The Lost Heiress

2

Tamar dragged the thing before the Council; a six-legged lizard, moaning in pain, studded with spines.

“What abomination is this?” Flain demanded.

“This, lord, is what Kest has done in secret.”

And all eyes turned to me, in my corner.

Sorrows of Kest

THEY WERE CROUCHED in some black, dampsmelling place. Raffi stretched out his hand and touched a cold wall.

“So.” Galen’s voice came grimly out of the dark. “They timed that well.”

“Will they find us?”

“It depends on how suspicious they are. Can you see them?”

Raffi tried, opening the third eye, his mind’s eye. “Six?”

“More like ten.” Galen sounded distant, as if his mind was listening to the uproar in the house. “Hard to tell. There’s a lot of confusion.” He must have eased his leg then, because he hissed with the ache of it; Raffi felt a faint echo of pain.

“Make a light, boy. Let’s see where we are.”

It took Raffi an effort; concentrating made him dizzy. But finally he managed a weak globe of light in the air before him, wobbling.

“Hold it still!” Galen snapped, looking around.

They were in a tiny cell, hardly tall enough for Galen to stand. The walls were damp brick—plastered once, but most of that lay in lumps on the floor. There were no windows. A crack in one corner let in an icy draft. In another corner was a basket, with a pile of blankets on top.

The globe faded. Raffi sweated with the effort of keeping it.

“Leave it.” Galen had the basket open, rummaging inside. A tinderbox sparked; Raffi saw the faint glow of kindling being blown red.

“Save your energy. We may be days in here.”

If we’re lucky, Raffi thought. He let the globe go out. Then he asked, “Any food?”

“Some. Rocallion seems to have been prepared.”

“Unless he knew they were coming.”

Galen looked up sharply, his face dark. “You think so?”

Raffi shrugged. “No.”

“In that case, keep quiet, and don’t slur a good man. Take the blankets. They’re damp, but thick.”

Raffi tugged one around himself and shivered. Galen handed him bread, an apple, some strips of dried meat. “Flainsnight feast,” he said.

Raffi stared at it in disgust. Then he ate. He was used to being hungry. Any food was something.

“We have enough for about two days.” Galen crunched an apple absently.

“Will it be that long?”

The keeper shrugged. “If the leaf-fall is too thick the Watch will stay in the house.”

“He could bring us food.”

“He’ll be followed. Everywhere.” Stretching his legs out, Galen considered. “If no one else knows about this hiding place, we’re dependent on him. At least his housemen can’t betray us. If he has—” He stopped instantly. His hand shot to his neck.

“Oh God!” he said.

“What?” Raffi knelt up. “What is it?”

Galen had flung the apple down, was searching his pockets, inside his jerkin, desperately. “The beads! The awen-beads!”

They started at each other in blank horror.

“Did you pick them up?”

“No, I . . .”

“God! Raffi!” Galen slammed one hand furiously against the wall.

“There are other things too,” Raffi realized miserably. “Your stick. Our bags.”

“Those are well hidden. The beads were there—in that room!”

Guilty, sick with fear, Raffi sat rigid, seeing the strings of jet and green crystals in their interlocking circles. He should have grabbed them! He should have remembered them!

“I’m sorry,” he breathed.

Galen turned on him sourly. “I suppose I should beat you black and blue.”

“No room,” he joked feebly.

“Nor any need. The Watch will do it for me.”

In the silence each of them imagined a gloved hand snatching up the beads, a yell. Any Watchman would recognize them at once.

“Maybe one of the tenants found them.”

“Listen!” Galen caught him.

Footsteps ran down the stairs above, loud, heavy boots. Galen snuffed the candle instantly. The stillroom door banged open. Someone came in and paced around.

They know, Raffi thought. His hands clenched, he huddled in the dark.

They were searching. Cups crashed over. Something made of glass fell and shattered. A foot kicked impatiently along the paneling.

It’ll sound hollow, he thought, clutching his arms as if he could make himself smaller. Galen was a still shadow against the wall.

It did sound hollow, but the searcher seemed not to notice. Someone called him; he yelled back, “Down here,” in a voice so close it made Raffi sweat. Then he was pounding up the stairs again, the door banging behind him.

Silence. A long silence.

Finally, tight with terror, Raffi made himself uncurl. He drew a deep ragged breath.

“Sit still,” Galen said. “They’ll be back.”

They were. All evening, late into the night, the house was alive with bangs and shouts, thudding doors and footsteps. Every time Raffi finally dozed into uneasy sleep under the moth-eaten blanket, some crash or voice jerked him awake; cold with sweat, his hands clenched. He was sick and giddy with fear. Galen never spoke, perhaps didn’t even hear. He stayed where he was, knees drawn up, quite still in the dark. Raffi knew he was deep in prayer, lost in a rigid meditation, and how the keeper had the discipline for it astonished him. Once or twice he tried himself, gabbling the Litany and the Appeal to Flain, but the words dried up, or he found himself repeating one phrase foolishly over and over, all his attention fixed on the clatter around the house.

Not knowing was the worst.

Had they found the beads? Were they tearing the place apart? Was Rocallion under torture? Had he talked? When would the smoke start curling under the panel, choking them, driving them out into the swords and crossbows of the Watch?

He tossed and curled and uncurled hopelessly until, without even realizing he’d been asleep, he was awake, staring at the crack of cold daylight, the sudden sharp stink of a midden somewhere.

He rolled over and sat up.

Gaunt in the dark, Galen was watching. After a moment he said, “Take something to eat. One swallow of water from the jar.”

“Have you . . . ?”

“Hours ago.”

Guiltily, Raffi broke a stiffening crust and ate it, with a tiny piece of cheese. The water was cool and fresh; he tried not to take a big swallow. “Did you sleep?”

Galen glared, the grim look Raffi loathed. “I prayed for forgiveness. So should you.”

“I don’t—”

“The beads, boy!” Galen shook his head in disgust. “I let myself fear—I forgot that the Makers have us all in their hands! We have to trust them. They won’t let the Watch find us unless they wish it, and if they do, so be it. Who are we to be afraid?”

Raffi chewed the bread. “It’s hard not to be.”

“You’re a scholar. I’m a master and should know better.”

Galen was always harsh, harshest of all with himself. That moment of terror would irritate him; it would be a long time before he would forgive himself for it. Raffi sat back, thinking of the Crow, the strange power of the Makers’ messenger that had entered Galen in Tasceron, filling him with unknown abilities. Since then there had been little sign of it. Galen had been normal—grim, short-tempered, fierce. Until last night. Raffi licked the last crumbs from his fingers. Last night, it had come back. In a whisper he asked, “What happened, at our Summoning?”

Galen raised dark eyes. Dragging the long hair from his neck, he knotted it in a piece of string. Then he said, “I’m not sure. The casket . . . I made the casket as I always do, but when it came, it was different. Bigger. Then the light . . . If I made that I don’t know how. And I’ve never felt a word so surely. It burned through me like fire.” He glanced up. “Did I say it aloud?”

“Yes. You said ‘Interrex.’ ”

Galen scowled. “Maybe the Watch should have come sooner. Some messages are not for everyone to hear.”

“Don’t joke about the Watch.” Raffi wriggled under the blanket. “What does it mean?”

“Interrex? It’s a word from the Apocalypse. It means one who rules between the kings.”

“But what—”

“Enough questions!” Galen sat upright abruptly. “If we’re going to be cooped up in here we’ll use the time. I’ve neglected your studies, so first we go over the Sorrows of Kest. From the beginning.”

It was an endless day.

Galen drilled him in every chapter of the Sorrows; then they worked through the Litany, the Book of the Seven Moons, the Sayings of the Archkeepers, even the eternal life of Askelon with its forty-seven Prophecies of the Owl. He learned the last twenty wearily, repeating them after Galen in a whisper, the keeper impatiently correcting.

They dared not speak aloud; four times someone came into the stillroom. Once, an animal—a dog, Raffi thought—scratched at the panel, but Galen made a thought-flare that sent it squealing. Each time, Galen went back to work grimly. Raffi knew it was just to keep them both busy, to stop the fear, but in the end it was agony; all he wanted to do was scream. By the time the keeper let him rest, his voice cracking with thirst, the daylight in the corner was long gone. So was most of the food.

Raffi took an agonizingly small sip of water. “He must come tonight. He won’t let us starve in here.”

“Maybe.” Galen slumped against the wall. “Maybe not.”

Pulling himself up awkwardly, Raffi limped about. He was stiff with the cold, a bitter cold that felt like snow. Bending down, he tried to see out, but the crack was too narrow. He jammed a rag into it, and instantly felt Galen’s hand grab him; a warning grip.

The panel was sliding open.

The candle guttered. When the flame steadied they saw Rocallion crawling in. He looked tired and haggard, tugging food and another jar of water from under his jerkin. “Eat this,” he gasped. “Quickly. I’ve got to get out.”

Galen caught hold of him. “Did they find the beads?”

“What beads?” Then his eyes widened. “Have you lost them?”

“We left them in the room.”

The young man rubbed his hair frantically. “I don’t know! The fat man hasn’t mentioned them!”

“Then they’re safe. One of your friends must have them.” Galen sat back in relief. “How did you get away?”

“Don’t ask.”

Stuffing bread into his mouth, Raffi muttered, “How many of them are there?”

“A full patrol. They’ve searched the house, questioned everyone. I hope it was just a random visit.”

“No one gave anything away?”

Rocallion looked strained. “No. But they—” He stopped.

Raffi swallowed hard.

Outside, in the stillroom, something had shifted. A tiny movement, a creak of floorboard, but they all knew what it meant. Someone had followed him.

Rocallion closed his eyes in despair. He almost spoke, but Galen shook his head fiercely, snuffing the candle with one swift jab. Raffi felt the power gather in him, in the darkness around them.

Slowly, the panel opened.

Someone stood there, shadowy. Then the figure crouched, and to Raffi’s astonishment, a small hand stretched into the cell, and he caught the glint of the green and black beads that swung from the fingers.

“You know, you shouldn’t leave these things lying around, Galen,” a voice said, amused. “Anyone might find them.”