The Lost Heiress #2 Page 5

  “Maybe, but it’s always serious, Raffi. We should—”

  It stopped abruptly. Then it turned its head.

  A man was standing in the gloomy lane behind them, dim against the trees. A burly man in a dark coat. He held a loaded crossbow, and it was pointing straight at Raffi.

  “I didn’t mean to listen either,” he said gruffly. “I’ve heard your stories before, Master Graycat. It was hard, but my hood was up, and one ear pressed against the settle drowned out most of it.”

  The Sekoi hissed a spit of annoyance. It glanced around quickly. The village was silent. No one was about.

  “Now what?” Raffi whispered.

  “No spells, boy. No keeper-tricks, or this bolt flies. I won’t kill you, but Alberic won’t mind damaged goods.” He leered. “He’s got plans to do a little damage of his own. Now, against that wall.”

  The Sekoi backed, and Raffi followed. He still felt dizzy, and glimpses of the story kept flashing back at him—the wyvern, the forest, the sudden weight of the sword—as if this was all part of it, or he was in two places at once.

  Then the field wall was hard against his back.

  Godric stepped closer. “Where’s the other one?”

  Neither of them told him. He shrugged. “We’ll get him. Alberic has patrols out; the little man’s spitting venom for you three, and the magic box of tricks.” But his eye was on the Sekoi, and Raffi knew all at once something else was on his mind.

  “Tell me where he is or I tie you up and we move out now.” But the man didn’t move, and he was looking at the gold. Raffi felt a sudden quiver of hope.

  Godric edged forward. “Won a lot, didn’t you?”

  The Sekoi’s fur rose silently around its neck. “I was lucky.”

  “So I saw.” Suddenly he lowered the bolt, just a fraction. “All right. Listen. Give me the gold, and you and the boy go free. I never even set eyes on you. Agreed?”

  The Sekoi gave an eerie low hiss—a terrifying sound. “Never,” it breathed.

  “I mean it.”

  “So do I.” The creature’s eyes were slits, dark as chasms.

  Raffi’s heart sank.

  “Suit yourself. I’ll take it anyway.”

  But like lightning the Sekoi moved; it turned and was gone into the dark. With an oath of fury Godric leaped in and grabbed Raffi; a great arm tugged his hair back, the crossbow bolt pressed horrifyingly into his neck.

  Raffi froze; only the slightest of pressures would have set it off.

  “The gold!” Godric roared. “Put it down in the road or I kill him!”

  There was a long silence. Then the Sekoi’s voice came, strangled and odd from somewhere close. “I’m sorry, Raffi,” it said.

  “You can’t just leave me!” he yelled, appalled.

  He could almost feel the Sekoi squirm. “The gold,” it hissed. “I have to keep the gold!”

  “You scum.” Godric spat in disgust. “What do you people do with it all? Alberic would love to find the Hidden Hoard. Does it exist, Graycat? Is it real?”

  “Alberic could drown in it,” the creature purred.

  “Could he!” Godric sounded tight with anger. The crossbow quivered; Raffi gripped his hands together.

  But the bolt that shattered the darkness was blue; an enormous flash that burst in his head like a flame, and as blackness crashed back he felt the wyvern again, roaring and falling down upon him, into some endless pit.

  7

  Let the keeper own nothing but his faith. For the Sekoi hoard gold and men desire goods, but the dew on the early grass is a treasure beyond price.

  Litany of the Makers

  WHEN RAFFI WOKE UP he found himself wrapped in his own coat on a damp bank of dead leaves; they rustled and crisped as he uncurled. Above him, smooth trunks of beech trees rose into darkness, stars glinting through their tangled branches.

  For a moment he lay still, staring up; then a crackle of sticks made fear break out of him like sweat. He rolled over.

  Galen was sitting by a small bright fire. He was shivering as if he couldn’t stop, huddled over some cup of steaming drink, but when he looked across, there was the flicker of a grin on his face.

  “So you’re back with us, are you?”

  Raffi propped himself up. He felt strange. One side of his head and one shoulder were numb. His left hand tingled.

  “Did you fire the blue box?” he asked slowly.

  Galen nodded. “Nothing else I could do. But he was holding you too close—you caught some of the blast.” He laughed grimly and spat into the flames. “A good thing dear Alberic didn’t use it all up.”

  “Did it kill him?”

  Galen threw him an irritated glance. “I’m not the Watch, boy. He’s over there.”

  Turning, Raffi realized that the fire was burning in a hollow among beech trees. Propped against one, well tied at the ankles, was Godric. The big man’s head lolled to one side, and a few dead leaves had fallen on his hair and chest. But he breathed evenly.

  Next to him, picking elegantly at a plate of berries, was the Sekoi.

  “You!” Raffi jerked upright, suddenly furious. “What were you doing! You would have let him kill me!”

  The Sekoi spit out a pip. “Nonsense.”

  “Did you see what happened?” Raffi turned on Galen.

  “No. What?” he said quietly.

  “Godric offered to let me go if that . . . creature gave him the gold. A great bag of gold. And it wouldn’t! It just said ‘Sorry, Raffi’!”

  Even now he could barely believe it.

  Galen was silent.

  The Sekoi wrinkled its nose and waved a hand. “Small keeper, work it out! What if I had given him my gold? Do you really think he’d have trotted back to Alberic saying ‘I haven’t seen them’? Nonsense. We’d have lost you and it.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t have cared about me!”

  “Raffi . . .” Galen growled.

  “The Sekoi wouldn’t! It was the gold, that was all that mattered! I knew! I could feel it!”

  The Sekoi glowered, its fur puffed out, but it folded its long arms calmly across its chest. “Oh you could, could you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Clever. Not many keepers can read the Sekoi.”

  Galen scowled. “That’s enough.” He tipped the dregs of his drink angrily into the flames. “I don’t know what went on. I only know Raffi feels betrayed and you”—he glanced at the creature darkly—“you feel some sort of regret.”

  The Sekoi shrugged. “I have nothing to regret.”

  “Thanks to me. However, the boy is right. We need to know where we stand. In my experience, the Sekoi have always hated the Watch.”

  “They enslaved us,” it spat.

  “They did. But the Order . . .”

  It waved a hand irritably. “We have no quarrel with the Order, Galen. We are friends, you and I. And the small one. I would not betray you.”

  “Nevertheless.” Galen pushed the damp hair restlessly from his face. “I know the Sekoi. About gold, you can never be trusted. Your loyalty to that goes beyond any friendship with us. I understand that. The boy is too young to know yet.”

  The Sekoi squirmed. Finally it said, “It may be. Some things are too sacred to speak about.” It looked up, its yellow eyes sharp in the flame light. “I’m sorry, Raffi, Galen is right. I am your friend and always will be, but we have our own beliefs, and gold is . . . vital to them. I can’t explain why. Galen says we cannot be trusted. I would say, regretfully, that may be, but we are all of us on the same side.”

  “And if the Watch offered you enough gold to give us up?” Raffi snapped, rubbing his arms savagely. “What then? You’d do it, would you?”

  The Sekoi was silent. It scratched its tattooed fur thoughtfully. At last it said, “Let me put it this way. If I was in trouble, you would help me, yes?”

  “Of course I would! I’d never—”

  “Yes. Yes. But if the price of rescuing me was to give up the secrets of
the Order? All the hidden knowledge? To betray your master, all the Makers? Would you do that, Raffi, just to save me?”

  Raffi felt foolish, confused. Glancing at Galen was no help. He ran his hands through his hair, dragging out leaves. “I don’t know,” he said at last.

  “No, you don’t. It would be a fearsome choice. Always, you would try for some other way out.” It leaned forward, toward the flames.

  “You must understand that we Sekoi also have our secrets, our beliefs, and the purpose of the Great Hoard is one of them. It may only be a metal to you. To us it is more, much more. It is our deepest dream. And every one of us is sworn to add to it, coin by coin, ounce by shining ounce until . . .” It stopped and smiled. “Well, I can say no more. But you understand? For a second, back there, when he asked me for the gold, I was on the edge of that fearsome choice.”

  Raffi was silent.

  The flames crackled, glowing against the smooth brown boles of the beeches. And quite suddenly, out of his confusion and annoyance, he saw Carys, walking up some endless stairway, around and around, carrying a torch of pitch that dripped and crackled. She looked at him sideways, and she was scared, her eyes alert. “The Interrex!” she hissed. “Keep your mind on the job, Raffi!”

  And then all he was staring at was a beech tree.

  “What was it?” Galen had hold of him already. “What was that! That was Maker-sent.”

  Raffi took a deep breath. The Sekoi watched them both with interest. “Some vision?” it murmured.

  “I saw Carys. Climbing a stair. She reminded me about the Interrex. That was all.”

  Galen bowed his head. “My fault. We should have been moving faster!”

  “But you couldn’t. And where, anyway?”

  “At least I know that. The only way to find out where the child is, is to make a pilgrimage to the well. Artelan’s Well.”

  He touched the black and green beads at his neck. “I hear your rebuke, Flain.” Suddenly he looked exhausted. He leaned back against a tree and said, “Tomorrow. We leave tomorrow.”

  “You should sleep.” The Sekoi came and laid its long hand over his forehead, and then at his wrists. Galen shook it off, but it grinned. “My cure is working. You’re less hot.”

  “I wish I were even a little hot, Graycat.”

  The growl came from the darkness; turning, they saw Godric was awake and watching them. The Sekoi snarled, “That’s not my name.”

  But it threw Godric his cloak, a firm bundle that he had to catch hastily. Unruffled, he shook it out and wrapped it around himself. “Much better. And something to eat?” He rubbed one hand over his beard, watching Galen closely. “You owe me that, keeper, after nearly killing me with your relic.”

  Galen gave a weary nod.

  Raffi took the last of the berries over and dumped them down.

  Godric gazed at them in disgust. “Flainsteeth! Is this all you people eat? Alberic’s dog gets more than this!” He looked up. “You should have let me take you prisoner, lad.”

  Raffi tried to look uncaring. “Keepers have higher things to think of than food.”

  “Ha!” The big man roared noisily. “By God, Galen Harn, your boy’s either well-beaten or an idiot. Pass me that satchel, Graycat. It looks like I’ll have to start feeding my captors. It’s a new one, I’ll admit—Alberic will love it.”

  With a scowl at Galen, the Sekoi rummaged through the pack for weapons, then hurled it over. Godric pulled out some fruit and small packages. They were wrapped in fresh calarna leaves and smelled superb.

  “Venison. Smoked and stuffed. From the market.” He filled his mouth and pushed a package at Raffi. “Go on, boy, eat some. You’re just skin and bone.”

  Raffi shook his head doggedly, but Galen’s voice muttered, “Do as he says.”

  Astonished, Raffi looked around. Galen was still leaning against the tree. His shivering seemed to have stopped, but he looked gaunt and weary. “Go on. Eat.”

  Godric wiped grease from his beard with the back of one hand. “You too. And you, Cat.”

  “We don’t eat meat,” the Sekoi said haughtily.

  “I’d heard that.” The big man hauled out a wine flask and drank noisily. “Afraid you’d like it too much, eh?”

  Raffi was barely listening. The meat was delicious, rich and tender and sweetened with herbs and salt; he swallowed every mouthful slowly, savoring the taste, licking every scrap off his fingers.

  Godric watched him in real wonder. “Here,” he growled, “have more.” He glanced over at Galen and said grimly, “I’ll tell you this, keeper, we may be thieves, but we take more care of our own than you do.”

  Galen watched, his dark eyes level and unmoved. All he said was, “We move on tomorrow. We’ll leave you tied here, your weapons in that bush. You’re near the road. You can shout. Eventually someone will hear you.”

  “Probably the Watch!”

  Galen nodded gravely. “Your problem. Tell Alberic that he won’t find us and that he will never get the box back.”

  Godric snorted. “It’s you he wants!”

  “Tell him. And next time he won’t find his men left for him.”

  “Next time he’ll come himself.” Godric drank heavily and stretched out his legs. “You’ve made a bad enemy in the dwarf, keeper. Alberic has a puny body but big ideas. He rules because everyone’s afraid of him. He’ll ride out here with the whole thief-band when he knows you’re here. And he won’t go back without you.” He laughed loudly. “In pieces, probably.”

  “We’re used to being hunted.” Galen rolled over, wrapping the coat around himself. “Will you watch?” he said to the Sekoi, sounding bone weary.

  “I’ll watch. Go to sleep.”

  As Raffi swallowed the last scrap of meat, Godric leaned toward him, clutching the flask. “Do yourself a favor, lad,” he whispered, his breath stinking of ale. “Leave this lot. Both of them care more about their dreams than about you.” He clapped a great hand on Raffi’s hair and ruffled it. “Clear out with me. Be a thief. If you like to live well, that’s the life, boy.” Drunkenly he leaned back, closing his eyes. “After all, what have you got to lose? You’re an outlaw already.”

  Jerking back, Raffi glared down at him bitterly. “Thanks,” he said. “Thanks a lot.”

  The Tower of Song

  8

  For Flain, the city of Tasceron, gold and sunlit;

  For Tamar, Isel’s mountain, cold and high.

  For Soren, the Pavilion of Song in the Green hills;

  For Theriss, the blue chasms of the sea.

  For Kest, the plain of Maar, abode of horrors.

  Above them all the seven moons

  and the Crow, flying between.

  Litany of the Makers

  IT HAD BEEN RAINING ALL DAY, and there was no sign of it stopping. Carys had given up; her hood hung useless and her hair streamed, trickling and dripping inside her soaked clothes. Shivering, she urged her horse on, seeing how the water oozed and bubbled out of the leather of her gloves.

  Ahead, under a stand of black-leaved saltan trees, Braylwin and his three men were waiting. Wearily her horse splashed up to them, and she saw how the beasts’ red paint had smeared and dripped into the puddles below.

  “Problem?” Braylwin asked absently. He was dressed in a vast black traveling cape that hung down below his stirrups; the rain pattered off it in torrents. It was stiff with wax.

  “He’s going lame.” She slipped off, knee-deep in water.

  Braylwin shook his head. “I’ve told you before to get yourself a better horse,” he said crisply, above the downpour. “And clothes, Carys! I like my patrol to be well turned out.”

  Crouched over the horse’s hoof, she snapped, “I’m not as rich as you.”

  “Ah, but that’s your fault, sweetie. Prize money is only the half of it. The small gifts of the people, the bribes, the little inducements. Your trouble, Carys, is being too long among keepers.”

  She dropped the hoof and slapped the hors
e’s flank, then glared up. “That’s my business.”

  His round face smiled down at her. “Is it?”

  “How far are we from this wretched place?” she asked sullenly.

  “How far?” He took a plump hand off the reins and pointed. “We’re here.”

  She stared out. She saw a vastness, a rising shape, indistinct in the rain, gray in the misty drizzle. At first she had thought it was a cloud, a great bank of fog drifting up over the mountains, but now she realized with a cold awe that it was real, a vast building climbing the mountainside, rising in a countless series of rooms, stairways, balconies, and galleries, far away and immense, its topmost roofs white with snow. And up there, like a needle sharp with ice, one uttermost pinnacle flew the remote black pennant of the Watch.

  The Tower of Song.

  How Galen would have loved this, she thought, the rain running into her eyes and down her face, the heavy downpour hissing from the low gray skies. How it would have amazed Raffi. They’d have prayed, she thought wryly. Looking up at the vast, rain-clouded walls of it, she almost wanted to pray as well.

  Braylwin had been watching her. Now, as the rain began to crash with a new ferocity, he turned his horse hastily. “Come on,” he called irritably. “Before we drown out here.”

  She walked, leading her horse up the steep mountain track. The tower loomed above; she saw how it had been built over centuries, been added to, repaired, ruined, neglected, renovated. All the Emperors had spent their summers here, far from the heat of Tasceron, building their palace of luxuries around the lost core of Soren’s pavilion, the place she had chosen for her own when the Makers divided the Finished Lands between them, long ago. Now the Watch held it, one of their greatest fastnesses, and here were stored rooms of confiscated tribute, loot, treasures. And the records, the vast bureaucracy of files and papers and reports of its millions of agents. If she really wanted to find out about herself, about the Watch, about the Interrex, this would be the place. But she’d have to be careful. Very careful.