The Dark City

by Catherine Fisher

  “I knew at once that power was still in it and that it was dangerous. After the Makers had gone, many of their devices ran out of control. This one was evil. I told the boy to move the people away. I opened my mind to it, saw it, all the colors and lights about it, all the threads of power. Then I came closer. Carefully, I touched it.”

  He sat back and laughed bleakly. “That’s all I remember.”

  She glanced at Raffi, wide-eyed.

  “It exploded,” he said quietly. “The noise! It was incredible. The forest burned; the villagers fled, most of them. I ran back, though my nose and ears were bleeding. Galen was lying there. For a moment I thought he was dead . . .”

  “I was dead.” Galen’s voice was harsh. “I still am. It’s gone, keeper, all of it. I have only two eyes like other men, and see nothing more than they do. When the wind blows in the trees I hear only the wind. Nothing more. The traces of the Makers are lost. My mind is a great silence.”

  “Nothing?”

  “No bird-speech, no earth-lines, none of the world’s million voices. No mind-speech. No dreams.”

  She watched him closely, full of horror; Raffi could feel it seeping from her like a musky scent. “How do you survive?” she whispered.

  “Prayer,” he said bleakly. “And whatever the boy can do.”

  She was silent, plaiting the folds of her red skirt with her fingers. “And you think in Tasceron there might be someone left to help you?”

  “More than that.” He glanced at the door. “Where are the Watch?”

  “Saddling up. They don’t suspect anything. They don’t know everyone here, and these two are too old for their Watchhouses.” She pulled a face. “I hope they’ll have forgotten you by next time.”

  Galen nodded. He shuffled a little closer, the flames edging his face with shadow. “Twice,” he said quietly, “we’ve had word of something very strange. Both messages were the same—that the Crow is alive, and in the city.”

  “The Crow! Impossible!”

  His face darkened with anger. “Don’t call me a liar! Marcus Torna couldn’t have taught you that.”

  “I’m sorry.” Lerin shook her head ruefully. “I’m sorry, keeper, I was wrong. Nothing is impossible to God. But the Crow! I thought . . . nothing of the Makers is left whole. Why should he be left?”

  “Why not?” Galen got up abruptly, as if he couldn’t sit still any longer. He prowled to the window and stared out at the rain. “Why not? The Makers have gone, but they knew the future. They may have foreseen the destruction of the Order. They may have left us their messenger, buried deep under the ruins, for us to find him when we need him most!” He turned urgently. “It’s an omen, Lerin, I know it is! The Crow can cure me, maybe, but more than that, he can cure the world. He can rid us of the Watch!”

  A tiny sound at the door made Raffi stiffen. But Galen hadn’t heard it and Lerin was thinking deeply and gave no sign. Raffi could feel Carys close. Perhaps she was listening. But he wasn’t bothered about that, the relief was so great. Now someone else knew. And surely Lerin would try to talk him out of it. She had to.

  After a while she looked up.

  “You think I’m on a fool’s errand,” Galen said drily.

  She shrugged. “Perhaps I do. On the other hand I can see why you have to go. If it could be true . . .”

  “It is! I’m sure of it.”

  She frowned. “But keeper, think of the immensity of Tasceron! There are a million streets, whole warrens of ruined districts. Flames burst from the ground; the air is always black. It would take a lifetime to search, even to stay alive.”

  “We’ll be told where to look.” Galen was obstinate. “There will be messages. We just need faith.”

  She nodded, rather sadly. Perhaps she realized, as Raffi did, finally and hopelessly, that Galen had made up his mind and nothing would change it. Perhaps she knew he could only stay sane if he had some hope.

  She stood up, the green and blue awen-beads slipping against her neck. “You’ll need a ship. We trade with a village on the coast—a day’s walk from here. There’s a harbor there; ships cross the Narrow Sea. We’ll get you on one.”

  “The Watch.”

  “Don’t worry. As I said, the people here are my family.”

  “I’m grateful,” Galen said with a grim joy.

  “One thing.” The woman faced him. “I have a feeling of foreboding on me, keeper. Dark dreams came to me all night, and I fear you may be walking to your death. So I give you this warning from the Makers. Your life is sacred. The knowledge you have is sacred. You have no right to throw it away in defiant risks. Above all, you have no right to risk the boy’s life. There have been enough martyrs. Hear this, Galen Harn.”

  Her voice had changed and darkened. Raffi shivered. All at once she seemed full of some authority that made her face grave and beautiful, and yet was gone in an instant, as if someone else had been there.

  “I hear.” Galen bowed his head, shaken and uneasy. “I hear you, lords.”

  THEY STAYED IN the village for two days, eating well and sleeping late. The Watch had gone, taking three goats, some chickens, and the curses of the villagers. Now they nodded to the travelers with quiet respect. Raffi was used to this but it amused Carys.

  “They really think you’re special.”

  He looked at her, surprised. “So they should. Most people still have respect for the Order.”

  Cursing herself, she nodded. “I know that.”

  They walked on among the houses, the hens squawking away. She thought back to the mumbles of conversation she had heard through the door, once the wretched old woman had finally dozed off. The Crow again. But more, some things she’d missed.

  “Raffi,” she said suddenly. “How did you know Arno’s name?”

  He was watching three children play in a puddle. Their mother came out and smacked them. “Names are easy,” he said. “They lie on the surface, like a tiger-flower. Bright, with deep roots.”

  “So why did Galen have to ask you?”

  He glanced at her angrily. “You don’t know much about keepers, Carys. He’s always testing me. I’m his pupil.” He looked away. “Let’s climb the hill. I’ll race you to the top.” And he ran, clambering over the rocks, jamming his feet in the rabbit holes, not waiting to see if she followed, because he hated lying to her, and was ashamed of it.

  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 DA
RK 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.”

  Raffi was astonished. “The way the power moves through your hands . . .” he murmured.

  Galen almost flinched. Then he said, “I know.”

  “I didn’t mean . . . I’m sorry . . .”

  “Quiet!” The keeper turned on him fiercely. “That’s enough!”

  Carys watched them. Then she turned and looked out at the circle of fog, a clear rim. And she saw, growing out of the sea, a forest of huge blackened trees, straight and bare, their branches high above, arching like tunnels over the green swell.

  “What’s that!”

  Galen glared at it savagely and didn’t answer. At her back, Arno murmured, “The drowned forest. The Forest of Karsh.”

  She had heard of it. The great black trees rose like pillars, their roots deep underwater, and as they sailed close to one she saw the hardness of the wood, fossilized and ridged, like rock.

  “Are they alive?” she whispered.

  “They must be. I can feel them,” Raffi said. Then he winced, as if he’d been stung.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Sense-lines. Something’s coming!” He spun around to Galen. “Behind us. A ship. Very close!”

  “Watchpatrol!” The skipper turned and leaped up the steps to the upper deck, yelling frantic orders. A new sail plumped out. The ship shuddered and slewed.

  “You’ll never outrun them,” Carys muttered. She stared back. “I can’t see anything.”

  “They’re there.” Galen slammed the rail in fury; then he turned and yelled, “Into the trees! Take us into the trees!”

  “Keeper, I can’t!” The skipper stared down at him, aghast. “No one sails in there! There are no soundings—no one has ever mapped all the shoals and currents, the channels . . . And God knows what lives in there!”

  With a mutter of fury, Galen raced up the steps and caught him by the coat. “And what happens when the Watch sail out of the fog? Do you think they won’t know a weather-warding when they see it? Get in there before they see the name of your ship! Or do you want to be rammed out of the w
ater!”

  The man stared at him, white-faced. Then he twisted. “Hard aport! Get that topmast gallant down! Do it!”

  Slowly, unwillingly, the ship turned; sliding toward the dark gap between the two nearest trees.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to bring the fog back?” Carys said uneasily.

  Raffi shook his head. “Can’t. Not now. The spell will last for hours.”

  “Then they’ll always be able to tell where we are.”

  “If they come in after us.”

  “Oh, they’ll come in,” she muttered.

  The gap widened. As they entered it, a green dimness fell over their faces; high above them the stark branches stirred and they saw that dim leaves hung in strange clusters. In here it was dark, the only sounds the grunts of men furling the heavy sail and, looking behind them, Raffi saw the open sea beyond the entrance to their tunnel, the ship’s wake sending ripples and swell slapping and clooping against the black rigid columns of the trees.

  And then, just where the mist ended out there, he glimpsed the prow of a ship breaking out into the sunshine, the great silver eye painted on its side staring at him over the green water, and he shuddered, as if something had seen right to the heart of him.

  Then they turned among the trees, and the daylight was blocked.

  “Did they see us?”

  “Who knows,” Galen growled. “If they did, they’ll come.”

  It was eerily silent, but for the wave-slap, the echoes. On each side of them the trees rose like black pillars in some gloomy, flooded hall; a forest waist-deep in dark water, stretching into dimness, stinking of decay, the crisp leaves rustling overhead. How strong they must be, Raffi thought, still growing as they had a thousand years ago, as if they’d never noticed the sea that drowned them.

  The ship was deep inside now. The light was a green gloom; strange birds whistled. The branches over his head swished, as if some invisible creature leaped and followed. The skipper hung over the water, watching, afraid of a crash. The ship moved on mysterious currents, without any wind they could feel. Raffi saw how the crew clustered together, staring in fear into the depths of the still, drowned trees. Of the Watchship they could see nothing, and no daylight either. The deeper in they went, the darker the trees became.