Raffi sat back, tried to relax, breathed in the cold damp. Under his palms he felt the crushed stalks of grass. Slowly, his third eye opened. He looked back along the paths of the last day and night, felt the stir of small animals along the hedgerows, the giant ant-castle where the track crossed the stream. He tasted the dreams of the sleepers in the village they had skirted, smelt the great silent strength of the trees, the leaf-rot, the strange night-walkers among them. Along the waterlines he went, and the earth-tracks, back, far back, as far as he could reach, and all he felt at the edge of the land was the sun, a red heat, a blaze that rose with a searing pain out of the steams of the valley.

His lips opened; no words came.

Galen grabbed his arm. ‘Stop it. You’re burning.’

Raffi dragged himself back, such a long way. Opening his eyes, he felt drained; he was sweating, dizzy.

‘Don’t look into the sun!’ Galen was angry. ‘How many times have I told you that! Was there anyone?’

‘I don’t know,’ Raffi said faintly.

Galen stood up and limped around. ‘If only I could see!’ he cried, raging, banging down his stick.

‘Don’t shout,’ Raffi moaned.

Galen glared at him, then nudged the pack with his foot. ‘Drink something. It helps.’

Feeling a failure, Raffi got the water out and drank thirstily. It ran down his chin; he dragged the cool drops over his hot face. He was tired and wished they would stop; it was dangerous to travel in the day.

A few minutes later Galen came and stood over him. ‘Not your fault,’ he said gruffly. ‘Not enough practice.’

‘Not your fault either,’ Raffi said quietly.

The keeper jabbed the turf with his stick. ‘Isn’t it?’ He looked up, out ahead. ‘Come on. Let’s find somewhere to lay low.’

It was still early, and the fields were waist-deep in damp mist. Walking through them seemed more like wading; browsing flocks of tiny birds rose up in clouds before them. This was someone’s pasture, lush and green, the hedgerows thick with leaves and bines, the trees already losing their leaves. A herd of tawny cattle wandered in the fields beyond, staring, chewing, at the passing strangers.

Raffi chewed back at them. It was easy country to walk; low and firm underfoot. Lanes and small tracks criss-crossed it; gates were in good repair. It was a different world to the forest. But the people also made it dangerous.

Climbing down a hedgebank into a deep hollow lane, he saw that Galen had stopped. The Relicmaster stood tall among the white flowers of the hedge, the pack on his back, listening. Then he turned. ‘Anything?’

‘Someone ahead. Near.’