Catherine Fisher: The Lost Heiress

Rocallion nodded, pulling berries nervously off the holly. He was a young man to be franklin of so big a manor, Raffi thought, but he seemed to run it well. The fields they’d traveled through yesterday had been wellplowed, the cottages in good repair. And now Rocallion was worried; it made Raffi worry too.

“No more news of the Watch?” Raffi asked.

Rocallion perched on the edge of the bench. He nearly put the holly berry in his mouth, then tossed it absently into the fire. “Only the rumor of that patrol out at Tarnos. That was two days ago. Before the leaf-fall.” He gazed out at the darkening sky. “It should keep them indoors. But on Flainsnight, you never know.”

Raffi nodded, crossing to the window and leaning his hands on the sill. He knew that whatever the weather, the Watch would be prowling tonight. In the damp chill of the autumn twilight the countryside beyond was misty, the far hills faint blurs. In the cloud-ragged sky the moons were bright, all seven of them, with Pyra a fiery-red point in the east. There were no other lights, anywhere.

“Raffi!”

He turned instantly.

Galen was standing, tall and dark, his hawk-face sharp in the firelight. Power was moving around him; Raffi could see it, the blue tingles and sparks. It made him shiver.

“I’m ready,” the keeper said softly. “Let them in.”

The room was dark, as it should be, with no light but the fire. As the door opened Raffi saw the shapes of Rocallion’s tenants slip into the room, twelve or so men, the ones he could trust, with their wives and a few children. In the dimness they were nervous shadows, the creak of a bench, a whisper.

The air of the room was sharp with sorcery and fear. All of them knew that if the Watch caught them they’d pay heavily. Money, cattle, even their children might be taken away. Rocallion would lose most. But they wouldn’t die, Raffi thought bitterly. Not like he and Galen would die. Slowly.

He shivered. But Galen had begun.

“Friends. This is the night of Flainsdeath. Tonight we do what the faithful have done for centuries, since the Makers themselves were here.” He frowned. “In these days of evil we have to meet in secret; I salute the courage of each of you in coming. Tonight the Watch will ride out. But if you have kept the secret, we may be safe.”

His black eyes watched their tense faces. So did Raffi.

They were scared. That was natural. Or he hoped it was.

Galen paused. Then his voice lowered. “Before we start, I have some news for you. Two months ago the boy and I came out of Tasceron, the Wounded City, the City of the Makers. While we were there we saw and heard things I couldn’t explain if I wanted to. But this is the point. The Makers, at last, have spoken to the Order. They’ve sent us a message. They’ve promised us they will return.”

The silence was complete, as if no one breathed.

Then someone said, “Is it certain?”

“I heard the voice myself, across space and time. The boy heard it, and others. They told us to wait.” He rubbed the edge of his hand wearily down his cheek. “How long, I don’t know. We must all pray it will be soon. Kest’s creatures multiply, and the Unfinished Lands still spread. The Watch grows in strength. We need it to be soon.”

They were astonished. Their amazement was so strong Raffi felt he could almost have touched it; it was sharp as the holly hanging from the roof, bright as the berries the fire scorched. But they believed.

The keeper turned abruptly, ignoring the sudden buzz of whispers. “Are your sense-lines out, boy? I may be too busy.”

Raffi nodded; he’d already checked them, a net of energy lines around the house, stretching out as far down the moonlit lanes and trackways as he could manage. If anyone crossed them, he’d know.

“Then we’ll start,” Galen said.

He sat, waved a hand, and Raffi climbed to his feet, nervously waiting for the whispers to quiet.

Finally they were all looking at him.

He had only done this once before, though he had heard the story of Flain’s death most years since he was small. Now he would recite it, from memory, from the Book of the Seven Moons. After that the keeper would enter the Silence, maybe for minutes, maybe for hours. Until he woke, like Flain had woken, bringing them the secret Word. And then the candles would be lit and, at last, they’d eat. Raffi was desperate for food. He’d been fasting all day, and now his stomach rumbled quietly. Gripping his fists, he began quickly.

“The soul that had been Flain traveled deep into the Otherworld, always seeking the way back. After hours and years and centuries he came to a low place, no higher from the floor than his knee, and he crawled among the veins and wormholes of the Underworld. Through the mines and tunnels of Death he crept, to a wide cavern lit only by red flame. In the center of the cavern lay a casket, made of gold and calarna wood, and the soul of Flain crossed the soft sand to the casket and opened it.

“In the casket was a Word. And Flain saw the Word, and as he saw it, all the secrets of the world came to him, and he knew the way out from Death, and the future; and far off and very faint, he heard the voices of the Makers—Tamar, Soren, Theriss—calling for him.”

Raffi stopped. In the silence the fire crackled, smelling of pine and furzewood. Faces were red glimmers, sharp angles of shadow. As he sat down, all eyes turned to Galen.

The Relic Master sat upright in his chair, his black hair glossy in the dimness, his eyes catching the flame light. He sat easily, without moving, his face gaunt and calm. And as they watched, in the smoky hall, through the wood crackle and the soft patter of hail on the shutters, they saw something begin to form, in the air before the fire.

A bench creaked, bodies leaned forward. A child said something and was hushed.

It came out of nowhere, out of the dark, and though they had all seen this happen before, the eerie chill of it was always new. Even Raffi felt the ice of fear touch his spine.

The casket was large, and strange, made of gold and calarna wood: Flain’s casket, with its hinges gleaming. Slowly it became solid, until it was heavy, on a small table, the wood richly oiled.

Raffi stared. Every keeper made the casket differently; he had seen Galen perform the Flainsdeath summoning before, but never like this. It was so quick. Something was strange. Something was different.

Outside, the rising wind beat at the shutters. For a long moment Galen waited. Then he stood up, his hands on the lid.

“I open this,” he said, his voice hoarse, “as Flain did. Let the Word speak to us, let it teach us the secrets.”

It was back, the power that had possessed him before; the power that was the Crow. Dizzy with it, Raffi felt it crackle and rustle around the room like dark wings, making his fingers jerk and tingle, blurring some deep uneasy nagging in his head.

Now Galen was opening the lid, and as he lifted it all the people gasped, because light came out of it, a widening slit, stabbing up into the smoke, throwing a brilliant glare onto Galen’s face as he stared down into it, undazzled.

Raffi stood up. Something snagged in his mind, some warning. Outside, the wind howled and rattled.

With both hands, Galen was reaching eagerly into the casket. There were things he should have said, parts of the Litany. He wasn’t saying them. Uneasy, Raffi shifted. “Galen. The Responses.”

There was no sign he was heard.

“Galen?”

No one moved. Turning his head, Raffi saw why.

Shapes and swirls of energy were everywhere in the room, sparking up paneling, the folds of hangings, spitting along the tables. Amazed, the tenants stared around them. Small blue coils unwound, snapping back on themselves around Galen, leaving a faint smell of burning. Raffi had never seen anything like it before.