The sky was very dark, darker than possible, and in it hung a moon, only one, but enormous, with dim smudges of land and splinter-rays of bright craters. Around it, the stars shone in unknown patterns, frosty-bright.

Hands trembling, Galen fumbled in other books. Images of animals, trees, birds, some like owls and bee-birds that they knew; but there were others that made Carys gasp aloud – great grey beasts, striped nightcats, a myriad of odd species bizarrely shaped, intricately coloured, completely unknown.

The Sekoi chewed its nails. ‘Galen …’

‘Another world,’ he said, rapt. ‘The world of the Makers!’

There was a crash at the door. The table shuddered.

Galen took no notice. His eyes had fixed on a small silver device on the table in the centre of the room. He crossed to it and touched it in awe. There were five touch-panels, like Raffi had seen on relics before; these would operate it. Each had an unknown symbol, set in a circle, and above them were words: COMMUNICATIONS RELAY – OUTER WORLDS.

They were set on a panel, the shape of which made Raffi forget the pounding at the door and the hammering of his heart. A sign that was the most secret, guarded image of the Order; a black bird with spread wings, holding a globe.

The Crow!

Staring at it, he breathed, ‘But the Crow is a man!’

Something crashed against the door. Carys spun around.

‘No. The Crow is a relic’ Galen was still for a split second; then he grabbed Raffi and sent him sprawling back. ‘Block that door! Keep them out! Do whatever it takes!’

Feverishly, his fingers danced over the panel.

Raffi and the Sekoi threw themselves against the table; they jolted it back and piled everything they could find against it.

‘More!’ the Sekoi yelled.

‘There’s nothing big enough!’

‘Then do something.’ Carys grabbed his hand. ‘You can, Raffi!’

Closing his eyes, he threw force-lines about it, bound it tight with all the energies he could summon. As if the Makers lingered here, he found it easier than before; the very earth in this place was sacred, it gave him power, fed him, and he laughed aloud.

The door shivered; someone outside yelled in anger.

He ran back to Galen. Is it working?’

‘Not yet! Not yet!’ Galen’s face was tense; his fingers stabbed each symbol, working out sequences frantically. Behind him, the Sekoi crouched, its fur bristling.

Carys gripped the table. ‘Perhaps it doesn’t work. It’s too old …!’

‘Be quiet! Pray, Raffi. Pray.’

Galen didn’t have to tell him. But the Crow was silent. No spark came from it, no flicker of life.

And then the room was humming. Amazed, they stared around. It was coming from everywhere and nowhere; it lay in the air and was full of distance; small crackles and hisses, a listening sound.

‘Makers. Can you hear me?’ Galen asked, in a whisper.