Tamar called the Sekoi to him and said, ‘We have brought life to the world, new trees, new animals. What gift have we for you, tall people?

The Sekoi spoke among themselves. Then they said, ‘We ask no gifts of you. You are not our Makers. We were here before you. We will be here after you.’

And Tamar was angry with the Sekoi, and turned them away.

Book of the Seven Moons

FOR TWO DAYS they tramped the endless downs. They lived on water and whinberries and dried fish from the pack, and Raffi took it in turns with Carys to ride on the horse, which he enjoyed. Galen refused, bluntly, and limped ahead.

Over the slow miles of chalk, Carys talked. She told him about her village, the school there, the ruined keeper’s house beside it, and about her father, a small, shrewd man with red hair, though Raffi noticed if he asked too many questions she fell silent after a while. She must be worried sick, he thought, guiltily.

The Sekoi tombs still bothered him. They were watchful, and eerie at night. Galen was silent most of the time. After the night at the tree he hurried them on, and Raffi knew that the promise of Tasceron tormented him, the lure of the Crow, of the cure he might find. He pushed them on all day till they were worn out, but even at night Raffi woke to see the keeper sitting up in the moonlight, turning the pages of the Book, while the were-birds moaned over his head.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ Carys whispered once.

Alarmed, Raffi shook his head. ‘Nothing. And quiet, he’ll hear.’

‘So? You seem scared of him.’

He shrugged. ‘No. It’s just… we’ve been through a lot.’

‘He doesn’t treat you very well,’ she said archly.

‘He doesn’t treat himself very well.’

‘That’s no excuse.’

She had plenty to say and said what she thought. She made him laugh, and he hadn’t done that for a long time. He realised how he had longed for company of his own age – at home there had been seven others. Though he’d missed them bitterly at first, he’d got used to Galen’s morose silence. Or thought he had.

‘How did you come to be a scholar?’ she asked, as they half-slid down a slope of slippery grass, coaxing the horse. Galen was ahead, far below.

Raffi pulled a face. ‘I lived on my mother’s farm. There were eight of us.’

‘No father?’

‘He’d died. Galen turned up one night, about four years ago.’ The sun broke through as he said it, and he had a dream-flash of his mother turning from the door, her eyes full of surprise, the man’s gaunt shadow behind her. ‘He stayed three days. I remember how he watched all of us. He scared us a bit.’

Carys grinned. ‘I’m not surprised.’