He made the fire, boiled water, found some roots and a solitary duck’s egg. When Galen woke they said the long chant of the day solemnly, sitting under a willow, their hands spread. Then they ate. Galen halved the egg, though it was his by right. Spitting out some shell, he said, ‘We’ll stay here tonight and go on in the morning. It’ll be more dangerous, but we shouldn’t cross the burial hills at night.’

‘Good,’ Raffi muttered, his mouth full.

Galen sat back, folding his arms. Then he said, ‘Who is the Crow, Raffi?’

Raffi swallowed hastily. But he knew the ritual; the Litany of the Makers had always fascinated him.

‘The Crow is the messenger. In the beginning the Crow flew between the Makers and God. He carried their words, written in gold letters. He spoke their words to God. Later, when the Makers left Anara and went to the seven sisters in the heavens, the Crow brought messages from them to the keepers and Relic Masters of the Order.’

‘Is the Crow a bird?’

‘The Crow is a bird and not a bird. He is a man and not a man.’

‘Is the Crow a voice?’

‘He is the voice of the Makers.’

Galen nodded. ‘Good. I’ve neglected the Litany with you lately.’

‘Knowing the answers is one thing,’ Raffi said. ‘I’m still not sure what they mean.’

Galen stirred the fire and laughed, harshly. ‘Wise men have spent their lives on them. A four-year scholar knows nothing yet. The Crow is a spiritual being. He can take many forms. He’s real.’

‘Have you ever … seen him?’

Galen looked up, surprised. Then he shrugged. ‘I was no older than you when the Order was destroyed. Such visions were far above me. What I’ve learned since then has been from Malik, my own master, from the Book, from the few of the Order I’ve met. The great visions are shattered, Raffi. Our knowledge is in pieces, in the ashes of burnt libraries. Only in Tasceron might there be someone who knows the answers.’

Raffi looked up at the moons; Atterix and Pyra, almost together. ‘The man who wrote that letter – he says he saw the Crow.’

‘A lot can happen in twenty years.’ Galen’s eyes were shadows, but as he shifted, Raffi saw them glint strangely. ‘And yet the Crow is immortal. If we could find him, speak to him… If he could take our message to the Makers… If the Makers would come back …’

He was silent, choked with the joy of it, and Raffi too, hearing the ripple of the sluggish water, the splash of a bird settling for the night. Then, with a hiss of pain he snatched his hand up.

Galen looked over. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘A bee sting!’

A small red lump was swelling on his wrist. He put it to his mouth, sucking at the pain.

‘At night?’