Taste of Lightning (23 page)

Perrin had expected the High Priest to be a doddering old man. Instead he saw a smooth-faced man of about forty, with dark intelligent eyes, a strong nose, and quick, decisive movements. His head was hairless, polished like a copper bowl, and he wore a thin strand of twisted bronze wire across his forehead. He advanced toward Skir with his hands outstretched to clasp those of the Priest-King. As if they were equals, thought Perrin; but then, he realised at once, Bettenwey had been in charge here for a long time.

‘My Lord Eskirenwey. Be welcome in your home.' Bettenwey pressed Skir's hands in his, then embraced him chest-to-chest. Skir pulled away uncomfortably, and Bettenwey turned to Perrin. ‘I bid you welcome, too, Swordsman. And where is your Baltimaran friend, the one called Tansy?'

‘You know everything about us.' Perrin stepped forward to shake hands. Bettenwey smiled, and Perrin saw a shrewd man, a clever man, no fool. Of course, that didn't mean he was a friend. He wondered if Skir realised that.

‘I don't know quite everything.' Bettenwey motioned them to sit. Again, the gesture struck Perrin: who was master here?

Skir said, ‘Tansy is seeing to her horse. Or rather, the horse we borrowed from the King of Baltimar.'

‘Ah, yes.' Bettenwey settled back in his chair. ‘You must tell me the tale of your adventures another time. Please sit, My Lord. Etiquette forbids that we should sit in your presence if you do not. Would you make boors of us?'

It was a light reproof, but still a reproof, and Skir felt it like the sting of a slap. It was on the tip of his tongue to order Bettenwey to his feet again, but he bit back the words. Instead, he forced a smile as he sat down. ‘I've lived without etiquette since I left Arvestel. It's been a refreshing change to have only friends around me.'

Bettenwey inclined his head. ‘Baltimar's daughter, Rengan's son, and the Priest-King. For that reason alone, a remarkable journey. Remarkable, and unexpected. Your superiors, Swordsman Perrin, were very considerate. If we had known that our Priest-King was wandering unprotected through Baltimar and the border territories, think of our concern.'

‘The Renganis didn't inform you of their rescue plan?' Skir turned a puzzled gaze to Perrin.

Perrin's heart skipped. So Tansy hadn't told him. Tansy, who couldn't tell a lie, had kept the truth from Skir for his sake. He said quickly, ‘Rengani High Command wanted to take the Priest-King hostage for themselves. But I helped Skir to come home instead. He was not unprotected.'

Perrin saw Skir frown, then smooth his face. His swift glance at Perrin said,
We'll talk about this later.

‘A loyal friend.' Bettenwey measured Perrin with his eyes. ‘Though not loyal to his own people.'

‘I can't win, can I?' said Perrin mildly. ‘I'm sure you wouldn't have been pleased if I'd taken Skir to Rengan. But because I've brought him here, you don't trust me.'

Skir said loudly, ‘He's loyal to
me
. That's what matters.' And again Skir and Perrin glanced at each other, startled by their own words.

Bettenwey said, ‘And the girl? She is loyal, too?'

‘Tansy? I've never known anyone more loyal in my life,' said Skir, and Tansy came into the room in time to hear him say it.

‘Here is Baltimar's daughter herself. I trust the horse is comfortable? Good. Please, Tansy, join us, sit down. May I have your hands?'

The four of them were seated in a circle; leaning forward awkwardly, they could just about touch hands. Bettenwey gripped their fingers strongly, flung his head back and proclaimed, ‘Three strands in the rope. The strength of the Threelands is in you all. You have brought back Our Lord to us, and for that you will always have our thanks.'

Skir pulled his hands away, and clutched the arms of the chair. There was no one else in the room but Bettenwey and Perrin and Tansy, nothing but flickering shadows and pools of deep dark. He must speak now; he must confess.

But already the moment was lost. Bettenwey rose to his feet. ‘Forgive me, My Lord, my new friends. You are tired and hungry, and I have kept you here talking. We will speak again tomorrow. Supper and your beds await.' The High Priest clapped his hands and a silent servant appeared and gestured to them to follow.

‘Goodnight,' said Perrin, standing up.

‘Goodnight,' echoed Tansy.

Skir rose, and hesitated. Would he go with Tansy and Perrin, or join Bettenwey in the priests' quarters? Somehow he knew that this choice was a crucial one; that his whole future hinged on it. For a moment it seemed obvious that Perrin was right: if he chose to say nothing, Bettenwey and the rest would accept him as Priest-King as they always had. It would be easy . . .

But then he remembered. How could he have forgotten? There was more to being Priest-King than saying the right words and wearing the Circle of Attar. He had no chantment in him. He couldn't be Priest-King even if he wanted to . . .

And Skir knew that he did want to. Ever since he'd crossed the border, he'd grown more certain, and now, just as he was about to give it up, he realised that he wanted it very much indeed. He felt like Tansy, fighting for the first time after rehearsing all her life. It wasn't what he'd expected; he wasn't sure he liked it. But he knew he could do it, and do it well.

And yet he didn't want to leave Tansy and Perrin alone together. To let Perrin have her was to admit defeat. He wasn't ready to give up . . .

Bettenwey was waiting for him. ‘My Lord Eskirenwey. We have kept your old room as you left it. Do you remember the way?'

Skir looked at the others. Perrin wore his lazy grin; Tansy watched him anxiously. After what seemed like a long silence, but lasted only a breath, Skir said, ‘Thank you, Bettenwey. I'll follow you.'

CHAPTER 13

Broken Fire

SKIR'S room was just as he'd left it five years before, though it seemed much smaller than he remembered. There was the narrow bed with its warm orange coverlet, the round rug, even the shelf of toys: a bat and ball, a spinning top, a box of marbles. It could have been any child's room. But on the other wall, a row of hooks hung with ceremonial robes declared that this was also the room of the Priest-King of Cragonlands.

Skir ran his hand down an embroidered edge. Even his vests in Arvestel were more delicately stitched than this rough ribbon, but he touched it reverently. The robes were small; they wouldn't fit him any more.

Bettenwey watched him. ‘Memories?'

‘Yes,' said Skir. ‘Lots of memories.' He dropped his hand. ‘Bettenwey, I must talk to you.'

Bettenwey raised a hand to silence him. He checked the corridor outside, then shut the door firmly. ‘We must be careful, even here.'

‘Just like Arvestel,' said Skir. ‘Beeman always –' He stopped.

‘Your tutor sent us regular reports on your welfare,' said Bettenwey. ‘But we have had no word from him since the beginning of summer.'

Skir's heart sank. ‘Isn't there any way we can help him?'

‘We could not extricate you, My Lord. I fear there is nothing we can do for your tutor.' Bettenwey sounded regretful, but not overly upset.

That's one thing I can do. I'll go back and rescue him myself,
thought Skir.
If I'm not allowed to be Priest-King any more.
He said in a rush, ‘Bettenwey, there is something I have to tell you. On the way here we were attacked by Baltimaran soldiers. During the fighting, I – I killed one of them.'

Bettenwey sighed. ‘That is very sad, very regrettable. Unfortunately accidents happen in times of war. I am sorry if you have suffered over it, My Lord.'

‘No – no. That's not the point. I mean – I've taken a life. A Priest-King who breaks the Faith – well, he can't go on being Priest-King, can he?'

A strange expression flickered over Bettenwey's face. He seemed almost annoyed. ‘Not at all. As I said, this is a time of war. You fought to defend your own life, did you not? There must be a ceremony of cleansing, of course. I will arrange it for tomorrow, if you wish. But in the long term, it need not interfere with your duties.'

Bettenwey stared at Skir with his bright dark eyes, his hands clasped inside his sleeves. Skir was bewildered. He had agonised over this for so long, and the High Priest had brushed it aside as if Skir had done nothing more serious than accidentally step on a beetle. Perrin was right all along: no one cared. In a vivid flash of memory, Skir saw the young soldier's face. He told himself fiercely,
But I care!

Bettenwey said blandly, ‘Is there anything else, My Lord?'

‘Yes,' said Skir. ‘You know there is. How can I be Priest-King? I'm not a chanter. You all thought I might grow into it, but I haven't. I'll never be able to sing the chantments of iron. I should never have been chosen. I'm a fraud.'

Bettenwey closed his eyes, and sighed. Then he said, ‘Sit down, Skir.' It was the first time he'd used the familiar form of Skir's name.

Skir sat on the bed. Bettenwey drew up a chair, closer than Skir would have liked, and stared into his face. ‘Listen to me. We will have this conversation once, and once only, then we will never speak of it again. Do you understand?'

Mutely, Skir nodded.

Bettenwey spoke slowly and deliberately. ‘There was no mistake. You were chosen as Priest-King, and that choice cannot be unmade. You are Priest-King until the day you die. There is no release, no escape, no loophole. Do you understand?'

‘But I didn't mean –'

‘I said,
Do you understand?
' Bettenwey's face was dark as thunder. ‘You are not
supposed
to have any power. The Council of Priests rules Cragonlands, as it has always done. If you prove yourself worthy, one day, you may participate in the decisions of the Council, but until that day your role is purely ceremonial. If your guardian did not make that clear to you, then he has done both you and us a grave disservice.'

‘But the chantments –' stammered Skir. ‘The magic –'

Bettenwey gave a short, sharp laugh. ‘Trickery, that's all. There is no magic in the Threelands. Chantment comes from the Westlands, it does not belong here. We may have a use for the Singer of All Songs and her chanters in time, but that is none of your concern.'

Skir was reeling. None of this made sense. The ground had opened beneath his feet and he was falling, falling.
No
chantment – trickery – purely ceremonial – a grave disservice –
He forced himself to listen to Bettenwey.

The High Priest said, ‘Has it occurred to you that your arrival may not have been convenient for us?'

‘Not – not
convenient
?'

‘We have plans afoot, complicated plans. It may be possible to use your return to our advantage, but we have little time to work with. Why did you not send us word from Baltimar? We could have given you instructions. You should have stayed in hiding until we were ready. Now there are whispers the length and breadth of Cragonlands. The Baltimarans are suspicious. They have tightened patrols along the border, too late to catch you, of course, but it has caused us problems. Three of our agents have died as a result of your thoughtlessness. Do you wish to be cleansed of those deaths, too? You have acted like a child, Skir. You think only of yourself. You do not understand the least part of how the world works.'

Skir stared into Bettenwey's dark, furious eyes. All trace of warmth was gone. Skir was aware of a dull ache in his stomach, a deep throb of anger. He said tightly, ‘Would you rather I hadn't come back at all?'

‘Yes, frankly. Your sneaking back here has created all kinds of trouble for us. And to cap it all, you bring that Rengani petticoat and a Baltimaran whore with you!'

Skir stood up. ‘Get out of my room.'

Bettenwey rose to his feet. For a long moment they stared at each other, then Bettenwey bowed coldly. ‘My Lord.' With a swish of robes, he swept from the room and slammed the door.

Skir sank onto the bed and buried his head in his hands. ‘Welcome home, My Lord!' He began to laugh, and the laugh became a hard, hiccupping series of sobs. After a time, the candle by his bed flickered and died, and the darkness reared up to engulf him.

‘It's all right,' said Perrin to Tansy as soon as they were alone. ‘He's going to confess to the High Priest. Couldn't you see it in his face? He wanted to do it in private.'

‘Oh . . .' Tansy let out a long breath. ‘I thought he didn't want to be friends with us no more. Too grand for us now.'

‘If they make him give all this up, I wonder if they'll pay him compensation?'

Perrin wandered about the room they'd been given. It was a large, square room in the priests' wing, not far from the stables, pleasantly, but not luxuriously, furnished. A pair of shuttered double doors faced an internal courtyard. There was a low table on which a simple supper had been laid, and several chairs. Two wide beds were set against opposite walls. Perrin dived onto one of them. ‘A bed at last! Do you know the last time I slept in a proper bed?'

‘I ain't slept in a bed since Elvie's,' said Tansy.

Perrin stopped bouncing. ‘I wonder where she is now.'

‘Gone back to Wanion, I'll bet. She were tougher than she looked, that one.' Tansy picked up a leafy stalk from an earthenware plate and regarded it doubtfully. ‘We meant to eat this? Or is it just decoration?'

‘They don't seem to go in much for decoration round here. Now what I want is a place to wash.' Perrin prowled across the room and flung open a door.

‘Aah!' he said, with deep satisfaction. ‘A bathroom.
And
a jug of warm water. Not as good as a tub, but it'll do. Excuse me.'

Tansy picked at the supper plate, but she had little appetite. When Perrin emerged, pinkly scrubbed and fresh-shaven, she said rather wistfully, ‘Think Skir'll come along to say goodnight?'