Fisher, Catherine: The Hidden Coronet #3

Around Raffi, the crowd seemed to become stiller, totally silent. The nearest Watchman fidgeted with his bow, his eyes nervous over the dark scarf that covered his face.

The woman was forced to the gallows. Above her the black ropes swung in the icy wind; she glanced up at them once. Raffi felt sick and panicky. He wanted to turn away, not to see. Where was Galen? What if he wasn’t even here?

Someone in the crowd yelled something. A guard aimed his bow ominously. The girl was pushed up onto the first step. She cried out, a great gasp of terror.

And at that instant Raffi felt a quiver under his feet, a faint vibration in the frozen lake growing quickly, forcibly; a tension building up like the pressure of a blocked waterspout. He glanced down, sensing with sudden amazement what Galen must be doing; then he was running, ducking under the ropes, dodging the guard, racing over the ice toward the gallows.

The crowd sent up a yell. Crossbows swiveled. One bolt shot past him and skittered over the frozen lake, but he was already at the gallows, almost with the prisoners.

And the ice heaved!

He fell, sliding on hands and knees, sprawled.

Behind him, the lake shattered with an earsplitting crack. Plates of ice tilted up, sharp-fanged. The Watchmen toppled, grabbed each other to stay upright. Between them and the prisoners a vast crevasse was opening, a gaping black chasm in the ice, and the whole surface under the fair was shuddering up. Booths and stands went crashing; terrified bulls trampled out of their stalls. People were shouting, screaming.

The prisoners stood as if in shock; then the silver man whirled suddenly, barging into the guard behind, knocking him off his feet.

Raffi tried to stand.

“Galen!” he yelled.

“Get him, Raffi! Get him to the forest!”

The voice was close, in his head. Scrambling up he raced over and shoved the other guard hard in the back, sending the raised crossbow out of his hands and whirling across the ice. One of the Sekoi dived after it.

The keeper had the guard’s knife; he was slicing the ropes. Crossbow bolts clattered around him. From the Watchtower a brazen horn rang out.

The keeper looked up. “Where?” was all he said. “The forest,” Raffi gasped.

The keeper caught the bald man, who waved him off feebly. “Leave me! Just get clear!”

“Oh no, my son. Not while there’s a soul to save.” With an effort he heaved the man up. “Go on!” he yelled.

Raffi ran. The lake was slipping away under him; the fringes of the forest seemed miles away. Furious yells behind them terrified him. The chasm must be wide, he knew, but he could already hear stalls being torn down, wood slammed on the ice. And still the lake buckled, splitting with enormous cracks, so that he went sprawling with the aftershocks, the surface crumpling beneath his feet.

He glanced back. The two men were close. All the other prisoners had already scattered; he saw a Sekoi firing a crossbow and another lying still on the ice. Panicstricken sheep were rampaging among the wreckage of the fair, but that was far away. And where was Galen?

Ahead, the forest loomed, the vast quenta trees spreading their roots far under the frozen water. Raffi scrambled through frosted reeds and turned to help. “I’m all right,” the bald man snapped, but the pain in his arms and shoulders shimmered out of him; Raffi caught the edge of it and gasped.

They fell over tree roots, the gloom of the forest enclosing them. A little way in, the keeper stopped. He eased the bald man down and spun around, breathless.

“Followers,” he gasped. “Need to deal with them.”

A twig cracked. Someone was close on their trail, and rounding the trees a Watchman came, low under the branches, the crossbow armed in his hands. He stopped instantly and said, “It’s all right. It’s me.”

Raffi grinned with relief.

Galen pulled the dark wrappings off his face.

“Can you still run?” he asked quickly.

The two men nodded, silent with surprise. Then the tall one said, “My name is Solon. This is Marco. Who are you?”

“That can wait.” Galen grabbed the bald man and hauled him up. “We have to get farther in,” he said anxiously. “They’ve got razorhounds.”

Raffi went cold.

Far back over the shattered lake, terrible snarls rang out.

6

The hardest thing to keep will be trust. When a man may be an enemy, to trust him may lead to disaster. And yet God works his purposes in strange ways.

Third Letter of Mardoc Archkeeper

THE QUENTA FOREST was said to stretch for miles, but only after a few minutes the tangle of vast trunks became impassable. Branches knotted together, split and interlaced. There was no way through. Paths led in circles back to the lake.

The fugitives ran till they were breathless, then crouched against the bole of a king-quenta, the man called Marco clutching his shoulder in agony.

“How far have we gone?” Raffi gasped.

“Not far enough.” Galen threw down the crossbow, dragged the black gloves off, and hurled them angrily into the knotted darkness. “We need to speak to the trees. Get them to let us through.”

He turned quickly to Solon. “Will you do that?”

The older man stared back, his face calm, his blue eyes shrewd and deep. “I would be able to, if I were one of the Order.”

“There’s no time for that,” Galen snapped. “I know you are.”

“Do you?”

“So am I. You can feel that, can’t you?”

Solon’s stare was even. Then to Raffi’s horror he said, “No. What I sense about you is strange and utterly dark. Not like any keeper I may ever have met. I’m sorry,” he said, half turning. “I can’t take the risk.”

What he did Raffi barely saw. There was a crack of light. Galen staggered back with a gasp of pain. Then he was down, crumpled against the tree roots. Still.

“Galen?” Raffi whispered.

A rustle made him turn. The bald man, Marco, had the crossbow. Painfully he aimed it at Galen’s head.

“NO!”

Raffi ran forward, right in front of the tense bolt.

“How can you do this?” he yelled, wild with fury. “We got you out of there! We helped you to escape!”

“The ice cracked. And we ran,” Solon said.

“But Galen did that! He cracked the ice!”

“I’m not a fool, my son,” the man said mildly. “No keeper, not even the most learned, could do that on his own. He’s part of some Watchplan. For all I know, so are you.”

“I’m his scholar!”

“I’m sure you are. Keep the other one covered, Marco.” Briskly, almost kindly, he came and tied up Raffi’s hands and feet with the ends of rope, then with a strip torn from his shirt gagged him gently and pushed him over. Raffi sat down hard next to Galen.

Solon crouched. “I’ve been a prisoner of the Watch for a long time,” he said, his voice strangely quiet. “I’m never going back alive. You might be spies—I can’t take the risk. You may also be what you say. If so, I pray to Flain to forgive me. And that they don’t find you.” Turning, he said, “Come on.”

He took the bald man’s arm over his shoulder, sagging a little with the weight. “You should leave the bow.”

Marco grinned. “Good try, Your Holiness. Maybe later.” He clutched it tight, like a crutch.

Then they were gone, lost in the tangle of quenta trees like shadows, the only sound a rustle and a cracked twig.

Raffi kicked and struggled. Furiously he squirmed around onto his side and nudged Galen with his tied feet, then shoved harder, trying to call the keeper’s name. Only stupid muffled sounds came out.