The Dark City

15

One day Flain walked in the Forest of Karsh and he was thirsty. Coming to a stream, he drank, and such was his strength that the ground sank lower. He went on his way. The sea rose and drowned the forest.

Though the Sekoi have another story about this.

Book of the Seven Moons

THE ALLEYWAY WAS DARK and there was something else in it. Jammed against the damp wall, Raffi heard it swoop out of the darkness. He turned and ran, through cobwebs that webbed his face and hands as he brushed them away.

The floor rose; he tripped, fell flat. The thing was on him, its sharp claws raking his back, its stinking breath on his neck. He yelled and squirmed and was up again, running blindly into the blackness till the wall smacked against him and he crumpled, breathless, fighting, struggling, kicking off blankets, his coat, the strong fingers that grabbed at him again and again.

“Raffi! Keep still! It’s me. For Flain’s sake, get yourself under control!”

The roar was Galen’s and it woke him instantly, just before Carys came hurtling around the door into the cabin, her shirt hanging out. “What’s the matter? Is he seasick?”

“No.” Galen let him go and sat back. “I don’t think so.”

“Of course I’m not! It was a dream.” Raffi rubbed sweat from his face. “A nightmare.”

Under them the ship dipped and sank. His stomach lurched, and a tray of cups and plates slid slowly down the tilted table.

“All dreams count,” Galen said, grabbing the edge of the chair. “Tell it to me.”

Raffi shrugged. “I was in some sort of street . . .” He explained briefly, bringing the dream accurately out of memory as Galen had taught him. When he’d finished, Carys grinned. “It was that cheese you ate.”

Galen frowned at her. “It may be important. Remember it.”

The ship rose suddenly; the oil lamp swung, sending wild shadows over the low ceiling. Carys sat down and laced her boots.

“Still lost.”

They had been at sea for two days, and the weather had gotten steadily worse. Halfway over, the fog had come down. Now the tiny cabin was dim with it; it drifted down the steps, making the lamp a cloud of haze; the rough blankets smelled of its damp.

It was late morning, but morning and night all seemed the same.

“Have they asked again?” Raffi asked quietly.

“They will,” Galen muttered.

Almost as an answer there was a bang on the open door; Arno came in, bending his head. He looked harassed and soaked. “I’m sorry, Galen.”

He stood aside; behind him the skipper blocked the door, a small, black-bearded man, his cap in his hand. He twisted it nervously. “Keeper, the men are scared. The fog’s too thick, we don’t know how near the shore we are. The Watch patrol this strait, and if they come on board . . .”

“I know,” Galen said heavily. “We’re bringing you into danger.”

“It’s just that some of the older men . . . they say the Order had weather-warding skills. I don’t know. But if there’s anything you can do . . .”

Galen was silent a moment. Carys watched him curiously. Then he said, “I’ll come on deck. First I have to prepare.”

The two men backed out respectfully and Carys went with them, climbing the steps to the deck and pulling her blue coat around her. The fog was iron-gray and hung close; it tasted metallic and salty. She could barely see the ship’s rail till she bumped into it; above her the masts dissolved into dimness. Even the sea, invisible below, was silent, rising and falling as smooth as oil, the only sounds a tarred rope dragging, canvas creaking, the murmur of voices in the gloom.

Then Galen and Raffi came up. The keeper had a small object in his hand; it looked like quartz crystal. Raffi looked nervous, she noticed. Galen shoved a coil of rope aside and laid the crystal on the soaked planks of the deck; with some chalk he drew strange signs around it, some of which she recognized from her training. A bird, the seven sigils of the moons, a slashed circle, a bee.

Behind her the sailors gathered, like wraiths in the fog.

Galen straightened. Then he beckoned, and Raffi came forward. He looked pale in the dimness.

“Aren’t you going to do this?” the captain asked anxiously.

Galen stared at him in surprise. “Weather-warding is a task for scholars,” he said curtly. “Not masters.”

He nodded to Raffi, who took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and spread out his hands. Below him the crystal lay wrapped in fog.

Carys watched closely. For a while nothing happened and she told herself it wouldn’t. The whole thing was nonsense. Someone whispered behind her, and Galen growled “Be quiet” without looking over. She saw he was staring at Raffi intently, as if willing him on. The ship sailed silently into darkness. And then a tiny thrill of fear tingled in Carys’s spine; she clenched her fingers, breathing in sharply.

Around the crystal, the fog had gone.

A tiny circle of empty air hung there, the white stone glinting, the knots on the shaven planks clear and sharp. Raffi opened his eyes and grinned. He looked dazed and delighted. The circle grew; the fog rolled back, was pushed apart, and men murmured and whistled in subdued awe. Now they could all see one another, then the wide deck, now the opposite rail with a gull that flew off with a shriek of alarm, and still the circle of power swelled. Carys stood rigid, watching. There was the mast, the rigging, the ship’s cat in the high spars; they were all appearing in this great bubble of clearness. Turning to the rail, she looked down and could see the sea, the green splash of it, out to the receding wall of the mist. She shook her head, bewildered. “Oh, Jeltok. What would you say about this?”

“Who?” Raffi stood behind her, smiling.

“No one. You look pleased.”

He laughed. “I feel it! I’ve never done it so well!”

“Brilliant!” The skipper had crammed his cap on and seized Galen’s hand. “Brilliant!”

Galen snatched his hand away. “Not me. The boy.”

“Of course!” Clapping Raffi carelessly on the back, the man stared at the sea. “How big will it grow?”

“About half a league around the ship will be clear. Beyond that the fog remains.” Galen crossed to Raffi and looked down at him. Stiffly he said, “Well done.”

Raffi was astonished. “The way the power moves through your hands . . .” he murmured.

Galen almost flinched. Then he said, “I know.”

“I didn’t mean . . . I’m sorry . . .”

“Quiet!” The keeper turned on him fiercely. “That’s enough!”

Carys watched them. Then she turned and looked out at the circle of fog, a clear rim. And she saw, growing out of the sea, a forest of huge blackened trees, straight and bare, their branches high above, arching like tunnels over the green swell.

“What’s that!”

Galen glared at it savagely and didn’t answer. At her back, Arno murmured, “The drowned forest. The Forest of Karsh.”

She had heard of it. The great black trees rose like pillars, their roots deep underwater, and as they sailed close to one she saw the hardness of the wood, fossilized and ridged, like rock.

“Are they alive?” she whispered.

“They must be. I can feel them,” Raffi said. Then he winced, as if he’d been stung.

“What’s the matter?”

“Sense-lines. Something’s coming!” He spun around to Galen. “Behind us. A ship. Very close!”

“Watchpatrol!” The skipper turned and leaped up the steps to the upper deck, yelling frantic orders. A new sail plumped out. The ship shuddered and slewed.

“You’ll never outrun them,” Carys muttered. She stared back. “I can’t see anything.”

“They’re there.” Galen slammed the rail in fury; then he turned and yelled, “Into the trees! Take us into the trees!”

“Keeper, I can’t!” The skipper stared down at him, aghast. “No one sails in there! There are no soundings—no one has ever mapped all the shoals and currents, the channels . . . And God knows what lives in there!”

With a mutter of fury, Galen raced up the steps and caught him by the coat. “And what happens when the Watch sail out of the fog? Do you think they won’t know a weather-warding when they see it? Get in there before they see the name of your ship! Or do you want to be rammed out of the water!”

The man stared at him, white-faced. Then he twisted. “Hard aport! Get that topmast gallant down! Do it!”

Slowly, unwillingly, the ship turned; sliding toward the dark gap between the two nearest trees.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to bring the fog back?” Carys said uneasily.

Raffi shook his head. “Can’t. Not now. The spell will last for hours.”

“Then they’ll always be able to tell where we are.”

“If they come in after us.”

“Oh, they’ll come in,” she muttered.

The gap widened. As they entered it, a green dimness fell over their faces; high above them the stark branches stirred and they saw that dim leaves hung in strange clusters. In here it was dark, the only sounds the grunts of men furling the heavy sail and, looking behind them, Raffi saw the open sea beyond the entrance to their tunnel, the ship’s wake sending ripples and swell slapping and clooping against the black rigid columns of the trees.

And then, just where the mist ended out there, he glimpsed the prow of a ship breaking out into the sunshine, the great silver eye painted on its side staring at him over the green water, and he shuddered, as if something had seen right to the heart of him.

Then they turned among the trees, and the daylight was blocked.

“Did they see us?”

“Who knows,” Galen growled. “If they did, they’ll come.”

It was eerily silent, but for the wave-slap, the echoes. On each side of them the trees rose like black pillars in some gloomy, flooded hall; a forest waist-deep in dark water, stretching into dimness, stinking of decay, the crisp leaves rustling overhead. How strong they must be, Raffi thought, still growing as they had a thousand years ago, as if they’d never noticed the sea that drowned them.

The ship was deep inside now. The light was a green gloom; strange birds whistled. The branches over his head swished, as if some invisible creature leaped and followed. The skipper hung over the water, watching, afraid of a crash. The ship moved on mysterious currents, without any wind they could feel. Raffi saw how the crew clustered together, staring in fear into the depths of the still, drowned trees. Of the Watchship they could see nothing, and no daylight either. The deeper in they went, the darker the trees became.

Galen stirred. “How near are we to the coast?”

The skipper shook his head despairingly. “Who knows! Almost aground, maybe. The forest comes ashore south of Tasceron, according to the charts, but whether we can get the ship that close . . .”

“You’ll have to,” Galen said. He turned to Raffi. “Well?”

“They’re still coming. Maybe getting closer.”

“Right. Get below and get our things. You too, Carys, if you’re coming.”

“Of course I am!”

Below, in the cabin, jamming her journal deep into her bag she said, “What’s he going to do?”

“I daren’t think.” Raffi checked the relic bag gloomily.

Abruptly, the ship shuddered. The sudden jarring shock sent them both crashing; cups and plates and a lamp slid and smashed on top of them.

Carys picked herself up painfully. “She’s gone aground! Come on!”

On the deck, uproar had broken out. Men were running, yelling orders, the ship tilted at a bizarre angle, one side high out of the water. Scrambling up to the rail, Raffi clung there and saw that a huge splintered tree trunk was jammed under them; beyond it a tangle of roots, immense, a gloom of mudbanks.

“Here will do,” Galen said. He slung the pack on his shoulder and jammed his staff across it; then he climbed up onto the rail.

“We can’t just leave them!” Raffi yelled. “Not like this!”

Galen glared at him coldly. “They don’t need us. We’re just a danger for them. Do you want the Watch to find us on board?”

Poles were out; the sailors had them over the side and were heaving on them, the small ship shuddering and grinding.

“Now!” Galen said. “While we can.” He swung his legs over, steadied himself and jumped onto the black, slippery mass of wood, almost fell, then pulled himself quickly upright. Carys followed carefully, then Raffi, letting himself down by his arms. Just as he let go, the ship juddered free. Arno’s white face came to the rail. “Galen, there’s no need . . .”

“This is as far as we go.” Galen looked into the forest quickly. “Get away from here. Tell Lerin I’ll remember what she said.”

Arno nodded. “Good luck. Keep safe.” He leaned closer. “Give us your blessing, keeper.”

Galen spoke the words softly, his hand stretched out. For a moment they watched the ship drift away between the black trees. When he turned, the keeper’s voice was quiet. “The bravery of the faithful. Remember it, Raffi.”

The three of them had to crawl and slide along the huge trunk, the rounded surface slippery but wide as a track. Halfway to the jutting roots, Carys flattened herself. “Get down!”

Alarmed, Raffi jerked, grabbed, and slid hopelessly off into the water, trying not to splash. Chin-deep he hung on, scrabbling for a hold, finding to his astonishment that his feet touched bottom, sinking into deep mud. Small gnats whined about him; the water stank and he closed his lips tight not to swallow any.

The Watchboat came through the drowned forest in silence, a sleek, black-painted ship, sharp-prowed, her silver eye glinting in the green light. She moved quickly, drawn by the current; on board Raffi could see men in the rigging and on the decks, leaning out, looking anxiously down.

Still as leaf-shadow, they watched the enemy pass, the wake sending tiny waves to lap against Raffi’s lips. He turned away.

Finally, when she was gone, Galen sat up, his stare full of hate. “I hope they outrun her.” He leaned over and grabbed Raffi’s arm; tugging his feet free, Raffi gasped, “I can’t get up. Too slippery. I’ll wade.”

Splashing as little as possible, he struggled along the side of the trunk; to his relief the water quickly became shallower until it was down to his waist. He shivered, rubbing off green slime, water running from his clothes.

Underfoot, the mud was hard to tug out of; the disturbed water was brackish; twigs floated in it, and sediment rose in clouds.

He splashed the whining insects off, and saw that Galen had slid into the water with him, and that what had been sea was swamp.

It took them over an hour to come ashore properly, and by then the sun was almost setting. They stopped to eat a little and change their clothes, and then started off, stiff with tiredness, walking west.

Galen hurried them on. He knew that if the ship was caught the crew would talk, and if the Watch found out their destination they were in trouble. But more than that, the hunger for Tasceron drove him like a pain; all his blinded senses longed for it, to feel the secrets that were there, the power that might be hidden. Silent, he climbed and scrambled relentlessly over the salt-marsh and through the rough scrub, Carys and Raffi struggling to keep up. No one spoke. The journey became a nightmare of cold, cut hands, breathlessness. For miles they walked into a darkness that seemed to grow thicker before them, even though all seven of the moons rose one by one to form the great Arch, each strange and eerie in its own light, the pearl-pale Karnos, red Pyra, the crescent of Agramon at the zenith.

Then, on a low hill, Galen stopped suddenly. Raffi sank down, too sore to be glad, doubled over the stitch in his side. It was a while before he lifted his head, breathing deeply.

Below them lay Darkness. A valley of night. Tall spires rose out of it here and there; far, far in the distance strange domes were shadowed with steams and vapors. The blackness was heavy; it stretched as far as he could see. Behind him Carys brushed back her muddy hair; Galen stood upright, saying nothing.

They all knew this was Tasceron.