Dusk (25 page)

A FEW MINUTES
later they were riding away from the farm, listening to the farm wolf howl defiantly as they left.

“You lost something valuable, didn’t you?” Rafe said. “I’m sorry. It’s all because of me, everything that is happening—”

“I lost an old wallet that one of my clients left behind,” Hope said, and she smiled across at Rafe. He did not like that smile very much; it twisted her face so that she looked as if she were in pain. “I knew they would go for the mystery. The skull raven heart and the Book of Ways—now, they
are
valuable, and who knows when we may need them?”

“But when they open it?”

“They’ll find just what they wanted: an enigma. Sheets of old parchment with scrawls in a language they cannot know, because it’s of my own making. A pendant carved from a tumbler’s claw. Things they will wonder about for a long time, but never solve.”

Rafe rode silently, staring ahead.

“Boy, it’s not as if I fooled them. If that really had belonged to a Sleeping God, do you think it would have contained something that made more sense?”

“I don’t know much about them, other than people think they’re gods.”

“Foolish people.”

“But it’s their faith you’re playing with!”

“Foolish people, Rafe,” Hope repeated. “They’ll never leave that farm, they’ll never do any good. They’re not important! You are, and I have to look after you. If it means I have to fool some fools, then I’ll certainly not let that disturb my sleep.”

She’s right,
Rafe thought.
She’s right and I know it.
He rode on in silence, following Hope, letting her steer him because, in truth, he had no idea what else he could do.

THEY RODE HARD
for an hour, realizing only too quickly that the horses were weak, tired and malnourished. They slowed then, letting the mounts maintain their own pace. Rafe only hoped that the Red Monks had lost their scent.

His
scent. It was him they sought.

The whole land whispered behind his eyes, and he felt protected.

As the sun dipped to the west and the life and death moons appeared from the blue, Hope spotted a rage of skull ravens. She dismounted and handed Rafe her horse’s reins.

“I’ll send your friends a message,” she said. “Stay here. Stay still. And don’t be scared.”

The witch headed off across the grassland toward where the skull ravens roosted in a dead lightning-tree. She was making a noise deep in her throat, a series of clicks and snicks: a bag of stones being shaken, sticks being rattled. It set Rafe’s nerves on edge and made the horses uneasy. The skull ravens jumped down from branch to blackened branch, making their way closer to the ground. There were ten of them in total, each with a wingspan as wide as Rafe was tall, their heads large, beaks long and thin.

They were waiting for Hope to arrive.

As she neared, still clicking and making that strange sound, the birds took flight as one and flew straight at the witch. She held out her arms and lowered her head, giving them room to roost. One on each foot, three on each arm, two on her head, Hope was almost lost beneath the beating wings and ruffled feathers of the skull ravens, though she stood fast. And the birds were making a noise now, calling out in clicks and clacks similar to those that Hope had been uttering.

Rafe gasped, wanting to help yet desperate to turn and ride away as fast as he could.
Don’t be scared,
Hope had said. He could only assume that she knew what she was doing.

Hope stood that way for some time, the noisy communication continuing. The horses stood still and silent, perhaps asleep. The death moon revealed itself fully, becoming the brightest object in the sky, and Rafe stared at it for some time. The life moon was on the fade. Their combined glows did not fight, but merged peacefully, yellow bleeding to white, white tinting to yellow. And their light struck the ground in different ways. On a distant hillside a clump of trees sucked in the glow from the life moon, green leaves hued white at dusk. Nearer the summit of that same hill, an ancient burial mound reflected yellow, the dark rocks lightening at night. As Rafe stared at the death moon he thought of his parents.

The skull ravens called out loud, and for an instant he was sure that they were attacking Hope, piercing her with beaks and claws as retribution for some terrible tactlessness. The horses stirred and stamped their feet, and it was all Rafe could do to bring his mount under control while holding tightly to Hope’s horse’s reins.

The birds were taking flight. They rose as one, flying in a tight spiral above Hope. She stood with arms outstretched as if still inviting them back. It had grown too dark for Rafe to see her expression when she turned around, but the fact that she was moving, coming toward him, showed that she was unhurt.

The skull ravens cried out until they were high in the air, almost too high to hear. They were one of the few species that flew almost entirely by night.

“What was that?” Rafe asked as Hope approached.

She seemed exhausted. She rubbed at her shoulders and sides, sighing, hair hanging lank. Even her tattoos seemed tired, dragging her face down. “I gave them a message for the thief and his Shantasi,” Hope said. “Rafe, we need to make camp and sleep. It’s been a long time since I communed outside my species.”

He thought there was humor in her voice, but because she had her head dipped he could not see her eyes. And he did not understand.

Yet somewhere at the back of his mind, there was a new comprehension dawning. Rafe had no concept of what Hope had done, but this new expansion of his mind, the fresh revelations seemingly being laid out again and again for his perusal, seemed to offer understanding. He had only to realize how to read it.

They found a place sheltered from the north by a jagged slope of rock. Hope set about making a fire, silent and slow.

“Won’t the Monks see the fire?” Rafe asked.

“It’s a risk if they’re following us this way. But there are other things out there in the night, just as dangerous, that the fire will keep away.”

“Must we camp? Can’t we keep moving?”

Hope shook her head, and Rafe realized for the first time just how old and tired she looked. Perhaps up until now excitement had kept her young, the childlike gleam in her eyes whenever she looked at him emphasized by the eager shapes the tattoos seemed to etch across her face. But now, with darkness blanking the tattoos and the gleam in her eyes a pale reflection of the death moon, she looked so worn.

She said nothing more, and Rafe entrusted himself to her wisdom. She had yet to let him down.

With the fire built, Hope quickly fell into a deep sleep. Rafe sat up, huddled under a blanket the farmers had given them along with the saddles, staring up at the moons and stars. Wondering, as he had as a boy in Trengborne, just who or what else in Noreela was looking at this sight right now.

WHEN THEY WERE
near enough to see what the firelight revealed, Trey and Alishia stopped.

Alishia could make out two people, one asleep, the other awake. Two horses as well, hidden back in the shadows of the rock slope, snorting in disturbed sleep. She drew Trey close, catching the hint of fledge on his breath. “Two people,” she whispered into his ear.

He nodded. “I know. One is asleep and dreaming dreams I don’t wish to visit again. The other is . . . strange. There’s much more than a mind there, and I can’t touch it.”

“Are they safe?”

Trey shrugged. “How should I know how you topsiders are supposed to think? The one sleeping, she’s frightened and excited at the same time. And I think she’s mad. I’ll not look again.”

“And that one sitting there?”

“I told you, I don’t know,” Trey whispered. “Give me a moment.” He sat back and closed his eyes, and Alishia’s gaze went from him back to the figure sitting by the fire. After a few heartbeats the figure raised its head, startled, looking around as if hearing something in the night. The fire spat sparks that danced in the night air, pockets of sap bursting within the logs. The sparks stayed alive until they were high up, mixing with the stars, aiming at the weak life moon.

Trey gasped and slumped, shaking his head, spitting, rubbing his temples as if trying to rid himself of some vile invader.

“Trey?” Alishia touched his shoulder and squeezed lightly.

“More than a mind,” he muttered. “There’s much more than a mind.”

More than a mind? What’s more than a mind?
“We should go to talk to them.”

“No!” Trey said, louder than he should have. Alishia ducked down and watched the figure by the fire. It stood, shedding its blanket, and she saw that it was barely more than a boy. He looked in their direction but she could see nothing of his expression, read nothing in his stance. He seemed to carry no weapons. He glanced to the sleeping form, but that person remained asleep, dreaming whatever dreams had so disturbed Trey.

Alishia stood and walked toward the fire.

“Wait!” Trey hissed behind her, but she kept moving. The boy did not look dangerous. If anything he seemed afraid and alone, so surely he would welcome the company of other travelers to keep the dark at bay? Besides, he was someone new to meet, see, talk to.
To question!

“Hello by the fire!” she said as she approached.

“Who’s there?” The boy edged quickly behind the flames, stooping to pluck a burning branch and hold it before him. “Hope!”

Alishia frowned, wondering whether it was some foreign greeting, but then the sleeping figure sat up quickly and she knew it was a name.

A witch! Alishia had read of witches, much good and much bad, but she had only ever seen one from a distance on the streets of Noreela City. She had heard of the tattoos they seemed to favor, used to amplify the expression of their emotions and frighten and coerce people into seeing things their way. This witch showed fear immediately . . . but it was soon stamped out by anger.

“Stay away!” she said. “Keep in the shadows where you belong.”

“I’m not here to harm,” Alishia said. “I’m cold and hungry and my horse died. I only wish to share your fire.”

“Get away and make your own,” the boy said, waving the burning branch as if offering the flame.

“Please!” Alishia said.
He’s the one that the fledger could not see. The one with more than a mind. What’s more than a mind?

“Are you alone?” the witch asked.

“No, there’s a fledge miner with me, Trey Barossa. He’s hiding back there. He doesn’t think you’re safe.”

The witch stood and shook herself, untangling her clothes, running her fingers through knotted hair. “He’s right,” she said.

“You look as afraid as I feel,” Alishia said to Rafe, and his eyes widened, the flaming stick lowered toward the ground.

Wider. Let me see inside.

She felt unaccountably excited, intrigued by this boy and whatever secrets he held restrained.

So soon? Have I found it so soon?

But she did not know what “it” was, and the strange thoughts confused and troubled her. Only a while ago she had pleasured herself to the song of these strange thoughts. She had considered that it was the fledge miner prying into her mind, traveling using fledge to view her innermost secrets and pique her desires, but he seemed too frightened to be plotting and scheming. And the thoughts . . . they were further removed from him. They were almost alien.

Alishia had begun to wonder whether she had made a mistake leaving the city.

“He’s not scared,” the witch said. “I’m looking after him, so he’s got nothing to be scared about.”

“Why are you looking after him?” Alishia said. “He can’t be your son.”

“Know a little about witches, do you?”

“A little.” Alishia had read a lot. She knew that they were mostly made sterile by the poisons and plants they made their work. And she knew that the witch could be carrying poisonous creatures to throw, or blinding powders, or chemicala. The very tincture of her tattoos could kill.

The witch stared at her, edging slowly around the fire until she stood between Alishia and the boy.

What’s so precious?
Alishia thought. And then that other part of her mind again, the one that did not feel like her own:
Could he be so precious?

“Tell the fledger to show himself,” the witch said.

“Trey! Come out of the dark.” Alishia heard the footsteps behind her, slow and troubled.

“It hurts my eyes,” he said.

“Not been aboveground for long?” the witch asked, but Trey did not answer.

“Any more of you?” Rafe said.

His voice sent a thrill down Alishia’s spine. She did not know why. “No,” she said. “This is us.”

“We have no food,” the boy said. “Nothing to offer you.”

“We have a little fledge,” Alishia said, but the witch cursed and spat into the fire. It sizzled, as if just as mad.

“We don’t want your drug!” she hissed at Trey.

The four of them sized one another up, and all the time Alishia’s gaze was on Rafe. He was an attractive boy, maybe three or four years younger than her, but he looked tired and worn, as if time had suddenly caught up to show him what the world was all about. His eyes reflected the fire, but only reluctantly. It was the death moon that cast its color into his hair.
Maybe if I can take some fledge I can look inside, see what is more than a mind.
The idea was frightening—her last experience with fledge had made her sense something awful—but it thrilled that shaded part of her as well.

“I don’t mind if you want to join us,” Rafe said at last. He threw the branch back into the fire, raising a splash of sparks. His eyes never once left Alishia’s. He backed away from the flames and sat down, and Alishia followed suit. They smiled at each other as the witch cursed and spat again.

“Rafe, we have no idea who they are! They might be after . . . something. Anything. You know what I mean.”

A secret!
Alishia thought, and she almost laughed. Something tickled at her consciousness like a name on the tip of her tongue, a fact locked deep down in her mind and willing itself to be shown.