The weather was sunny, with sudden autumnal crashes of rain. Galen spent much time meditating, and once Lerin took him and Raffi to her relic hoard, in a secret cave in the chalk-country.
In the evenings they talked around the fire, and the keepers took turns to tell stories of the Makers: the adventures of Flain in the Land of the Dead; Kest’s great fight with the Dragon of Maar, whose tail tore half the stars from the sky.
Half asleep, warm against the back of a cushioned chair, Raffi dreamed, seeing the scenes of the stories vaguely in the flames and flickering light—the caves and hollows of the underworld, the Sekoi ghosts, the passageways and treasure rooms. Once he watched Carys listening, and was caught by something in her face, some far-off look, till she saw him and frowned.
Part of him wanted to stay in the village forever, but on the third day Lerin told them everything was ready.
“You go tomorrow, with the trade goods. Fleeces, barley, honey, apples. Arno will go with you. The ship is called the Sigourna, and she’ll be waiting at Troen—that’s the harbor. She’s sailing to the Morna River—the nearest place to Tasceron we can get you.”
Galen nodded. “Good, Lerin! Excellent.”
She glanced at Raffi, who just shrugged. He knew that what he thought didn’t matter.
15
One day Flain walked in the Forest of Karsh and he was thirsty. Coming to a stream, he drank, and such was his strength that the ground sank lower. He went on his way. The sea rose and drowned the forest.
Though the Sekoi have another story about this.
Book of the Seven Moons
THE ALLEYWAY WAS DARK and there was something else in it. Jammed against the damp wall, Raffi heard it swoop out of the darkness. He turned and ran, through cobwebs that webbed his face and hands as he brushed them away.
The floor rose; he tripped, fell flat. The thing was on him, its sharp claws raking his back, its stinking breath on his neck. He yelled and squirmed and was up again, running blindly into the blackness till the wall smacked against him and he crumpled, breathless, fighting, struggling, kicking off blankets, his coat, the strong fingers that grabbed at him again and again.
“Raffi! Keep still! It’s me. For Flain’s sake, get yourself under control!”
The roar was Galen’s and it woke him instantly, just before Carys came hurtling around the door into the cabin, her shirt hanging out. “What’s the matter? Is he seasick?”
“No.” Galen let him go and sat back. “I don’t think so.”
“Of course I’m not! It was a dream.” Raffi rubbed sweat from his face. “A nightmare.”
Under them the ship dipped and sank. His stomach lurched, and a tray of cups and plates slid slowly down the tilted table.
“All dreams count,” Galen said, grabbing the edge of the chair. “Tell it to me.”
Raffi shrugged. “I was in some sort of street . . .” He explained briefly, bringing the dream accurately out of memory as Galen had taught him. When he’d finished, Carys grinned. “It was that cheese you ate.”
Galen frowned at her. “It may be important. Remember it.”
The ship rose suddenly; the oil lamp swung, sending wild shadows over the low ceiling. Carys sat down and laced her boots.
“Still lost.”
They had been at sea for two days, and the weather had gotten steadily worse. Halfway over, the fog had come down. Now the tiny cabin was dim with it; it drifted down the steps, making the lamp a cloud of haze; the rough blankets smelled of its damp.
It was late morning, but morning and night all seemed the same.
“Have they asked again?” Raffi asked quietly.
“They will,” Galen muttered.
Almost as an answer there was a bang on the open door; Arno came in, bending his head. He looked harassed and soaked. “I’m sorry, Galen.”
He stood aside; behind him the skipper blocked the door, a small, black-bearded man, his cap in his hand. He twisted it nervously. “Keeper, the men are scared. The fog’s too thick, we don’t know how near the shore we are. The Watch patrol this strait, and if they come on board . . .”
“I know,” Galen said heavily. “We’re bringing you into danger.”
“It’s just that some of the older men . . . they say the Order had weather-warding skills. I don’t know. But if there’s anything you can do . . .”
Galen was silent a moment. Carys watched him curiously. Then he said, “I’ll come on deck. First I have to prepare.”
The two men backed out respectfully and Carys went with them, climbing the steps to the deck and pulling her blue coat around her. The fog was iron-gray and hung close; it tasted metallic and salty. She could barely see the ship’s rail till she bumped into it; above her the masts dissolved into dimness. Even the sea, invisible below, was silent, rising and falling as smooth as oil, the only sounds a tarred rope dragging, canvas creaking, the murmur of voices in the gloom.
Then Galen and Raffi came up. The keeper had a small object in his hand; it looked like quartz crystal. Raffi looked nervous, she noticed. Galen shoved a coil of rope aside and laid the crystal on the soaked planks of the deck; with some chalk he drew strange signs around it, some of which she recognized from her training. A bird, the seven sigils of the moons, a slashed circle, a bee.
Behind her the sailors gathered, like wraiths in the fog.
Galen straightened. Then he beckoned, and Raffi came forward. He looked pale in the dimness.
“Aren’t you going to do this?” the captain asked anxiously.
Galen stared at him in surprise. “Weather-warding is a task for scholars,” he said curtly. “Not masters.”
He nodded to Raffi, who took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and spread out his hands. Below him the crystal lay wrapped in fog.
Carys watched closely. For a while nothing happened and she told herself it wouldn’t. The whole thing was nonsense. Someone whispered behind her, and Galen growled “Be quiet” without looking over. She saw he was staring at Raffi intently, as if willing him on. The ship sailed silently into darkness. And then a tiny thrill of fear tingled in Carys’s spine; she clenched her fingers, breathing in sharply.
Around the crystal, the fog had gone.
A tiny circle of empty air hung there, the white stone glinting, the knots on the shaven planks clear and sharp. Raffi opened his eyes and grinned. He looked dazed and delighted. The circle grew; the fog rolled back, was pushed apart, and men murmured and whistled in subdued awe. Now they could all see one another, then the wide deck, now the opposite rail with a gull that flew off with a shriek of alarm, and still the circle of power swelled. Carys stood rigid, watching. There was the mast, the rigging, the ship’s cat in the high spars; they were all appearing in this great bubble of clearness. Turning to the rail, she looked down and could see the sea, the green splash of it, out to the receding wall of the mist. She shook her head, bewildered. “Oh, Jeltok. What would you say about this?”
“Who?” Raffi stood behind her, smiling.
“No one. You look pleased.”
He laughed. “I feel it! I’ve never done it so well!”
“Brilliant!” The skipper had crammed his cap on and seized Galen’s hand. “Brilliant!”
Galen snatched his hand away. “Not me. The boy.”
“Of course!” Clapping Raffi carelessly on the back, the man stared at the sea. “How big will it grow?”
“About half a league around the ship will be clear. Beyond that the fog remains.” Galen crossed to Raffi and looked down at him. Stiffly he said, “Well done.”