She pulled the top off and dipped a finger in; it was cold and stiff, richly scented. Rubbing it on her hands and scorched face, she felt the seared skin cool; the relief was wonderful.

‘What is it?’

‘Never mind.’ Galen slapped it on his own hands, fingers over fingers. ‘Hurry up, Raffi. There are things to do.’

When they had finished he cleared a space, lit seven candles and arranged them in a circle, working quickly. Carys felt uneasy. The new light showed a low passageway behind her, leading further into the tomb. And though she told herself she was a fool, she felt with a prickling of her skin that there was something down there. ‘Raffi …’ she began.

‘We know.’ He looked up. ‘We know what to do.’

He had poured water into a small silver dish, and now pulled out a red leather bag, full of objects. Despite her worry, excitement shivered through her. These were relics.

‘Which one?’ Raffi had his hand inside.

Galen thought quickly. ‘The bracelet.’

He pulled it out. It was made of some smooth black leather, with a tiny fastening. Threaded on it was a strange flat slab of gold, studded with no stones, but with a grey window. Minute touch-buttons decorated the sides.

Carys edged nearer.

Raffi glanced at her. ‘Look at this.’ With his thumbnail he pressed one of the buttons hard. She stared, astounded. For a second, faint numbers had flickered in the window.

‘What is it?’

‘Who knows. It’s almost dead now.’ Reverently, he laid it down among the candles.

Galen had taken one string of black and green crystals from his neck; now he made a circle of it, around the relic. Then he and Raffi began to chant.

She recognised odd words, nothing more. This was the language of the Makers, long lost, except to the Order. It calmed her, made her feel strangely serene. It seemed important, here in the blackness of the tomb, though outside she would have laughed at it. But in this place something else lived, and she felt the strength of the chant, its protection, warming her, reassuring her. They’ll have you believing all this, she told herself wanly. The crossbow lay under her hand, and she was glad it was loaded.

After the last response the silence was huge. Galen picked up the silver bowl and poured the water gently into the ground. ‘We bring you a gift, guardian,’ he said. ‘We’re not here to disturb you. We don’t break the sacred lines.’

Raffi could feel them, the earth-lines. They reached out, one north, two to the west, another, very old and faint, south-west. Invisible, underground. As Galen dug a deep slot in the ground and buried the relic in it, Raffi felt a pulse along the lines, a faint crackle of power.

The Sekoi had taken the gift.