‘Maybe.’ Galen stared at the bridge, his eyes deep and dark. ‘There were men in the Order once with great skills, boy. They knew the mightiest relics – handled them every day. The power of the Makers lingered in them. They knew strange things – things that have never been written, maybe even the secrets of the Makers themselves. An old man once told me that when the Makers departed the world, they left behind a certain book of their deeds wrapped in black cloth. Only one man knew the script it was written in. The knowledge was taught, from one Archkeeper to the next, till Mardoc was betrayed. Maybe someone still knows it.’

He stood up abruptly, emptied the fat from the pan and swirled it in the river, leaving a greasy trail. Then he tossed the pan down next to Raffi. ‘Pack up. You can carry it.’

‘But where?’

‘Over the bridge, where else?’ Galen dragged his stick up and gave a sudden, sidelong grimace. ‘I may have lost my powers, but I still have my memory. Words may be enough, if you know the right ones.’

At the bridge-end he took some red mud and crouched, making two images on the carved posts, waving Raffi back so he couldn’t see what they were. Then he pushed the tangled nettles back over them. Sucking the edge of one hand, he stood up.

Raffi watched. A tingle of excitement stirred in him. Already he could sense something new; it leaked from the hidden signs like a faint aroma.

Galen stood on the bridge and began to murmur. It was an old prayer, one Raffi had heard only once before, littered with the ancient half-understood words of the Makers. The keeper’s deep voice hoarsened as he spoke them; the air lightened, as if something in the mist curled up, retreated. Raffi came forward quickly.

Galen fell silent, listening. ‘Well?’

‘It feels as though something’s changed.’

‘Then I was right. Stay near.’ They stepped out on to the bridge; it slipped and swayed under them. Mist swirled over the sedges; Raffi gripped the worn wooden chains, feeling the whole shaky contraption rattle under him. But this time it was different. As they crossed he saw trees loom out of the damp; but this time not beeches but oaks – old, squat, hollow trees – and holly, and thorn, crowding right to the bank.

‘You did it!’

Galen nodded. He stopped at the rotting end of the bridge and looked round. ‘But this isn’t the other bank. It. seems to be some sort of island in the river. Tiny. And overgrown. No one’s been here for years.’

The disappointment was hard in his voice.

Crushing foxglove and bracken, they pushed their way in. The island had a silence that made Raffi uneasy. No birds sang. Above the gnarled branches the sky was blue, pale as eggshell. He realised the morning was half over.