Catherine Fisher: The Lost Heiress

Not knowing was the worst.

Had they found the beads? Were they tearing the place apart? Was Rocallion under torture? Had he talked? When would the smoke start curling under the panel, choking them, driving them out into the swords and crossbows of the Watch?

He tossed and curled and uncurled hopelessly until, without even realizing he’d been asleep, he was awake, staring at the crack of cold daylight, the sudden sharp stink of a midden somewhere.

He rolled over and sat up.

Gaunt in the dark, Galen was watching. After a moment he said, “Take something to eat. One swallow of water from the jar.”

“Have you . . . ?”

“Hours ago.”

Guiltily, Raffi broke a stiffening crust and ate it, with a tiny piece of cheese. The water was cool and fresh; he tried not to take a big swallow. “Did you sleep?”

Galen glared, the grim look Raffi loathed. “I prayed for forgiveness. So should you.”

“I don’t—”

“The beads, boy!” Galen shook his head in disgust. “I let myself fear—I forgot that the Makers have us all in their hands! We have to trust them. They won’t let the Watch find us unless they wish it, and if they do, so be it. Who are we to be afraid?”

Raffi chewed the bread. “It’s hard not to be.”

“You’re a scholar. I’m a master and should know better.”

Galen was always harsh, harshest of all with himself. That moment of terror would irritate him; it would be a long time before he would forgive himself for it. Raffi sat back, thinking of the Crow, the strange power of the Makers’ messenger that had entered Galen in Tasceron, filling him with unknown abilities. Since then there had been little sign of it. Galen had been normal—grim, short-tempered, fierce. Until last night. Raffi licked the last crumbs from his fingers. Last night, it had come back. In a whisper he asked, “What happened, at our Summoning?”

Galen raised dark eyes. Dragging the long hair from his neck, he knotted it in a piece of string. Then he said, “I’m not sure. The casket . . . I made the casket as I always do, but when it came, it was different. Bigger. Then the light . . . If I made that I don’t know how. And I’ve never felt a word so surely. It burned through me like fire.” He glanced up. “Did I say it aloud?”

“Yes. You said ‘Interrex.’ ”

Galen scowled. “Maybe the Watch should have come sooner. Some messages are not for everyone to hear.”

“Don’t joke about the Watch.” Raffi wriggled under the blanket. “What does it mean?”

“Interrex? It’s a word from the Apocalypse. It means one who rules between the kings.”

“But what—”

“Enough questions!” Galen sat upright abruptly. “If we’re going to be cooped up in here we’ll use the time. I’ve neglected your studies, so first we go over the Sorrows of Kest. From the beginning.”

It was an endless day.

Galen drilled him in every chapter of the Sorrows; then they worked through the Litany, the Book of the Seven Moons, the Sayings of the Archkeepers, even the eternal life of Askelon with its forty-seven Prophecies of the Owl. He learned the last twenty wearily, repeating them after Galen in a whisper, the keeper impatiently correcting.

They dared not speak aloud; four times someone came into the stillroom. Once, an animal—a dog, Raffi thought—scratched at the panel, but Galen made a thought-flare that sent it squealing. Each time, Galen went back to work grimly. Raffi knew it was just to keep them both busy, to stop the fear, but in the end it was agony; all he wanted to do was scream. By the time the keeper let him rest, his voice cracking with thirst, the daylight in the corner was long gone. So was most of the food.

Raffi took an agonizingly small sip of water. “He must come tonight. He won’t let us starve in here.”

“Maybe.” Galen slumped against the wall. “Maybe not.”

Pulling himself up awkwardly, Raffi limped about. He was stiff with the cold, a bitter cold that felt like snow. Bending down, he tried to see out, but the crack was too narrow. He jammed a rag into it, and instantly felt Galen’s hand grab him; a warning grip.

The panel was sliding open.

The candle guttered. When the flame steadied they saw Rocallion crawling in. He looked tired and haggard, tugging food and another jar of water from under his jerkin. “Eat this,” he gasped. “Quickly. I’ve got to get out.”

Galen caught hold of him. “Did they find the beads?”

“What beads?” Then his eyes widened. “Have you lost them?”

“We left them in the room.”

The young man rubbed his hair frantically. “I don’t know! The fat man hasn’t mentioned them!”

“Then they’re safe. One of your friends must have them.” Galen sat back in relief. “How did you get away?”

“Don’t ask.”

Stuffing bread into his mouth, Raffi muttered, “How many of them are there?”

“A full patrol. They’ve searched the house, questioned everyone. I hope it was just a random visit.”

“No one gave anything away?”

Rocallion looked strained. “No. But they—” He stopped.

Raffi swallowed hard.

Outside, in the stillroom, something had shifted. A tiny movement, a creak of floorboard, but they all knew what it meant. Someone had followed him.

Rocallion closed his eyes in despair. He almost spoke, but Galen shook his head fiercely, snuffing the candle with one swift jab. Raffi felt the power gather in him, in the darkness around them.

Slowly, the panel opened.

Someone stood there, shadowy. Then the figure crouched, and to Raffi’s astonishment, a small hand stretched into the cell, and he caught the glint of the green and black beads that swung from the fingers.

“You know, you shouldn’t leave these things lying around, Galen,” a voice said, amused. “Anyone might find them.”

3

Between the kings the Interrex shall come; come from the dark and to the darkness go.

Apocalypse of Tamar

“ CARYS!”

The girl grinned at them in the dimness. “Hello, Raffi. Still hungry?”

“You know her?” Rocallion was staring in astonishment. “But she’s one of the Watch!”

“Her name is Carys Arrin. As for what she is, only God and the Makers know.” In the half-light Galen reached out gently and took the beads from her fingers. “So it was you who found them.”

“Luckily for you.” She glanced back at the door. “But we haven’t got time to talk. The Watch commander is called Braylwin. He’s fat and lazy, but he’s got a mind like a razor and he’s sure there was a keeper here for Flainsnight. I’m not exactly the apple of his eye, either. So I want you out of here.”

“You think we’d betray you?” Galen said quietly.

“Under torture, yes.” She stared hard at him, her short brown hair swinging. “Look, I can get you out if you come now. I’m guard leader for two hours, and everything’s quiet. The patrol will stay here at least a week, Galen. You might not get another chance.”

Galen blessed the beads, pulled them on, then stiffly crawled out of the cell and stood up. “Of course we trust you,” he said, as if she’d asked.

Bewildered, Rocallion stared up at him. “Are you sure?”

Raffi grinned. “We think so.”

“Think!”

“Hope.”

Carys was already at the door, peering around it. In the darkness she seemed taller, her hair shorter. The crossbow was slung at her back. She said, “We go down the corridor, then the cellar stairs. Can the cellar door be opened from inside?”