The Lost Heiress

14

Out of the Pit came disease. For leagues around, the trees died; grasses curled.

Unseasonal frosts split the rocks. The

Makers abandoned their works. In

Tasceron they brooded on the treachery of Kest.

Book of the Seven Moons

IT WAS THE WRECKAGE OF A WORLD.

The hill that Raffi stood on descended into swamp, a green decaying morass stretching as far as he could see, humped and hollowed, dissolving into poisonous yellow mist. Thunder cracked and rumbled; at the horizon were vast jagged ranges, as if mountains had surged up and shattered into sharp slopes. Even the weather was evil, an icy, spitting rain.

The Sekoi shivered. “Chaos creeps in on us.”

“Indeed it does.” Galen stood upright in the chill wind, staring out. “Year by year the Unfinished Lands creep back, undoing the Makers’ works. Spreading like a disease.”

“I see no island out there, keeper.”

Galen looked over. “Nor do I.”

“Will it not have been destroyed, like the rest?”

“Maybe.” He stared again into the mist. “But I believe it is there, somewhere. Hard to find. Dangerous. If you don’t share that faith, I won’t blame you if you don’t come.”

Raffi watched them both. The Sekoi rubbed sleet from its furred face. It glanced back up the hillside. Then it shrugged, unhappy. “I’ll come. For the moment.”

“We’ll find it.” Abruptly Galen stalked off down the slope.

The Sekoi stared after him. “I’m glad you’re so sure,” it said.

Half an hour later, the stink of the mere choking him, Raffi leaned on a rock to catch his breath. They were at the bottom of the slope. Already the ground was soft, oozing with water. “I thought this was moorland?” he gasped.

“Swallowed up.” Galen stabbed the mire with his stick. “Kest’s work, all of this. Once he began to meddle with the world, changing things, no one could stop it. Only the Order fought to keep the balance, kept it so for centuries. But since the Watch destroyed us, all that’s lost.”

“It makes you wonder,” Raffi said suddenly, looking up. “What if the Watch is Kest’s work too?”

Galen’s glance turned him cold, stabbed him. He felt the shock of it, the tingle of power that he knew was some stirring of the Crow. For an instant the scream of migrating birds rang like alien voices. Galen’s eyes were sharp and dark. But all he said was, “I sometimes think so.”

“Relic Master!”

The yell made them turn.

A row of horses stood on the hillcrest, high above. From the central one a small figure was grinning down at them. “How are you, Galen Harn?” he called, his voice ringing among the rocks.

The Sekoi spat, and snarled something in its own language.

“Keep still,” Galen muttered. Then he called back, “I’m well, thief-lord. But you’re too far from home.”

Alberic’s war-band smirked; one of them said something and they all laughed. Raffi let his sense-lines play over them; he felt weapons, a ruthless confidence. They weren’t worried.

Alberic waved an arm at the marsh. “You seem to be running into trouble.” He was wearing a coat of quilted blue satin and bearskin, his small, clever face mocking. “Nowhere left to go.”

“I go where I’d planned to go,” Galen growled.

“Really? Well, I’d hate to see that little blue death-box of mine sinking in a swamp. Why not leave it behind for me?”

“Come down and get it.”

Alberic shook his head. Even from here Raffi could see the glint in his bright, hooded eyes. “I intend to. Or at least my boys and girls here will come down. I don’t like blood on my clothes.”

Galen folded his arms. It was a small action, but Alberic’s grin faded. He frowned out at the marsh. “I hope you’re not going to be stupid.”

Galen laughed, his rare, harsh laugh. It terrified Raffi, and he knew at once it had worried the dwarf.

“I’m walking out into chaos, little man,” the keeper said grimly. “And if it drags me down, all the relics go with me. I’d rather the swamp have them than leave them with you. You’re a disgrace to your kind, thief-lord. Your soul is shriveled like a plumstone. You’re forgetting how to feel, how to know joy. You’re tired of all the world, Alberic, and the more you get, the more it turns to ashes in your hand.”

For a moment they watched each other, unmoving, the dwarf’s face set and cold. Then Galen turned. “Come on.”

They scrambled into the soft, yielding swamp. Behind them Alberic stood up in his saddle, furious. “Keeper! Don’t be a fool!”

“Keep going,” Galen snapped. “Don’t look back.”

An arrow slashed the reeds. The soft ground vibrated with hoof-beats; Raffi felt them as he thrust aside the tall reeds.

“Boy! Are you going to follow him to your death?” Alberic’s yell was raw with anger; Raffi tried to ignore it, but his foot sank suddenly into the mud and he plunged with a gasp, up to his waist.

Galen tugged him up. “Keep hold of me!”

“It’s deep!”

“It’ll get deeper!”

In front of them the Sekoi slithered in, its face squirming with distaste. Raffi floundered, his boots deep in the mud, the green stinking mire giving off reeks and vapors that made him dizzy. Great weeds clustered over him, giant scumwort with its hairy leaves like hands on his hair and neck. As Galen moved ahead, Raffi slipped and fell, this time right under the murky water.

He yelled, then choked. Hands hauled him out; a sudden swirl of the mist showed him Godric’s face, grinning, and he squirmed and fought, but they had him, they were dragging him away, three of them, and somewhere Alberic was shouting orders, his voice pitched high.

“Galen!” Raffi screamed. He kicked, but his legs were grabbed. A muddy hand slammed over his mouth, but he yelled again with all his mind-power, at the keeper, at the Makers, and at the same time a blue shaft of light slashed past him; the knot of men leaped apart in terror.

“The box!” Alberic raged. “He’s using my box!”

Raffi picked himself up. A horse’s hooves almost trampled him; looking up through a sudden tear in the fog, he glimpsed the girl Sikka, her snake-armor glinting. She saw him and shouted; then he was up, floundering, and Galen was somewhere close pulling him by some strong mind-tug so that he hurtled into the marsh in a shower of arrows and sank deep, only his face above water, splashing, drowning, till a hand grabbed his tightly and Galen’s voice said, “Quiet!”

Instantly, the night was very still.

Two slow bubbles oozed from below and plipped, one by one, under his ear.

Silence slapped in ripples against the scumwort stalks.

When Alberic spoke, they were shocked at how close he sounded. “All right, Galen. You’ve made your point. It’s noble, but what good are drowned bodies? Is that what the Makers want?”

Harnesses creaked in the fog.

The dwarf’s voice was calm, reassuring. “Come out. We’ll talk terms.”

Galen’s mouth came close to Raffi’s ear. “Walk. Slowly. Don’t splash.”

“Where?” Raffi breathed.

“Out there.”

“There’s nothing for you out there, keeper!” It was as if Alberic had heard them. Now he was barely controlling his fury. “You’ll drown, or the fog will choke you! There are horrors out there, Galen, fish that will eat your fingers away, steelworms, leeches, grubs that burrow into the flesh. Nothing else! And you, Cat-creature, water-hater, you know I’m right! The Great Hoard will never have that gold that’s weighing you down!”

Nearby in the fog, the Sekoi sighed. “The worst thing is, he’s right.”

“Ignore him.” Galen led the way, carefully brushing through leaves. They waded after him, trying not to make a sound.

“Gnats will lay their eggs in your hair, keeper! Germs, hideous fevers, that’s all you’ll get. I want that box! Give me that and you can go, all of you!”

He was raging now, desperate.

In grim silence Galen waded always deeper, the scumwort dark above them. Insects whined. On a sudden open stretch of water Raffi saw the pale moon, Agramon, like a coin on black cloth.

“Galen!” Alberic’s roar was distant now. “Are you that scared of me?”

But they were far out, and the swamp was up to Raffi’s chin, so that if he stumbled, it washed into his ears and he swallowed it, coughing and spitting. He gripped tight to the keeper’s coat, and the night closed in around them, until they were struggling and hacking their way through the stiff growths, gasping for breath, bitten by innumerable flies.

In no time at all he was exhausted. His drenched clothes dragged him down; the relentless suction of the mud made every step an effort. He was coughing, half choked by the marsh vapor. So was the Sekoi, its thin, bedraggled shoulders barely visible, shuddering uncontrollably with the bitter cold.

The water swirled. Something nibbled Raffi’s knee; he panicked, jerking and splashing, yelling in fear.

Galen grabbed him. “What!”

“It was biting me!” He held on, shaking.

“There’s nothing there.”

“It’ll be back!” The Sekoi’s snarl shocked them; it was a hiss of despair. Looming up in the mist they saw its yellow eyes, the short fur swollen with bites and tics. “For Flain’s sake, Galen! We have to go back!”

Stubborn, the keeper shook his soaked hair. “We’re close,” he gasped. “I know we’re close.”

“There’s nothing out here!” The creature came close to him, clasped his arm with its spindly, dripping fingers. “Nothing! It’s all gone. The Unfinished Lands have spread over it. Even if we get to the island, it will be overgrown, stinking, poisoned. Listen to me. All this is folly. We can get back, avoid Alberic, get clear. We can still be safe . . .”

Its voice was low, hypnotic. Tingles of warning hummed in Raffi’s mind; he knew it was putting them under the story-spell, but he didn’t care; he wanted that, to convince Galen, to get them all out before his strength went, before . . .

“NO!” Galen’s roar was savage. A sudden burst of energy sparked in Raffi; he stumbled, flung an arm out wildly to stop himself going under. He struck something hard. Solid.

“It won’t work on me!” the keeper yelled.

“Galen,” Raffi breathed.

“Go back if you want to! Take the boy! I’ll walk to my death before I give up!”

“Then walk to it!” the Sekoi snarled. “This isn’t faith. It’s stupidity!”

Raffi put out his other hand and felt the structure. It was real. Marshlight flickered cold phosphorescent flames under it.

“Galen.”

“What?” the keeper roared.

“There’s some sort of trackway . . .”

In the hush an eelworm rippled by his face. Then the water surged, and Galen pushed him aside.

It was a mesh of branches, woven tight, rammed down between uprights. Old, oozing into decay. But in the green fumes of the fog it was a godsend.

Galen hauled off the sodden pack and dumped it in the Sekoi’s arms. Then he climbed, tugging himself up in a great heave of water. Branches cracked; mist closed about him. Something bit Raffi’s cheek and he slapped at it, his whole body shuddering.

Then Galen was leaning down, eyes bright, dark hair falling forward. “Come on.”

Dragged up, Raffi felt himself dumped on the mesh of branches; he collapsed there, lying still, letting the water run from him endlessly, pouring out of his hair and sleeves and pockets, out of his eyes, out of his mind. He didn’t know he had blacked out until Galen grabbed him, propped him up, rubbing his soaked arms briskly. “No time to sleep. You’ll freeze.”

Shivering, he nodded. Now that they were out of the water the cold was unbearable; he couldn’t stop shaking.

Galen pulled him upright. “This trackway leads somewhere,” he said harshly, “and we need to find out where.”

He was elated. Numbly Raffi felt it, and wondered why. In all the stillness of the fog, all the endless miles of marsh, there was nothing his mind could touch, no one, no Maker-power, nothing but a nightmare of swimming, slithering things, and all the threads of power that should have been in the land were tangled, broken, deeply drowned. But Galen was fierce with hope; he hardly waited for them, forcing his way through the leaves, then walking swiftly, carelessly over the creaking, splitting mesh of the trackway.

The Sekoi pushed Raffi on. “I sometimes think his mind’s gone,” it said bitterly. “That business in the city. It scorched him.”

Raffi shook his head, dragging himself over a hole. “He’s always been like this. Even before he spoke to the Makers. This is why they chose him.”

The Sekoi was silent. The trackway led them deeper into murk; at times they could hardly see each other. Galen was a shadow far ahead. Raffi was stumbling; he felt sick and ill, hot and thirsty and bitterly cold all at once.

And then he saw that Galen had stopped.

The keeper stood still. Very still. Crowding behind, Raffi saw they had come to the end of the trackway. It broke off abruptly, and beyond it was nothing. Nothing but fog.

The Sekoi gave a hiss of despair, Raffi clutched his hands to fists. He wanted to sink down and cry, but he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t. He was a scholar of the Order. He had to have faith.

Into the silence the Sekoi said, “What now?”

Galen didn’t answer. He was alert, as if he listened.

“Perhaps it’s at the other end,” Raffi said hopelessly.

“No, it’s not.” Galen gripped his stick tightly. “It’s here.”

Before they could stop him he stepped out, into the marsh.

Raffi yelled, grabbed, but to his amazement the keeper didn’t sink; he stood there, on the scummy surface, as if it were solid, something real and hard.

And instantly everything changed.

A warm breeze blew the fog apart. He smelled grass, and apples, and to his astonishment the moons came out one by one above him, as if they had been waiting there all the time.

Before them, dark grass sloped in the moonlight, and a figure was sitting under the apple trees. When she stood up, they saw she had two shadows, each an echo of herself.

“Welcome, keepers,” she said, and smiled. “I was afraid there was no one left to come.”