He pried a stone out and handed it down.
They made a chain of workers, even the stout man joining in desperately as the glimmer of daylight above Galen’s head widened, and Emmy tapped one of the casks into an old beaker, handing it around so everyone could drink. It was thirsty work, and dangerous. Twice stones fell in on them. By the time Galen could squeeze out of the gap Raffi’s face was smudged black and his hands were sore and cut.
The keeper climbed up and disappeared. They heard the slither of rubble. When he looked back in his face was grim.
They lifted the children out first, then the others. When it was Raffi’s turn to crawl up into the chill gray morning he shivered, staring around in disbelief. The town was gone. In its place lay a landscape of ruins, walls barely shoulder high, stairs that led nowhere.
People were picking over the desolation aimlessly. In places plumes of smoke rose up. Alleys and streets were lost under mounds of stone and plaster.
Solon stumbled out. He was deeply moved; there were smudges in the dirt under his eyes. “Dear God,” he said. And then, “My poor Marco.”
But there was no time to stare. Galen gathered everyone around.
“We clear the stairs,” he said. “And use the cellar for the wounded. There’ll be plenty. We also need water.”
“The well.” Emmy looked about hopelessly. “It was in the courtyard. Somewhere over there.”
“Then we find it.”
All morning they worked, at first with their bare hands. People from nowhere came to join them, some carrying injured friends, others desperately searching for wives or children. How many had died or were still trapped Raffi dared not think. Pausing once with a basket full of rubble he gasped to Solon, “The Watchtower will have gone.”
“Assuredly. But anyone left will send for help.”
By late evening the cellar was open. Fires had been lit and the well cleared, but food was scarce. Galen sent out foraging parties—it was strange how even the stout man, Andred, took his orders now without a quibble. Raffi went with them, finding what had once been a bakery and managing to scrape up some spilled flour and stale loaves.
Coming back into the warm gloom of the cellar he squeezed past the rows of injured and saw a thickset man bending over the pile of packs in the corner.
“Marco?” he gasped, astonished.
The bald man turned instantly. He had the relic bag in one hand and the seeing-tube in the other. Raffi’s grin of delight froze; he dumped the food and raced over.
“Raffi!” Marco said brightly.
Raffi snatched the bag. “What are you doing?”
Marco shrugged. After a moment he held out the relictube. “Perhaps I should say . . . ”
“You were stealing them!”
“Raffi, look. I didn’t know if any of you were alive.”
“You could have asked!” Furious, Raffi crammed the relic back in the bag. “When Galen finds out . . .”
“Ah.” Marco looked apprehensive. He glanced around at an old man being helped in by two girls. “Galen’s busy. He’s got a disaster on his hands. I don’t think we need to bother him with my little mistake.” He sucked a grazed knuckle, looking over it at Raffi. “Come on, lad. I won’t go near the things again. No harm done.”
Red-faced, Raffi glared at him. Before he could answer, Solon’s voice, full of joy, rang over the rubble.
“Marco! My dear son! This is a miracle! An absolute miracle!” He scrambled down, slipped and grabbed Marco to steady himself; the bald man hugged him with equal delight. “I thought the wind had blown you away too, Holiness.”
Over the Archkeeper’s shoulder he winked at Raffi, who scowled and dumped the bag back in the corner. He knew he was defeated. If he told Galen, it would only make things worse. They had to keep Marco with them. He knew about Sarres.
Raffi turned, and saw Galen had come down the steps. The keeper was watching them. His gaze was bleak.
17
We are channels for the power of the
Makers. Including Kest. Kest is in us all.
Twelfth Prophecy of the Owl
BY NIGHTFALL THINGS HAD SETTLED, though Solon and Emmy and some of the others were still hard at work with the injured, bandaging wounds, setting broken bones. Moans of pain came from all corners; Raffi had to steel himself not to shut them out. There were few medicines, and many people had been dug out with severe injuries. More were still trapped.
The night was cold but clear. All seven moons rose in it, and as he snatched a rest from helping with the digging he gazed wearily up at them, longing for sleep. He tried vaguely to open his third eye and make light patterns, but all his energy was gone, drowned out with the strain of the endless terror of the wind. And then with a sudden vivid shock he saw it, and stared, amazed.
“Get on, Raffi!” Galen yelled. “There may be people still under here!”
“I know. It’s just . . .” He looked from Cyrax to Atterix, then back to Agramon. “The moons are wrong,” he breathed.
Silent, close behind, he felt Galen’s astonishment. They said nothing. There was nothing to say.
Of all the knowledge of the Order, the patterns of the moons were what any scholar studied first. The patterns were eternal, year in, year out, the sisters’ long complex dance through their chain of movements—the Web, the Arch and, most holy of all, the Ring, formed only once a decade on the feast of the Makers’ Descending.
But now they were wrong. Agramon was wrong. She should have been overhead, a thin crescent, but she was too low and, it struck Raffi suddenly, too big.
“Agramon is falling!” he whispered.
Galen pulled him out of sight behind a battered roof. “Say nothing! Try not to keep looking up.” But he stared up again himself, his sharp profile against the frosty sky. “Dear God, Raffi, this is worse than any of us had thought! Agramon is out of alignment. The skies themselves are slipping into chaos.”
“Galen!” It was Marco’s yell, urgent. With a glare of warning Galen grabbed his pick and scrambled over; Raffi followed hastily.
“Someone’s alive down here.” Marco was lying in a hollow of rubble. “Listen!”
A whisper of sound was muffled under the stones.
“We’ll get you out!” Marco called. He glanced up. “How many?”
Galen came down beside him. “Two. But we need to hurry.”
It took an hour to reach her. Each time they called, her voice was weaker. Emmy talked to her nonstop, pushing her arm deep among the stones till she could feel the cold fingers grasping hers. A heavy beam from a collapsed ceiling had held off most of the crashing bricks but the woman kept gasping for them to hurry, because of the baby. Always because of the baby.
“He’s cold,” the choked whisper came up. “So cold!”
Galen looked anxiously at Solon. “I can barely sense it now,” he muttered.
In the freezing night everything went chill. Then Marco began to dig faster, recklessly. “Get more torches,” he yelled, flinging a stone up to Raffi. “And blankets.”
The cold clouded their breath. Ice was forming on the rubble, beautiful and deadly. In the flaring light of the torches Marco’s eyes were red and sore in his filthy face. “I can see her!” he hissed.
As the rubble came away, so could Raffi. A woman lying under the beams, in a tangle of smashed wood.
“Take him!” she gasped, pushing something white up into Marco’s arms. “Please!”
Marco turned to Raffi. “Get him to the fire,” he said, his voice oddly strained.
Because the baby was dying. As soon as the tiny head fell against his chest Raffi knew it, and looked up, stricken. “Galen!”