“What about the men outside?” Solon muttered.
“Listen to you!” Marco scowled. “You’re a softhearted wretch, even for a poor broken-down keeper.”
Solon smiled. “I wouldn’t want them to freeze.”
“They weren’t so concerned about us. They can knock, Your Holiness, just like anyone else. Try not to shed too many tears.”
Raffi looked scandalized.
Carys grinned. She could see the deep affection under the banter; it must have been all that kept the two of them sane in the horror of the Watch cells.
The Sekoi led them quickly over the bridge. The structure was wooden, and through the slits between the rough planks, Carys glimpsed the swift, dark rush of the water below. Their footsteps rang loud; coming to the north gatehouse the Sekoi turned. “Keep as quiet as you can.”
Inside, the guardroom was spartan. Just like every other Watchpost, she thought acidly, recognizing the rotas and huge logbooks, the endless Rules painted in red letters down the walls, the meager fire with its tiny ration of wood. And that smell, so hard to name, so full of hateful memories.
The two men were near the fire. One was slumped on a stool, his arms folded on the table. He was staring deeply into the dull flames. The other stood, to Raffi’s amazement, by the window looking out into the dark. Both seemed so normal, as if they were lost in thought and would turn around at once. But neither did. Their crossbows lay on a huge weapons stack in the corner; Carys went over and helped herself to a pile of spare bolts.
“What story was it?” Galen asked, amused.
The Sekoi looked embarrassed. “These are crude men. It wasn’t easy. Frankly, keeper, it isn’t fit for your ears.”
Marco sniggered.
“Let’s go,” Carys said.
“Wait.” The Sekoi glanced swiftly at her. “I took the chance to search the place. On that wall are messages. Take a look.”
Carys felt Galen crowd behind her.
The board held brief reports, probably brought by post-riders from the nearest Watchtower. Each one told of the same thing—Sekoi movements; small bands of the creatures, lone travelers, even whole tribes, all heading west on every road.
“What does it mean?” Galen turned.
The Sekoi bit its nails. “It must be a Circling.”
“Which is?”
“A gathering. For something important.”
“You knew nothing of it?”
“Galen, I’ve been on Sarres all winter.”
Carys put her hand up to the board. In the top lefthand corner a larger notice had been torn off. The pin was still there, but only a fragment of white paper was left under it, with a few numbers that she stared at curiously. “I wonder where this went?”
“Why?” Galen looked at it.
“The numbers are the end of a code sequence. It was important—priority intelligence. Maybe direct from Maar.”
“Don’t you think we should go?” Raffi asked nervously.
“I agree.” Solon was watching the men in fascination.
“This is most strange. Will they remember seeing us?”
“They can’t see or hear us.” Galen dragged back the bolts in the opposite door. “They’re deep in some sordid story. They’ll only remember one Sekoi. Come on.”
Once through both gates, they jammed the outer one with a fallen branch, hoping it would slow any pursuit. Then, without stopping, they ran. Galen led them straight off the road and up a steep track; they climbed high into the woods, hurrying in the dark along trails and paths that only keepers could sense, always up, out of the valley.
Breathless, Carys scrambled and climbed, wondering again at the Order’s reckless way of travel, the way the group was strung out, Marco and Solon far behind. They had no discipline, she thought hotly, at least not the right kind. And yet Galen had his own defenses, and even she could almost feel his mind’s deep entanglement with the wood, sensing far into its roots and soil and streams.
Finally, on the skyline among a high stand of sheshorn, they crouched and looked back.
The bridge was silent, the firelight a dim glow in the guardroom window.
“How long will it last?” Marco asked.
The Sekoi shrugged in elegant disdain. “With such feeble imaginations, maybe only an hour.” It turned suddenly. “Galen, listen to me now. I think I must leave you. I need to go to this Circling and find out what troubles my people.”
Galen looked hard into the creature’s yellow eyes. Then he stood up. “If you must.”
“I should.” It hesitated a moment, then said, “In fact, I’ve thought since before we left Sarres that I should speak to my people. We have many sources of information. Someone may know something of the Coronet.”
“You’ll be discreet?” Solon said anxiously.
The Sekoi gave a mew of scorn. “We have no Watch among us, Archkeeper. But yes, I will.”
“You can’t go alone,” Raffi said.
“Ah.” The Sekoi looked awkward. It scratched its furred face. “I could. But then I would be out of touch with you. Even the . . . Even Galen could not reach me.”
Galen nodded. “Then we split up. One of us comes with you. The rest go on to the observatory and wait for you there. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“I think you should take—”
“I want Carys to come with me.”
There was a moment of surprise. The scarred moon, Pyra, came out among the trees, glinting on the Sekoi’s sly eyes.
“Great,” Carys said. “Kind of you to think of me. Is this some sort of revenge?”
“Call it a challenge. A chance to learn something of the Sekoi.”
She looked at it narrowly. Then she nodded. “All right. If you’re sure.”
The Sekoi smiled. “I am.”
Galen said, “Get to the observatory as soon as you can. If plans change I’ll . . . let Carys know.”
Solon smoothed his silver hair. “I fail to see how.”
“There are ways.” Galen’s eyes were dark. He gripped the Sekoi’s shoulder. “Take care. Both of you.”
The creature nodded. Then it turned to Raffi. “I’ll take my belt now,” it said with a grin.
Two miles on, they separated.
The Sekoi slipped into the trees and Carys followed. Before the darkness swallowed them she turned and made a face, waving at Raffi.
“Cheer up,” she called.
Uneasy, he waved back.
14
Once, they say, Agramon came down and took a walk through the world, dressed in rags. She came to a town and asked for a room at a tavern. “This is all I have,” she said, showing a purse with one coin. Beneath her coat the glimmer of her dress was silver. The greedy innkeeper winked at his wife.
“Is that so?” he muttered.
Agramon’s Purse
THE WEATHER GOT STEADILY WORSE.
For three days it rained without stopping, a bitter sleet that made all the tracks quagmires; and on the fourth Raffi crawled out of exhausted sleep in a broken sheepfold to find the world white, every tiny blade of grass crusted with spines of frost. All that day, trudging over open fields, he felt the stricken shock of the soil, frozen in trampled ridges, all the tiny sprouting seeds seared and dead.
Everything was wrong. There was nothing left to eat. Solon was suffering from his Watch-injuries but walked steadily, uncomplaining. Each of them was soaked to the skin and could not get dry. The sense-lines had to struggle deep to find life; in every bare hedge and frozen stream all the energies had withdrawn, the creatures huddled and hidden, the embryos unborn. There was no spring—it had been shattered. And at night the skies were black, the stars frosty, the moons oddly brilliant in their colors and crescents.
Galen was worried. Late that evening, after the Litany, he looked across the meager fire to Solon, and Raffi knew what he would ask.
“Is this weather Kest’s work?”