The Dark City

by Catherine Fisher

  A slither of stones behind them. The Sekoi’s fur prickled.

  “No time to look, keeper.”

  “We have to find it!”

  Carys crouched beside him. “Should have kept my bow,” she whispered.

  Desperate, they groped hurriedly in the dark among the smashed wreckage of rooms; broken pots, cups, tiles, brick and mosaic, shards of glass that glinted in the steamy haze.

  Digging a splinter from his skin, Raffi felt the sense-lines snap, one by one. “They’re here!” he gasped.

  “I don’t care!” Galen roared. “Find it!”

  Sweating with worry, dizzy with the effort of keeping the lines out, Raffi swept a clutter of rubble aside and saw with a leap of his heart a face in the mossed floor. It was a mask of beaten copper, a huge thing, riveted down, and on its forehead, almost trodden out, a ring of six small circles, and in the middle, the seventh.

  “The moons!”

  “What?” Galen was there; his firm hands on the mask, fingers stretched flat, feeling for marks and symbols Raffi couldn’t see, pushing and prodding.

  Behind them, a whistle sounded; another answered, far to the left.

  Then a voice rang out, loud in the darkness. “Galen Harn! Listen to me!”

  Carys’s head jerked up.

  “Galen Harn!” the voice roared again. “This is the end for you! My men are all around you, keeper, so come out and bring your friends with you. Don’t try anything. We’re all armed.”

  Galen’s fingers stopped. Under his hands the slab had moved; with a hoarse whisper it lifted, just a fraction. Out of the black slit came a dry, musty smell.

  “Get something,” he muttered. “Heave it up!”

  The Sekoi jammed a branch under; it splintered but was enough to heave the stone wide; below it they saw a hot steamy darkness that daunted them all till the castellan yelled again.

  “Come out, keeper! Or we come in!”

  “Down,” Galen said.

  Raffi slid in first, feeling Carys follow. There were steps; his feet found them and he went down fast, afraid of falling. Above him, bodies slithered, dust fell.

  Then the slab came down, and shut tight.

  “Keep silent,” Galen hissed. “Don’t move!”

  Around Raffi, the silence breathed. He could feel Carys’s elbow in his chest; looking down he saw only blackness, but far down, something plopped into a pool, a tiny, far-off sound.

  Muffled yells came from above. Something scuffed on the slab; Raffi had a sudden vision of a Watchman standing on it, and then he saw the man as if he was looking up from the ground through the eyes of the copper mask. He swayed, giddy; Carys grabbed him. She said nothing, but her clutch was tight.

  The shouts and scuffs faded.

  After a while Galen’s whisper came down. “Go on, Raffi, as quick as you can. They’ll find the entrance soon enough.”

  Spreading his hands, Raffi felt for the walls. He could only find one, to his right, so he kept his hand on that and shuffled down. It was hot and airless. The steps seemed wide, their edges broken and unsafe; as he went down and down, he waited for his eyes to get used to the dark, but all he saw was blackness.

  His foot met floor. He slid it out carefully. There were no more steps.

  “I’m at the bottom.” His voice rang hollow, as if in a great well.

  He waited till everyone was down, unable to see at all.

  “We should have brought a light.”

  “Maybe we did.” Galen’s voice was close; he sounded pleased.

  A glow loomed over Raffi’s shoulder; he turned in surprise and saw Galen was holding up the globe. It glimmered faintly, a pale light that showed him Carys and the Sekoi’s sharp face, lit with delight.

  “How can you . . . ?” he breathed, but Galen shook his head. “It’s not me. It will show us the way to go.”

  Something thumped, far above. Galen pushed past him. “Hurry! This way.”

  They realized they were in an extraordinary corridor, so narrow that the walls brushed them on both sides, so high the roof was lost in darkness. Galen walked ahead with the globe; it brightened as he went, throwing huge shadows on the walls. These were of some soft earth, and in them were deep slits, marked with plaques and carved symbols. Some were so high that Raffi realized the corridor floor must have been cut away, year after year.

  “What are they?” Carys said.

  “Graves,” he said in awe. “The earliest Archkeepers were buried near the House of Trees. Think how old they are, Carys.”

  She nodded, but all at once he remembered she was one of the enemy, and was angry with her, and himself, and everything.

  They came to a side tunnel; an identical corridor. Ahead, the way forked into two.

  “This is the maze,” Galen said abruptly. “Chapter fifty-six, Raffi.”

  He said the words aloud, without thinking. “For the way to the House of Trees is a maze of ways and choices. Let the wise man tread it carefully. He knows not where the last wrong turn may take him.”

  “And I always thought that meant something else.” Galen shook his head and the green beads glinted at his neck. “But it’s a real maze.”

  “How do we get through it?”

  “The globe.” Galen held it gently in the opening of each tunnel; in the one to the left it seemed slightly brighter.

  “We’ll try here.”

  Following them down the slit, Carys muttered, “We ought to leave some trail. To get back out again.”

  The Sekoi snorted. “Yes, the Watch might like that.

  “I suppose they might.” It sounded as though she was laughing; Raffi glanced back and she winked at him. Behind her, the Sekoi looked unhappy. Troubled, Raffi hurried after Galen.

  The maze was complex. They went as fast as they could, but the passageways grew even narrower, and there were so many of them leading off that Galen had to go a little way into each, watching the globe intently. Twice they took the wrong way, and had to go back as it dimmed.

  Then from the back the Sekoi hissed, “Listen!”

  Something moved, far above. A murmur of sound echoed. “They’re in.” Galen strode on quickly. “There’s not much we can do about it.”

  Feeling the soft dust under his feet, Raffi knew the Watch would follow their tracks easily. All they needed was a lantern. He wondered if Carys had known that, and had been teasing him about leaving a trail. He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything about her.

  Then he walked into Galen’s back. The keeper lifted the globe. It was brilliant now, pulsing with white light. And they saw that the walls around them were no longer made of soil; instead they were strangely woven together; and as Raffi rubbed the dust off he saw that these were branches, hundreds of branches of different trees that had grown and tangled together. Galen held the globe high and they saw a vast doorway in front of them, its doorposts and lintel made of living calarna trees, black with age, and the mark of the Makers, the seven moons, was carved deep in the scented wood.

  After a moment Galen began the words of blessing. Slow and sonorous, they sounded here; the old Makerwords, their meanings almost lost. Raffi made the responses, and the tunnels behind seemed to whisper the sounds back at him, as if all the dead remembered them. The Sekoi fidgeted restlessly, glancing back, and Carys stared up at the doorway as if inside it all her worst nightmares might come true.

  Deep under the city, they had found the House of Trees.

  The trouble was, Raffi thought, taking the globe from Galen, that they had also shown the Watch exactly where it was.

  “Hurry,” the Sekoi murmured.

  The keeper went forward quickly and put both hands to the doors. He pushed hard, as if he expected them to be locked or swollen, but to their astonishment the wooden doors rolled smoothly back with a swish of sound.

  And out of the House came light.

  Blinding light.

  24

  We cannot undo his treachery. For once evil has entered the world, who can
ever root it out?

  Litany of the Makers

  GALEN STRODE INTO THE BLAZE; coming after him, Raffi stared around in amazement. The great room was brilliant with cubes of light, standing on plinths against the walls. Everything was made of wood; the floor of smooth planks, and the walls of the branches of living trees that had grown and tangled in fantastic sculpture. How it had been done, he could not imagine. The scents of the wood were sweet and strong. He breathed them deep; they soothed him, like the forest at night.

  All around, in strange arrangements, were relics; boxes of every size, dishes and plates of smooth strange materials, statues, pictures, books; a set of small shining discs that glimmered with a rainbow sheen as Galen held one up. Everything had been arranged, put on display, and among the relics were hundreds of half-burned candles with the mark of the Order on them. It was a shrine, untouched since the secret of it died with the last Archkeeper to have closed the great doors. And behind, coming from everywhere, a faint whine, almost too thin to hear.

  “What are all these things?” Carys touched a plate.

  “The belongings of the Makers,” Galen said. She looked at him. His face was unsmiling, but inside he was exultant; it cracked his voice and lit his eyes. “This is where they lived. Flain’s own house. The Order kept it as he left it, for always. This is the most holy place.” He rubbed his face uneasily. “We profane it by bringing outsiders here.”

  The Sekoi glanced back. “Keeper, we need to close those doors.”

  As Galen took no notice, it ran back; Raffi went too. “Galen is overcome,” the creature muttered. “He doesn’t care. But I can’t forget the Watch. Hurry, Raffi!”

  Together they rolled the great doors closed, but there seemed to be no way of locking them. Looking around hastily, the Sekoi caught hold of a heavy table and began to drag it. “Help me!” it hissed.

  For a second Raffi paused, terrified to disturb anything; then he too tugged at the dark wood. After all, if the Watch got in, nothing would be left.

  They jammed the table tight against the doors. Galen was watching. “It won’t stop them.” Then he turned. “Come and see this.”

  It was a picture in a book. Not a painting. A picture that was real. Raffi stared at it, his skin crawling with delight. He was looking at another world.

  The sky was very dark, darker than possible, and in it hung a moon, only one, but enormous, with dim smudges of land and splinter-rays of bright craters. Around it, the stars shone in unknown patterns, frosty bright.

  Hands trembling, Galen fumbled in other books. Images of animals, trees, birds, some like owls and bee-birds that they knew; but there were others that made Carys gasp aloud—great gray beasts, striped night-cats, a myriad of odd species bizarrely shaped, intricately colored, completely unknown.

  The Sekoi chewed its nails. “Galen . . .”

  “Another world,” he said, rapt. “The world of the Makers!”

  There was a crash at the door. The table shuddered.

  Galen took no notice. His eyes had fixed on a small silver device on the table in the center of the room. He crossed to it and touched it in awe. There were five touchpanels, like Raffi had seen on relics before; these would operate it. Each had an unknown symbol, set in a circle, and above them were words: COMMUNICATIONS RELAY—OUTER WORLDS.

  They were set on a panel, the shape of which made Raffi forget the pounding at the door and the hammering of his heart. A sign that was the most secret, guarded image of the Order; a black bird with spread wings, holding a globe.

  The Crow!

  Staring at it, he breathed, “But the Crow is a man!”

  Something crashed against the door. Carys spun around.

  “No. The Crow is a relic.” Galen was still for a split second; then he grabbed Raffi and sent him sprawling back. “Block that door! Keep them out! Do whatever it takes!”

  Feverishly his fingers danced over the panel.

  Raffi and the Sekoi threw themselves against the table; they jolted it back and piled everything they could find against it.

  “More!” the Sekoi yelled.

  “There’s nothing big enough!”

  “Then do something.” Carys grabbed his hand. “You can, Raffi!”

  Closing his eyes, he threw force-lines around it, bound it tight with all the energies he could summon. As if the Makers lingered here, he found it easier than before; the very earth in this place was sacred, it gave him power, fed him, and he laughed aloud.

  The door shivered; someone outside yelled in anger.

  He ran back to Galen. “Is it working?”

  “Not yet! Not yet!” Galen’s face was tense; his fingers stabbed each symbol, working out sequences frantically. Behind him, the Sekoi crouched, its fur bristling.

  Carys gripped the table. “Perhaps it doesn’t work. It’s too old . . . !”

  “Be quiet! Pray, Raffi. Pray.”

  Galen didn’t have to tell him. But the Crow was silent. No spark came from it, no flicker of life.

  And then the room was humming. Amazed, they stared around. It was coming from everywhere and nowhere; it lay in the air and was full of distance; small crackles and hisses, a listening sound.

  “Makers. Can you hear me?” Galen asked in a whisper.

  Something spoke. It was the voice of a ghost, garbled, distorted in bursts of static. All they knew was that it had asked a question. Galen was shivering, pale with dread and joy. He gripped his hands together. “Hear me,” he breathed. “We need you! Hear me, lords!”

  Far away, eons away, the Makers answered. “We hear you. Who is this? What frequency are you on?”

  Galen’s voice was unsteady. “I am Galen Harn, of the Order. Masters, come back to us! The world is slipping into the dark. Tasceron is fallen; the Emperor is dead. Do you know what’s happening on your world, lords? We need you! Come back to us.”

  A hiss of static. Behind them the door was jerking open; chairs crashing down. Only the Sekoi glanced back.

  When the voice came again it was broken, the words fuzzy and slow, as if spoken distinctly and urgently, over and over.

  “What . . . world? What world?”

  Galen made the sign of blessing. “Anara,” he breathed. “Are there others?”

  The answer was a crackle of noise. “Wait . . . light-years. Are you . . . colonists?”

  Galen gripped the table. “Say it again,” he pleaded. “What did you say? Will you come?” But the hissing faded out and died.

  The Crow was silent.

  Galen bent over it, his face dark, and then slowly he straightened, and his eyes met Raffi’s.

  “They said they would come. They said, ‘Wait.’”

  “I’m not sure . . .”

  “They will, Raffi! I know they will!”

  With a crack that turned Raffi sick, the force-lines exploded; the doors crashed wide, men leaped across the table.

  Galen turned, standing in front of the Crow. The Watchmen stared at him, then around, curiously; each had a loaded bow and they were all pointing at Galen. Dizzy, Raffi pulled himself up and watched the castellan shoulder his way through.

  He was a gray, bearded man. He folded his arms and looked at them all in silence.

  “This is a great day for the Watch,” he said softly.

  It was Carys who moved. She came out from behind the Sekoi and said irritably, “You took your time! Where have you been?”

  Raffi stared at her with horror.

  The castellan smiled. “We had some trouble. Been wishing we were here, have you?”

  She shrugged and crossed to him. “They know about me. Things were getting a little difficult.”

  “So what have I missed?”

  She turned around and looked at Galen, her face set and hard. “The keeper will tell you. Show them the Crow, Galen. Show them now.”

  25

  The leaves of the trees shall cry out for joy, for behold, the stars have spoken.

  Apocalypse of Tamar

  G
ALEN STARED AT HER; their eyes met. He stepped back, until the Crow was on the table between them, and he spread his hands over it. For Raffi it was a moment of black despair. She had told them. It was all over.

  Then the light went dim. The Watchmen looked around uneasily.

  “Take your hands off that device,” the castellan called sharply.

  Galen looked up. His face was wild and triumphant. “Too late,” he said.

  The thought-bolts burst from him like fire; they exploded among the Watchmen, who yelled and scattered and dropped their bows. Two turned and ran. The doors slammed tight.

  “Pick those weapons up!” the castellan raged. He grabbed one, raised it, and shot the bolt straight at Galen. Raffi gave a strangled yell, but the bolt had already burst into brilliant flames of green and black; then it shattered, sending pieces crashing across the hall.

  Astonished, the Watchmen stood still.

  “Take their weapons,” Galen said harshly.

  After a second, the Sekoi pushed past him. It snatched the bows quickly from the men’s hands, gripping them with its seven fingers, a wide, happy smirk on its face. Then it dumped the pile against the wall and stood over them.

  “What . . . who are you?” the castellan muttered.

  The lights flickered, turned green. Galen was standing upright above the device; power from it filled him, flowed from him; he was flooded with it, Raffi could feel it, a wild, exulting joy that surged out of him.

  “I am the Crow,” he breathed. His voice was raw and strange; in the brightness his eyes were black.

  Raffi found himself trembling, shaking with fear, his hands clutched in the sign of blessing. The Sekoi crouched beside him, one hand on his shoulder.

  It was Carys who answered, tense with excitement. “How can you be?”

  Galen was taller, his face dark and hooked. Energy surged through him in crackles and sparks of color; Raffi saw blue and purple and silver threads of it flicker through the dark. Immense shadow loomed behind him, seeming to rustle and flap.