The Hidden Coronet

4

Evil is a shadow.

Without light it could not exist.

Litany of the Makers

THE ROOM LAUGHED.

A deep, devilish chuckle. Raffi felt dismay well up in him; he shuddered, saying blind, meaningless phrases from the Litany over and over.

For a second he couldn’t see Galen at all; the keeper was eaten by the murk. And then, gradually, it rolled up, dragged back, shriveled into the vast shadow of a man, face-to-face with Galen, fingertip to fingertip.

The keeper stood tall; he had the crackling stillness about him that was the Crow; his hair dark and glossy, the very air about him riven with sudden threads of energy. He spread his hands; the shadow-hands spread too, as if the creature were somehow the reverse of the keeper.

“Come to the Makers. Let yourself come.” It was a harsh voice, barely Galen’s, making Raffi think of vast distances, the emptiness between stars. But to his surprise the creature’s reply was calm and amused.

“No,” it said. “You come to me, keeper. Come to the dark.”

Galen stared.

The featureless face stared back.

In the bare lamplit room they confronted each other, both charged with power. Catching the awen-beads at his neck Raffi saw the invisible struggle between them, knew the shadow-creature was growing, swelling into strength.

“Come to me, keeper,” it said again, and now its fingers were locked in Galen’s, trapping them tight, pulling him close. “You’ve always wanted to. Deep into the dark.”

Galen didn’t answer. Silence raged between them, as if their souls ebbed and flowed in a bitter tussle channeled through fingertips and sense-lines. When Raffi tried to reach out to help, the ferocity of it flung him back.

“Galen!” he cried.

The keeper was fading, flooded by darkness.

“Galen!”

“Darkness is stronger,” the creature hissed. “It was first, and will be last. Enter it with me.”

“Who . . . awakened you?” Galen had to force the words out.

“He did. The one you fear. The Great One.”

“The Great One? Who is that?”

Suddenly the creature tried to jerk away. Galen gripped it tight. “Is it the one called the Margrave? Does he control you? Did he send you here?”

“Let me stay!” It was a howl, a scream, and with sudden panic the shadow fought, but Galen pulled it closer.

“I can’t go to the Makers,” it sobbed. “I’ve been evil.”

“No one is turned away. No one.” Galen’s fingers merged into the black hands, warm as fire. He hugged it into himself. “Come to us,” he said.

And to Raffi’s astonishment the creature’s blackness had stars in it, distant suns and tiny nebulae, and then it was fading, passing into the keeper’s fingers, into his body and beyond him, far out to somewhere else, streaming into the sense-lines and the stars, still crying out, still sobbing.

Until it was gone.

THE LAMP FLICKERED. Galen was alone.

For a second he stood there; then he muttered, “Raffi,” and staggered back. Raffi grabbed him; together they crumpled breathless onto the bare boards.

Galen dragged in breath. His hair was soaked with sweat, his face white as if in pain. Raffi looked around for water but there was none.

“The beads,” the keeper croaked. “Give me the beads.”

The spiral was broken, all its green and black crystals scattered, as if something had blasted them wide. Raffi gathered up a handful and pressed them into Galen’s fingers; the keeper held them tight, bending over, forcing himself to breathe, to be calm, and as his eyes opened, just for an instant, Raffi was sure he saw the echoes of tiny stars fade out of their blackness.

Unless it was the lamp.

“What did you do?”

“I don’t know.” Galen leaned back against the wall, his breathing ragged. He looked exhausted.

“You asked it about the Margrave.”

“Yes.” The keeper looked up. Rubbing his cheek with the edge of his palm he said, “Something’s not right here. That was no ghost, no trapped relic-power. That was real, malevolent, a creature woken, maybe even made intentionally.”

“To do what?”

Galen shrugged. “To get us here.”

Raffi went cold. “Us?”

“A keeper. Any keeper. Bait.”

Raffi chewed his nails. “If that’s true, we ought to get away.”

“Not before we stop those executions.”

There was silence a moment, a hostile, worried silence. Then the keeper said, “I need some water. Go and get it. And anything she left to eat. Bring the pack up too.”

Reluctant, Raffi scrambled to his feet.

“You won’t need the lamp,” Galen said wearily, watching him reach for it. “The house is empty. Feel it.”

And all down the stairs he could feel it, a silence raw and astonished.

When he came back they ate the rest of the cheese. Galen drank heavily and then spread the blanket over his legs and leaned back, closing his eyes.

“I don’t understand,” Raffi muttered. “Why did it put the flowers there?”

“It didn’t.”

Puzzled, he chewed the hard rind. “We saw them.”

“We saw them. But that creature didn’t put them there.”

“So who did?”

But Galen did not answer.

BANGING WOKE HIM. A hard, insistent banging that seemed to go on and on, until Raffi rolled over with a groan and heard Galen unbolting the doors below. Echoes of a woman’s voice murmured in the house.

He sat up.

Bleak gray light was seeping through the boarded windows. He yawned and scratched and rubbed his face with dry hands. Then he pulled his boots on and went downstairs.

In the kitchen they were talking.

The woman had a bundle in her arms; she laid it on the table. “Are you sure?” she said, dubious, looking around.

Galen was tired and bad-tempered. “It’s gone. It won’t be back.”

Raffi was amazed she couldn’t feel that. The whole house was calm around him, as if it had slept for the first time in weeks. He knew that was why he felt so bleary.

She nodded. “I’ll have to take your word. I’ve brought these, but if anyone asks me, mind, they were stolen. I never saw you or want to know anything about what you do with them.”

Galen opened the bundle. It contained dark clothes, a few small silver discs on a chain, and some papers.

“They may not fit you,” she warned.

He looked up. “I’ll take a chance. We’ll leave now. We need to get there in time.”

“But what about food? I have to thank you, and the boy looks famished.”

“The boy always looks famished,” he snapped, going out. They heard him limping up the stairs.

Majella turned to Raffi. The morning light showed the wrinkles in her skin, the graying hair. “What happened?” she asked, fascinated. “He looks worn out. What was in here?”

He knew better than to say too much. “A sort of . . . energy. Probably left over from some relic. Galen said the incarnations and we prayed. It just faded out.”

He was poor at lying. She looked at him closely. “I see. And now, what does he want these clothes for? If it’s for what I think, then he’s crazy! He’ll never get away with it!”

“The Makers will help us,” Raffi muttered.

“If he’s killed,” she said, “and you’re on your own, come back. I’ll hide you.”

Astonished, he looked at her.

She glanced away. “My lad used to look a bit like you. When he was young.”

Galen shouldered his way in, the pack in his arms. He dumped the peddler’s empty tray on the table. “Burn that.”

“Don’t worry.” She pushed a small sacking roll at Raffi. “That’s food. Eat it in the cart. And thank you for coming here, keeper. Now we can make something of the place.”

He looked at her. “Did your son know about this haunting?”

“Not from me. The men may have said something. Now, are you certain you want to go back to the fair?”

Galen did up the straps of the pack. “Certain.”

“Keeper—”

He looked up. She was watching him anxiously.

“I don’t ask. But if there’s . . .” She shook her head. “I mean, you have weapons, powers. I don’t understand them. But I have only one son, and all I ask is that he’s not hurt.”

Galen looked at her in surprise. Then he said, “Mistress, you have great faith. Far more than you think.”