The Singer of All Songs Page 3

  ‘Me?’ whispered Calwyn.

  Marna nodded. ‘It was you. It had taken all her strength to bring you back to us. The Goddess took her that very night. We swore that we would raise you as a priestess, and keep you safe among us. But as soon as you could walk, you were climbing the trees of the orchard, and running away from your lessons to follow the goats. There have been times when we despaired of you, Calwyn. We thought that it might suit you to be apprenticed to Ursca in the infirmary, and learn herb lore and healing.’

  Calwyn smiled. ‘It bored me,’ she admitted.

  ‘Yes. You were more restless than ever. We held a council about you. Then old Damyr said, give her to me, to learn beekeeping. Perhaps if she is outside in the clean air, singing like the bees, she will learn to be content. And you have seemed happy among the hives.’

  Calwyn did not know what to say. It was true, she was happier now than she had been when she was shut up with Ursca, but the restlessness that Marna spoke of was still inside her. She said nothing, feeling the weight of the High Priestess’s hand on her head, just as the hand of the stranger had weighed on her shoulder all afternoon.

  ‘Lady Mother, what will happen to the Outlander?’

  ‘Ursca says he may not live.’ Marna sighed. ‘Poor man. You did right to bring him back to the Dwellings, sorcerer or no.’ She removed her hand from Calwyn’s head. ‘Go to bed, little daughter. You must be weary.’

  But as she left the room, Calwyn thought that Marna was the one who seemed tired. And with so many things to think about, she knew that she would find it hard to sleep that night.

  The next day, she did as she’d been bidden, and set out on the long walk to the Wall for the second time, still weary from the day before. It was hard to give the chantment the attention that she should. Her mind teemed with images: her mother trudging through the snow with her baby girl in her arms, Tamen’s haughty stare, the wild grey-green eyes of the Outlander as he scrambled away. But again and again as she followed the shining length of the Wall. she came back to the thought of her mother as a girl, climbing the western tower and gazing out over the forests, filled with longing. Did she dream, as Calwyn did, of seeing the fierce ocean? She was braver than I am. She did more than dream. Where had she gone, what wonders had she seen? How had she climbed the Wall. It was strange; Calwyn had always thought herself Antaris-born. But her father had been an Outlander; why, she was born in the Outlands! Now she knew why some of the older priestesses looked at her in the way they did.

  Calwyn stumbled, and hastily drew her mind back to the chantment and the Goddess’s work. She passed the place where she had found the Outlander; the Wall stretched on either side, slippery, unblemished, smooth as an egg. However he had crossed it, he had left no mark. She tried to imagine him flying over the great rampart like a bird. Did all sorcerers travel that way? Had he flown across the seas and plains and mountains all the way from the Isles, or from Merithuros?

  Dutifully, but without joy, she managed to complete the long day’s ritual. Her section of the Wall ended where the river cut through the ice; swollen by the spring thaws, the water foamed and tumbled, racing away through the trees. Calwyn lingered there for a few moments, half-scared and half-fascinated by the roaring water, and then she turned and began the long walk back to the Dwellings. If she hurried, she would have time to visit the hives and check that all was well before the bells began to call the sisters to the evening meal.

  ‘Calwyn! Where have you been? Ursca has been searching for you all day. She wants you to bring some queen’s jelly to the infirmary.’

  Calwyn wiped her mouth and slid off the long bench. She was so tired she had almost fallen asleep over her bowl. All she wanted was to crawl into bed and pull the covers over her head. But everything that came from the hives was her responsibility now. The bees gave the sisters wax for candles and polish, honey for cakes, and many things that were used in healing: queen’s jelly and honey and the glue that the bees used to seal the hives from wind and rain, even the venom from their stings, all had their uses in the infirmary. A little honey on a cut helped it heal, and bee-stings were good for the pains in the joints that troubled many of the older people in the cold weather. Calwyn had other novices to help her tend the hives, but the Bee House was her domain, and no one else knew where she kept the precious store of queen’s jelly.

  When she arrived at the infirmary with a small pot of the rich, creamy substance in her hand, Ursca came trotting up to greet her. The infirmarian was a dumpy, fussy little woman; when they’d been shut up together day after day all through the long winter, she had driven Calwyn halfway to madness with her nervous, fidgety ways. Every setback was a calamity, every slip a disaster, met with wringing of hands and cries of despair. Yet when she was with someone who was ill or hurt, Ursca was transformed into a model of quiet calm and kindness, and no one among the sisters knew more than she did about healing and herb lore. Now that she was free of her brief apprenticeship, Calwyn was happy to see her, and happy to be back in the infirmary with its familiar smells, its rows of pots and jars and boxes, and its bunches of dried herbs hanging from the roof beams.

  ‘Dear child, I have been hunting you all day long! Hunting you as well as I could without setting foot out of these rooms. I sent my messengers off in all directions, and they all came back without you. Is she at the hives? No, she’s not there! Is she taking a lesson somewhere? Oh no, there’s no sign of her! Perhaps she’s at candle-making? Though it’s not the season for candle-making, but Calwyn must always be doing things in her own way, stubborn creature that you are, as well I know. But back they came, no, no, she’s disappeared, off to one of her hiding places again, run away up the valley to fish, no doubt.’

  ‘I wasn’t fishing!’ said Calwyn indignantly.

  ‘Ah well, never mind, never mind. But I hope you had a good catch!’ Ursca gave a knowing wink, whisked the pot of jelly out of Calwyn’s hand and bustled away before Calwyn could argue. That was the most exasperating of all the exasperating things about Ursca; once she had an idea in her head, nothing could budge it.

  Calwyn followed her to the other end of the infirmary and watched as she carefully spooned out a little of the queen’s jelly and stirred it into a bowl of smooth junket. ‘Is the Outlander any better?’

  ‘Ah, poor man.’ Ursca shook her head. ‘I’ve done what I can for his foot, but the bones are crushed. He will be lame as long as he lives. And as for his wits, I fear they are truly addled. He starts at every little sound, he’s sure we are all out to harm him. None of us can come near him except when he sleeps!’ She put her mouth to Calwyn’s ear and whispered, though there was no one about to hear. ‘You know he is a sorcerer?’

  Calwyn nodded.

  ‘Tamen would have me tie a gag on him, but I told her, no patient of mine will be bound or gagged while I’m infirmarian! The man’s ill, chanter or not. Besides, he’s too exhausted to do any harm, his body and his mind are both worn out. But perhaps the jelly will help him, it’s good for sickness in the mind. Do you remember me teaching you that, Calwyn? Good for wandering wits and confusion.’

  The Outlander was lying in the furthest cell, a stark whitewashed room with one small window onto the walled garden where Ursca grew her herbs. He looked paler than ever, propped up on pillows, his eyes closed, and a bandage across his head. ‘It’s good that he’s sleeping,’ whispered Ursca. ‘Sleep is the best healer of all.’

  But even as she spoke, the stranger’s eyes flickered, then opened wide.

  ‘Peace, peace,’ said Ursca at once, in the soothing tones she kept for frightened children. ‘Here, see what I’ve brought you – sweet junket.’

  ‘Stay back, woman!’ cried the Outlander, hauling himself upright and thrusting out a hand to ward them both off. For the first time his grey eyes seemed keen and unclouded. His thin face was like a hawk’s, hungry, alert. ‘I know you,’ he said slowly, frowning uncertainly at Calwyn.

  ‘I was the one who found you.’<
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  He frowned again, then his face cleared. ‘Yes. I remember.’ He leaned back against the pillows. ‘You may come in. But the other one must stay outside.’

  ‘Taris bless him!’ exclaimed Ursca. ‘Listen to him order us all about, as if he were the Emperor of Merithuros!’

  ‘Merithuros? Are there Merithurans here?’ he asked quickly.

  ‘No, you are in Antaris,’ said Calwyn. She took the bowl of junket and the spoon from Ursca and offered them to him. ‘Are you hungry?’

  He poked the spoon about suspiciously through the curds, and began to eat, tentatively at first, then with real hunger. Watching from the doorway, Ursca clasped her hands together in delight. ‘Well done, well done! Ah, very well, if I’m bothering you I’ll go away. It’s time the lamps were lit!’ And she hurried off through the gloom to see to it.

  The stranger stared after her. ‘She seems harmless enough,’ he said, half to himself.

  ‘More than that, she’s been very good to you! She’s dressed your wounds and set your foot and fed you. You should be thanking her, not ordering her away,’ said Calwyn.

  ‘I must be careful,’ said the Outlander, and Calwyn noticed again how he pronounced his words oddly, and with stilted precision. He glanced apprehensively toward the door.

  ‘You’re safe here, you are within the Wall of Antaris.’

  ‘If I could cross your famous Wall, then the one who seeks me could do the same.’

  ‘And see what the Goddess brings to those who presume to trespass in Her land.’ Calwyn indicated the foot, swollen with bandages, that protruded from under his bedcovers. It was something that Tamen might have said.

  ‘Yes,’ said the stranger after a moment. ‘Your goddess has had her revenge, and I hope she is well satisfied. But I charge you to be on your guard, you and all your priestesses, for the one who pursues me is strong, and he is dangerous, and he won’t give up the hunt. Do you hear me? He will not give up. Perhaps he is already here –’ In his agitation the Outlander seemed about to throw himself from the bed and begin searching for his mysterious pursuer. The bowl and spoon clattered to the floor.

  ‘Calm yourself,’ said Calwyn in alarm. ‘There’s no one here!’

  ‘I am perfectly calm.’ The brief effort had exhausted him, and he fell back, his face ghostly in the gathering dusk. He whispered, ‘Who rules this place?’

  ‘Ursca is the infirmarian.’

  The stranger gave a faint smile. ‘Antaris, who rules Antaris?’

  ‘Our High Priestess is Marna.’

  ‘Tell Marna that she must be vigilant. Tell her that one is hunting me, one who would be the Singer of all Songs. Can you remember that?’

  ‘The Singer of all Songs,’ repeated Calwyn in puzzlement.

  ‘Swear that you will tell her.’ His hand shot out and seized her sleeve, and Calwyn jumped. ‘Swear it! He brings great danger, not only to Antaris, but to all Tremaris.’ He began to cough. ‘If she does not understand, send her to me.’

  Calwyn smiled, despite herself, at the idea of this imperious stranger ordering about the High Priestess as well as Ursca and herself. ‘I will tell her.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He let his hand fall from her arm. ‘And tell her that he has the power of seeming –What do they call you?’ he asked abruptly.

  ‘Calwyn.’The question took her by surprise. ‘And you?’

  ‘My name is Darrow.’ He touched his fingers to his lips and then held up his palm toward her in what seemed to be a salute of greeting. After a pause, Calwyn awkwardly returned the gesture. He seemed satisfied; his eyes closed, and a moment later, to judge from his breathing, he fell asleep.

  ‘You see! I always said you had the gift of healing,’ whispered Ursca from the doorway, ‘in spite of everything.’

  ‘I hardly think so,’ said Calwyn ruefully. ‘He was happy to see someone he could recognise, that’s all.’ A huge yawn split her face, reminding her of her own fatigue.

  ‘Take yourself off to bed, child, your day’s fishing has worn you out.’

  ‘I wasn’t –’ Calwyn stopped; she was too tired to start arguing. She let Ursca bustle her out of the infirmary, and press a little pouch of dried herbs into her hand, to slip under her pillow. And whether it was the scent of the herbs or her own sheer exhaustion, she never knew, but she fell into a sleep as deep and dreamless as the Outlander’s own before she had even finished unlacing her boots.

  The orchard was white with apple blossom, as though the ancient trees held heaped armfuls of snow in their gnarled, low branches; the bees hummed their contentment, and the novices who were taking their turn to help Calwyn with the hives trotted about as sunny as strawflowers in their yellow tunics. One of them pulled off her big veiled hat to fan her forehead, squinting in the sunshine. ‘Calwyn, look!’

  Calwyn looked up, and was surprised to see the slight, blue-robed figure of Marna making her way slowly across the grass. ‘Lady Mother!’ She hurried to offer her arm, but the High Priestess waved her away. ‘They told me you were unwell.’

  ‘Well enough for a stroll in the orchard, as you can see. ’With a slight grimace of discomfort, Marna settled herself on a low bough; a shower of petals fluttered to the grass. ‘It is too long since I came to see the hives. All is well here, I trust?’

  ‘Yes, Lady Mother. But Amara hive is preparing for a swarm, though it’s so early in the season.’

  ‘Is that why you came to see me this morning, Calwyn?’

  ‘No.’ Calwyn hesitated, and looked about at the little group of novices clustered nearby, each with a basket or a scraping knife in her hands, each staring wide-eyed at this unaccustomed visitor. She lowered her voice. ‘I have a message from the Outlander. Likely it’s only the ravings of his fever, but . . .’

  ‘Very well.’ Marna’s voice held the trace of a smile. ‘Send the little girls away.’

  Calwyn shooed them to the hives at the end of the orchard, and warned them not to return until she came to fetch them. Once they were safely out of hearing, she settled herself cross-legged at Marna’s feet and recited what the stranger had told her.

  ‘The Singer of all Songs?’ repeated Marna. ‘You are certain that’s what he said? Those were his exact words?’

  ‘Yes, Lady Mother. And he said to tell you that he has the power of seeming something, but he never finished what he was saying.’

  ‘The Power of Seeming,’ said the High Priestess under her breath. ‘No wonder he jumps at every shadow.’ For a moment she stared out across the river, toward the gleaming mountain peaks, lost in thought, then turned her pale blue eyes back to Calwyn.

  ‘What does it mean, Lady Mother?’

  ‘The Outlander’s enemy has the Power of Seeming. That means he can wear any face he chooses, and conjure up illusions that appear as real as this bough under my hand. Imagine wandering alone through the mountains, never certain if what you see before you is real or a dream. It’s no wonder the poor man’s wits are strained.’

  Calwyn had taken off her broad-brimmed hat; now she pleated its protective veil between her fingers. ‘And the Singer of all Songs?’

  Marna was silent while the bees in the next hive, readying themselves to swarm, buzzed with their high-pitched furious humming. She was silent so long that Calwyn feared she was never going to answer, but at last she spoke.

  ‘Once you have become a full priestess, my daughter, you will learn more of these matters. It is not fitting that I should tell you too much while you are still a novice. But you already know that there are other Powers of chantment besides our own. You have heard, you have seen this sorcerer yourself, and you know that the magic he practises is not the same as ours.’

  ‘Yes, Lady Mother.’ Calwyn felt suddenly very solemn and serious. Usually during lessons and lectures, she felt only a fierce desire to be elsewhere, or an irresistible urge to fidget, but now she sat as still as a statue, sensing that what Marna was about to tell her was more important, and certainly more interesting, than herb lo
re or weaving patterns.

  ‘You know already that in the beginning of the world, the Ancient Ones walked the lands of Tremaris. And you know that long ago, the peoples of Tremaris were divided by the gods, each against the others, into their different lands. But now I will tell you something that you haven’t yet learned: in the beginning of the world, there were nine Powers of chantment, and the Ancient Ones were masters of them all. They had gifts beyond our imaginings, and they practised marvels that we cannot even dream of. And when the peoples of the world were divided up, the Nine Powers were divided too. We of Antaris, the children of our Goddess Mother Taris, were trusted with the second of the Powers, the craft of ice-call, and we wear her mark in token of it.’ Marna lightly touched the ice-brand of the three moons that every priestess carried on the inside of her wrist. ‘The secrets of the other Powers were given to other peoples.’

  ‘Ironcraft – is that one of the other Powers? And wind-working?’

  Marna nodded. ‘Ironcraft is the chantment of Merithuros. And the people of the Isles possess the gift of windworking.’

  ‘And the others, Lady Mother?’

  Marna’s voice took on a dreamy, sing-song tone as she counted off the Powers on her fingers. ‘Ninth is the Power of Tongue, which commands all speech and language and song. Eighth is the Power of Beasts, which commands all animals that creep and run and fly. Seventh is the Power of Seeming, which makes illusions visible and hides what is real. Sixth is the Power of Winds, which governs winds and waves and weather. Fifth is the Power of Iron, which commands any object that belongs to the earth, excepting any living thing, or air, or water, or fire. Fourth is the Power of Becoming, which holds the secrets of quickening and growth and change. Third is the Power of Fire, which commands all that is light and all that is hot. And there is our own craft, the Power of Ice, the power of our Goddess, who commands everything that is cold: ice and snow and freezing. And it is the power of all that is dark: shadows and night and the blackness that lies in the deepest caverns and between the stars. And it is the power of all that is dead.’