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that?”
    The older man stared back, his face calm, his blue eyes shrewd and deep. “I would be able to, if I were one of the Order.”
    “There’s no time for that,” Galen snapped. “I know you are.”
    “Do you?”
    “So am I. You can feel that, can’t you?”
    Solon’s stare was even. Then to Raffi’s horror he said, “No. What I sense about you is strange and utterly dark. Not like any keeper I may ever have met. I’m sorry,” he said, half turning. “I can’t take the risk.”
    What he did Raffi barely saw. There was a crack of light. Galen staggered back with a gasp of pain. Then he was down, crumpled against the tree roots. Still.
    “Galen?” Raffi whispered.
    A rustle made him turn. The bald man, Marco, had the crossbow. Painfully he aimed it at Galen’s head.
    “NO!”
    Raffi ran forward, right in front of the tense bolt.
    “How can you do this?” he yelled, wild with fury. “We got you out of there! We helped you to escape!”
    “The ice cracked. And we ran,” Solon said.
    “But Galen did that! He cracked the ice!”
    “I’m not a fool, my son,” the man said mildly. “No keeper, not even the most learned, could do that on his own. He’s part of some Watchplan. For all I know, so are you.”
    “I’m his scholar!”
    “I’m sure you are. Keep the other one covered, Marco.” Briskly, almost kindly, he came and tied up Raffi’s hands and feet with the ends of rope, then with a strip torn from his shirt gagged him gently and pushed him over. Raffi sat down hard next to Galen.
    Solon crouched. “I’ve been a prisoner of the Watch for a long time,” he said, his voice strangely quiet. “I’m never going back alive. You might be spies—I can’t take the risk. You may also be what you say. If so, I pray to Flain to forgive me. And that they don’t find you.” Turning, he said, “Come on.”
    He took the bald man’s arm over his shoulder, sagging a little with the weight. “You should leave the bow.”
    Marco grinned. “Good try, Your Holiness. Maybe later.” He clutched it tight, like a crutch.
    Then they were gone, lost in the tangle of quenta trees like shadows, the only sound a rustle and a cracked twig.
    Raffi kicked and struggled. Furiously he squirmed around onto his side and nudged Galen with his tied feet, then shoved harder, trying to call the keeper’s name. Only stupid muffled sounds came out.
    Far off, where the lake must be, a razorhound howled. Another answered it. Galen didn’t move. Raffi tugged his wrists frantically, feeling the tight bonds scorch his skin. Then, deliberately, he lay still and opened his third eye.
    He was tired and scared, and it was an effort. But after two minutes’ forced concentration he managed to make a small circle of light and let his mind crawl through it, into a room. Dimly he recognized it, the lamp, the bare, dusty floorboards. Galen lay here, crumpled and still, one arm flung out. But now there were flowers scattered on him, over his back and hair and all around him, the fresh strange yellow flowers of Flainscrown. Raffi brushed them off hastily, grabbing the keeper’s shoulder.
    “Galen!” he said. “Wake up!”
    Galen’s eyes snapped open. He rolled over, looked around at the room and the flowers, picked one up. “These again?” he muttered.
    And suddenly they were back in the quenta forest, and in his fingers there was only a shriveled leaf.
    “Raffi!” Instantly the keeper was on his feet. He rolled Raffi over, whipped off the gag, and fumbled for a knife. “What happened?”
    “Solon. He used the Third Action. Thinks we’re Watch.” Raffi wriggled out of the ropes hurriedly. “They can’t have gone far. Are we going after them?”
    “Of course we are!” Galen’s eyes were black with annoyance. “He’s a keeper! We need him!”
    “But if he won’t believe us . . .”
    “I’ll make him.” Galen hauled him up roughly and grabbed the pack. “Go on! Quickly!”
    They hurried, following broken