Catherine Fisher - The Dark City

The crow said, “Let it be me. I’m dark, an eater of carrion. I have nothing to be proud of.”

So Flain chose the crow, and whispered the secrets to it.

Book of the Seven Moons

IT WAS AMAZING. And infuriating. Three times now, Raffi had crossed the bridge. Each time he came back to where he’d started from.

“It’s impossible,” he muttered. “I mean, it’s not circular, it doesn’t turn! I don’t understand!”

Galen sat on the bank, legs crossed. He had pulled some orange fungi from the bole of a dead tree; now he was frying them in the small pan over a carefully smokeless fire.

“What have I taught you?” he said. “Understanding’s not enough. Understanding is from outside; merely a function of the mind.”

Raffi sighed. “I know.”

“To enter, that’s the secret. To become the bridge, to crawl into its sap, to sway with it, to rot over centuries as its heartwood rots. When you are the bridge you will know what the bridge knows. It takes time. A lifetime. And skill.”

Sullenly, Raffi sat down. Galen gave him a sharp glance.

“You know it but you don’t apply it. You’re lazy. Now think. How could the bridge be like this?”

Raffi was scowling at the sizzling mushrooms, counting the pieces. He said, “It could be a device of the Makers. Though it doesn’t look that old.”

Galen nodded, shaking the pan. Pig fat spat and crackled. “Possible. The entire bridge a relic. It could be older than it seems. The wood is from no tree I know. What else?”

Raffi swallowed. “Aren’t they ready yet?”

“Concentrate. What else?”

He forced himself to think. “A protection spell. Someone who lives on the other side.”

“Also possible. Here, take some now.”

Raffi jabbed his knife in and dragged out one slice carefully, waving it, eating it before it cooled so that it burned his mouth. He gulped down three more without speaking, then paused, with another on his knife.

“What about the Sekoi?”

“No.” Galen chewed slowly. “Not this. I have a feeling this is one of ours.”

“Ours.”

“The Order.”

Raffi sat up. “Someone alive?”

“Maybe.” Galen stared at the bridge, his eyes deep and dark. “There were men in the Order once with great skills, boy. They knew the mightiest relics—handled them every day. The power of the Makers lingered in them. They knew strange things—things that have never been written, maybe even the secrets of the Makers themselves. An old man once told me that when the Makers departed the world, they left behind a certain book of their deeds wrapped in black cloth. Only one man knew the script it was written in. The knowledge was taught, from one Archkeeper to the next, till Mardoc was betrayed. Maybe someone still knows it.”

He stood up abruptly, emptied the fat from the pan, and swirled it in the river, leaving a greasy trail. Then he tossed the pan down next to Raffi. “Pack up. You can carry it.”

“But where?”

“Over the bridge, where else?” Galen dragged his stick up and gave a sudden, sidelong grimace. “I may have lost my powers, but I still have my memory. Words may be enough, if you know the right ones.”

At the bridge end he took some red mud and crouched, making two images on the carved posts, waving Raffi back so he couldn’t see what they were. Then he pushed the tangled nettles back over them. Sucking the edge of one hand, he stood up.

Raffi watched. A tingle of excitement stirred in him. Already he could sense something new; it leaked from the hidden signs like a faint aroma.

Galen stood on the bridge and began to murmur. It was an old prayer, one Raffi had heard only once before, littered with the ancient half-understood words of the Makers. The keeper’s deep voice hoarsened as he spoke them; the air lightened, as if something in the mist curled up, retreated. Raffi came forward quickly.

Galen fell silent, listening. “Well?”

“It feels as though something’s changed.”

“Then I was right. Stay near.” They stepped out onto the bridge; it slipped and swayed under them. Mist swirled over the sedges; Raffi gripped the worn wooden chains, feeling the whole shaky contraption rattle under him. But this time it was different. As they crossed he saw trees loom out of the damp, not beeches but oaks—old, squat, hollow trees—and holly, and thorn, crowding right to the bank.

“You did it!”

Galen nodded. He stopped at the rotting end of the bridge and looked around. “But this isn’t the other bank. It seems to be some sort of island in the river. Tiny. And overgrown. No one’s been here for years.”

The disappointment was hard in his voice.

Crushing foxglove and bracken, they pushed their way in. The island had a silence that made Raffi uneasy. No birds sang. Above the gnarled branches the sky was blue, pale as eggshell. He realized the morning was half over.

Galen stopped. Before them was a house, or it had been, once. Now only a few fragments of wall rose among a thicket of elder; red wall, made of mud brick. A single window with a black shutter hung open. Trampling down nettles, Raffi clambered up and looked inside.

The room was a grove of trees. Oaks had splintered it; over the years its outline had faded under ivy, swathes of fungus on rotting wood. Half a chimney still rose up, weeds waving from its top.

A crash made him jump; Galen had forced his way in, through a cloud of seed and gnats.

Raffi followed. “Was it ours?”

“I should think so.”

“But why the protection spell? There’s nothing here to protect.”

Galen threw him a scornful look. “That’s what we’re meant to think. Go and get the pack.”

When he’d dragged it in, he found Galen kneeling at the hearth, brushing earth and worms from flat red bricks that were smashed and broken. The keeper eased his filthy nails in and forced one up; it moved with a strange hoarse gasp.

The earth underneath was smooth. Galen tugged the next stone out.

“What are you looking for?”

“Anything. The spell was strong. Something’s here worth guarding.”

“Relics!”

“Almost certainly.” Another tile came out and left a dark gap. Raffi crouched down quickly. He had felt the shock of power, faint but unmistakable. “Something’s in there!”

Galen widened the hole, reached in, and seemed to scrabble and dig with his fingers. He paused, then he pulled his hands out in a shower of soil.

He was holding a small packet, wrapped in layers of waxed cloth. Shuffling back, he turned and carefully laid it on a flat stone.

“Is it dangerous?” he asked without looking up.

“I don’t think so.” Raffi felt inadequate, the old feeling. “I don’t really know.”

Galen shot him a glance. Then he unwrapped the packet, his fingers working eagerly. Raffi knew he was taking a chance.

The cloth opened. They saw a small glass ball, and a piece of rough parchment made from some thin bark. This had rotted and, even as Galen opened it, infinitely carefully, pieces flaked off. Then it split, and he hissed with frustration.

The writing was faint, barely a scrawl, and some words had gone. Galen read it out grimly.

Kelnar, of the Order of keepers. To any others of the Sacred Way who still live and . . . come this way. The Watch . . . from the chalk hills. The Archkeeper Tesk died yesterday, they took him. They know I’m here, I have to go to find . . . I have little time. Understand this. I have seen the Crow. The Crow still lives in the dark places of Tasceron, in the House of Trees, deep underground, guarded with spells. I cannot say. . . .

Galen frowned. “This bit’s very broken. I can just get words: hollow, sacred, the messenger. Then, Find him. Find him. Prayers and blessings, brothers. Strength of the rock, cunning of the weasel be yours. ”