Finn shivered. His head felt echoey and strange. He wanted them to sleep, to fall asleep so he could get the Key out again and talk to it. To her. The girl Outside. He said, "We can't move on, so we may as well rest. Don't you think?"
"Sounds good," Keiro said lazily. He arranged his pack against the back of the hollow.
But Gildas was staring at the image carved in the tree trunk. He crawled closer, reached out, and began to rub at it with his veined hands. Curls of lichen fell. The narrow face seemed to emerge from dinginess and the green fur of moss, its hands holding the Key so carefully drawn, they seemed real. Finn realized that the Key must be linking into some circuitry in the tree itself and for a moment a blur of vision caught him off guard, a sense that the whole of Incarceron was a great creature in whose entrails of wire and bone they crept.
He blinked.
No one seemed to have noticed, though the girl was staring at him. Gildas was saying, "He's leading us along the way he took. Like a thread through the labyrinth."
"So he left his own picture?" Keiro drawled.
Gildas frowned. "Obviously not. This is a shrine, created by the Sapienti who have followed him. We should find other signs on the way."
"I can't wait." Keiro rolled himself over and curled up.
Gildas glared at his back. Then he said to Finn, "Take the Key out. We need to take care of it. The way may be longer than we think."
Thinking of the vast forest outside, Finn wondered if they would wander in it forever.
Carefully he reached up and removed the Key from the hexagon; it came away with a slight click, and instantly the hollow was dim and the whistling splinters of foil blurred the distant Prison lights.
Finn was stiff and uncomfortable, but he kept still, listening. After a long while he knew by the old mans harsh breathing that Gildas was sleeping. He wasn't sure about the others.
Keiro had his face turned away. Attia always seemed silent, as if she had learned that keeping still and being overlooked kept her alive. Outside, the forest roared with the storm. He heard the cracking of its branches, the turmoil of its contempt surge from far distances, felt the strength of the wind batter the trees, shudder the iron trunk above him.
They had angered Incarceron. They had opened one of its forbidden doors and crossed some boundary. Perhaps it would trap them here forever, before they had barely begun.
At last, he couldn't wait any longer.
Cautiously, taking infinite pains to keep the rustle of the leaf-litter down, he tugged the Key from his pocket. It was cold, frosted with cold. His ringers left smeared imprints on it, and even the eagle inside was hard to see until he had rubbed condensation from its surface.
He held it tight. "Claudia" he breathed.
The Key was cold and dead.
No lights moved in it. He dared not speak louder.
But just then Gildas muttered, so he took the chance and curled up, bringing k closer.
"Can you hear me?" he said to it. "Are you there? Please, answer."
The storm raged. It whined in his teeth and nerves. He closed his eyes and felt despair, that he had imagined all of it, that the girl did not exist, that he was indeed born in some
Womb here.
And then, as if out of his own fear, came a voice, a soft remark. "Laughed? Are you sure that's what he said?"
Finn's eyes snapped open. A man's voice. Calm and considering.
He glanced around wildly, afraid the others had heard, and then a girl said, "... Of course
I'm sure. "Why should the old man laugh, Master, if Giles was dead?"
"Claudia." Finn whispered the name before he could stop himself.
Instantly Gildas turned; Keiro sat up. Cursing, Finn shoved the Key into his coat and rolled over to see Attia staring at him. He knew at once that she'd seen everything.
Keiro had his knife out. "Did you hear that? Someone outside." His blue eyes were alert.
"No." Finn swallowed. "It was me."
"Talking in your sleep?"
"He was talking to me," Attia said quietly.
For a moment Keiro looked at them both. Then he leaned back, but Finn knew he was not convinced. "Was he now?" his oathbrother said softly. "So who's Claudia?"
THEY CANTERED quickly up the lane, the deep green leaves of the oaks a tunnel over their heads. "And you believe Evian?"
"On this I do." She looked ahead at the mill rising at the foot of the hill. "The old man's reaction was all wrong, Master. He must have loved Giles."
"Grief affects people strangely, Claudia." Jared seemed worried. "Did you tell Evian you would find this Bartlett?"
"No. He—"
"Did you tell anyone? Alys?"
She snorted. "Tell Alys and it's around the servants' hall in minutes." That reminded her.
She slowed the breathless horse. "My father paid off the swordmaster. Or tried to. Has he said anything more to you?"
"No. Not yet."
They were silent while he leaned down and unlatched the gate, easing the horse back to drag it wide. On the other side the lane was rutted, lined by hedgerows, dog-roses twined among nettles and willow-herb, the white umbels of cow-parsley.
Jared sucked at a sting on his finger. Then he said, "That must be the place."
It was a low cottage half obscured by a great chestnut that grew beside it. As they rode closer Claudia scowled at its perfect Protocol, the thatch with holes in it, the damp walls, the gnarled trees of the orchard. "A hovel for the poor."
Jared smiled his sad smile. "I'm afraid so. In this Era only the rich know comfort."
They left the horses tied, cropping lush long grass from the verge. The gate was broken, hanging wide; Claudia saw how it had recently been forced, how the grass blades were dragged back under it, still wet with dew.
Jared stopped. "The doors open," he said.
She went to step past him, but he said, "A moment, Claudia." He took out the small scanner and let it hum. "Nothing.
No one here."
"Then we go in and wait for him. I've only got today." She strode up the cracked path;
Jared followed quickly.
Claudia pushed the door wider; it creaked and she thought something shuffled inside.
"Hello?" she said quietly.
Silence.
She put her head around the door.
The room was dark and smelled of smoke. A low window lit it, the shutter off and leaning against the wall. The fire was out in the hearth; as she came in she saw the blackened cooking pot on its chains, the spit, ashes drifting in the draft down the great chimney.
Two small benches lined the chimney corner; near the window stood a table and chair and a dresser with some battered pewter plates and a jug on it. She picked the jug up and sniffed the milk inside.
"Fresh."
There was a small doorway into the cow byre. Jared crossed to it and looked through, stooping under the lintel.
His back was to her, but she knew, from his sudden, intent stillness, something was wrong. "What?" she said.
He turned, and his face was so pale, she thought he was ill. He said, "I'm afraid we're too late."
She came over. He stayed, blocking her way. "I want to see," she muttered.
"Claudia..."
"Let me see, Master." She ducked under his arm.
The old man lay sprawled on the floor of the byre. It was quite obvious that his neck was broken. He lay on his back, arms flung out, one hand buried in the straw. His eyes were open.
The byre smelled of old dung. Flies buzzed endlessly and wasps came in and out through the open doorway; a small goat bleated outside.