“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.