Catherine Fisher: The Lost Heiress

All he had to do was report it.

Things were tricky enough already. They’d certainly have her in for questioning, and she knew too much. The House of Trees, the Order’s safe house in Tasceron, that Galen was the Crow, they’d get all that out of her—she dared not let them question her. Moodily she stared at the windowsill and cursed Galen to the Pit for letting her remember it all. Braylwin had her in his power, and how he loved it. Carys do this, Carys do that, all the worst work, the wretched endless reports. She was sick of it.

And then he had found the awen-beads.

His fat hand had picked them delicately from around the candles and she’d recognized them with a cold stab of dread. She knew Braylwin would tear the house apart to find a keeper. It had been her plan to let Raffi and Galen go and urge them to find the Interrex—the only thing she could think of on the spot.

But Braylwin had liked it. It was clever, and meant no work for him. He was lazy. That was one weakness she could use.

Perhaps she should have told Galen. Warned him. Or maybe not. He had to find this child in any case, and when he did . . . Well, she’d worry about that when it happened. At least they were free.

Out in the cold night Agramon loomed suddenly from behind a cloud, outlining the dusty buildings and the fields beyond, their hedgerows dark and spiny, the trees branching against pale sky.

It had been good to see them both again. Raffi looked a bit taller. Where were they now, she wondered, out in that leaf-littered land? Where would they go?

For a brief, bitter second she wished she was with them, that she was walking down the muddy lanes away from here, away from the Watch, laughing with Raffi. Then, fiercely, she banged the window shut and turned her back on it.

Braylwin was going to the Tower of Song.

And she was going with him.

Games of Chance

5

Flain’s anger made the sky shudder. Stars fell; the new seas boiled.

Before them all, Kest swore he would make no more creatures; he abjured his poisons and philters and alchemies. But his heart was full of resentment. And he lied.

Book of the Seven Moons

THE HEDGEROWS WERE RIPE with berries, swelling russet and red in the long five-month autumn of Anara. As he walked, Raffi picked handfuls, eating some and tossing the rest into a small sack on his back. Far ahead, Galen leaned impatiently on a field-gate.

Tall fireweed blazed scarlet; the leaves of hawthorn and elder and strail clogged the ruts, and from somewhere not far off the smell of smoke drifted—a stubble field burning, or from the chimney of a house. Raffi pulled a maggot from a fat blackberry and tossed it aside, into a patch of withering white-lady that glinted with dew.

“Come on, boy,” Galen growled.

They were two days’ walk from Rocallion’s manor, and deep in the network of tracks and lanes called the Meres. This was flat, marshy country, wet underfoot, the rich grasses sprouting from saturated peat. All day the two of them had squelched through it, Galen morose, brooding, striding relentlessly for hours and then sitting silent while the mists and fen fogs gathered around him.

Picking a last berry, Raffi walked down the lane. The day was waning. Fog was thickening on the fields; in a copse on the horizon, woses chattered. Galen stared out grimly at the wood. “Hear it?”

Raffi nodded bitterly. He’d hoped they’d spend the night under those trees, but not now. Woses were filthy and noisy, and savage in packs.

“We’ll keep moving,” the keeper said.

The fog gathered, swirling out of ditches and dykes. As they trudged on farther it closed in, and they lost sight of what was behind, pushing through a rich bruised smell of berries and hawthorn, the wet branches swinging back into their faces, stumbling in hidden ruts and puddles.

Halfway up a long slow climb, Galen stopped. He turned his head. “Listen.”

Glad of a rest, Raffi hitched his pack up, breathing hard. A bat squeaked in the twilight just above him.

And then he heard it: the slow, wet clopping of a horse’s hooves. It was behind them, coming up the hill.

Galen turned, the drops of fen fog glinting in his black hair. On each side the hedge was dim, spiny, unbreakable.

“Quick!” he breathed.

They climbed hastily up through the mist, moving in a strange luminous grayness. One of the moons must be out—Cyrax, perhaps—and her pearl-pale shimmer blurred the haze.

As he hurried, Raffi sent a sense-line back, feeling the hot breath of the horse, the sweaty strength of it, the heaviness of its rider.

Then Galen grabbed his arm, tugging him into the fog. Bushes loomed up and at their base a hole, wormed by some animal. Even as he fell on his stomach and wriggled in, Raffi knew they were taking a risk, and he tore his coat recklessly off the thorns. The hedge cracked and snapped; he breathed prayers of silence at it, apologies, feeling the trees’ reluctant, displeased hush.

With a hiss of pain Galen was in too. He raised his hand and Raffi saw, with a shiver of fear, that a Kest-claw clung to him. Galen flung it off and stamped on it, over and over. Blood ran between his fingers.

“It’s bitten you!”

“I’ll live. I’ve had it before.” But Raffi knew this was bad. A Kest-claw bit deep, poisoning the blood, sending dizziness and sickness, sometimes for days. It could kill.

Galen wrapped the wound tight, crouching.

Hooves thumped close on the track. From here, deep in leaves, his ear next to the ground, Raffi felt the heavy thump in his head like a pulse. A harness jangled. The horse blew and whickered and a man coughed.

Carefully Raffi parted the leaves. He saw the horse’s legs. It had stopped.

There was no doubt it could smell them both, hear them too. Galen was still; Raffi knew he had sent a thoughtline out to the beast, was soothing it, speaking words of comfort to it. Inching to one side, he saw the rider.

A man, muffled in coats and a hood. Difficult to see; a misty figure, its head turning to look around, until a wraith of fog drifted away and the moon glimmered suddenly on armor, a heavy crossbow.

The man turned. Raffi glimpsed eyes, beard, wet hair.

Then the horse clopped on, vanishing strangely into the mist.

For a long time they crouched, hearing it toil up the invisible hill, until the harness creak faded into silence, and only the smell of its droppings hung on the air.

Galen leaned back. “Well, well.”

“What?”

“Didn’t you recognize him?”

Raffi scrambled around. “No. Who?”

“Godric. Remember him? One of Alberic’s men.”

A drop of dew slid into Raffi’s ear; chilled, he shook it out. “Alberic!”

“Who else?” Galen eased his legs out, flattening nettles. “I’m not that surprised. Carys warned us. And when a thief-lord screams out that he’ll kill you, he usually means it. He must have men out on all the roads. They’ll ask in every village too. We’ll have to go twice as carefully. And we’ll have to get to the Sekoi before they do.”

“How far to the meeting place?” Raffi asked anxiously.

“About a day. We’ll spend a few hours here and travel on before dawn. You can get the food out.”