The Margrave by Catherine Fisher Page A

turned, his dark, hooked face eyeing them sidelong. “If faith dies, Raffi,” he whispered, “what’s left?”
    Into the terrible silence the Sekoi said, “They will come. My people know that.”
    “It will be too late. Unless the Margrave is destroyed.”
    Raffi shivered; he felt confused and chilled, but he pulled himself up onto his knees. “Not me. I can’t be part of this.”
    Galen came back. He said sourly, “You go where I go.”
    “No. Not Maar.” He was shaking, and his teeth were almost chattering with sudden cold, with the reaction, but he stammered it out anyway. “The Margrave is looking for me. Carys says so. He wants me . . . He . . . he doesn’t want you.”
    For a moment the hall was utterly silent. A door banged, far off in the castle. The fires flared up. And softly, Galen laughed. His laugh was cold, and rare, and it never failed to chill Raffi to the soul.
    “It’s true,” Raffi whispered hopelessly. “I know it’s true!”
    “You! What in God’s name does he want with you!”
    “I don’t know!” Raffi hugged himself. “I just—”
    “So this is what you’ve been terrifying yourself with since the Coronet. You saw him in that vision and it was just too much for you.” Galen stood over him, then crouched and faced him. “You’ve let it prey on your mind, Raffi, and if I keep secrets from you, you do the same, and yours are just as destructive. The Margrave doesn’t want you, he doesn’t even know who you are! This is a vision-echo and it has to be overcome before it grows and smothers you!”
    It was useless. He had always known Galen would never believe him. Now the keeper dragged him up and dumped him on a chair, then limped to the fire, leaning on the high mantel. He looked drained, as if some vast energy had washed out of him.
    “There’s only one way of dealing with it. As for Carys,” he muttered, staring into the fire, “do you think I haven’t blamed myself over and over for that? I prayed we’d find her here . . .”
    “We could get her back. Give up the Margrave.”
    “No. I swore an oath and I meant every word of it. But first we both need to pray and fast for forgiveness. For our weakness. And then—”
    “You’ll leave. How lovely.” Alberic was leaning in the doorway, Godric behind him. Raffi wondered dully how much they had overheard. Galen looked over. There was something in his spent anguish that wiped the sly smile off the dwarf’s face.
    “We stay. At least until Soren’s Day. We hold the feast here—reopen the shrine and do it properly, as it should be done. Because on that day”—he glanced at Raffi, his eyes black and hurt—“my scholar, my loyal, exemplary scholar, will finally attempt the Deep Journey.”
    Alberic glanced at Raffi’s white face. “Him?” he muttered drily. “He looks scared stiff to me.”

10
    Starmen are curious about our friendship with the owls. It is more than friendship. The Silent Ones and the Sekoi speak one tongue and have one concern. There is little else I can say without betraying secrets, but this much is true— that when Anara is cleansed, they and we shall rule together.
     
    Words of a Sekoi Karamax,
recorded by Kallebran
    S CALA SLEPT CURLED UP, her hair loose on the pillow. There was something childlike about her like that, Carys thought, taking another step back, feeling for the door handle. And it was the strangest of the moons, Atterix, that was shining on her, through the bare window of the cottage, the pale light falling over the small collection of cracked cups and plates on the dresser.
    Her fingers touched the bolt. She drew it back, wincing at the faint squeak. The inner curtain to the storeroom stayed closed. Quist was in there on a mattress, squeezed between sacks of grain and hanging, overripe cheeses.
    Scala slept without moving.
    Gently Carys pushed the door open and slipped through. The night was brilliant with moonlight. Atterix and Agramon, Pyra and Lar were all full, and far