The Dark City

24

We cannot undo his treachery. For once evil has entered the world, who can ever root it out?

Litany of the Makers

GALEN STRODE INTO THE BLAZE; coming after him, Raffi stared around in amazement. The great room was brilliant with cubes of light, standing on plinths against the walls. Everything was made of wood; the floor of smooth planks, and the walls of the branches of living trees that had grown and tangled in fantastic sculpture. How it had been done, he could not imagine. The scents of the wood were sweet and strong. He breathed them deep; they soothed him, like the forest at night.

All around, in strange arrangements, were relics; boxes of every size, dishes and plates of smooth strange materials, statues, pictures, books; a set of small shining discs that glimmered with a rainbow sheen as Galen held one up. Everything had been arranged, put on display, and among the relics were hundreds of half-burned candles with the mark of the Order on them. It was a shrine, untouched since the secret of it died with the last Archkeeper to have closed the great doors. And behind, coming from everywhere, a faint whine, almost too thin to hear.

“What are all these things?” Carys touched a plate.

“The belongings of the Makers,” Galen said. She looked at him. His face was unsmiling, but inside he was exultant; it cracked his voice and lit his eyes. “This is where they lived. Flain’s own house. The Order kept it as he left it, for always. This is the most holy place.” He rubbed his face uneasily. “We profane it by bringing outsiders here.”

The Sekoi glanced back. “Keeper, we need to close those doors.”

As Galen took no notice, it ran back; Raffi went too. “Galen is overcome,” the creature muttered. “He doesn’t care. But I can’t forget the Watch. Hurry, Raffi!”

Together they rolled the great doors closed, but there seemed to be no way of locking them. Looking around hastily, the Sekoi caught hold of a heavy table and began to drag it. “Help me!” it hissed.

For a second Raffi paused, terrified to disturb anything; then he too tugged at the dark wood. After all, if the Watch got in, nothing would be left.

They jammed the table tight against the doors. Galen was watching. “It won’t stop them.” Then he turned. “Come and see this.”

It was a picture in a book. Not a painting. A picture that was real. Raffi stared at it, his skin crawling with delight. He was looking at another world.

The sky was very dark, darker than possible, and in it hung a moon, only one, but enormous, with dim smudges of land and splinter-rays of bright craters. Around it, the stars shone in unknown patterns, frosty bright.

Hands trembling, Galen fumbled in other books. Images of animals, trees, birds, some like owls and bee-birds that they knew; but there were others that made Carys gasp aloud—great gray beasts, striped night-cats, a myriad of odd species bizarrely shaped, intricately colored, completely unknown.

The Sekoi chewed its nails. “Galen . . .”

“Another world,” he said, rapt. “The world of the Makers!”

There was a crash at the door. The table shuddered.

Galen took no notice. His eyes had fixed on a small silver device on the table in the center of the room. He crossed to it and touched it in awe. There were five touchpanels, like Raffi had seen on relics before; these would operate it. Each had an unknown symbol, set in a circle, and above them were words: COMMUNICATIONS RELAY—OUTER WORLDS.

They were set on a panel, the shape of which made Raffi forget the pounding at the door and the hammering of his heart. A sign that was the most secret, guarded image of the Order; a black bird with spread wings, holding a globe.

The Crow!

Staring at it, he breathed, “But the Crow is a man!”

Something crashed against the door. Carys spun around.

“No. The Crow is a relic.” Galen was still for a split second; then he grabbed Raffi and sent him sprawling back. “Block that door! Keep them out! Do whatever it takes!”

Feverishly his fingers danced over the panel.

Raffi and the Sekoi threw themselves against the table; they jolted it back and piled everything they could find against it.

“More!” the Sekoi yelled.

“There’s nothing big enough!”

“Then do something.” Carys grabbed his hand. “You can, Raffi!”

Closing his eyes, he threw force-lines around it, bound it tight with all the energies he could summon. As if the Makers lingered here, he found it easier than before; the very earth in this place was sacred, it gave him power, fed him, and he laughed aloud.

The door shivered; someone outside yelled in anger.

He ran back to Galen. “Is it working?”

“Not yet! Not yet!” Galen’s face was tense; his fingers stabbed each symbol, working out sequences frantically. Behind him, the Sekoi crouched, its fur bristling.

Carys gripped the table. “Perhaps it doesn’t work. It’s too old . . . !”

“Be quiet! Pray, Raffi. Pray.”

Galen didn’t have to tell him. But the Crow was silent. No spark came from it, no flicker of life.

And then the room was humming. Amazed, they stared around. It was coming from everywhere and nowhere; it lay in the air and was full of distance; small crackles and hisses, a listening sound.

“Makers. Can you hear me?” Galen asked in a whisper.

Something spoke. It was the voice of a ghost, garbled, distorted in bursts of static. All they knew was that it had asked a question. Galen was shivering, pale with dread and joy. He gripped his hands together. “Hear me,” he breathed. “We need you! Hear me, lords!”

Far away, eons away, the Makers answered. “We hear you. Who is this? What frequency are you on?”

Galen’s voice was unsteady. “I am Galen Harn, of the Order. Masters, come back to us! The world is slipping into the dark. Tasceron is fallen; the Emperor is dead. Do you know what’s happening on your world, lords? We need you! Come back to us.”

A hiss of static. Behind them the door was jerking open; chairs crashing down. Only the Sekoi glanced back.

When the voice came again it was broken, the words fuzzy and slow, as if spoken distinctly and urgently, over and over.

“What . . . world? What world?”

Galen made the sign of blessing. “Anara,” he breathed. “Are there others?”

The answer was a crackle of noise. “Wait . . . light-years. Are you . . . colonists?”

Galen gripped the table. “Say it again,” he pleaded. “What did you say? Will you come?” But the hissing faded out and died.

The Crow was silent.

Galen bent over it, his face dark, and then slowly he straightened, and his eyes met Raffi’s.

“They said they would come. They said, ‘Wait.’”

“I’m not sure . . .”

“They will, Raffi! I know they will!”

With a crack that turned Raffi sick, the force-lines exploded; the doors crashed wide, men leaped across the table.

Galen turned, standing in front of the Crow. The Watchmen stared at him, then around, curiously; each had a loaded bow and they were all pointing at Galen. Dizzy, Raffi pulled himself up and watched the castellan shoulder his way through.

He was a gray, bearded man. He folded his arms and looked at them all in silence.

“This is a great day for the Watch,” he said softly.

It was Carys who moved. She came out from behind the Sekoi and said irritably, “You took your time! Where have you been?”

Raffi stared at her with horror.

The castellan smiled. “We had some trouble. Been wishing we were here, have you?”

She shrugged and crossed to him. “They know about me. Things were getting a little difficult.”

“So what have I missed?”

She turned around and looked at Galen, her face set and hard. “The keeper will tell you. Show them the Crow, Galen. Show them now.”