They were dead. They were alive. They were in balance.
And they left the planet and turned outward, and sped through the stars. Galaxies flashed by them, novae flared and burned. All through the vast interstellar silences they spread, until far off they saw the point of light, tiny at first, that grew, as they hurtled into it, to a great inferno, the heart of an explosion of life that never stopped, that scorched them as they fell deeper and deeper, burning them, dissolving them, making them new.
“CARYS.” THE VOICE WAS DISTANT, a long way off. “Carys!” An arm was around her shoulders. “Drink this,” the voice said.
It was water. She gulped it, spilling it, suddenly deep in such a terrible thirst she thought it would kill her. The pain brought her sight back and she stared at Raffi.
“All of it,” he said quietly.
She emptied the glass, both hands shaking. “Is it always this bad?” she croaked.
He smiled. “Nearly.”
Over his shoulder she saw Quist looking down, and Galen kneeling over the Margrave. The creature seemed as distraught as she was; it was on hands and knees, and the keeper had to support it. “Did we do it?” she whispered.
“We did something.” He shook his head, overwhelmed. “Did you feel it, Carys? Did you feel the glory of it?”
“Get me up,” she said irritably.
Around them the Maker-machines hummed, a steady, efficient sound. Raffi had to hold her. She had never felt so weak, so utterly useless. “If this is being a keeper,” she muttered, holding on to one of the machines, “you can keep it.”
He grinned, but the Sekoi’s voice, oddly harsh to her raw nerves, interrupted. “I’ve got something, Galen.”
The creature had the control panel up and had found some image on the screen, blurred and grainy. Galen helped the Margrave to a chair and came over quickly. He seemed to have barely enough energy to control the screen, but finally they knew they were looking at the Unfinished Lands.
The silence was intense.
“It’s just the same,” Carys breathed. She felt devastated.
“Don’t be so sure.” Galen struggled to get the image closer; Raffi had to help him.
The land was barren, a chalky sand, but as they closed down on it, they saw rain was falling, a calm, steady drizzle.
“There!” Galen pointed. “Look there.” It was nothing much. A tiny green shoot, barely breaking the surface. But they all stared at it in stunned delight.
“Raffi.” The Margrave was standing, unsteady. “Did we succeed?”
Carys didn’t need sense-lines to feel that abrupt end of Raffi’s joy. But he answered calmly. “Yes. I think we have.” He turned to Galen, awkward. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “But otherwise it might not have . . .”
“You made your vow, and you at least must keep to it.” Galen’s eyes were dark; the darkness was in the hollows of his face and his long, glossy hair. He took something from his pocket. “These are for you. I made them ready a long time ago. I knew you would need them.” They were a keeper’s beads, green and black. Raffi stared, but Galen put them gently around his neck, all seven strands, and stepped back. “You have finished your Deep Journey after all, Relic Master,” he said.
For a moment in silence they both stood there as if they could not bear this. Then Raffi said, “I must go.”
Behind him, the Sekoi spoke. “Stay where you are, small keeper.”
“No!” He turned, sense-lines alert. “No. NO!” But the flash of blue light seared past him and past Quist. It flung the Margrave back against the machines, a shocked, crumpled heap, and as it lay there the Sekoi came forward, firing again and again into its chest, coldly accurate, until the air was acrid with a choking smoke and the stunned agony of the snapped sense-lines.
For an instant Raffi was blank; then he found himself kneeling by the Margrave, dragging it up, calling it desperately. Its soul barely flickered; the strange touch of it moved through him, and he lifted it, body and spirit, and it reached for him. “Kest,” it breathed, “my scholar.” And its life slid into the Maker-machines and was gone, a whisper in the darkness.
Galen’s hands were tight on his shoulders. Raffi turned to the Sekoi, his face drawn, searching for words. “I never asked you . . .” he screamed.
“It was not for you, Raffi.” The creature was tall and controlled; it dropped the weapon with weary distaste. “It was not for any of you. Or for Solon, or Marco. It was for a Sekoi cub that was lost from us eons ago. The only one we have ever lost.”
Raffi choked. He couldn’t speak.
Galen said, “It was captured?”
“Brought here. Experimented on. Altered.” Its voice was raw, almost unrecognizable, as if it could not bear to say the words, and it turned away quickly.
“The Margrave did it?” Raffi had to know.
The Sekoi did not turn. “It became the Margrave,” it whispered.
27
The world is not dead. The world is alive and breathes. The world is the whim of God, and her journey is forever.
Litany of the Makers
THEY SAT TOGETHER in the cluttered room, all but the Sekoi. Raffi had found some food, but no one even looked at it. Galen brooded in a corner, deep in prayer and remorse. It was Quist who looked up and said, “We will need to bury it.”
Raffi put a plate down abruptly. The shock of the Margrave’s death kept coming over him, like an unending series of waves, each time harder, more real.
Carys looked at him anxiously. “Yes. But we need to get out of here, and it should be soon. We have to find out what’s happening outside.”
“Alberic!” Galen looked up, remembering. He stood quickly. “Carys . . .”
“He’ll be gone, Galen! Long gone!”
“Not if he’s in the Watchtower,” Raffi said numbly. “I saw it, on the screen. There was an army all around it.”
Galen made straight for the door, Carys close behind. Then she came back. “Are you . . . ?”
“I’ll stay here.” Raffi glared at Quist. “On my own.”
THE SCREEN SHOWED CARNAGE. It looked as though there had been several attacks; the ground was churned with horse tracks, the black flowers mangled and bloody. The tower seemed to have held out so far; but the numbers of the Watch army made Carys turn cold.
“Well.” Galen looked up. “The thief-lord has done us proud after all.”
“He’ll never get out alive.”
“Of course he will.” The keeper gave her his wolfish smile. “When the Watch fall back.”
“You’re mad, Galen. They will never withdraw.”
“They will if they’re ordered.”
She stared at him, suddenly understanding. Quist said, “But who . . .”
“You. Or me. It doesn’t matter.” Galen adjusted the controls carefully. “They never saw the creature, remember? Raffi says it only spoke to them. They won’t know that their master has been replaced.”
The screen flickered. They saw a Watch commander with a bandaged face, his uniform torn. Galen glanced at Quist. The captain licked his lips, then said, “Report.”
“We have made five separate attacks. The rebels control the tower weapons, and have inflicted heavy losses. Commander Resh five forty-nine has been killed.”
“Enough. Listen carefully, this is a priority message.” Quist’s voice was hoarse. “The attack is to be called off. All troops are to be withdrawn to Cato’s Cleft.”
The commander’s face flickered with astonishment.
“Called off? Lord, we are so close . . .”
“Do you question your orders?”
Surprise vanished. The man’s face closed. “No, lord.”
“Then carry them out.”
The bandaged man nodded, and vanished.
Quist let out his breath.
“There is something to be said,” Galen muttered from the controls, “for such blind obedience.”
Quist glanced at Carys. “Not from everyone,” he said wryly.
She nodded. “And it will destroy them. It’s clever, Galen. Sly, in fact.”
Galen looked up. “In slyness, here’s an expert.”
Before the picture came, they heard the singing. Carys winced; Alberic’s poet seemed to be arriving at some tuneless crescendo. Then, in a flicker of light they saw him, and the dwarf, in a golden breastplate and greaves, picking moodily over a plate of stale dewberries.
“Hello, Alberic,” Galen said softly.
The song stopped in mid-note. The dwarf stood slowly, unsheathing a bright, curved sword. His bodyguards stood around him. Carys could see the back of Milo’s head, dirty and uncombed, turning this way and that.
“Keeper?”
“Yes, thief-lord.”
“Where in hell’s name are you?” He circled warily.
“You’ve got your back to me,” Galen said.
Alberic turned. His neck was scarred and raw from the burns; he moved painfully, but he was grinning from ear to ear. “Are you dead, or is that too much to hope for?”
“Far too much. You’ve cheated death yourself, I see. What’s in front of you?”
“A wall. With my idiot nephew against it.” But Milo had already scrambled up, and stood by Godric.
“There should be voice controls,” Galen said irritably. “But maybe this . . .” Milo gave a yelp.
Alberic said, “We see you. God, you look worse than I do. Did you find your boy?”
Galen came forward and stood looking up. “We found Raffi,” he said, his voice quiet.
“And the Margrave?”
“The Margrave is dead.”
“Smart move.” Alberic sheathed his sword. “We’ve made a few killings here. Held them off for you, just like I said we would.”
Carys snorted. “You liar.” She waved at Milo. “No hard feelings.”
He shrugged, and stammered, “Well, no, but . . .”
She smiled sweetly. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
His face lit. “Thanks,” he whispered.
“My gallantry,” Alberic said briskly, “brings the price of this shebang up to three million.” He turned, as if someone had come in with a hasty message, then swung back, his narrow face transformed. “They’re pulling out!”
“We know,” Galen said calmly.
“Did you arrange it? God, keeper, that’s a trick I’d give a lot to master.”
“Listen.” Galen was impatient. “We’ll make our way back. Get your people ready.”
Alberic turned his back. “If you think I’m going anywhere . . .”
“You’re escorting the Interrex into Tasceron. An imperial escort, Alberic. Think of the luxury. The food, the wine. The palaces.”
The dwarf turned his sly face and spat. “I know your idea of luxury. A ruined hovel with no roof, that’s all you’re offering. Besides, Tasceron is a black hole.”
“Not anymore.”
The dwarf stared. Then he moved closer, his voice shrewd. “Are you telling me the truth? Does this mean the Watch are finished? That it’s over?”
“It will take time”—Galen looked at Quist—“but yes. We have infiltrated the Watch. They will be healed, like the planet, from within.”
Godric said, “Good news, Chief.”
“If it’s not all mumbo jumbo and claptrap.” Alberic smiled sourly. “Will there be any mercy for thieves under the Order though, eh? I doubt it. Give us ten years and we’ll be nostalgic for a few hangings and a firm hand. Maybe I should stick around after all.”
“You do that.” Galen moved to the controls, but Quist said, “Wait.” He looked up. “Is she safe?”
“Safe!” Alberic turned in disgust. “She’s driving me crazy.”
Scala was lounging on the bed, smiling. “So you’re alive, lover. It’s more than I thought. This means our reward is gone, then?”
“And any ransom.” Quist’s voice was low.
“So we ride free?”
He nodded. Then he said urgently, “Scala, you will wait for me?”
She picked a fruit from the bowl and threw it playfully at Alberic. “To be frank, lover, I can’t promise. The company here is less than classy.”
The screen dimmed. Quist was smiling; when he saw Carys’s look, he shrugged. “She’s crazy about me,” he muttered. And then, to himself, “Or she will be.”
RAFFI SAT SILENT in the dark room, his feet up on the seat, his head sideways on his knees. When the door creaked open he did not look up, or around. After a moment, the Sekoi came in and sat by the brazier, in the Margrave’s chair, staring deep into the red coals. In the silence the fuel settled, a light tinkle of sifting cinders. When the Sekoi spoke, its voice was gentle. “My actions have threatened our friendship, Raffi.”
He didn’t answer, so it went on, “You had grown fond of the creature.”
“No.”
“I think so. You came to find something likeable in it. That is nothing to be ashamed of.”
Raffi said, “It used to sit there. It told me about the Makers, how it used to talk to them. It told me such things . . . and such lies, and now I’ll never know what the truth is.” He couldn’t bear it; he jerked his head up and hissed, “Why did you do it! I don’t understand why! It had helped us.”
“I waited until it had done so.”
“You betrayed it! All of us! Did you plan this from the start? Have you always despised our ways so much that . . .” His voice broke. He shook his head. “I just don’t understand,” he whispered.
The Sekoi smiled unhappily. “Do you remember how once, long ago, Galen warned you that the Sekoi could not be trusted? That we have our own beliefs as you have yours, and hold them as dearly? He and I knew there would be a time when those beliefs would conflict. That time has come. Raffi, I cannot explain to you the . . . hatred the Sekoi felt for this creature. And the pity.”
“Pity!”
“Yes.” It scratched its fur. “It was one of us once. Kest took it and mutated it over the years. He used the genes of animals, and of Starmen. Your stories say it was a man he used, but that was not so, and the Sekoi have always known it—it has been our deepest shame. And each of us is taught that if ever we should even glimpse it, it must die.”
Raffi rubbed his face. He felt weary and lost. “It called you terrible and unforgiving.”
“So we are.” The Sekoi leaned forward. “We are not like you. I knew Galen too well. He could not kill. And Carys is becoming like him. Only I could do this. And with it I have made amends for my betrayal of the Great Hoard. It was harsh, but evil must not be allowed to spread. The innocent must not be corrupted. It would have corrupted you, in the end. If the Makers had only acted long ago . . .”
“It wasn’t evil,” Raffi hissed. “It did evil things, but . . .”
“What is evil, if not that?” The Sekoi stood. “I will have to go before my people for their judgment. But before I do, I would like to have your forgiveness. If you can give it.”
Raffi pushed back his hair and looked up. “Why me? I should thank you. I could never have survived down here.”
“Nevertheless, it is you I ask.”
He was silent a long time. Then, with an effort he said, “I hate what you did. But I will never hate you.”
The Sekoi nodded sadly. “Then I will have to be content with that.”
It was halfway through the door when Raffi whispered, “That was the way I felt about the Margrave.”
GALEN CARRIED THE MARGRAVE’S body down and laid it in the crystal sphere, its ridged hands clasped. He closed the door and then, to their surprise, spread his arms and chanted the long prayer of Atonement, said only for keepers. Raffi joined in, his voice hoarse. He felt so strange. Through the thick crystal he watched the face of the being that had lived so long, that had spoken with the Makers, that had hunted him through the world, had terrified him. When had he stopped being afraid of it? When had he begun to think of it differently? He couldn’t remember. But it had changed him, and now it
was dead. Although, in the heart of the machines, somewhere in their hum, in the energies of the awen-field, something of it lingered. For no one dies, the Book says. Not even the worst of us.
HE TOOK SOME OF the Earth books, pushing them into Carys’s pack.
“What are these?” she asked.
“I want to take them. Don’t tell Galen.”
“You’re not his scholar anymore, Raffi. Take what you want.” Shoving them down in the pack she said, “What will happen if we get to Tasceron?”
“Felnia will be crowned.” Galen stood in the doorway, the Sekoi behind him. “And we will call a great meeting of the Order. Everyone left alive will come, keepers and scholars, out of hiding, out of terror.” He put an arm around Raffi’s shoulders. “We will choose a new Archkeeper.”
“It should be you.”
“Not me.” Galen laughed darkly. “The Crow will have much to do. There is a whole world to be remade; it will not happen quickly.”
Tugging the straps on the pack tight, Carys was silent a moment. Then she looked up. “Galen. You’ve lost your scholar.”
“Not lost.”
“Yes, but what I mean . . .” The strap would not go through the buckle; she threw it down in exasperation. “What I mean is, are you looking for another? Another scholar?”
He scowled. “Carys, if you mean that nephew of Alberic’s, I’m sorry but . . .”
“I mean me.”
“You!”
“Yes.” She couldn’t help grinning. She had finally done it. For the first time since she had known him she had utterly astonished him.