Taste of Lightning (30 page)

Tansy grabbed Perrin's hand, and they sprinted toward Gleve, where the strange storm that was not wholly a storm raged in the space between earth and sky.

The column of lightning did not touch Skir. He thrust it away, called it near, sent it spinning up to the sky and back, wild with the power of it. Thunder shook the Old Quarter. Balls of lightning rocketed, fizzed, ricocheted about the White Pavilion; they punched holes in walls, scorched charcoal trails across marble floors, transformed clouds of dust into showers of golden sparks. And everything they brushed against burst into flame.

People rushed in and out of the roofless room where Skir sang; they tried to drag the bulk of Wanion clear of the firestorm. Elvie crouched in a corner, arms over her head. Wanion's tapestry was a wall of flame; here and there a shard of bone showed dark against the glowing fire, then faded, crumbled into ash. The tapestry hissed and writhed as it burned, like a dying thing.

Wanion's litter toppled sideways into a pile of smouldering rubble. The carpet was on fire. Wanion roared as she struggled to free herself. The servants fled, leaping down stairs, smashing windows to escape. Elvie sobbed as the flames licked closer. She crawled away, and blundered into a burning sofa. The flames enfolded her, and she screamed.

CHAPTER 17

Arraxan's Choice

FINALLY, through the tumult, Skir heard Elvie's scream.

Abruptly he stopped singing. The blue-white column of lightning around him vanished. The room was ablaze, the roof was gone, and rain was falling onto his dazed face, but it was not enough to douse the flames. Elvie's dress was on fire. He tore off his outer robe. It seemed to take forever to reach her, to knock her down and smother the flames. She was small and light as a bird under his hands. There was a formless lump on the centre of the carpet. It did not move. Skir saw a gleam of gold, a fold of green silk, and knew that it was Wanion. The smell of scorched meat was so strong he retched.

Skir dragged Elvie to the doorway. It was ringed with flame, but the doors were gone, and there was space for them to run through. While Skir had been singing, there was no smoke, but now it billowed down the corridors, blotting out everything. Elvie wrapped Skir's robe over her face; she clung to his arm, pressing herself against him.

They stumbled along a wide hallway; Skir was certain there had been a staircase here, but he couldn't find it. A wall collapsed in a shower of sparks, and they ran, beating through the smoke. Suddenly they were in a larger space, open to the sky. Skir was lost. He opened an intact door, and found a narrow flight of stairs. He led Elvie down through choking smoke, but no flames, not yet.
How far was it to the ground?
Could they jump from a window?

Skir gripped Elvie's arm. In the smoke, he was as blind as she. Elvie coughed, shuddering for breath. They blundered down more stairs, then ran into a wall of flame and were forced to retreat up again. Skir slumped to his knees. They were trapped like rats, and it was all his fault. He'd been showing off, no better than Perrin –

Skir's head jerked around. ‘Did you hear that?' he shouted.

‘A horse!' Elvie's face lit up.

Somewhere through the smoke, a horse neighed, a high repeated call. Skir staggered up to follow the sound, through a warren of small rooms, then out into a wide reception hall, scattered with furniture. This part of the Pavilion was not yet burned, but the fire was chasing them; they felt its hot breath at their backs. Skir pulled Elvie out into the open air through a pair of glass-paned doors. The noise of the fire burst over them; above and behind, the White Pavilion blazed.

They stood on a ledge, too narrow to be a balcony. Below in the courtyard, a black horse reared, silhouetted against the flames. Penthesi called to Skir, just as Skir had called the lightning.

‘This way!' Skir tugged Elvie to the carved stone railing. Trusting him, she began to clamber over. ‘Wait!' They were high above the ground, the drop was as high as a house. Elvie clung, while Skir climbed the railing beside her. Penthesi neighed impatiently and pranced below. The fire shrieked above them, licking nearer and nearer. It roared into the room they'd just left; Skir saw smoke roll against the inside of the windows, and the red-gold glint of flame. He edged Elvie sideways; they shuffled along, clinging desperately, until they reached an outer set of steps and half-fell, half-slid down the wide railing to the ground.

Penthesi was there, almost trampling them in his eagerness. His eyes were white, and a long burn mark raked his flank. Skir hefted Elvie onto his back, then scrambled up behind her. Penthesi galloped through the gateway of the courtyard, a high, narrow arch outlined with flame, past stables and sheds and storerooms all ablaze.

Suddenly they were out in the street, and a wave of startled people fell back to let Penthesi through. He tore at a gallop down one narrow street, then another, and Skir couldn't control him. Penthesi veered left and right, and almost threw them off. Skir had just realised they'd circled the Pavilion and come out into Sether Square when someone grabbed Penthesi's bridle and managed to stop him.

‘Beeman!' gasped Skir, and slithered off Penthesi's back into a bear-hug from his tutor.

Beeman released him almost at once, and helped Elvie slide down.

‘What are you
doing
here? And Penthesi – is Tansy here? And what's that?' Skir stared at the rucksack that swung from Beeman's hand.

‘Oh, gods,' whispered Beeman, gazing at it in horror. The rucksack was emitting a strange, high-pitched fizzing sound.

But then Penthesi bent his head and grabbed the straps in his teeth, shaking the rucksack from Beeman's grasp.

‘No!' Beeman snatched for it, but Penthesi had already galloped away, tearing across the square, scattering people left and right.

Beeman screamed, ‘
No!
' The rain pelted down as Penthesi galloped toward the burning Pavilion; the whole frontage was a sheet of flame. Suddenly Tansy was there; she stood frozen, silent, her eyes fixed on Penthesi.

Hundreds of people were in Sether Square the night the White Pavilion burned. Those who hadn't seen it would never believe the tale they told: of a black horse who flew across the square, tail streaming like a banner; a horse that gathered itself, that seemed to float like a piece of the night itself against the roaring flame; a horse that leaped into the very heart of the fire, and was gone.

Perrin reached Tansy just as Penthesi made his mighty jump into the flames. He flung his arms around her to hold her back, but she was rigid as stone; she didn't even breathe.

The Broken Fire exploded. Beeman's work was more effective than he'd dared to hope, and it was a much smaller explosion than it could have been; but it was big enough. If not for Beeman, a wave of fire would have radiated out to engulf the Square, the crowd, and half the Old Quarter; instead, for the second time that night, a column of flame roared into the skies above Gleve.

Perrin shielded his eyes, Skir threw his arm over his head, and Beeman ducked for cover as debris showered down. But Tansy stared straight ahead as the yellow-golden fire, streaked with crimson and ruby, exploded up into the night, and fell back to earth in a rain of tiny glowing stars.

‘Perhaps I should have told you sooner,' said Beeman. ‘But you were so young, and always in such danger. Not just from Wanion. You're in danger still, you know.'

They had gone back to the large, bare rooms that Beeman had rented when he'd first arrived in Gleve, close to the Temple, near the top of the hill. From the window Tansy saw lights in the Temple, and shadows darting to and fro. She leaned her head on the window frame and thought of the message scrawled on Penthesi's stable wall:
See you on the other side.
Penthesi was dead. Wanion was dead, too. Suddenly she thought of Lorison; she was free of Wanion now, but she didn't know it yet.

Tansy's face was stiff and swollen with tears. Without speaking, she bent over the little cook-stove in the corner to make tea. The stove sputtered and did not want to stay alight.

Skir said, ‘Shall I light it with chantment?'

‘No!' said Perrin and Beeman together.

Beeman sighed. ‘I should have realised that your ignorance of your gift was dangerous, too. Thank the gods there wasn't more harm done.'

‘So it's true. I
am
a chanter.'

Beeman nodded. ‘The first chanter of fire for many generations – apart from your mother, of course. But Calwyn is a special case.'

‘I remember it so clearly now,' said Skir. ‘How my mother was singing to me, when I was struck with lightning.'

‘Yes. I was there that night. You wouldn't sleep. You were tiny, still a baby really. Calwyn couldn't soothe you, so she sang a chantment of fire to make lights in the sky, to stop you crying. And you copied her song; you sang with her.'

‘Yes,' said Skir. ‘I sang with her.' That song had stayed buried in his mind, etched in his memory, all these years.

‘You called the lightning to you,' said Beeman. ‘You called it
into
you. You were struck by the lightning of your own chantment.'

‘But if – what about my mother? She was holding me. Did I hurt her?' Was that why she'd sent him away?

Beeman smiled. ‘Calwyn wasn't harmed. She's the Singer of All Songs. You don't understand what that means yet, but she was strong enough to contain your magic. She blamed herself though, for singing the chantments of fire just to make her baby laugh. She thought she could have killed you. But then, they were elated, too, she and your father. Their child, the first chanter of firecall after so long, and showing the gift so young! They were so proud, so glad. We all were.' He nodded. ‘Thank you, Tansy.'

Beeman wrapped his big hands around the steaming mug of tea she'd given him. Elvie sat in an upright chair, still clutching Skir's outer robe around her shoulders. Tansy leaned her head against Perrin's knees; they were quiet, sipping tea as Beeman talked.

‘The early years of the Rising were dangerous times, Skir. Your parents were afraid for you. They had important work to do, and they were worried that they wouldn't be able to protect you from – from our enemies.' Beeman spoke hesitantly, watching Skir to assess his reaction. But Skir seemed to accept what he said.

‘So they sent me away?'

‘Yes. To the remotest place they could find: the heart of Cragonlands.'

‘I remember the village. I remember the rust harvest.'

‘Do you? You were only there a year before the priests found you.' He smiled. ‘There was no mistake. Old Devenwey knew a chanter when he saw one. But he didn't know what kind of chanter you were; and Bettenwey has never believed that the Priest-Kings had any gift of chantment.'

‘I wanted to show him,' muttered Skir. He stared fiercely into the depths of his tea.

Beeman put a hand on Skir's shoulder. ‘And there lies the danger. A gift like yours is –'

‘Worse than Broken Fire,' said Tansy.

‘More powerful, because he can control it. Skir, you need to learn how to harness it. I couldn't teach you. It seemed wiser to leave it alone, let you believe you had no chantment. Perhaps that was the wrong decision.'

Perrin leaned forward. ‘But why did you let the priests take him in the first place?'

‘I wasn't there. Calwyn sent me when we heard what had happened.' He looked around the circle of young faces in the lamplight and smiled sadly. ‘Calwyn and I are old friends. We first met when we were about your age. She still calls me Trout . . . She sent me to watch over you, Skir. But by the time I arrived, Cragonlands was at war, and it seemed the Temple would be the safest place for you. So I kept my distance, and survived as best I could. I was in contact with Devenwey, and, after he died, with Bettenwey. He knows the truth about your parentage, but he kept it secret. I have a feeling he intended to use that knowledge.'

Skir jolted.
We may have a use for the Singer of All Songs and
her chanters in time.
‘He plans to use me to force the Singer – my mother – to help the resistance.'

‘Yes, that would fit,' said Beeman slowly. ‘Bettenwey has far too much power. The High Priest is supposed to speak for the Council, not the other way round . . . But he is such a capable politician, it would be better to find a way to work with him than to move him aside. I can foresee some difficult negotiations ahead.'

Skir put down his cup. ‘I must be in the Hall of the Faith at dawn, to take the morning prayer today. Especially today. I have to explain what happened, before Bettenwey twists it around. Everyone will be there. I must let them see me as Priest-King. No more hiding away.'

‘Bettenwey won't like it,' said Beeman. ‘Which is another reason to do it.'

Skir thought,
I'm not scared of Bettenwey any more.

Perrin tapped Beeman on the knee. ‘You haven't finished the story. What did you do when the Baltimarans took Skir to Arvestel?'

Beeman frowned. ‘I've always blamed myself for that. I should have realised the Baltimarans would do something of the sort; I should have prevented it. I've learned more about politics since then.'

‘You followed me to Arvestel,' said Skir.

‘Yes, I arranged it with Bettenwey. That took some doing. I've had to do a lot of things I wouldn't have chosen, to protect Skir.' Beeman glanced at Tansy. ‘Like pretending to work for Wanion.' He rubbed at his eyes; suddenly he looked haggard. ‘I'm not good at pretence, and these last years my whole life has been two, three, four layers of lies. It's exhausting.'

Skir was silent while he spun the copper circlet round his finger. He'd known that song, that chantment; it had been inside him all the time. But it hadn't come out until he'd needed it to save Elvie, until he'd broken out – however briefly – from his bubble of self-absorption. Was that what Beeman had been trying to teach him all these years? Was that what the Faith was about?