The Lost Heiress

22

From a high place, Soren looked out at the Unfinished Lands. “The winters will be long now,” she murmured.

Book of the Seven Moons

THEY CRASHED INTO THE NET.

It dipped and sank and steadied, the blue lines sparking under his hand. He tried to get up and couldn’t; suddenly he felt utterly spent, clutching the relic tightly in case it fell.

Someone was shouting at him and tugging his hair, then the net plunged again and flung him over. He moaned, opened his eyes, and saw just below a terrifying glimpse of the sharp stakes. Then Carys with her shoulder soaked in blood was hauling at his arm.

“Raffi!” she yelled. “Come on!”

He staggered over the edge of the net and collapsed onto his knees. The forest seemed a hundred miles away.

Arrows slashed the air around him. He felt exhausted, wished they’d leave him alone, let him sleep, let him crumple, but Carys hauled him up with one arm under his, calling him vicious names, and on the other side two small cold hands clasped tight around his waist.

Half dragged, he stumbled away from the Watchhouse, into darkness, into a roar of voices and one strong grip that heaved him up, over its shoulder, and away.

When he opened his eyes it was dark, and warm. For a moment he thought he was back in Sarres, but above him was the roof of a cave, seamed with glittering quartz, red in the low glow of a fire. The rocks around him felt calm and ancient. Briefly, deep within them he touched a song, a drift of music so old it barely existed. Then, gradually, memory crept over him, and an ache in his chest that made him catch his breath.

He sat up.

A tiny lamp burned on the sandy floor. Outside, someone was yelling in anger. Alarmed, Raffi pushed the blankets away wearily and stumbled out, but a long hand caught him and steadied him. “Take care, small keeper!” The Sekoi stood, its sharp eyes bright in the moonlight. “How do you feel?”

“Terrible. What’s wrong with me?”

It shrugged. “Nothing I can understand. Your master says you did too much in making that magic net.” It winked at him. “He won’t say it, but he’s proud of you.”

“Galen!” Weakly Raffi laughed. He found that very funny.

The Sekoi scratched its fur and bit a nail. “You Starmen,” it said. “We’ll never understand you.”

It was Alberic who was angry. From the cave mouth Raffi could see him now, furiously slamming his hands against a tree.

“What’s going on?”

“Come and see.” The Sekoi led him outside; he saw Galen standing tall and grim in the dark clearing, arms folded. The keeper glanced across but his face didn’t change. Between them Alberic raged, kicking over a stool in uncontrollable fury.

The change in the dwarf astonished Raffi. He looked pinched and gray; his hair seemed thinner, and his temper was foul. A tipped goblet of wine spilled among the leaves; as they watched, he picked up a gold plate full of fruit and hurled it hard at the bushes with a scream. The Sekoi looked after it eagerly.

“Are we his prisoners?” Raffi asked, bewildered.

“I think not. Galen has put some fearsome curse on him. In fact, I rather think he’s our prisoner.” It slid into the undergrowth quickly.

Suddenly Alberic stopped raging, breathless. Clutching his side, he swung around. “You promised me!”

“I promised you nothing.” Galen was remorseless. “I asked you to attack.”

“We attacked! We burned the drawbridge! Three of my boys are having bolts picked out of them! I even used up all that damnable blue box. What more do you want? Take the stinking curse off me!”

“Not just yet,” Galen said calmly.

Alberic clutched his arms around himself like a man in a nightmare. “For Flain’s sake, keeper! Everything I eat tastes like ash!”

“First,” Galen went on, “you get us out of the forest. We’ll need horses—the boy’s too worn out to walk. And you protect us from any Watchpatrols till we get to the marsh. A day’s journey, no more.”

“The marsh?” Despite his pain, Alberic’s eyes went sly. “What’s in that marsh?”

“Nothing you’ll ever find.” Galen shifted the weight from his stiff leg; he looked grim, but Raffi could tell he was enjoying this. “Agreed?”

The dwarf swore. “I’ve no choice.”

“No, you haven’t. And if anything happens to me, the curse will never be lifted. Take care of me, thief-lord. Without me, six weeks of suffering . . .”

“I know! Don’t start that again!”

Galen grinned darkly. “And if my friends are hurt, I’d see them die before I’d cure you. Believe me.”

“I’d believe anything of you.” Alberic spat, and watched him sidelong, a murderous look that chilled Raffi. “But what I really want to know is, did I have to suffer all this just to rescue that?”

He jabbed his finger out. Raffi looked over.

Felnia was sitting near a campfire, eating a huge slice of melon; there were pips all over her face. She rubbed them off, fascinated, her brown eyes staring at the dwarf.

“Is he crazy?” she asked.

Galen grinned. “I hope not. I can’t cure that.”

Someone came up behind Raffi. “Feeling better?” It was Carys. She had a different shirt on, and a bloody slash down her jacket sleeve.

“A bit. What happened to you?”

She frowned, shaking her head. Reluctantly she said, “I couldn’t jump.”

“Couldn’t?”

“Too scared.”

He laughed, but she looked up quickly. “I mean it. I saw how it held you, but . . . it was only made of light, Raffi!”

He nodded. “But you did it. Galen would say that was a leap of faith.”

They watched Felnia. She stood up and came out into the dim clearing, deep in leaves. First she looked at Galen, then Raffi. “Are we going to the garden now?”

He nodded, feeling suddenly happier. Lightning glimmered silently, high above the trees; the girl looked up at it, surprised. “Good.”

“You’re willing to come with us?” Galen asked harshly.

She pointed. “With him. I’ll go with him.”

Raffi felt foolishly pleased. Then he realized she was pointing behind him, and turned. The Sekoi lurked there, astonished.

“Me?”

“I like you.” The girl took another bite of her melon. “You’re furry,” she said, indistinctly, “like Cub.”

“Thank you.” The creature looked dubiously at the moth-eaten toy; moving forward, it thrust something from behind its back into Carys’s hands. She hid it expertly, but not before Raffi had glimpsed the golden plate.

“This is so sickening,” Alberic spat.

The Sekoi crouched on its long knees and held out a seven-fingered hand. “Shall we go into the cave?” it said quietly. “Because I think it’s going to rain.”

The little girl nodded. As she passed Alberic, she whispered loudly, “He is crazy.”

“Indeed?” the Sekoi said mildly. “Then that makes two of us.”

That night, in the back of the stuffy cave with the rain crashing outside, the four of them sat on their own, deep among stalactites, with the Interrex asleep in blankets on the Sekoi’s lap.

It pulled dirt from her hair thoughtfully. “She’ll be a handful. She’s as haughty as an Emperor’s child ought to be.”

Raffi grinned, feeling warm and rested. He’d had plenty to eat, and Alberic’s guards prowled the woods for miles around. The Interrex was safe, and they were going back to Sarres, and Braylwin was tied up and guarded somewhere. And yet, he thought sleepily, they were still in the middle of their enemies.

Carys was telling Galen about the Watchhouse. He nodded grimly. “It sounds worse than even I thought. You think the child will be satisfied to stay with us?”

“If she’s got any sense.”

“What about you?” Raffi said suddenly. “You can’t go back now.”

She shrugged, uneasy. “Of course I can. No one knows it was me in there.”

“Except Braylwin.” Raffi stopped. Galen’s warning had snagged every sense-line he had; he looked down, giddy.

“There’s time to decide. It will take a day to ride clear of the forest.” Galen tugged the hair carelessly from his face and knotted it in the dirty string. “Now one of us stays awake, all night. But first it’s time for the Litany, boy. And don’t fall asleep.”

IT WAS STRANGE BEING on a horse again. He and Carys rode together, with the Sekoi and the little girl on a white horse in front of them. Even Galen rode, a green-painted creature with sidelong frightened eyes. They traveled quickly, in the long straggle of the thief-band. The remaining Watchguards, Braylwin’s men, had vanished; Raffi didn’t know if their throats had been cut or if they’d been released. Certainly Alberic wouldn’t have gotten any ransom for them.

But Braylwin was still there. They’d made him walk at first, but he’d been so clumsy and complained so loudly, they’d found a horse for him too, a great stubborn pack-beast. Raffi stared at the man, repelled by his great bulk. As if he sensed it, the spymaster turned around in the saddle and smiled greasily.

“Fond of the lad, aren’t you, Carys?”

“Ignore him,” Carys muttered.

But Braylwin slowed his horse, hanging back. “Won’t you release your uncle, sweetheart?” he whispered. “It would be wise.”

She stared out into the trees icily.

Braylwin scratched his cheek with plump, tied hands. “You see, I was just composing my report. What an epic that’s going to be! It’s a pity you’ll never have a chance to read it.”

“What are you going to say about her?” Raffi was worried.

The big man jolted in his saddle and smiled. “Why, everything I should. Betrayal of the Watch, that’s a hanging offense. Abduction. Counterespionage. Of course, if either of you should decide to help me escape, that would be different. Very different. You and I could make up some really tasty little story . . .”

“As far as I’m concerned, you can rot!” she snapped, turning savagely.

“But I won’t rot.” The black eyes were sharp in his flabby face. “I’m rich, Carys,” he hissed, “and the dwarf’s greedy. I can buy freedom. When I do, believe me, I’ll have your name on every hanging-list from here to Maar. So hurry up and decide!”

But she urged the horse on, past him, and for a long time after, even when Raffi spoke to her, she wouldn’t say a word.

THE WOOD WAS A MORASS, and the gale had brought all the leaves down. In the afternoon, drizzle began again; every rider became a gray shape, slithering and splashing through mud and over slippery rutted tracks. As he jolted, Raffi let his third eye open and looked out into the wood, feeling it cower under the leaden weather, the gray, dragging rain, all the bare thorns scattering great drops down on his face. Soon he was soaked, holding loosely to Carys’s coat, and far off in his dream-sight he watched a skeat-pack splash through a swollen stream, tiny larvae scattering between their paws.

The world was dissolving; he felt the whole hemisphere reeling into winter, the long, bitter Anaran winter of icestorms and raw gales, each year worse than the last; the time when the grass froze and the carnage-wolves prowled down from the Unfinished Lands, when the seven moons glinted frost-bright among the Maker-stars. He shivered. Last year he and Galen had barely come through it. But this year things would be better; they would be in Sarres. If only Galen would stay there.

Darkness came early, a dank autumn twilight, a raingloom gathering between the wet twisted boles of the trees. Boulders and great shattered cliffs of dark rock rose around them. Flittermice came out; owls began to hoot from the caves far above. The Sekoi looked up and listened to them, holding Felnia carefully.

Late in the evening they stopped briefly to eat, but lit no fires; Alberic was determined to press on. He had given up riding; four of his toughest men carried him now in a litter that was gaudily painted and hung with sodden crimson cloth. Godric took him some food but ducked away quickly, the plate flung furiously at his head. Some of the war-band laughed; others looked evilly at Galen. Raffi felt afraid.

In the dismal rain it was difficult to see; Raffi sheltered under a larch tree eating bread miserably, water dripping from his hair and fingers. Suddenly everything seemed wrong: Sarres a hundred miles away, his senses dulled and shivering, all the power-lines drawn into the earth like a snail draws into its shell.

Then Galen came up and grabbed him. “Where is she? Is she with you?”

Bewildered, Raffi stared. “Carys?”

“Felnia!” Galen’s hawk-face was anxious, his hair plastered to his forehead. “Have you seen her?”

A rainsquall gusted into their eyes. Among the trees, Carys yelled; Galen raced toward her, crashing through the decaying bracken and fat stumps of puffballs, shoving through an interested crowd of the thief-band. Raffi ran after him, dropping the bread.

The Sekoi lay on its back, eyes wide open, staring sightlessly up. Godric was feeling its limbs over carefully. “Not dead. Some sort of blow to the head.”

Galen whirled around. “She must have run off!”

“No.” Carys stood stock-still. She was staring at something dim in the rainy wood; Braylwin’s great packhorse, cropping lichen from a dead log. Sliced rope hung from its neck.

“Oh God, Galen,” she breathed. “He’s got her.”