The Hidden Coronet (8 page)

“You should have told me.” He looked up, his gaunt face keen with joy. “On the way here. You should have told me.”

“I know.” Solon lowered his hands. “Sit down, my friends. Please. Raffi, Tallis, please.”

He seemed embarrassed. And yet the authority he claimed showed through; he was calm and could even smile now. “I can’t say how relieved I am to have told someone. Such a secret is a great weight. But it must go no further, and must make no difference here. I was only chosen because there was no one else.”

“You know the Makers act for a reason.” Galen stood slowly, easing his stiff leg. “You are the rightful leader of the Order.”

“Ah, but who knows how many are left?”

“How did you stay free?” Raffi blurted out. “How did you escape the Watch?” He was fascinated, Carys knew. His eyes shone as if he were hearing an old story come to life; she could feel the excitement in him.

Solon shook his head. “We left Mardoc. I’ll never forget looking back from the hills and seeing the black figures of the Watchguard that surrounded that place. Nor how they dragged him out . . .” He glanced again at Flain’s window, as if for help. “But he had outwitted them even at the end, and though he went to the torture, they say the Watch has never found the House of Trees. One old man defied them. I pray his sufferings were short.”

The House of Trees. Carys wondered what he’d say when he knew they’d been there. That she’d been there.

In the stillness the fire crackled. A leaf-scutter rummaged in the beech tree outside the window. Felnia put her head around the door. “Marco’s thirsty. Can I get him some ale?”

Tallis turned quickly. “Yes. Open a new flask. And Felnia!”

The little girl came back. “What?”

“Stop listening at the door.”

Carys grinned. Felnia stuck her tongue out and vanished.

Solon looked nervous. “Will she tell Marco?”

“No. She’s . . . been trained to keep secrets.”

He nodded absently. “I must finish my story. I’ll be brief. For years after Mardoc’s death I eluded capture somehow. One of my scholars died—my dear Jeros, shot by a Watchpatrol as we fled through a town at night. We had to leave his body lying there in the dirt, without even a blessing. The other . . . he lost faith. He renounced the Makers. That was an even more bitter blow.” He cleared his throat. “Finally, last year, I was caught, digging a relic up from some farmland. The farmer had his house burned and went to the mines. I was . . . interrogated.”

He sat very still. Carys bit her lip and looked at Galen, who stood up and stalked to the window, looking out.

“Where did they take you?” she asked.

“A Watchtower.”

“Number?”

“I’m not sure. Forty-five? At Feas Hill. A black, bitter place. I had no idea there were such places.”

“What was the castellan’s name?

“Timon. I think it was Timon.”

Galen half turned and glared at her. She sat back.

“I don’t know how long it lasted.” Solon’s long fingers rubbed the scars on his wrists; Carys knew he would have more, all over his body. “A stinking cell, endless beatings, torments. They have worms of Kest that devour flesh, burrow into the skin . . .”

His voice broke.

Tallis reached out and took his hand, and he smiled at her. After a moment he struggled on.

“All the brutality you have heard of the Watch, my children, all of it is true. I heard men tortured in other cells around me, screaming to die. And I was no hero. They broke me down soon enough. I would have told them anything they asked, because after a while there is only pain. The agony in your body fills all the world. I forgot the Order, but the Makers did not forget me. In one corner of my cell I scratched an image of Soren. No one else would have recognized it. In all the delirium and fear and darkness I sometimes thought she was there, speaking to me . . .”

Galen swung around. “And the Ring?”

“They never found that. As you know it cannot be seen or felt unless I wish it. I managed never to wish it.”

“You were lucky,” Carys said bluntly.

“I was. I knew so little that was of any use to them. I had seen no other keepers for years, knew no safe houses, no passwords, no networks of hiding places. In the end, I suppose they just grew tired of me. The Watch always have more prisoners to ill-treat. I was left alone for weeks. Then, one day, we were chained up and brought to Telman, to the Frost Fair, eleven of us. One died on the way. Marco and I were shackled together on the journey, the iron cutting into our legs. We became friends—unlikely friends, I admit, but then, we both fully expected to die, and I wanted to convert him. I thought I had accepted death. Until you came running up to me, Raffi, and the ice shattered. I still do not understand how that was done. But I thank Flain for his mercy.” He smiled gently at Tallis, drawing his fingers back. “And you, Guardian, for your peaceful island.”

She nodded, but from the window Galen said bleakly, “How much do you know about this Marco?” He turned, and they saw his face was dark. “Why were they holding him?”

“Ah.” Solon looked awkward. His fingers stroked his neck as if he felt for awen-beads that had been long lost. “Yes. Marco. He’s a good man, Galen. He tried to get free one night and they beat him with chains for it. He may not think quite like us, but . . .”

Galen came closer. He looked grim. “Archkeeper. What had he done?”

The older man smiled unhappily. “You won’t like it.”

“I can see that. Tell me.”

Solon scratched his cheek. Then he said, “It appears Marco went back on a business deal with them. He cheated them. I’m afraid he is—was—a dealer, Galen. He sold relics to the Watch.”

9

I have done dark things. Dark and terrible. And I cannot undo them.

Sorrows of Kest

C
ARYS WINCED.

Galen exploded into rage. “He does
what
?”

“We must forgive him. He’s a good man.”

“A good man!” The keeper lashed a chair aside in fury. “Do you tell me we’ve brought such a man here! To Sarres! Half carried him for miles through wood and fen! Dear God, Solon, if I’d known, I’d have put the noose around his neck myself!”

“No, you wouldn’t,” the Archkeeper said mildly.

“You don’t know me,” Galen snarled. He strode across the room in wrath. “Men like that are the scum of the world. To steal the gifts of the Makers and sell them for scrap! And you say he’s your friend!”

“He is.” Solon stood up. “Come, Galen. We are here to help the fallen, even those who have sunk so low they believe in nothing. He needs us. He may not know it, but he does.”

Galen folded his arms, fighting for control. He took a deep breath, but when he spoke his voice was still acid with bitterness. “No wonder Mardoc chose you if you have kindness even for a wretch like this. I am not so perfect, Archkeeper.”

“You’ve had a hard struggle. We all have.” Solon came up to him hesitantly. “But he’s here now. And for my sake, Galen, let him stay.”

Galen looked at him in surprise. “You’re the leader here, not me.”

“I still ask you.”

A shrill giggle interrupted them. They looked through the window and saw Marco limp painfully across the lawns, Felnia running in front of him. He sat carefully on a stone seat and gazed around, legs stretched out.

“For your sake,” Galen said harshly. “But I pray he won’t steal all of Sarres before the end.”

“You blindfolded him,” Carys pointed out.

He glared at her. “So I did.”

“And now . . .” Solon sat down quickly, as if anxious to change the subject. “I have told my story, and someone, please, must tell me yours. I am eaten up with curiosity.” He looked around the table at them contentedly. “I mean, how did you all come here? And if this is truly the island of Artelan’s Dream, how is it uncorrupted? Above all”—he turned to look at Galen, who was still staring darkly out the window—“above all, keeper, how did you break the ice and speak to the trees with such strength? Because I have never seen the like of that in my life.”

Galen did not turn. He seemed too morose to speak. “We came together in Tasceron,” he said at last, heavy with irony.

“Tasceron!” Solon’s eyes lit. “You’ve been there? There was a strange rumor going around the cells, that the Crow had risen over Tasceron. Is it true? Did you see it?”

Raffi and Carys looked at Galen, who turned slowly.

“No,” he said.

The room went quiet. Carys saw at once that he wanted to keep the Crow a secret, and she thought he was wise. But Raffi was trying to hide his astonishment, and even the Sekoi’s yellow eyes widened a slit.

“We brought the girl here,” Galen said.

Solon looked at Carys.

“Not me,” she laughed. “Felnia.”

“The little one? But why?”

“Because she is the Interrex.” Galen came and sat down.

Solon stared. “The one spoken of in the Apocalypse? ‘Between the kings the Interrex shall come’? But the Emperor is dead . . .”

“She’s the Emperor’s granddaughter,” Raffi said quickly. He looked flurried; Carys wondered whether Galen had given him some mental signal to talk, to keep the conversation off the Crow.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Raffi rubbed his nose distractedly. “It’s a long story. We found her in a Watchhouse.” He explained, while Carys watched Galen. The keeper looked grim, his black hair pushed back. Through the window he watched Marco, sitting, eyes closed in the warm sun. It must hurt, Carys thought. Galen burned to tell Solon, to tell the world, that the Crow had returned, and yet it still wasn’t safe. Though if it hadn’t been for that man outside, Solon would know, she was sure.

Raffi finished his story and Solon stared in solemn astonishment. Finally he said, “So that little minx out there is the ruler of Anara! But yes . . .” Excitedly he turned to Galen. “That must be right! In the sixth chapter of the Apocalypse, Tamar implies that the Crow and the Interrex are somehow linked! They come together. I remember reading various commentaries on it for my studies—the Apocalypse is one of the more enigmatic books, as you know.” He looked around. “My friends, this is a wonderful time we live in. Our next step is obvious. We have to find the Crow!”

Galen fingered the jet and green beads at his neck. He looked almost sick. He was about to speak when Tallis said calmly, “That may not be so. We have something to tell you that not even Galen knows.”

Carys glanced at the Sekoi. It was biting its thumbnail, and smiled back at her archly.

Tallis turned to Galen. “While you’ve been away, we’ve made progress with the console.”

“At last!”

“The console?” Solon murmured.

“A relic. Carys . . . brought it. From the Tower of Song.”

Solon’s eyebrows shot up. “How?”

“We’ll explain later.” Galen leaned across to Tallis, impatient. “What does it say? How much have you read?”

For answer she got up and crossed to a small chest of cedarwood that stood next to the hearth, and opened it. The fire had smoldered low; the Sekoi put some logs on, stirring up the blaze. Tallis came back.

Sitting down, she unwrapped a piece of black velvet and laid the console reverently on the smooth wood.

It was a small gray thing, made of Makers’ material—not cold or warm, not metal or wood, a fabric unknown. Carys looked down at it, remembering the slimy stench of the worm she had fought off to get it. Small square buttons adorned it, each with a symbol. She had seen those many times in training, on relics studied in the Watchhouse, but not even the Order were sure what they meant anymore. Somewhere in the Tower of Song was the Gallery of Candlesticks, where thousands of clerks spent their lives making and breaking codes, but had never managed to decipher these.

Beside it Tallis laid some pieces of paper. Then she folded her fingers together and looked up.

“Galen and I had been trying to study this before he was called away. It is very ancient. I believe the memories inside it are those of one of the Makers themselves, perhaps Tamar, though he never gives his name. It has been difficult to read, because very little power is left in it. Raffi had to use most of it to escape from the Watchhouse, if you remember.”

She touched the papers lightly. “But last week, on the day of Altimet, which I thought might be a good time, we tried again. Myself, and Carys, and our friend the Sekoi.”

Galen looked surprised. Carys grinned at him.

“I needed stronger sense-lines than my own,” Tallis explained. “Carys has much awen, though undirected, and Sekoi energies are powerful, even though they are strange to me. But we had to work in silence for over an hour before we made the entry.”

“Did you use a Web or a Link?” Galen interrupted, and Solon said, “Do the Sekoi have a third eye, then? I have never heard that.”

Tallis smiled. “Keepers. The details can wait. Let’s just say that we managed to insinuate our minds deep into the cracks and crevices of the device. There was a faint stirring of warmth there still, but so thin a whisper that I had to bring it out word by word, in some places letter by letter. Carys wrote the message down. Often we had to stop. It was exhausting.”

“And very peculiar,” the Sekoi muttered. It scratched its fur. “Small sparks like fleas crawled over my skull. And what a thirst I had afterward!”