Once he had seen a man who’d only just survived a fireseed storm, his face burned and horribly scarred. Most weren’t so lucky. Early in autumn, when the weather began to chill, the firepods exploded, the round spiked seed drifting, sometimes for days, in great poisonous clouds until they sank and grew into the dull reddish plants that were so common. There was nothing dangerous about the plants, but the seed would sear through the flesh it touched, the acid on the soft spines burning through leather and clothes. Kest’s work. Like all the other evils.
Galen glanced around. There was no shelter. Only a few Sekoi barrows studded the turf.
The yellow cloud billowed.
“Run!” Galen turned. “Get on your horse, girl. Get out of here!”
He scrambled back up the slope; Raffi raced after him, grabbing handfuls of grass to haul himself up. Carys galloped ahead; she reached the ridge top and stared around hopelessly, the horse whickering with fear.
“Nothing! Not for miles!”
Galen pulled Raffi up. “The tomb. The nearest! Inside it!”
Despite the crackling cloud looming down on them, Carys paused. The horse pirouetted in terror. She had a sudden urge to gallop before the storm, away, abandoning them. But it was already too late. Scowling, she urged the beast toward the barrow.
Raffi was nearly there, Galen limping behind him. As she raced after them the storm swirled over her; glancing up she caught her breath at the yellow mass of seeds, billions of them, clotted like a rustling curtain. Something stung her face; she screamed, rubbing at it, jerking her head down on the horse’s sweating neck.
The sky crackled around them. Galloping past Galen, she swung herself off. The barrow was a huge green swelling in the storm.
“How do we get in?” she screamed.
Seeds gusted around them, scattered on Galen’s hood. He scrabbled at the edge of the mound, the row of sealing stones, tearing them away. She pulled too, and Raffi; something slid and rumbled, small stones falling in a dusty heap.
A black slit opened in the tomb like an eye. Raffi was gone, burrowing in, the pack dragged after him. “Now you!” Galen yelled.
Seeds fell on her shoulders; she squirmed and beat them off. “My horse!”
“We can’t save it! Get inside!”
Pain stung her cheek. Desperately she dragged the maddened horse still; tore the small bag from the saddle. Then she was down, worming into the tiny black hole, stinging seeds kicked from her legs. Hands hauled her in. Galen’s head and shoulders scrabbled through; then he was in, piling rocks in the entrance, and she glimpsed for a moment the air outside thick with poisonous flying drifts. The last stone blocked the gap.
“My poor horse,” she whispered in the dark.
“Can’t be helped.” Galen’s voice sounded hollow; it echoed around them. Raffi realized his skin was stinging; he rubbed his forehead and his fingers were burned, so that he hissed with the pain.
“Don’t touch it,” Galen’s voice said. A sputter and crack came from the tinderbox; then a small flame lengthened to yellow. Galen’s face and hands loomed out of the dark; he stuck the candle in a crevice and rummaged in the pack.
Raffi looked around, uneasy. He sensed that the chamber was small, too low to stand in. A roof of stone hung above; somewhere at the back of him was a low passageway, invisible. He let his mind grope into it. There were chambers down there, on each side. Traces of bones lingered in their dust. The last chamber, the one at the end, had something else in it.
He felt for it cautiously. Something very old.
Galen had the box of ointments out; he looked into Raffi’s face. “Are we alone?”
“I don’t think so.”
Nodding, he thrust a small clay pot at Carys. “Then we’ll have to hurry. Use this first.”
She pulled the top off and dipped a finger in; it was cold and stiff, richly scented. Rubbing it on her hands and scorched face, she felt the seared skin cool; the relief was wonderful.
“What is it?”
“Never mind.” Galen slapped it on his own hands, fingers over fingers. “Hurry up, Raffi. There are things to do.”
When they had finished he cleared a space, lit seven candles and arranged them in a circle, working quickly. Carys felt uneasy. The new light showed a low passageway behind her, leading farther into the tomb. And though she told herself she was a fool, she felt with a prickling of her skin that there was something down there. “Raffi . . .” she began.
“We know.” He looked up. “We know what to do.”
He had poured water into a small silver dish, and now pulled out a red leather bag, full of objects. Despite her worry, excitement shivered through her. These were relics.
“Which one?” Raffi had his hand inside.
Galen thought quickly. “The bracelet.”
He pulled it out. It was made of some smooth black leather, with a tiny fastening. Threaded on it was a strange flat slab of gold, studded with no stones, but with a gray window. Minute touch-buttons decorated the sides.
Carys edged nearer.
Raffi glanced at her. “Look at this.” With his thumbnail he pressed one of the buttons hard. She stared, astounded. For a second, faint numbers had flickered in the window.
“What is it?”
“Who knows. It’s almost dead now.” Reverently he laid it down among the candles.
Galen had taken one string of black and green crystals from his neck; now he made a circle of it, around the relic. Then he and Raffi began to chant.
She recognized odd words, nothing more. This was the language of the Makers, long lost, except to the Order. It calmed her, made her feel strangely serene. It seemed important, here in the blackness of the tomb, though outside she would have laughed at it. But in this place something else lived, and she felt the strength of the chant, its protection, warming her, reassuring her. They’ll have you believing all this, she told herself wanly. The crossbow lay under her hand, and she was glad it was loaded.
After the last response the silence was huge. Galen picked up the silver bowl and poured the water gently into the ground. “We bring you a gift, guardian,” he said. “We’re not here to disturb you. We don’t break the sacred lines.”
Raffi could feel them, the earth-lines. They reached out, one north, two to the west, another, very old and faint, southwest. Invisible, underground. As Galen dug a deep slot in the ground and buried the relic in it, Raffi felt a pulse along the lines, a faint crackle of power.
The Sekoi had taken the gift.
That seemed to be all. Carys sat back against the wall, almost impressed. The ritual had drawn it away, that air of threat in the dark chamber behind her. Or had she imagined the whole thing? Shaking her head, she glanced down at the bag with the journal in it. That and the crossbow were all she had left. She was really undercover now.
They stayed where they were, not exploring. They drank water, chewed the last of the fish, maybe even slept a little. Raffi wasn’t sure. The darkness confused them; they seemed deep, deep underground. Time seemed still. There was no way of knowing if the storm had ended. Maybe it had finished hours ago. And yet none of them moved.
Lying there, Raffi began to imagine he saw scrawls and carvings on the stones overhead, spirals that swirled if he stared at them, so that he looked away, uneasy, and when he looked back they had shifted.
Galen sat huddled, resting forehead on arms. Carys was silent, as if the barrow swallowed her words before she spoke them. Raffi gathered his strength. With a great effort he managed to say, “It may be safe now.”
Instantly they all felt hours had been lost. Galen looked up, his face haggard in the candlelight. “What are we doing! Look outside!”