Flain the Tall built a tower, and he called it the House of Trees. This was because the trees gave their wood for it freely, without pain. All the trees of the wood offered a branch, and the House was fragrant with calarna and yew and oak, pale willow, red hazel, dark mahogany.

‘This,’ he said, ‘will be the court of the Makers; without guile, without hardship.’

And the battlements were living branches, woven tight in a web.

Book of the Seven Moons

‘WHAT ARE THEY?’ Raffi whispered.

‘Burial places.’ Galen didn’t turn. He was staring out at the strange country before them, the short grass, the hard white stony track that led away so clearly they could see it mount the ridge and vanish over the top. The sky was immense, Raffi thought, pale blue, as if he could brush it with his hand.

‘But are they safe?’

Galen glared at him. ‘Don’t fear the dead. They’re not our enemies.’ Carefully he poured the last drop of red wine into the cleared circle of chalk; it sank instantly into the dry rubble, as if the ground was thirsty, and the small ring of pebbles seemed charged for an instant with clarity. Far ahead the green downs brightened.

They had stayed on the island a day and a night, resting. Nowhere else was safer and, despite Galen’s restlessness, he knew they’d needed it. Raffi had fished, mostly. Galen had eaten little and then gone off on his own, and hours later Raffi had come across him sitting in the ruined house, deep in trance, his fingers moving over the black and green awen-beads.

Uneasy, Raffi had retreated to the fire and eaten the rest of the fish. He knew Galen like this. He just had to wait, sleeping on and off, sitting up to stare anxiously into the dark.

At last, late on the second night, the keeper had stumbled through the nettles, thrown himself down and slept, instantly. Raffi sat up and looked at him. He was exhausted, soaked with sweat. Tugging the blanket over him, Raffi curled up in his own worry. Galen was killing himself. The constant struggle, the useless desperate search for his lost power was driving him to madness. They had to get some help! And with Galen’s magic gone, all their defences against the Watch had dwindled to his own sense-lines, frailer the further he sent them.

Rubbing the bee sting, he wondered what more he could do. Someone had followed them down that path. That overgrown, unused path.

Now, high on the downs, he thought of it again. ‘I don’t like travelling in daylight.’

‘Maybe, but the woman is right. Here, daylight is best.’ Galen had shouldered the pack, his long hair tied back in a knot of string. ‘Keep the lines out.’

‘You don’t have to tell me that!’