The Margrave by Catherine Fisher Page A

without them. As he handed them over, they were warm and heavy and slipped easily out of his hand.
    “You are between the Branches now,” Galen said softly. “Between ignorance and knowledge. Between Darkness and Light. Let the visions Flain sends you be good ones.”
    “And may I emerge from the darkness transformed like the satinfly from its sheath.” Raffi whispered the Response. He wanted to say something else, something of his own, but Galen turned away. Raffi felt numb and cold. So cold.
    Only at the door did Galen turn. He looked dark and troubled, his hooked face sharp. “I know how you feel. But believe me, Raffi, tomorrow the whole world will be different for you. You’ll be a Relic Master and all Anara will be yours. The joy will be like nothing you’ve ever known. Keep the vision moving. Follow the Makers. Don’t let yourself be distracted. Remember all I’ve taught you.”
    Raffi nodded. He couldn’t speak. His tongue felt swollen, his face white, drained of life.
     
     
    AS THEY WALKED DOWN the corridors, Alberic’s people stood back to let them pass. Most didn’t know what was happening, but the keeper’s dark presence made talk falter and laughter fade. The place was busy. Rich cooking smells of meats and spices rose from the vast kitchens, making Raffi’s mouth water and his empty stomach rumble. Alberic was obviously going to celebrate Soren’s Day in some style.
    The shrine was a large one, and had been cleared of the debris and stacked supplies of the Watch. As he came in, his feet cold on the stones, Raffi’s breath tightened in his throat. Miraculously, the frescoes had survived. High on the rounded wall they looked down at him; Flain the Tall, strong Tamar, dark Halen, and in the middle of them all Soren, Lady of Leaves, with seeds scattering from the hems of her green dress. She smiled at him, a kind, pitying smile. “Help me through this,” he breathed.
    All around, on every shelf and in racks and rows on the floor, hundreds of candles burned and dripped, their spilled wax forming grotesque stalagmites; the warmth and flicker of them cheered the bare room. The floor was scattered with petals. They felt soft under his feet, petals of fireweed and primroses and early tormentil, blue and red and purple, and the smell of them was sweet, almost cloying.
    On the low table in the center of the room the relics were waiting. They were all familiar, the objects he had known for years, the seeing-tube, the blue box, a crystal coil, the broken remnants of the Makers’ treasures. Galen must have found a few more around the castle, but the Watch had left little, and the collection looked suddenly small and sorry. Some power lingered in them. Raffi could feel it.
    Beyond the candles, in shadow, people were standing. Raffi didn’t look around, but he sensed them, and as Galen began formally to chant the Litany, their voices joined in, hesitant, stumbling, and he was surprised at how many there were. Glancing sidelong, he saw women and small children, some of Alberic’s war band, a scatter of girls. The Sekoi was there, tall and elegant, and Godric next to it. The big man winked. Raffi turned quickly.
    The words rose around him, the breath of them agitating the flames. He realized that for some of these people, these words had not been spoken aloud for decades, or not ever, not since the Watch had forbidden them.
    The Litany ended. Galen turned to face Raffi. In the candlelight his eyes were black, pinpointed with tiny flames. “What is your name?” he asked, his voice low.
    “Raffael Morel.”
    “Why are you here?”
    “To enter the Deep Journey.”
    “Where does the Journey lead?”
    “Through darkness, to light.”
    “With whom does the Journey end?”
    “With Flain and the Makers.”
    Galen nodded, very slightly. A rustle came from behind him, a small commotion near the door. Alberic had come in, his bodyguard carrying a chair and a small scarlet cushion. He climbed up and sat,