Catherine Fisher: The Lost Heiress

Braylwin was standing stock-still, his face white. The bolt had split the rock inches from his left eye. He reached up and touched it, unbelieving. When he spoke his voice was only a whisper in the water crash. “So we’ve lost you, Carys. We’ve lost you.”

She stood silent, looking up at him. Then she turned and climbed down, past Raffi, into the wood.

It took some time to get Braylwin down and back over the river, Alberic fussing and moaning the whole time, cursing Galen and the clumsy bearers. In the end, Godric had to carry the dwarf back, and all the way the thief-girl, Sikka, mocked him about how much care he was beginning to take of his enemies.

Raffi was shocked, as if some bolt had gone through him too. He had sensed nothing as Carys had passed him; worse than nothing. An emptiness, black and deep and cold. Stumbling on the path, he shuddered. Had she meant to miss? he thought. Or to kill?

All evening, in the hasty camp they made under the rocks, he waited for her to come back. Completely unworried, Felnia had taken Cub back from him and gone to sit by the Sekoi; it had told her intricate rambling stories until she slept and now it lay, long legs stretched out next to the fire, brooding on the pain in its head. Galen was nowhere to be seen, and Alberic was yelling at the grumbling, half-drunken man he called his “surgeon.”

Raffi moved uneasily. When he looked up, the Sekoi was watching him, its yellow eyes narrowed to slits.

“Why don’t you go and look for her?” it said quietly.

He shrugged. “Do you think I should?”

“I do, small keeper.” The Sekoi chewed a nail thoughtfully. “Someone should. It would be best if it were you.”

Abruptly Raffi stood up. He went straight past the sentries and walked back along the river trail, moving quietly in the dark till the noise and stir of the camp were distant.

The forest rustled. Far off, the great falls roared. Sending out sense-lines he touched sleeping trees, their deep consciousness stirring; startled the tiny minds of voles and shrews; woke a weasel that curled back up into weariness.

Then he winced. Something else was there, so sharp it stung him like a black bee. He pushed off the path, through a thick stand of larch trees, forcing his way through the dusty, matted branches until he stumbled into a clearing, brushing needles from his hair.

Carys was sitting on a rock in the moonlight.

She had her back to him, and she made no sound, but he knew she had been crying bitterly; he could feel that, a raw urgency of grief and fury that made his palms sweat.

He stood, awkward.

After a while she raised her head. “Well?”

“Felnia’s all right.”

“I know that!” She turned, furious, her eyes red and sore.

He nodded. “So is he. You could have killed him, but you didn’t.”

“I wanted to!” She pushed her hair back; her face was taut and white. “I really wanted to, Raffi. My mind was empty, except for hating him.”

“It’s all right . . .”

“Don’t be stupid!” Ripples of agitation slammed against him. “Of course it’s not all right! I wanted him dead. And Galen knows I did. I’m finished now, with the Watch and with you.” She laughed bitterly. “How did I get to this, Raffi? I thought I had everything under control.”

Quietly he came forward. Standing opposite her he said, “Come with us to Sarres.”

“Why? To be punished for my sins?”

“No. To be healed.”

Amazed, she stared at him. “What?”

He chewed the ties of his jacket nervously. “You’ve been hurt, Carys. You may not know it, but I can feel it. It’s like a big emptiness in you. We can help . . . the Order has ways . . .”

“To forgive me?”

“That’s not what I mean.”

She stood up quickly, brushing her hair back. “You’re soft, Raffi, that’s your trouble. You’d never survive without Galen. He won’t want me along. He probably despises me.”

But something had changed in her. Raffi smiled. “You don’t know him.”

“I know he’s hard as nails.”

“He’s a Relic Master. And it says in the Book that love is as fierce as hatred—as strong, and as reckless.”

She looked at him strangely. “Does it? Perhaps that’s why they never let us read all of it.”

She pushed past him through the larches. He trailed behind, catching the branches that swung back into his face.

At the campfire Galen was talking to the Sekoi, but when he saw them coming the keeper stood, tall and grim, his hawk-face half hidden in the shadows.

Carys walked right up to him and flung the crossbow down.

“You were right. It’s not the way.”

His silence forced her to look up. “All right, Galen,” she breathed. “I missed him. I meant to. But . . .” Hopeless, she shrugged. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t feel sorry,” he said. “You feel angry. And free.”

“I don’t suppose you care what I feel.”

He laughed then, his rare harsh laugh. “The Order welcomes anyone, Carys. We have no failures either.”

She smiled. “Even Watchspies?”

“Especially those.”

The Sekoi went to say something, but then waggled its long fingers and was silent.

Carys sat down. The fire glow made her look red and tired. “I would have killed him once,” she said. “Before I knew you, I probably wouldn’t have thought twice. Now it’s all more difficult.” She looked up firmly. “Look, I’ll give you all the information you want. Everything. Numbers, passwords, details of patrols . . .”

“Carys.” The keeper crouched, his eyes dark in the flame light. “We don’t want information. We want you. Will you come to Sarres?”

“Where is that?”

“Beyond your world. The place where the Order will begin again. The heart of the web, where we’ll wait for the Makers. Will you come? We want you to come.”

She looked at him a long time, then away into the flames. “I’ll come. After all, where else can I go?”

Then, quickly, she reached into the pouch at her waist and brought out the relic, thrusting it into his hands. “You’d better have this. I stole it from the Tower of Song. I think it’s important.”

He stared at it in surprise, then at Raffi. “Was this what you used for the net?”

“Yes.”

Galen clicked his tongue in annoyance. “It’ll have little power left, if any.” He spread his fingers over it. “It feels faint.”

“So do I, sorcerer.”

The voice was a snarl; Raffi jumped up nervously.

Alberic had to be helped to the fire. Sikka brought a chair for him and placed it down; the dwarf lowered himself into it as if he were an old man. His hair was thin, his face drawn with pain. His chest heaved, as if he had no breath. But he glared at Galen as furiously as ever.

“You’ve got what you want. Take the curse off.”

“And then?” Galen asked.

“Then I take my lads and lasses and clear out. Oh, and the Watchman. He’s mine. You can have her.” He pointed a tiny finger at Carys. “She won’t fetch you much.”

“On the contrary.” Galen turned the relic over. “She already has.”

The dwarf eyed it without interest. “You people and your bits of junk. Well?”

Galen sat still, the moonlight falling on him. “The curse has been on you a long time,” he said softly. “How can I take if off?”

Alberic went rigid. “By Flain, you’d better!” he raged. “Or you’ll never leave this wood.”

Galen grinned. “You mistake me.” He stood up suddenly and leaned forward. “You’ve read the Book, you told me once?”

“The Litany.” Alberic waved his fingers painfully. “Rather obscure style, I thought.”

“So you know about the Crow?”

“I’ve heard of it.”