He had stripped to the waist and Raffi could see the scars on his back and hands; horrible, twisted marks. He soaped himself in the hot water he had begged from the ale-wife, meticulously rubbing every inch of his skin. Maybe it was all that time in the cells, Raffi thought, that had made him so obsessive.

“He could go straight to them!” Galen raged.

“He won’t.” Solon groped for the towel. “He’s an outlaw.”

“Not if he sells us for his freedom.”

“My son.” The Archkeeper crossed the creaking boards and caught Galen’s arm. “You are sometimes like a tortured soul. Be still. I know Marco better than you do. He’s a rogue and a heretic, but he and I suffered in the same chains. He won’t betray me.”

Galen folded his arms. “I pray to God you’re right.”

“Which is exactly what we should be doing.” Solon pulled his shirt on over his head. Then he glanced back. “You have little fear of the Watch. But you have a deep hatred for what you think Marco is. Beware of it, Galen.”

Silent, Galen nodded.

They said the morning Litany, Raffi making the responses in a sleepy voice, wary of listeners at the door. Overnight the snow had fallen heavily; now it lay deep over the little town, clogging the narrow streets.

As they finished, Marco wandered in, chewing a large piece of bread.

“Breakfast is ready.”

Solon and Galen glanced at each other.

“So that’s where you’ve been.” Solon climbed to his feet.

“Where else? Chatting up the ale-wife. Her name is Emmy. She’s got three small sons and her husband is away.” He winked at Raffi. “She’s pretty too.”

Solon sighed. “Stop teasing the boy and lead the way. Sometimes I think I should have left you to the rope.”

“Not me, Your Eminence.” He glanced at Galen. “Just think how dull your life would have been.”

After breakfast they decided to work in pairs; Solon divided the money and they went out into the snow. All down the narrow streets shovels were scraping, voices rang sharp as bells in the frosty air. The wind raced, sending cloud shadows over the white plain below. Galen glanced up. “The wind’s rising.”

“The weather is certainly strange,” Solon mused. “We’d best keep enough money for another night’s lodging. We’ll meet you back at the inn.”

Watching Solon and Marco turn the corner Raffi said, “Will they be all right?”

Galen’s look was hard. “Solon thinks so.”

Trudging after the keeper between the heaps of cleared snow, Raffi tried a few sense-lines, but the world seemed icy and blurred, and all he felt was a cat in the house they were passing, rhythmically licking its tail, over and over.

He bumped into Galen.

“Stay alert,” the keeper snapped. He peered around a corner. “Any trouble, just walk away.”

The market was busy. People were desperate to buy food in case the weather worsened; there was an air of panic and fear. Supplies were scarce and things were expensive; Galen had to haggle over prices. A few times he got into conversation with the stall-owners, and all most of them could talk about was the weather.

“Huge floods out on the Morna river,” one man said, almost eagerly. “I’ve heard five villages are flooded, and a lot have died. On the roads east whole families are traveling: carts, oxen, the lot. They’ve had tidal waves on the coast and in Imornos sixteen people were killed when freak lightning struck a Watchtower and it collapsed on them. It’s like the end of the world.”

A few people nodded. One woman made the Makers’ sign with her hand furtively; seeing Raffi had noticed, she walked quickly away.

A small woman selling dried fruit said, “Talking of the Watch, I’ve heard they’re after someone big. Hush-hush.”

Galen frowned. “Keepers?”

“Who knows.” She poured raisins into a small sack. “My brother supplies the Watchtower—he says they’ve had reports the Sekoi are migrating. They’re no fools.”

They could find out nothing more. By midday the wind was gusting, flapping the faded awnings and chinking flag-ropes in their metal rings. Galen drew Raffi into a doorway. “Before we go back, we’ll check the shrine.”

Raffi closed his eyes in despair. “Galen . . .”

“I know. But we have to make certain no relics are left there. It’s our duty.” He pushed past, swinging the bag over his shoulder. Raffi stared after him. He imagined Carys standing nearby and said to her, “He’s mad.” She grinned. “Go on, Raffi. You made the choice.”

On each side deserted buildings rose, every ledge and architrave edged with snow. Light showers of it drifted down on him. Trudging along the street he saw all the doors were barred, the windows shuttered. In the houses nothing moved but spiders.

“This whole area is empty,” he said uneasily.

“Good.” Knee-deep in a drift, Galen dragged his coat tighter. “No one to bother us.”

There were wide steps leading under the portico of the shrine; Galen crunched up them and tried the door. It was locked.

The wind moaned over the rooftops. Raffi looked back nervously up the lonely street.

“Around the back.” Galen half turned, then stopped. There was a broken panel in the base of the door. He crouched and pulled more of it away. It left a hole.

Not a big hole.

Galen looked up.

“Don’t tell me,” Raffi muttered. He dropped on his hands and knees and peered in.

The darkness smelled of damp, a strange musty stench.

“Don’t take long,” Galen said.

Raffi laughed mirthlessly. Then he squeezed his head and shoulders through the gap, squirming in. There might well be traps, he knew. Drawing his knees up he crawled farther and straightened, trying to see in the dimness. From the cracked dome a pale snow-light drifted down.

“All right?”

“So far.”

“Take a quick look. I doubt there’ll be anything, but it’s possible. I’ll watch the street.”

Carefully, Raffi groped in the dim interior. Rubble lay strewn on the marble floors; he tripped over smashed furniture and a great charred heap of wood where someone once had made a bonfire. Reaching into it he pulled out a broken statue of Theriss, her face half gone. Chilled, he thrust it back.

Something slithered over the floor.

He turned, listening.

Around the building the wind howled, confusing his sense-lines. All he could feel was decay and loss, a great bitterness of despair. A door was slamming far down in the corridors below, and bleak daylight pointed one long finger through the broken dome, lighting soiled frescoes of Soren and Flain high on the walls.

Their eyes had been hacked out.

Raffi clutched the fingers of his gloves. He was desperate to get out. But first he had to look.

Between snow-dusted rubble he clambered to the apse. Here was where the relics would have been, stored in gilded chests around the curved wall. But most of the chests were smashed, the floor below them shattered as if some great battering ram had been used. The last one was intact, but opening it he saw nothing but a mass of darkness inside.

A small black moth fluttered out and landed on his sleeve. Wind rattled the doors.

“Galen?” he whispered.

No answer.

He brushed the moth away but it drifted back, and two more with it. They were coming from inside the chest. Wondering if anything was at the bottom, he put his hands in.

The blackness rustled.

With a gasp he jerked back and saw it was made of moths, millions of them. In a great cloud they swirled out, fluttering onto him, clinging to him as he beat them away. They were on his face, his neck, and as he squirmed and dragged them off, he felt to his horror all their millions of wings swarming over his mind, clustering like a weight, a rustling darkness piling on top of him. He tried to yell, but the sound was muffled; he couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. The moths smothered him; as he fell to his knees, the seething mass of furred abdomens and tiny antennae crawled into his clothes and sleeves, into his mouth and nose so he coughed and choked on crumpled bodies, their wings clogging his throat.

“Galen!” he screamed, sending the mind-call out, but the moths smothered that too; there were so many of them, their tiny malevolent minds hissing with the instinct to bite and suck. He beat feebly now, writhing, curling up on the floor knowing only the great mass clustering all over him; he was a blackness of moths, more and more of them till his mind darkened and his choked breath stopped, pulling him down a warm tunnel where he could sleep, deep in the weight of wings.

“Raffi!”

The yell was in his head.

Light broke over him, sense-lines like whips of pain that made his whole body convulse and jerk and cough. He was hauled up roughly, yanked upright, bitten and sore, retching.

All around him the air swirled. Moths filled it like dark snow, fluttering, in his eyes and hair, resettling even as Galen dragged him to the smashed door. His face and neck stung, he felt sick and giddy; but as he heaved himself out, the cold wind shocked his mind into clearness.

Galen stumbled after him, a drift of moths crisping from his clothes.

They ran down the steps and crumpled into the snow.

Raffi spat out fragments of wings, coughed them up, shuddering with cold and shock.

“Dear God!” the keeper raged. He staggered up, black hair blown in his eyes by the wind. He looked wild and furious; Raffi grabbed his coat.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Whatever you’re thinking of. Don’t.”

Power cracked down his arm, sharp blue sparks of it.

“I should burn it,” Galen snarled. “As it ought to be burned! Not leave it like this, defiled, a nest of Kesthorrors.”

“And bring every Watchman in the town down on us!”

Galen clenched his fists. “I could burn the whole town, Raffi! All of it!” He glanced down and it was the Crow that Raffi saw, a black restless shadow enveloping them both, charging the wind with energy.

“I know,” Raffi breathed. “I know you could. But it would be wrong. We don’t want vengeance, Galen.”

Galen closed his eyes and wrapped the coat tightly around himself. “Sometimes,” he said, his voice hoarse and bitter, “sometimes we do, Raffi. More than anything.”

Some sort of urgent discussion was going on. Many of the people looked like refugees, newly arrived. As Galen and Raffi pushed their way in, they found themselves at the back of a crowd, the heat of the room stifling after the chill air. A great fire burned in the hearth, and a stout man on a stool next to it was talking into an attentive silence. Raffi slammed the door, forcing back the wind. A cold draft roared the flames; a few people turned and looked at him.

Galen moved quickly to the staircase opposite, but Solon reached up from a small table by the window and caught his arm smoothly.

“Thank God,” he whispered. “Where have you been?”

“Busy,” Galen growled. “Where’s Marco?

“Gone to look for you. I think you should listen to this.”

“I’m not . . .”

“Please, Galen. It’s not good.”

“The filthy Order,” the man by the fire announced crisply, “have got to be responsible.”

Galen turned instantly.

“You’ve no proof of that,” a woman said bitterly.

“What other explanation is there! The weather’s gone mad. You’ve all seen that. Now the Watch, have they got the power to do something like this? Do they have the knowledge?”

The crowd murmured. Someone waved for more ale; the woman, Emmy, brought out a fresh jug.

“Who is he?” Galen snarled.

“Some troublemaker. Keep calm. It’s just Watch propaganda.”

But Galen wasn’t calm. Raffi knew that.

“I think we should go upstairs,” he said, pulling Solon’s sleeve urgently.

“Be quiet,” Galen snapped. “I want to hear this.”

“The Order are sorcerers.” The stout man spat into the fire. “And believe me, there are still plenty of them, despite the talk. They have all manner of secret hideouts. And spies everywhere.”

Raffi swallowed, his throat dry. The wind screamed against the shutters.

“They’ve put a spell on the weather. In revenge, there’s no doubt. They want to terrorize us all into fearing them. The Order always ruled by fear, we all know that . . .”

“No!” Suddenly Galen’s pent-up anger exploded. He pushed Solon back and shoved through the crowd. “No! The Order ruled by love!”

“Love!” the stout man scoffed. “It was lies, all of it! Flain and the Makers! What did they make? The world? The world grew, friend, like a seed.”

Solon was on his feet. “He’s an agitator,” he muttered. “The Watch use them to provoke rebels.”

“We’ve got to get Galen away!” Raffi was desperate.

“You don’t know . . . You don’t understand . . .”

“The Makers lived!” Galen roared, lashing a chair aside. “And only the Order kept the world from chaos!”

Power was almost visible around him, the flames of the fire leaping up. People backed off; one man opened the door and slipped out. The stout man looked alarmed. He got up from his stool and pulled a knife.

“Who are you?”

Outside, the wind shrieked. A shutter flew open with a crash that made Raffi jump in terror. The stout man stepped back, the stool smacking over.

“You’re from the Order,” he breathed.

Galen smiled his bitter smile.

“No!” Raffi shoved forward. “Listen!” he yelled. “Everyone! Listen to the wind! It’s not just a gale. It’s like a vortex!”

As if to answer him, a blast shattered the door wide. Straw swirled, the fire flattened and roared. All the windows burst inward in an explosion of glass and wood, and Raffi felt himself flung against Galen, grabbing the keeper’s shoulder, feeling the sparks of energy as they crashed against the tables. Women screamed. Pots and dishes flew.

“It is a vortex,” Galen whispered.