Catherine Fisher - The Lost Heiress

Then, out of the leaves the thing rose. A wyvern of Kest, huge, its wide wings blotting out the moons, the cold triplet of its eyes high above him, its scaly neck oozing blood and pus from the wounds the Cat-lords had dealt it. They were dead, his own sweet princes, and it still lived, and his anger at that was so raw that he raised the sword with both hands and swung it at the beast, screaming, but it put out a great claw and caught his shoulder and said, “Raffi. Raffi! For Flain’s sake boy, listen to me!”

Gasping, tears running down his face, Raffi stared at the Sekoi.

It grinned smugly. “You’re back.”

Slowly, bewildered, he lowered his empty hands. “What was . . . Who . . . ?”

“You call him Kalimar. Last survivor of the Battle of the Ringrock. You know the story.” It glanced around darkly. “Come on now, before they stir.”

Gripping his sleeve with its long fingers it hurried him away from the inn—he realized suddenly they were outside—and between the houses. The market was gone, the muddy ground trampled with straw and scraps of vegetables.

Raffi shook his head. “The story didn’t finish . . .”

“Didn’t have to. They all knew it. Start them off and leave them to it, small keeper.” It looked pleased with itself; it walked with a strange satisfied swing through the shadows, the fat purse bulging an inside pocket. “Could have been sticky though. So Alberic’s looking for us, is he?”

Raffi nodded. He still felt stunned; waves of anger and grief flooded him and he felt sick. The Sekoi glanced down curiously. “You were far in, small keeper. Too far.”

“I hadn’t meant to listen.”

The Sekoi grinned. “They all say that. Where’s Galen?”

“Galen!” Raffi stumbled. “He’s sick. A Kest-claw bit him on the hand.”

The creature made a spitting noise in its throat. “Ack! Then we should hurry. He’ll need keeping warm. Is he delirious?”

“No. He’s had it before.”

“Maybe, but it’s always serious, Raffi. We should—”

It stopped abruptly. Then it turned its head.

A man was standing in the gloomy lane behind them, dim against the trees. A burly man in a dark coat. He held a loaded crossbow, and it was pointing straight at Raffi.

“I didn’t mean to listen either,” he said gruffly. “I’ve heard your stories before, Master Graycat. It was hard, but my hood was up, and one ear pressed against the settle drowned out most of it.”

The Sekoi hissed a spit of annoyance. It glanced around quickly. The village was silent. No one was about.

“Now what?” Raffi whispered.

“No spells, boy. No keeper-tricks, or this bolt flies. I won’t kill you, but Alberic won’t mind damaged goods.” He leered. “He’s got plans to do a little damage of his own. Now, against that wall.”

The Sekoi backed, and Raffi followed. He still felt dizzy, and glimpses of the story kept flashing back at him—the wyvern, the forest, the sudden weight of the sword—as if this was all part of it, or he was in two places at once.

Then the field wall was hard against his back.

Godric stepped closer. “Where’s the other one?”

Neither of them told him. He shrugged. “We’ll get him. Alberic has patrols out; the little man’s spitting venom for you three, and the magic box of tricks.” But his eye was on the Sekoi, and Raffi knew all at once something else was on his mind.

“Tell me where he is or I tie you up and we move out now.” But the man didn’t move, and he was looking at the gold. Raffi felt a sudden quiver of hope.

Godric edged forward. “Won a lot, didn’t you?”

The Sekoi’s fur rose silently around its neck. “I was lucky.”

“So I saw.” Suddenly he lowered the bolt, just a fraction. “All right. Listen. Give me the gold, and you and the boy go free. I never even set eyes on you. Agreed?”

The Sekoi gave an eerie low hiss—a terrifying sound. “Never,” it breathed.

“I mean it.”

“So do I.” The creature’s eyes were slits, dark as chasms.

Raffi’s heart sank.

“Suit yourself. I’ll take it anyway.”

But like lightning the Sekoi moved; it turned and was gone into the dark. With an oath of fury Godric leaped in and grabbed Raffi; a great arm tugged his hair back, the crossbow bolt pressed horrifyingly into his neck.

Raffi froze; only the slightest of pressures would have set it off.

“The gold!” Godric roared. “Put it down in the road or I kill him!”

There was a long silence. Then the Sekoi’s voice came, strangled and odd from somewhere close. “I’m sorry, Raffi,” it said.

“You can’t just leave me!” he yelled, appalled.

He could almost feel the Sekoi squirm. “The gold,” it hissed. “I have to keep the gold!”

“You scum.” Godric spat in disgust. “What do you people do with it all? Alberic would love to find the Hidden Hoard. Does it exist, Graycat? Is it real?”

“Alberic could drown in it,” the creature purred.

“Could he!” Godric sounded tight with anger. The crossbow quivered; Raffi gripped his hands together.

But the bolt that shattered the darkness was blue; an enormous flash that burst in his head like a flame, and as blackness crashed back he felt the wyvern again, roaring and falling down upon him, into some endless pit.

7

Let the keeper own nothing but his faith. For the Sekoi hoard gold and men desire goods, but the dew on the early grass is a treasure beyond price.

Litany of the Makers

WHEN RAFFI WOKE UP he found himself wrapped in his own coat on a damp bank of dead leaves; they rustled and crisped as he uncurled. Above him, smooth trunks of beech trees rose into darkness, stars glinting through their tangled branches.

For a moment he lay still, staring up; then a crackle of sticks made fear break out of him like sweat. He rolled over.

Galen was sitting by a small bright fire. He was shivering as if he couldn’t stop, huddled over some cup of steaming drink, but when he looked across, there was the flicker of a grin on his face.

“So you’re back with us, are you?”

Raffi propped himself up. He felt strange. One side of his head and one shoulder were numb. His left hand tingled.

“Did you fire the blue box?” he asked slowly.

Galen nodded. “Nothing else I could do. But he was holding you too close—you caught some of the blast.” He laughed grimly and spat into the flames. “A good thing dear Alberic didn’t use it all up.”

“Did it kill him?”

Galen threw him an irritated glance. “I’m not the Watch, boy. He’s over there.”

Turning, Raffi realized that the fire was burning in a hollow among beech trees. Propped against one, well tied at the ankles, was Godric. The big man’s head lolled to one side, and a few dead leaves had fallen on his hair and chest. But he breathed evenly.

Next to him, picking elegantly at a plate of berries, was the Sekoi.

“You!” Raffi jerked upright, suddenly furious. “What were you doing! You would have let him kill me!”

The Sekoi spit out a pip. “Nonsense.”

“Did you see what happened?” Raffi turned on Galen.

“No. What?” he said quietly.

“Godric offered to let me go if that . . . creature gave him the gold. A great bag of gold. And it wouldn’t! It just said ‘Sorry, Raffi’!”

Even now he could barely believe it.

Galen was silent.

The Sekoi wrinkled its nose and waved a hand. “Small keeper, work it out! What if I had given him my gold? Do you really think he’d have trotted back to Alberic saying ‘I haven’t seen them’? Nonsense. We’d have lost you and it.”