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earsplitting crack. Plates of ice tilted up, sharp-fanged. The Watchmen toppled, grabbed each other to stay upright. Between them and the prisoners a vast crevasse was opening, a gaping black chasm in the ice, and the whole surface under the fair was shuddering up. Booths and stands went crashing; terrified bulls trampled out of their stalls. People were shouting, screaming.
    The prisoners stood as if in shock; then the silver man whirled suddenly, barging into the guard behind, knocking him off his feet.
    Raffi tried to stand.
    “Galen!” he yelled.
    “Get him, Raffi! Get him to the forest!”
    The voice was close, in his head. Scrambling up he raced over and shoved the other guard hard in the back, sending the raised crossbow out of his hands and whirling across the ice. One of the Sekoi dived after it.
    The keeper had the guard’s knife; he was slicing the ropes. Crossbow bolts clattered around him. From the Watchtower a brazen horn rang out.
    The keeper looked up. “Where?” was all he said. “The forest,” Raffi gasped.
    The keeper caught the bald man, who waved him off feebly. “Leave me! Just get clear!”
    “Oh no, my son. Not while there’s a soul to save.” With an effort he heaved the man up. “Go on!” he yelled.
    Raffi ran. The lake was slipping away under him; the fringes of the forest seemed miles away. Furious yells behind them terrified him. The chasm must be wide, he knew, but he could already hear stalls being torn down, wood slammed on the ice. And still the lake buckled, splitting with enormous cracks, so that he went sprawling with the aftershocks, the surface crumpling beneath his feet.
    He glanced back. The two men were close. All the other prisoners had already scattered; he saw a Sekoi firing a crossbow and another lying still on the ice. Panicstricken sheep were rampaging among the wreckage of the fair, but that was far away. And where was Galen?
    Ahead, the forest loomed, the vast quenta trees spreading their roots far under the frozen water. Raffi scrambled through frosted reeds and turned to help. “I’m all right,” the bald man snapped, but the pain in his arms and shoulders shimmered out of him; Raffi caught the edge of it and gasped.
    They fell over tree roots, the gloom of the forest enclosing them. A little way in, the keeper stopped. He eased the bald man down and spun around, breathless.
    “Followers,” he gasped. “Need to deal with them.”
    A twig cracked. Someone was close on their trail, and rounding the trees a Watchman came, low under the branches, the crossbow armed in his hands. He stopped instantly and said, “It’s all right. It’s me.”
    Raffi grinned with relief.
    Galen pulled the dark wrappings off his face.
    “Can you still run?” he asked quickly.
    The two men nodded, silent with surprise. Then the tall one said, “My name is Solon. This is Marco. Who are you?”
    “That can wait.” Galen grabbed the bald man and hauled him up. “We have to get farther in,” he said anxiously. “They’ve got razorhounds.”
    Raffi went cold.
    Far back over the shattered lake, terrible snarls rang out.

6
    The hardest thing to keep will be trust. When a man may be an enemy, to trust him may lead to disaster. And yet God works his purposes in strange ways.
    Third Letter of Mardoc Archkeeper

    T HE QUENTA FOREST was said to stretch for miles, but only after a few minutes the tangle of vast trunks became impassable. Branches knotted together, split and interlaced. There was no way through. Paths led in circles back to the lake.
    The fugitives ran till they were breathless, then crouched against the bole of a king-quenta, the man called Marco clutching his shoulder in agony.
    “How far have we gone?” Raffi gasped.
    “Not far enough.” Galen threw down the crossbow, dragged the black gloves off, and hurled them angrily into the knotted darkness. “We need to speak to the trees. Get them to let us through.”
    He turned quickly to Solon. “Will you do