“The weather is decaying,” Solon went on, holding his hands out. “Anara is dying. From all sides come reports of hurricanes, floods, destruction. Whole populations of birds and animals swarm and panic. We will all be killed if it worsens, both Sekoi and Starmen. I beg you to listen to us. We are not the Watch, my friends; we want only what is good for us all. Too many have suffered already; we have seen men and women injured and weeping over their children’s bodies. Soon more will be homeless; there will be famine and disease. For Flain’s sake, for all our sakes, let us use the Coronet. It is little enough to ask. You are a gentle race. I know you will help us.”
He sounded so wise and anxious that Raffi felt a great hope. They could never turn him down.
Solon let his hands fall.
The red-furred Karamax stood and looked at the owl. One eye open, the owl looked back. The crimson walls rippled, rain pattering on them.
The Karamax cleared its throat. “Thank you, Archkeeper,” it said softly. “We are saddened at your distress. We see the marks of the pain you have suffered. Because of that, we have decided to tell you things here that few others of your kind will ever have heard.” To their surprise it reached up and took its mask off, and they saw a young female, with a tribemark under one ear. “First, your claim as successor of Flain. We cannot admit this as a factor. The Sekoi own the Coronet now, we have had it for centuries. We have no laws of inheritance or restitution.”
The Sekoi sighed, and shook its head.
“Secondly, the weather. This decay has long been predicted.”
“By whom?” Solon asked, startled.
“You are not the only ones with sacred stories.” It smiled slyly. “My people know the Makers will return. Before they come, many evil portents will occur. It is said that the sky will darken and the moons, one by one, will fall from the sky. The land will shake and the things of Kest, even the Margrave himself, will be destroyed. The planet will be cleansed. This is what has started to happen. We do not wish to interfere.”
“Then you must be alarmed . . .”
“Not at all. For we are ready. The Sekoi will not be touched by this disaster. We have ... places. Secure places, deep underground. Here we will wait until it is safe to emerge. This is the reason for our gathering. Soon every Sekoi will vanish from Anara, and no Starman will know where we have gone.”
Except me, Carys thought idly. But no, the Palace of Theriss would have a fit if it had to accommodate all these. She wondered just how many secrets the Sekoi had. The Watch had underestimated them all these years.
“What about us?” Marco demanded. “The rest of us?”
The red-furred Sekoi looked at him. “We do not know. Maybe your Makers will come in time to save you.”
“I don’t believe in the Makers.”
The Karamax blinked. “Then you are a fool,” it said quietly.
Marco looked so astonished that Raffi almost smiled.
“So you will let the world be ruined?” Solon was appalled. “Allow hundreds of people to be killed?”
“It has been foretold. The Coronet is only a circle of gold. It can do nothing to stop the decay.”
“But it can!” Galen couldn’t keep silent any longer. He leaped up, the shadow of the Crow crackling around him. Side by side with Solon he faced them. “We know it can! Surely your obsessed lust for gold is . . .”
“You do not understand.” The Karamax pointed. “Your friend there. He understands.”
The Sekoi was huddled miserably among the cushions, gnawing at its nails. It gave Galen a bitter look. “It’s no use. They won’t give it up.”
Galen spun back. “Explain. Tell us!”
“It concerns the Great Hoard.”
Immediately the owl made a small chirring noise. The female Karamax went to it and spoke, then stroked its plumage. “For hundreds of years my people have collected gold. Your Order and the Watch have always wondered where it went. Some thieves”—its glance flickered to Marco—“have even tried to find it. No one ever has. The purpose of the Hoard is a hidden one, but because you are the Crow, Galen Harn, and this is the end of the age, I will tell you what it is.”
It stepped away from the owl, slipped its mask back on, and moved to the center of the Seven, sitting complacently on the silk cushions.
“The purpose of the Hoard is to buy Anara.”
Outside, the wind gave a great roar. The canvas billowed, slapping against its ropes and pegs. Raffi’s sense-lines swung with it, dizzying, a huge aftershock.
“Buy?” Solon whispered.
Galen’s stare was dark and even. “From the Makers!” he said.
“Exactly.” Another of the Karamax was speaking now. “The world was ours once. When the Makers return, it will be cleansed, and we will ransom it with an enormous treasure.”
Solon looked at Galen. He seemed too astonished to speak. Finally he plunged his hands through his silver hair. “You really believe this? That the Makers will . . . sell the world?”
“Yes.”
“But you have no idea . . .”
“And you have never seen the Great Hoard.” Behind its mask the creature’s eyes were bright with greed. “It holds more riches, keeper, than you could ever imagine. It will buy the Sekoi their world back. And every fragment of it, every ring, every coin, every little gold circle, will be needed.” It looked at the other six, who nodded. “The Coronet will not be given up. That is our decision.”
“No!” Solon threw his arms out. “Those who die . . . !”
“Must die.”
The wind screamed. For a moment Raffi thought Solon would fling himself to his knees in complete despair but Galen gripped him gently and turned him, small energies rippling around his hands.
He looked down at Raffi and Carys.
There was nothing left to say.
25
I had betrayed my people and they me. I was sick with shame and could not show it.
Sorrows of Kest
THEY WERE GIVEN A SMALL TENT but none of them could sleep.
Outside, another squall raged, sleeting in through the entrance, hissing out the fire. It was Solon who seemed most devastated by events; the Archkeeper usually cheered everyone up, made small teasing jokes, but he was drawn and white now, as if some great pain had struck him. And the Sekoi had gone, stalking off into the rain.
Galen took down the lamp, spread the awen-beads carefully around it, and began the Litany. His voice was grave but even, and the familiar Maker-words seemed slowly to take some chill out of their hearts and the damp night. Raffi joined in, and after a while Solon murmured the responses, as if he clutched at them for comfort.
Carys sat in a corner, watching. Marco cleaned and loaded his crossbow.
When the prayer was over, the silence seemed worse, until the curtain was whipped back and the Sekoi ducked in.
They stared at it. It was drenched, its brindled gray fur dark and sopping, water trickling down its neck and sleeves.
“Galen, I’m sorry,” it said, its voice strangled.
“Not your fault.” The Relic Master stood, his dark hair brushing the tent roof. He smiled sourly. “I told you a long time ago I knew the Sekoi had their own ways.”
“I didn’t know we had it! I swear!”
Raffi had never seen the creature look so wretched. It crumpled and sat, arms around knees. All its airy confidence had been knocked right out of it; it even looked thinner, its fur scraggy.
Galen sat beside it, his hooked face half in shadow.
“I believe you,” he said softly. “But do you think too that all Starmen should be left to die?”
The creature dragged in a breath. When it spoke its voice was reluctant. “We’ve always been taught so. Most of us are not interested in the fate of Starmen.” It looked up. “Neither was I, once.”
“And now?”
It gave an exasperated hiss. “Don’t torment me. You know I would help you if I could. But . . .”