Catherine Fisher: The Dark City

A twig snapped. Somewhere nearby a were-bird shrieked and flew off through the branches. Behind it, Raffi caught the snuffle of a horse.

He stood up, heart thumping. Behind him the cromlech was black and solid, the rock face gnarled under his palms, hollowed by a thousand years of frost and rain. Lichen grew on it, a green powder over the faint carved spirals. It felt like a great beast, fossilized and hunched.

Galen pulled himself up too, without his stick. His long hair swung forward, the tangled strings of black jetstones and green crystal catching the light, the heavy cowl of his coat high around his neck.

“Ready?” he breathed.

“I think so.”

The keeper gave him a scornful glance. “Don’t worry. I won’t risk your life.”

“It’s not mine I’m worried about.” But Raffi muttered it sullenly under his breath, feeling for the powders and the blue box.

A horse came abruptly out of the wood.

It was tall, one of the thin, red-painted kinds they bred beyond the mountains, and the sweat on its long, skeletal neck made it ghostly in the sisters’ light. It walked forward and stopped just beyond the flicker of the fire. Staring into the dark, Raffi could just make out the rider: a dim, bulky figure muffled against the cold.

No one spoke.

Raffi glanced into the trees. He couldn’t sense anyone else. He tried to look into the wood with his third eye, but he was too nervous; only shadows moved. The rider stirred.

“A fine evening, friends.” His voice was deep; a big man.

Galen nodded, his long dark hair swinging. “So it is. You’ve come far?”

“Far enough.”

The horse shifted, its harness clinking softly. The rider urged it a few steps forward, perhaps to see them better.

“Come to the fire,” Galen said dangerously.

The horse’s fear was tangible, a smell on the air. It was terrified of the cromlech, or perhaps the invisible web of earth-lines that ran out from it. The man, too, sounded tense when he spoke again. “I don’t think so, keepers.”

Galen’s voice was quiet as he answered. “That’s an unlucky title. Why should we be keepers?”

“This is an unlucky place. Who else would be living here?” The rider hesitated, then swung himself down from the saddle and came forward a few steps, unwinding a filmy, knitted wrapping from his face.

They saw a powerful, thick-set man, black-bearded. A crossbow of some sort was slung on his shoulder. He wore a metal breastplate too; it gleamed in the light of the moons. Dangerous, Raffi thought. But nothing they couldn’t handle.

The stranger must have thought the same. “I bring no threat here,” he went on quickly. “How could I? There’s no doubt an armory of sorcery aimed at me as I stand.” He held up both hands, empty; a jewel gleamed on the left gauntlet. “I’m looking for a man named Galen Harn, a Relic Master.” He glanced at Raffi, expressionless. “And for his scholar, Raffael Morel.”

“Are you now,” Galen said bleakly. He shifted; Raffi knew that his leg would be aching, but the keeper’s face was hard. “And what do you want with them?”

“To pass on a message. West of here, about twenty leagues, in the foothills where the rivers meet, there’s a settlement. The people there need him.”

“Why?”

The rider smiled wryly, but he answered. “They found a relic, as they were plowing. A tube. When you touch it, it hums. Small green lights move inside it.”

Galen didn’t flicker, but Raffi knew he was alert. The horseman knew too. “It seems to me,” he said ironically, “that if you should see this Galen, you might tell him. The people are desperate that he come and deal with the thing. None of them dares go near it.”

Galen nodded. “I’m sure. But the Order of keepers is outlawed. They’re all either dead or in hiding from the Watch. If they’re caught they face torture. This man might suspect a trap.”

“He’d be safe enough.” The rider scratched his beard and tried a step forward. “We need him. We wouldn’t betray him. We’re loyal to the old Order. That’s all I can say, master. He’d just have to trust us.”

Take one more step, Raffi thought. In his pocket his fingers trembled on the blue crystal box. He’d never used it on a man. Not yet.

The rider was still, as if he felt the tension.

Suddenly Galen moved, limping forward out of the tomb’s shadow into the red and gold of the firelight. He stood tall, his face dark. “Tell them we’ll come. Bury the device in the earth till we get there. Set a guard and let no one come near it. It may be dangerous.”

The rider smiled. “Thank you. I’ll see that it’s done.” He turned and climbed heavily up onto the horse; the red beast circled warily. “When can we expect you?”

“When we get there.” Galen stared at him levelly. “I’d ask you to stay the night, but outlaws have little to share.”

“Nor would I, keeper. Not under those stones.” He turned away, then paused, glancing back. “The people will be glad to hear this. Depend upon it: You’ll be safe with us. Ask for Alberic.”

Then the horse stalked cautiously into the wood.

They both stood silent a long time, listening to the faint crackle and rustle, the distant charring of disturbed birds. The sense-lines snagged, one by one, in Raffi’s head.

Finally, Galen moved. He sat down, hissing through his teeth with the stiffness of his leg. “Well. What do you think of that?”

Raffi took his hand off the blue box and collapsed beside him. Suddenly he felt unbearably tired. “That he’s got guts, coming out here.”

“And his story?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged “It sounds true. But . . .”

“But. Exactly.” The keeper sat back, his face in shadow.

“It could be a trap,” Raffi ventured.

“So it could.”

“But you’re going anyway.”

Galen laughed sourly. A sudden spark lit his face, twisted with pain. “I used to know when people lied to me, Raffi. If only they knew!” He glanced across. “We both go. Someone has to deal with this relic.”

Uneasy, Raffi shook his head. “There may be no relic.”

Galen spat into the fire. “What do I care,” he said softly.

2

This is how the world came to be. The Makers came from the sky, on stairways of ice. Flain opened his hands and the land and sea were there, the soil and salt. He set them one against the other, eroding, in conflict forever. Out of stillness he brought movement, out of peace, war.

Soren called out the leaves and the trees. She walked the world, and seeds fell from her sleeves and the hem of her dress. The Woman of Leaves clothed the world in a green brocade.

It was Tamar, the bearded one, who brought the beasts. Down the silver stairs he led them, the smallest a night-cub that struggled in his arms.

All the sons of God watched them scatter.

Book of the Seven Moons

THE JOURNEY TO THE SETTLEMENT took five days. On his own, Raffi could have gotten there in four, but Galen’s limp slowed them down. The keeper’s leg was long healed, but it was stiff, and he walked grim and silent with a tall black stick. Even when the pain must have been bad after a long day’s tramp in the rain or cold, he never talked about it. Raffi was used to it all: the keeper’s brooding, his sudden outbreaks of foul temper. At times like these he kept quiet and wary and out of reach of the black stick. Galen had been hurt too deeply. The explosion had damaged more than his leg—it had scarred his mind. Toiling up the steep rocky path, the pack heavy on his shoulders, Raffi watched the Relic Master scramble ahead of him, slithering on scree. Galen was almost as unstable. And now this message.