Raffi yawned. “Ten hours, nearly.”

The room was black, lit only with two guttering candles and the dull ashes of the fire. It was the second night since the Feast, and Galen was deep in the dreamcoma.

The others took turns to come and go, but Raffi had to stay. It was part of his duty as Galen’s scholar—though even without that, he knew he could never have settled to anything else.

The keeper lay on a couch near the fire, to keep him warm. He lay still, without a flicker of movement, the sullen light making strange quivers over his face, his long hair. He was far, far away. Reaching out now, Raffi’s sense-lines could find no trace of him, only a great vacancy like a black pit, so that Raffi had to pull back from its edge, cold fear churning his stomach. It had happened before. In every meditation Galen walked far. But Raffi could never get used to that emptiness.

He was tired, though he’d slept a few hours, curled in the corner while Carys and Tallis kept watch. Now, with the Sekoi here, he felt a bit more wakeful.

“If I drank this well-water,” the creature mused, propping its spindly legs up on a chair, “would this happen to me?”

Raffi shrugged. “It did when I drank it.”

“I remember! What a panic we were in! But you have had some training.”

“Not much. I’m on the fourth branch.”

“And that isn’t high?” the Sekoi asked politely.

“No.” Raffi prowled over and put a log on the fire. “Not really.”

“We’ve been too busy for you to be learning much, maybe. And now”—it looked at him slyly out of one eye—“now we have to travel again.”

“Yes.” Raffi sat down, staring at the sizzling log. He felt gloom creep over him.

The Sekoi nodded smugly, as if Raffi had confirmed something. “You want to stay,” it said.

Raffi didn’t deny it. He didn’t say anything. All his mind was full of the last two days: the Feast with its tables of food, the warm comfortable rooms, the small, silly presents everyone had made for each other. Felnia dancing with Marco to the small viola that Tallis played, the Sekoi singing one of its endless tuneless songs with a chorus that convulsed Carys into hysterics.

In Sarres everything was clean, warm, ordered; everything was as it should be. There were set times for lessons and reading and work and just playing around. The Litany was said properly; all the feasts and fasts he had half forgotten were remembered. Above all there was no Watch, no fear, no constant staying alert, moving on. But it was a failing of his, this wanting to hide, to be safe. Galen had warned him about it. They were never out of the hands of the Makers if they did the work of the Order. Wherever it led them.

Galen’s hand twitched.

Instantly the Sekoi was bending over him, Raffi hovering anxiously. The keeper’s hand clenched, as if he gripped something invisible. Behind them, Solon came in and said in a quiet voice, “If he doesn’t come out by morning, Tallis and I will go in for him.”

“His breathing’s changed.” The Sekoi spread its long hands over Galen’s chest and looked up. “I think he’s waking.”

The sense-lines were coming back. Raffi could feel them, flooding the dark room with a charge of energy, surging from somewhere incredibly remote.

Solon came quickly, feeling Galen’s pulse. He gave a sidelong look at Raffi and said, “Your master has a strange energy. I can feel it swooping into him like a great darkness. As if something wilder than himself lived in him.” He smiled, puzzled.

Raffi looked down.

“He never did tell me,” the Archkeeper said gently, “how he broke the ice. Will you tell me, Raffi?”

“Ask him yourself,” the Sekoi muttered, to Raffi’s relief. “He’s awake.”

Galen’s eyes opened. For a second he seemed to stare at nothing, but then his gaze focused and he pushed himself up on one hand stiffly.

“How long?” he croaked.

“Ten hours.” Raffi had water ready; he poured a cupful and Galen drank thirstily, all their eyes intent on him.

“Well?” Solon asked eagerly. “Did you learn anything? Did the Makers speak to you?”

The keeper glanced up, his hooked face shadowed with weary hollows. Echoes and taints of strange images flowed from him, a crackle of light around his hands that made Solon stare.

“Oh yes,” he whispered.

“The Ride,” Tallis observed. Today she was a small girl; she and Felnia were making a huge daisy chain, working one at each end.

“The Ride, yes. As soon as I had controlled that, I began to direct the dream. I spoke to Flain and asked him about the Coronet, to show me where it was and whether it was our duty to find it. When I had finished, I looked down and saw Anara.”

“The whole planet?” Solon asked, surprised.

“Yes. I was high above it, among the moons and stars. Below me I could see the vast expanse of the sea, and the Finished Lands were green and healthy, but so small, Archkeeper, so tiny from that height! And as the planet turned I saw the Unfinished Lands, over half the globe and spreading; a terrible, churning destruction, a world burning and dissolving and erupting into chaos.

“The sight filled me with a sort of horror, but then someone called my name, and I turned. There were the moons, all seven of them, making the Arch behind me; Atelgar and Lar, Cyrax, Pyra, Agramon, Karnos, and Atterix, and I seemed to be drifting just above their surfaces. How different they all are!” He frowned, remembering. “Agramon is smooth and white. There is nothing on it at all, no hills or valleys, its surface is as smooth as a ball, and yet there are ruined buildings there, and a thing that looks like a broken dome. And Pyra burns, her face is ravaged. Smoke comes in great plumes from explosions deep within her.”

“This is an amazing vision,” Solon muttered.

“It gets stranger.” Galen scratched his hair. “It would take too long to tell you all I saw of the moons, but after an endless time I found a silver staircase and walked down it; a long, long descent until I was in a place full of animals. A jungle.”

He frowned. “There were creatures there I had never imagined. And I was inside them. First I was a night-cat, then a long winding vesp, then a wasp. I changed into hundreds of shapes, slithering from one to another; I lost count, lost all sense of myself. The colors and scents bewildered me—did you know, Solon, that a hammerbird sees only blue, everything blue, while a grendel’s eyes fracture light into a million colors we have no names for and can’t even dream? It was exhilarating and terrifying. I grew wings and fur and beaks and tails, I was huge and then tiny, shifting between shapes until my whole body ached for it to stop but it just went on, the creatures more warped now, with spines, too many eyes, deformed legs and minds. I became all the deliberate horrors Kest has made, seeing through their eyes, feeling their agony. I was broken and evil, full of hate. I was blind and unfeeling. My veins burned with poisons.”

Felnia stared at him, fascinated, the daisy chain forgotten in the grass.

Galen paused. When he went on, his voice was harsh, rigorously controlled. “Finally, all in an instant, I became something brimming with intelligence. I thought I was back to myself and looked at my hands, but they were misshapen, with bent nails, and they were holding a mirror, so I raised it and looked in. I saw . . . a face. Beyond the darkest of nightmares. Long, reptilian, yet with a snout like a jackal’s, or a tomb-dog’s, and eyes that were so evil I had to close them, because I feared for my soul if I looked into them. And then the laughter came, and it wasn’t me that was laughing but the Margrave, and yet I was inside the laughter, I was trapped in it and couldn’t get out.”

He stopped.

In the silence a bird sang carelessly just above them. Small fleecy clouds crossed the sky.

Galen’s whole body was tense. Slowly he relaxed; his palms were wet with sweat.

Solon was pale. “Everywhere we turn,” he whispered, “we meet this creature.”

“And you saw him?” Carys asked.

“Clearly.” Galen half glanced at Marco, then rubbed his face with his hands and went on grimly. “Everything went dark. I wandered in confusion after that. The vision was broken for hours, years, it seemed. I began to think I would never get out. Until I saw a small yellow flower, lying on the ground.”

“Flainscrown!” Raffi sat up.

“Yes.” Galen’s eyes lit. “As soon as I saw it, I knew I was myself. I picked it up, and beyond it there was another, and then another. I followed them.”

“Like the story of the children in the wood,” Felnia put in gravely.

They all laughed, breaking the tension. Galen reached over and pushed her into the grass. “Like that, yes.” He looked at Carys. “Someone had been strewing them, so I followed, and walked out of the darkness into a green field. There in front of me were seven girls wearing yellow dresses. Each had a basket; they were spreading the flowers on the ground in a great circle. I walked up to them, and knew who they were.”

“The seven sisters,” Carys muttered.

“Exactly. Atelgar, Lar, Cyrax, all of them. Pyra was the youngest, Agramon the eldest. They stood around me in a ring on the grass and they walked, Carys, all around me, laughing and saying, ‘Look at us, keeper. Look at us!’ until I was dizzy and sick with it and all I seemed to see was light, seven flickers of falling light getting so close, they were burning me. I reached out and pushed one away. And then . . .” He shrugged, shaking his head. “Then I woke up.”

There was silence. Into it Marco said drily, “I must try some of that well-water myself!”

Galen glared at him in sudden cold fury, but Solon was nodding. “Fascinating! ‘Look at us.’ That was what they said. Do you notice how you saw the moons twice? Once as worlds, as they are, and once as the sisters, as they appear in tales. They were also strewing the flowers. To lead you to them.”

Marco grinned, but Solon looked at him sharply. “Don’t mock us, old friend.”

“Sorry,” the bald man said, “but I fail to see how you can get to—”

“Not get to them. Look at them. There is a place where we can do that. About twenty miles east of Tasceron.”

“The observatory!” Carys said suddenly.

Tallis nodded. “So I have been thinking.”

“What’s that?” Felnia asked bluntly, and Raffi was glad because he didn’t know either.

“It’s a tower,” Carys said. “The Order used to use it for observing the moons. There were relics there—it was one of the sites we studied on the Relic Recognition course.”

“I’m glad you know so much about it,” Solon said mildly. “You must give us that course someday. But it would be the obvious place to start looking. There were once detailed plans of the moons there. Nothing may remain. But it seems clear the Makers wish us to link the Coronet with the moons in some way.”

“I suppose so.” Galen looked at Tallis, who threaded a last daisy and nodded.

“Yes. Though I wish the Margrave had not appeared in your vision.” She glanced at Raffi. “That disturbs me.”

The Sekoi folded its long fingers, thoughtful.

“I only wish,” Solon said impulsively, “that you had had some message about the Crow!”

Galen stood up. He looked down at Marco darkly.

“Maybe the Crow will make himself known on the way.”