The Margrave

I think you should confide this fear to your master, the tree said gently.

Raffi gave a sour laugh. “No point.”

He is, I admit, difficult to approach. A small sparkbird, brilliantly red, fluttered among the branches; the tree rustled thoughtfully over Raffi’s head. If he was one of my kind, he would be holly. Or dark firethorn that grows in the chasm of Zeail. Such a one is Galen.

Raffi nodded. He lay on his back in the dappled green light, eyes closed against the sun. The tree was a birch; young, and very curious.

Tell me where it takes you, this Deep Journey.

“It’s a vision.” Raffi sat up and gazed out hopelessly into the depths of the warm spring woodland. “It happens in your mind. The Litany says there are different “ stages—the Cosmic Tree, the Plain of Hunger.”

Hunger is a sensation?

“Emptiness. No food.”

Indeed. The tree sounded fascinated. Our roots are always storing. Rootless creatures, it seems to me, are most vulnerable. The Makers were wise, but sometimes we feel you were something of a failed experiment.

“And then,” Raffi said, half to himself, “comes something called the Barrier of Pain.”

The tree was silent. Finally it whispered, You fear that. He nodded. “And the last thing even more. To be a keeper every scholar must pass through utter darkness into something the books won’t even describe. They call it the Crucible of Fire.”

Fire! The birch shuddered down to its very roots, every leaf quivering. The sparkbird flew out with a cheep of alarm. Fire is the worst of enemies! The Watch burned the forest of Harenak, every leaf, every sapling. Who could fail to mourn so many deaths?

“Raffi!”

Galen had woken in a black temper. He came out of the shelter, still looking tired, and snapped, “Any news?”

“Nothing.”

“As soon as there is, let me know.” The keeper turned, tugging his black hair loose from the knot of string. “And stop wasting your time. Read! Flain knows you need to.”

Raffi picked the book up without glancing at it. “He’s a nightmare,” he muttered, “since Marco died.”

The tree was silent.

Galen limped between the birches to the stream. He waded in, scooping the cold water up to drink, splashing it over his face. For weeks he had been working on the sense-lines, driving himself nonstop. Already they had a chain of lines between a few known keepers and through re-awakened channels of tree-minds and earth-filaments that reached to Tasceron itself; in fact, last night, after days of effort, Galen had spoken with Shean, the keeper of the Pyramid in the Wounded City. It had been a triumph. But it had worn him out.

Looking down on him, Raffi thought of the night of Marco’s death, of Galen’s terrible oath, that he would seek out the Margrave. That he would kill the Margrave.

“That’s why he’s so desperate to set the sense-grid up. And to get me through the Journey. He thinks he won’t come back alive.”

Now, the tree said gently, you are really afraid.

Raffi jumped up, brushing pollen from his clothes. Already it was back, that sickening terror he could never lose for long. He felt the tree’s consciousness spiraling into him, intrigued.

Do you really believe, it whispered, curious, that this Margrave is hunting especially for you?

“I can’t talk anymore.” Raffi turned abruptly, blocking its voice out. Sickness was already surging in him, a choking stress, blurring the tree-words to a crackle of leaves. He started to stumble through to the stream, then swung around for the book, feeling the sweat on his back chill as he bent, dizziness making his vision spin. He gasped and leaned on the tree.

Raffi, it said urgently, its voice bursting through his panic. Someone comes!

Bewildered, he felt for the sense-lines. They were intact.

“Galen!” His voice was a whisper, a croak, but the keeper was already racing up; a firm hand grabbed him.

“The Watch?”

“Can’t be. Can’t feel anything.” Weak, he crouched on the tree roots. Galen spun around, facing the footsteps.

It was the Sekoi.

Wiping his clammy mouth and streaming eyes, Raffi staggered up and tried to focus, but the creature was close to them before he could see it properly. Then he stared. The Sekoi was worn and ragged. Dried blood clogged its fur from a half-healed wound under one ear. Its yellow eyes were glazed with weariness.

Galen grabbed its thin shoulders. “For God’s sake, did they ambush you? Have they got the Coronet?”

Exhausted, the creature collapsed onto the leafy bank. For a moment it seemed too worn out to speak. Then it whispered, “The Coronet is safe in Sarres. We were on our way back when we ran into the Watch.”

“Thank God,” Galen breathed, but the Sekoi seemed not to hear. Over his shoulder it glanced at Raffi. “They’ve got Carys,” it said hopelessly.