The Singer of All Songs Read online

  ‘I have explained to you already, I cannot defeat him. He is ten times the sorcerer I am.’

  There was a flicker of pain in his eyes, but Calwyn was too impatient to see it. ‘Well then, if you can’t defeat him alone, there must be others who can help you. You could band together –’ ‘Band together!’ He roared with laughter. ‘A band of sorcerers, indeed! Have you never heard the saying, that shutting two sorcerers in a room is like locking up two wild roancats in a box? They would tear one another to pieces.’

  ‘No,’ said Calwyn crossly, ‘I’ve never heard that saying. But I know that here in Antaris the priestesses help one another with their chantments, and we make more powerful magic that way than one chanter ever could alone.’

  ‘The rest of the world is not like Antaris,’ he said flatly. ‘It’s a pretty idea. But it will never happen.’ He fell silent, and the sunlight dazzled through the leaves, dancing with every shift of the breeze. Calwyn put the carved apple gently on the grass.

  ‘Marna said that no one man’s voice could ever span all the forms of chantment. She said that no man could ever sing high enough for the spells of ice-call.’

  Darrow’s mouth twisted in a smile. The gash on his forehead had healed now into a silvery scar that dragged across one eyebrow, giving him a quizzical look that made it difficult to tell when he was serious. ‘Your Marna is wise, but she does not know everything. The chantments of seeming are higher than yours, yet Samis can sing them. We were – he has learned tricks to stretch his voice. Like this.’ He sang a note in falsetto. Calwyn began to laugh at the unnatural sound, but at Darrow’s sober look, her laughter died. He said, ‘It is true, mastery of the Nine Powers has never been achieved by any sorcerer, but Samis is no ordinary sorcerer.’

  ‘What is he then?’ She sounded more flippant than she’d intended.

  Darrow stared at her gravely. ‘He is a prince of the Merithuran Empire. Do you know anything about the royal court of Merithuros? No? I thought not. There is one Emperor, but there are many princes. Too many for them all to find favour. Samis is a minor prince. In spite of this, all his life he had thought that his gifts would earn him the title of heir to the Emperor.’

  ‘Do you mean his gifts as a chanter?’

  Darrow shook his head. ‘No. Those powers he kept secret. I have already told you, chantment is not prized in other places as it is here. No, he set store by his wits and his strength of purpose. But that was not enough to win him the prize he sought. The Emperor chose another of his sons. So now Samis has decided, in his greed and his pride, that to be Emperor of Merithuros is a paltry ambition, not worthy of his talents. He has decided to make himself emperor of all Tremaris.’

  ‘All Tremaris? All the lands?’

  ‘Why not?’ Darrow’s voice grated harshly; there was no hint of teasing now. ‘It will be a simple enough feat for the Singer of all Songs. Already he has learned two crafts; why not three, or five, or nine?’ He plucked up the apple and tossed it high into the air, so that it spun in the dappled sunlight. ‘AllTremaris will become his plaything, to torment or destroy or enslave at his whim. He will work on the world as a child works on a lump of clay. And no one will be able to stop him. No one.’ He bent back his arm, and threw the apple in a high arc, so that Calwyn lost sight of it against the dazzle of leaves and sun. She heard the faint splash as it landed in the river. She could picture it, a small green bobbing globe, seized by the force of the current, dragged helplessly away, on and on, toward the distant sea.

  Darrow saw her disappointment. ‘It would have rotted before long.’

  ‘And so might the realTremaris, if what you say is true.’ She sat up very straight, and stared at him. ‘Darrow, have you never thought, if this Samis is truly so powerful, then why would he bother to chase you?’

  ‘In Merithuros, he’s famed for his skill as a hunter. This time his quarry is a man, that’s all. It will amuse him to hunt me down, at the same time as he hunts down the forms of chantment.’

  ‘No, no! Don’t you see, he must be afraid of you – at least a little. There must be some way to overcome him. And he must know it.’

  With painful slowness Darrow dragged himself to his feet, and stood leaning on his stick, staring down at her. Suddenly he seemed much older than the playful young man who had been bantering with her earlier. His grey-green eyes burned with a cold anger. ‘Calwyn, Daughter of Taris, do not speak to me again about this matter. You know nothing. Your ignorance shames you.’ He turned his back and limped away with slow, unbending dignity.

  Stricken, Calwyn jumped up. ‘Darrow!’ She wanted to run after him, to shout, and argue, and shake him by the shoulders. But some force held her back; it was as though his chantment gripped her again by the scruff of her tunic and held her where she stood. At last she turned away.

  The next day, Calwyn was at the hives not long after sunrise, glad that the novices would be busy at their lessons, and she would be alone. She would not go to see Darrow in the infirmary; she told herself that she’d be too busy, but in truth she was still angry with him for his stubborn determination to be defeated. If she had a mortal enemy, she would never give up. She tugged at her gloves and jammed on her hat. She would fight and fight, until the breath left her body.

  The bees that had swarmed were not happy in their new hive; all day they buzzed discontentedly. Twice she was stung by a bee that crept under her veil. Perhaps it was as Damyr always told her, that the bees could sense their keeper’s mood. If she was restless, then so were the bees; if she was unhappy, then the hives would be unhappy, too, and unhappy hives did not make good honey.

  At last Calwyn pulled off her hat and gloves, and sat on the riverbank. The silver-green leaves formed a whispering roof above her head, and crickets chirped in the warm air. Somehow she was not surprised to hear Darrow’s voice behind her.

  ‘Beekeepers work hard in Antaris, I see.’

  ‘I’m no good for the bees today. I should leave them alone for a while.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘I – I have something to say to you. I was wrong to speak so harshly yesterday.’ He spoke with diffidence, like someone not used to making apologies. And at once he added defensively, ‘You think I am too quick to give up the fight. But you don’t know how long I’ve been fighting and running and fighting. There’s a long, long history between Samis and me, longer than you can imagine. I am – very tired.’

  Calwyn bit her lip. He was right; she knew nothing about what might have happened between the two sorcerers in the past. It was as Marna said, she was too hasty to decide what was right and what was wrong. She should be apologising to him, not the other way about.

  But he didn’t seem to think that she needed to say anything. ‘So. Shall we talk of something else? Will you explain the habits of your bees to me?’

  ‘I would rather hear about your travels.’ She paused, not knowing where to begin her questions. ‘I want to hear about it all. Tell me everything! Tell me something about – about Merithuros.’

  His laugh crinkled his eyes and gave him a boyish look. ‘What shall I choose? Merithuros is crammed with wonders. Would you like to hear about the Black Palace of Hathara? It rises from the desert sands, as sheer as glass, without gates or windows, and so smooth that even the birds can find no place to perch.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Calwyn. ‘Tell me about that.’

  After dinner and the evening rituals of breath and singing were over, Tamen stood waiting for Calwyn just outside the door of the great hall. ‘Come walk with me, child, in the rose garden.’

  Though Calwyn couldn’t see her face, shadowed under her hood, Tamen’s voice was stern, and she stood more upright and unbending than ever. Heart sinking, Calwyn fell into step beside her.

  The rose garden lay inside the Dwelling walls, an enclosed courtyard that caught the summer sun. A rich perfume of roses filled it in this season; trapped within the sun-warmed walls, the scent was overpowering. Velvety dark red roses drooped in the moonlight, while
the furled buds of white roses glowed like silver candle flames. The pair walked slowly along the paths. It was the time of Falling Petals: the largest of the moons just past full, and the two smaller ones silver crescents on the black velvet of the sky.

  Tamen said, ‘You have been speaking with the Outlander almost every day.’ Her voice was deep with disapproval.

  ‘My Sister, it was you yourself who asked me to speak with him!’

  ‘I told you to discover his purpose here, not to befriend him. Have you found out anything, in all your conversations? Where is he from? Who does he serve? What are his chantments?’

  ‘He is an ironcrafter, as our Lady Mother thought. He has travelled much.’ Calwyn hesitated. After all the time she had spent in the orchard over the past days, asking Darrow about his journeys and the marvels he had seen, she was still not sure in which land he had been born.

  ‘What do you speak of ?’

  ‘He asks me about the bees. And he tells me about his voyages.’

  ‘You should not be speaking to him about such matters.

  It is not fitting for a daughter of the Goddess, a priestess next midwinter, to have her head filled with wild tales.’

  Calwyn was silent for a moment as they walked. The roses hung bruised from the shining bushes, and their scent pressed on her, sweet and stifling. She said, ‘Where is the harm in talking to him about the world beyond Antaris?’

  ‘Everything that should concern you lies within the Wall. I know Marna has told you what happened to your mother. Was that not enough warning for you? Do you want to end as she did?’

  After a pause Calwyn said, ‘I am sorry if my behaviour was unseemly.’

  ‘That is well. But I charge you to be careful.’

  ‘I am careful.’

  ‘I hope you are not growing fond of him.’

  ‘No, of course not, my Sister.’ Calwyn’s face grew hot; she hoped Tamen couldn’t see.

  ‘In any case, he will not be with us for much longer. At midsummer eve his stay here will end.’

  Calwyn missed a step, and recovered herself. ‘His foot still gives him trouble. I don’t know whether he’ll be able to make the journey through the mountains so soon.’

  In the moonlight, shrouded in her long cloak, the Guardian was tall and forbidding, and her voice low. ‘That is of no matter. The road to the sacred valley is not long.’

  Calwyn’s mouth was dry. They were to send him to the sacred valley. He would be sacrificed to the Goddess, his blood poured out at the foot of the blazetree, his bones lifted high into the branches for the birds to feed on. She had heard whispers of such sacrifice, a terrible punishment for terrible offences against the Goddess. There were stories told at midnight when the older novices wanted to frighten the younger ones, but it had never happened in her lifetime, and she had come to think it was no more than something to scare the little ones. She stammered, ‘Surely, if he were to be banished, that would be enough?’

  ‘Banish him? So that he can fly over the Wall again? Think before you speak, child, and you will not appear so foolish. We must be rid of this Outlander; we cannot have him here for ever, prying about. His foot will be healed enough that his offering to the Goddess will be no insult; at midsummer he will go to Her, and that is an end to it.’ Tamen’s hand descended in an iron grip on Calwyn’s shoulder, but her voice softened a little. ‘This seems harsh to you, I know. But those in high positions must make difficult choices, and the sooner you learn that, the easier it will be for you when your time comes.’

  Calwyn said nothing; her feet dragged on the paving stones. If this was the kind of decision that High Priestesses and Guardians had to make, she wanted none of it, not now, not ever. Tamen released her shoulder.

  ‘Go to your bed now, and think about what I have said.’

  ‘Yes, Tamen,’ Calwyn whispered.

  She glanced back once as she climbed the steps from the courtyard, and saw Tamen standing still in the moonlight, a hooded pillar; all around her the roses stained the silver stones, dark as splashes of blood.

  At first, Calwyn wasn’t sure what had woken her. Was it the soft sigh of a cloak brushing the cold stone floor of the corridor, or a flicker of flame? Jolted awake, she lay for a moment breathless and confused in the panic of nightmare, her heart hammering in her ears.

  Then she saw it: the fleeting light under her door that sent shadows flaring briefly up the wall, and the sound of a heavy cloak dragging, slow and deliberate, along the flags.

  In an instant she was up and pulling on her clothes in the darkness, her fingers clumsy with sleep. She threw her winter cloak across her shoulders and slipped out of the room, stealthy as a roancat. It was the dead of night; all Antaris should be hushed in sleep. Something was wrong.

  Whoever had passed her door was gone from the corridor. Calwyn stood still, listening hard. There: a footfall, an echo of a footfall. Someone was walking along the gallery that overlooked the central courtyard. Clutching her cloak, Calwyn crept along the corridor, down a handful of steps, and ducked into the shadow behind a pillar. There, on the other side of the gallery, a hooded figure moved, carrying a lantern, a huge wavering shadow thrown up behind. Calwyn could not see its face.

  Suddenly the figure halted, turned its head. Calwyn shrank back. The light went out. Calwyn pressed herself against the cold stone, blood roaring in her ears. All the gallery was in darkness now, broken only by shafts of moonlight. Holding her breath, Calwyn peered out. There was no one. The shrouded figure had vanished.

  For a long moment Calwyn did not move. Perhaps she had dreamed it all. Perhaps it was only Tamen, moving about the Dwellings, as she sometimes did at night, in solitary ritual. ButTamen never used a lantern; she was guided by the moons, the Goddess’s light.

  Calwyn waited. Gradually her breathing and her heart steadied. And then she heard it: a faint keening, at the very edge of hearing, as though an insect had strayed into the courtyard and was trapped within the walls. Calwyn shook her head to clear the misty confusion; her fingers were prickling with a familiar sensation. There was chantment here.

  She looked out again along the empty gallery, striped with silver where the moonlight fell between the pillars. There was no one to be seen. Hesitantly she stepped out from the shelter of the shadows. Then she saw something from the corner of her eye, a whisk of movement, the slightest scuttling shadow of a shadow. She wheeled around. Someone was there, someone she could not see. The faint keening noise was louder now, louder and nearer. Every fibre of her body strained with fright; she longed to run, as fast as she could. But she must not. She must let this being, this unseen creature, think that she was deceived. Her mind worked quickly now. She rubbed her eyes and yawned, as if half-asleep, bewildered by dreams, and began to walk, very steadily, toward the steps that led to the kitchen yard.

  How many times had Tamen and Marna told her to control herself, to be restrained, to walk when she wanted to run, to be silent when she felt like shouting? This was the hardest test of all. She couldn’t tell if she was followed or watched; she must not turn her head. She made her way to the well that lay outside the kitchens, and forced herself to dip a cup of water that she did not want, and slowly drink it to the last drop. She listened hard, as hard as she had ever done. The shrill noise had ceased, the prickling in her fingers had disappeared. She had not been followed.

  Then, and only then, she began to run, as swift as lightning. Samis – he was real, he was here in Antaris – might be a prince, and the most powerful of sorcerers, but he did not know the Dwellings as she did. She ran past the great hall, through the rose garden, up the steps, and then she was letting herself into the High Priestess’s rooms.

  It was Gilly’s turn to attend the High Priestess; she sat up, blinking with sleepy surprise, in the cot outside Marna’s door. ‘Calwyn? What do you want?’

  ‘I must speak with the High Priestess!’

  ‘Wait, you can’t just barge in!’

  But Marna was already stand
ing in the doorway, her hair in a thin plait over one shoulder. ‘What is it, child?’

  The words tumbled out. ‘He is here – the one Darrow spoke of – he’s here! He’s in the gallery – he made himself invisible, but I saw him.’

  ‘How could you see him if he was invisible?’ said Gilly, sturdily practical even in the face of midnight panic.

  Marna held up a hand to quieten her. ‘You’re certain? This is no dream, no mistake?’

  ‘No, no, I am certain!’ Calwyn was almost weeping with fright and relief.

  ‘Gilly, go now and wake Tamen. Bring her here. Be quick and quiet. Calwyn, warn the Outlander to wait where he is and hide as best he can. Quickly now!’

  Out again in the darkened corridors, Calwyn scurried, her cloak drawn over her head, keeping always to the deepest shadows. Twice she thought she felt a breath behind her, or glimpsed movement where there should have been none, and she shrank back against the nearest wall, heart pounding. He might be anywhere, unseen, waiting to leap out, to catch at her throat or her ankle; any of these shadows might conceal a shrouded figure. And when she reached the infirmary, and saw a light burning in Darrow’s window, her breath caught in her throat: she was too late. He was lost.

  But Darrow was sitting in his chair, knife in hand, carving by the light of a candle. He was dressed; it was clear that he had not gone to bed, but had been sitting there, wakeful, all night. He looked up as she entered, and saw at once what was wrong.

  With hands that shook a little, he folded the knife and put it in his pocket, together with the lump of wood he was carving. But when he spoke, his voice was steady. ‘So. He is here.’

  Calwyn nodded. ‘I saw him. He’s searching for you.’

  Darrow reached for the stick that he kept always close at hand, and stood. ‘Very well.’

  ‘Marna knows – she has sent forTamen. She said you were to hide yourself here, but I know a better place.’ She was thinking of the western tower, with its narrow curved stairs and its views over the Dwellings. But Darrow shook his head.