Galen had the relic-glass open and was looking through it. “Double gates. Dogs. Guard post at each end,” he said grimly.

A Watchman came out of one of the small buildings, paced slowly over the bridge and into the other. Nothing else moved.

Galen snapped up the tube.

“May I look at that?” Marco sounded fascinated.

Galen glared at him. Then, to Raffi’s surprise, he handed the relic over, watching as the man fingered it. Marco whistled in envy. “This would make a thousand, maybe two, on the market.”

Behind them Solon sighed from his seat on the beech roots. “I don’t know which of you is crueler to the other,” he said severely.

Galen said nothing.

Marco gave the relic back; the keeper’s hand closed over it tightly.

A crackle of twigs made them turn, alert, but Raffi had already sensed Carys and the Sekoi coming back, climbing carefully up the slippery, crumbling bank, ankle-deep in fallen leaves.

Carys had cut her hair very short and dyed it red. As she clambered over the top and stood, hands on hips, getting her breath, she looked strange, like someone new. “There’s a place upstream,” she gasped. “Some rocks. It looks shallow enough, but fast.”

The Sekoi sat down, disgusted. “I hate water,” it muttered.

Galen looked at Solon. “I don’t think we have any choice. The bridge will be too difficult. Will you manage?”

Solon gave a gracious smile. “My son, I’ve waded many rivers in my time. With Flain’s help I’ll manage one more.”

“Then lead on, Carys. If you’re sure.”

She didn’t move. “I’m not. You’ll need to tell me what you think.”

“Why?” Marco asked.

“It’s too obviously a good place to cross. They must know about it. I would think there’ll be pits out in the river, or underwater nets.” She frowned. “There must be something.”

Galen looked at her. “Let’s go down,” he said at last. “We may be able to tell.”

The path was rocky, winding between birches and beeches and firethorns, a slippery, treacherous trail they had been following for days through the high woods. It was an outlaw-road, used only by thieves and keepers and, Raffi suspected, the Sekoi, on their mysterious journeys. Now they left it and plunged down the slope. Raffi let his sense-lines ripple out through the empty wood, feeling the dim gathering of winter twilight, the cold, curled hibernation of hedgehogs and small furred rootvoles deep in their hollows under the leaves. Far to the east a rosy glow still lit distant cliffs, but as they descended into the valley, the sun faded out, the short afternoon already darkening. Slithering down the slope Raffi allowed himself one brief memory of the warmth of Sarres.

They had left the island five days ago, Tallis and Felnia standing hand in hand on the lawns watching them go, the Guardian tall and young, her long hair in its thick braid. Felnia had wanted to come, and she’d stormed and scowled at them until they were almost lost in the mist. Then, just as Raffi had stepped onto the wicker causeway, she’d wailed his name and he’d turned.

“This time,” she’d hissed, “get me that present!”

But the fog had closed in and Sarres was gone.

Since then, they had plunged back into winter. At first Raffi had thought he was the only one worried by the cold, but over the last day or so he’d become aware of Galen’s growing unease. The spring was far too late. On the beech trees now, as he slid among their smooth roots, all the black buds were tightly furled. No birds sang. For the last two nights the frost had been bitter. Small bulbs were barely poking through the leaf-drift. And something felt wrong. Like a clock with a tick slightly lagging, a melody that dragged half a note behind.

Galen knew. So, Raffi guessed, did Solon, but none of them had spoken of it yet.

Missing his footing, Raffi slid abruptly and sat down hard, the Sekoi glancing back and laughing at him. They worked their way slowly along the treacherous bank, Solon leaning on the trees and easing himself down.

Near the bottom, Carys was waiting.

When they caught up, she led them along a narrow path cautiously.

“It’s all right,” Raffi said. “There’s no one around.”

She glared back at him. “I’ve never understood how you know that.”

“Sense-lines. It’s easier with three of us.” For a moment he thought of the dark days of Galen’s accident and shivered.

“But what are they?”

“Feelings. Strings of them. Like the ripples in a pool.”

She made a snorting sound. “You’ll have to teach me.”

“I can’t. You’re not in the Order. Besides, only some people can do it.”

She grinned over her shoulder. “I could do it.”

“Yes. I’ll bet you could.”

“Bet?” The Sekoi’s voice was sly in his ear. “How much?”

But Carys had stopped. “This is it, Galen.”

Below, the path sloped to a shingly spit. The river, called the Wyren, ran fast here, its brown water rippling into white foam against the rocks. They had to cross it, but both bridges so far had been well guarded, and the river didn’t seem to be getting any narrower.

Looking over, Raffi saw holly and scrubby low bushes on the far bank. There seemed to be some sort of muddy foreshore there too. In the middle of the stream a few large rocks jutted. A bird was perched on one, a heavy mud-colored creature with a huge horny beak. It flew off with a troubled, mournful cry when it saw them.

Nothing else moved.

Galen’s glance traveled across the brown, rippling water. Raffi knew how difficult this was; his own sense-lines had easily been swirled away by the rapid energies of the river.

At last the keeper said, “There’s nothing of the Watch here.”

“You think.” Marco looked doubtful. He climbed down the bank and crouched on the shingle, fingering long grooves in it. “Something fairly big was dragged up here not long ago.”

“Yes, but Galen is right.” Solon eased himself down and took off his long gray coat with a shiver. “There is nothing unnatural, as there would be if the river was staked or netted. It seems as good a place as any.”

He crouched and began to wash his hands in the stream, rubbing away green lichen from the trees. Galen watched him; Solon glanced up.

“My son? Do you want to try elsewhere?”

“No.” The keeper limped down to join him. “We haven’t time. It will be dark in an hour.”

He was right, but they all felt a little uneasy. The place was too silent, and the roaring of the icy water chilled them. The Sekoi took some rope from its pack and tied one end firmly to a beech trunk. Then it turned, reluctant.

“Who goes first?”

“I do.” Galen and Marco said it together, and their eyes met. “Because,” Marco went on calmly, “I was once a sailor and have swum wilder seas than this. Also, I don’t have a stiff leg that bothers me. Thanks to Sarres I’m as fit as I’ve ever been.”

Galen looked at him coldly but didn’t argue. The Sekoi handed the rope over; Marco tied it around his broad chest and waded in.

“Be careful,” Solon said anxiously.

“Old friend, I fully intend to be.”

It must have been freezing, but he was strong, and at first the water was shallow. About five paces out he staggered slightly, and then was suddenly up to his chest, the roaring current foaming under his lifted arms. The Sekoi let the rope out, so that it dipped in the water and whipped up taut, flinging off drops like tiny crystals.

The river raged. Glints and whirls of it slid through Raffi’s skull. A flash of phosphorescence, green as glass.

Marco struggled on. He was nearly at the rocks now, but the current dragged mercilessly at him, so that he jerked sideways. The Sekoi wound the rope around its thin wrists, heaving back; Galen grabbed on too.

Marco called something, words lost in the water-roar. His hand came up and pointed, dripping.

“What?” Carys shouted.

Another flicker. Raffi felt it shoot toward him, green and evil, saw its speed, its savagery, the gleaming intricate scales of its back.

“Galen!” he breathed.

But the keeper already had the rope tight. “Pull him back!” he yelled at the Sekoi. “Get him back! Now!”

Marco fell. Around him the water churned; he slipped and all at once was gone, his head bobbing up yards downstream, the rope unraveling with whiplash speed. Raffi grabbed it; the heat of the slithering coils burned through his gloves.

“My God!” Solon gasped. “What is that?”

As they hauled desperately at the rope, something was sliding up through the torrent beyond the rocks; a long crooked snout, a spiny crest, three eyes just above the surface, dark and narrow. Marco took one look and turned, kicking furiously for the shore. The current tore at him. Galen heaved on the rope.

“Carys!” he thundered.

“Got it.” She had the bow aimed; almost at once she fired, and the bolt sliced the water just past Marco’s head. He gave a howl of terror. The river roared and chasmed. And out of it rose a creature that made the hairs on Raffi’s arms and neck prickle with pure dread; a nightmare of Kest’s, its body scaled and ridged, mossed with tangled weeds that clung to it, encrusted with growths and hideous scrambling crabs. Carys’s bolt had struck it in the throat; it was gagging and choking, slime and blood hanging in spumes from wide jaws, behind it the whole river thrashing and raging in fury.

The rope was halfway in, wet and icy. Carys jammed another bolt in, swearing savagely.

The creature crashed down.

For a second the world was water, soaking them all. Marco’s face was a screech somewhere, seared with fear. “Pull him!” Galen drove his feet in, the rope taut. They were all heaving now, Raffi’s muscles cracking and aching with the weight.

The river opened huge jaws. Water foamed; there was blood in it. Marco was yelling, and the second bolt thumped into the scaled loops around him with a scream that might have been anyone’s; then in the river’s convulsions he was suddenly crumpled there, on the shingle, gasping, with Solon standing over him.

The Archkeeper kneeled and grabbed Marco’s arm. “Are you alive?”

The bald man managed a nod, and Solon stared up. “Back, creature of evil!” he shouted.

It hung above them, bending over them both like a wave. And then it slithered and streamed back and dissolved; the river gave up one great bubble, and ran smooth.