But do you think too that all Starmen should be left to die?”

The creature dragged in a breath. When it spoke its voice was reluctant. “We’ve always been taught so. Most of us are not interested in the fate of Starmen.” It looked up. “Neither was I, once.”

“And now?”

It gave an exasperated hiss. “Don’t torment me. You know I would help you if I could. But . . .”

“You can. Take us to the Great Hoard.”

Raffi drew his breath in. The Sekoi sat quite still. Small raindrops dripped from its fur. Then it said, “I knew you would ask this.”

“But you still came back.” Galen caught hold of its arm. Blue sparks flickered from his fingers. “If we don’t use the Coronet the weather will overwhelm us all. The Makers will find no one alive. And even if the Sekoi survive, what use is a ruined world?”

The creature pulled away, utterly miserable. “You don’t know what you’re asking. I can’t.”

“We need you,” Solon pleaded. “Please!”

“It’s against all I believe in!” The creature’s voice was agonized, its eyes dark slits. “How can I take outsiders to the Hoard? How can I take a thief and a spy and three keepers to our most holy place? You’re asking too much, Galen!”

The Relic Master sat still, though his shadow swung as the lamp moved. Raffi felt the power of the Crow pent up inside him, the tingle of it on the skin.

“But that’s what we did.” Galen’s voice was harsh. “We took you to Sarres. The spy and the thief and the Sekoi. We trusted you.”

The Sekoi winced. “Don’t ask me.”

“But I do ask you.” Suddenly Galen had both of its wrists tight; the crackle of energy sparked up around all of them. Marco yelped. Raffi sat breathless with tension. “Take us there! We’ll take nothing! But we must hurry. We must go now!”

For a long moment the Sekoi was still. It closed its eyes in something like despair.

Then it pushed him away, stood up, and brushed the water from its fur with both long hands.

“I make myself an outcast by this,” it muttered.

THEY RAN THROUGH THE CAMP, stumbling in the raging squall. Above them the awnings were wild screaming flickers, torn and frayed. All the owls were gone, every Sekoi undercover, and that was their only chance, Raffi thought, his sense-lines swept away. He crashed against Carys, who hissed with annoyance.

The noise was incredible. Ducking under sodden hangings, the Sekoi led them swiftly, Galen with Solon close behind, Marco last, watching their backs, bow firmly braced. Carys glanced at it enviously. “We should have found mine!” she screamed in Raffi’s ear.

Purple silk plastered against his face; he tore it off. “No time!”

The roar of the storm covered them; it was a weight, a lid of blackness lit with low flickers of lightning.

At the camp’s edge the Sekoi paused. “Run now!” it yelled.

They were in the open. They raced into darkness between the last tents, stumbling over tussocky grass, fleeing the relentless deafening flap of silk, climbing hard, up and up as if into the storm-cloud. Breathless and soaked, Raffi slipped, grabbing handfuls of wet grass. At the top they glanced back. In a glimmer of lightning the camp was there and then gone.