Taste of Lightning (31 page)

As if in echo of his thoughts, Elvie spoke for the first time. ‘So what will Skir do now?' She turned her face toward him; the scar across her eyes was livid from the heat of the fire. ‘Will you go home to the Westlands?'

‘He'll stay here, of course,' said Tansy. ‘Where he belongs.'

‘Where I belong?' Skir spun the copper circlet on his finger. ‘All my life I've been sent here and sent there. I'm not Baltimaran, I'm not a Cragonlander, I've never belonged anywhere. If I went back to the Westlands, I wouldn't belong there either.'

‘But his parents will want him back,' said Elvie. ‘Won't they?'

‘That's . . . complicated,' said Beeman.

Skir's eyes narrowed; he looked almost like Bettenwey. ‘Complicated?'

‘You're a chanter of fire, Skir. No one in the world knows the chantments of fire, except you and your mother. After tonight – well, I think it's imperative that you learn to control your gift. Only Calwyn can help you do that.'

‘But?' said Skir.

‘The night Perrin and the Renganis came for you, I wasn't there. I was meeting an agent from the Singer of All Songs. The message was that it's still not safe for you in the Westlands. Calwyn . . .' Beeman paused, and continued carefully. ‘She would prefer it, I think, if you remained here.'

Perrin gave a low whistle. ‘Sent him away when he was a baby, and she still doesn't want him back?'

‘Enough, Perrin!' said Beeman. ‘You know nothing. The Westlands are in turmoil. As the Singer's son, Skir would be at terrible risk. Here, as the Priest-King, he is at least partly protected. And besides . . .' Beeman hesitated. ‘Calwyn never knew her own mother. I don't think mothering has come easily to her.'

‘She made the decisions she had to make,' said Skir slowly. ‘And she sent the best person she had to take care of me.'

‘I have done my best,' said Beeman uncomfortably. ‘But I've made mistakes. I'm sorry for all my shortcomings, Skir.'

There was a long silence. Everyone in the room watched Skir. He stopped twirling the circlet on his finger. He looked at it reflectively, then replaced it on his head. ‘I'm the anointed Priest-King of Cragonlands. I'll be Priest-King until the day I die. No escape, no excuses. Just like Bettenwey said.'

‘The meeting between the Baltimarans and the Renganis will go ahead, in spite of Wanion,' said Beeman. ‘Do you want to attend?'

‘Yes,' said Skir. ‘If you come with me.'

‘I was hoping for a rest,' said Beeman mildly.

‘There's too much to do,' said Skir. ‘Bettenwey said the Baltimarans
and
the Renganis want to stop fighting. We need to arrange it so both sides are appeased, but without harming the future of Cragonlands . . . Bettenwey can help – if we can trust him, and convince him to trust us.'

‘Half the problem is rust,' said Beeman. ‘If there was no rust trade, Baltimar and Rengan would lose interest in Cragonlands.'

‘If there was no rust . . .' said Skir slowly. ‘If all the chaka-weeds died . . .' His eyes widened. Could a chanter of fire sing a chantment to burn up every speck of rust in the Threelands? Destroy every chaka-weed, every berry, every leaf? Maybe he could travel, very slowly, through the whole of Cragonlands, singing as he went, burning the infection from his country. He didn't know enough about chantment. Perhaps his mother, the Singer of All Songs, would know. He could send a message and ask for help . . . The thought made him feel shy. But it would have to be done.

Beeman was off on another track. ‘Cragonlands needs to be rebuilt. Ideally, if we could combine the organisational skills of the Renganis with the wealth of Baltimar,
combine
the strengths . . .'

Skir looked at him. ‘Any ideas on how to do that?'

‘Not yet,' said Beeman.

‘Me neither,' said Skir, but his face was alight with anticipation, as if he could hardly wait to work it out.

Beeman gazed at Skir with a strange expression, proud yet regretful. Perrin said to him suddenly, ‘Did
you
want to go home?'

‘Plenty of time for that,' said Beeman quietly. ‘And there's no one waiting for me.' The shadow of an old sorrow crossed his face.

Perrin moved across to the window. The sky above the city had grown pale. He said, ‘Well, I think
I'll
go to the Westlands.'

‘You?' said Skir.

‘There's not much for me here. A court martial in Rengan, or a life on the run in the mountains. I'd end up a rust-smuggler; men like me always do,' he added sagely. ‘No, I'll join the Chanters' Rising. I'm tired of being a loner. My parents did what they thought was right, but I belong with other chanters.' He turned to smile at Tansy. But she did not smile back.

Quietly she crossed the room and put her arm through his. She drew him aside so the others couldn't hear. ‘You know how much I care about you. But I ain't
part
of you. I won't go with you to the Westlands.'

He wanted to ask:
Is it because of what happened tonight?
Because I didn't pull you out of the tunnel before you passed
out? Don't you trust me, Tansy?
But he was afraid of what her answer might be. Then he had another thought. ‘Is this about Penthesi?'

She held onto his arm. ‘No, of course it ain't.' She hesitated. ‘Oh, Perrin – you didn't sing to Penthesi, did you, tonight? Did you send him to rescue Skir? Did you tell him to jump in the fire?'

‘No, of course not! Tansy, you can't believe that!'

Tansy shook her head.

A note of bitterness crept into Perrin's voice. ‘So you're going to stay here with Skir. Can't you see he's got Elvie now? He doesn't need you any more.'

‘Perrin, shut up. I ain't staying with Skir either.'

‘What?' Perrin's face glowed with relief.

Tansy tightened her mouth. ‘I could slap you. You don't care what I do, so long as I don't choose Skir over you!'

‘That's not true. Tansy –'

But she was already speaking. ‘I want to go up north. To Rengan. You said they need horse-tamers up there.'

‘
Rengan?
Are you mad?'

‘Reckon it might suit me. Better than it suited you, anyway.'

‘But it's dangerous! And you're a Baltimaran girl, the enemy. Can you
imagine
what they might do?'

‘I know it's dangerous. Reckon I can look after myself,' Tansy said. ‘You know, I think I like danger.' Then she shuddered. ‘Long as it ain't under the ground.'

‘I won't let you go,' said Perrin. ‘You can't.'

‘Not forever. Just for a year or so. Perrin, I ain't never been free. I want to try it for a while.'

‘And after a year?'

Tansy hesitated. ‘If you still want me to, I'll come to the Westlands.'

Perrin took her face in his hands; her eyes were grey and steady, and she was not blushing. ‘I'm not giving up,' he warned her. ‘I can't let you go. I'll make you change your mind.'

‘You can try,' said Tansy. ‘But I don't reckon you will.'

Skir watched Perrin and Tansy at the window. He felt as if someone had punched him in the chest. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but the way they stood together told him everything. It was too late; he'd lost her. All the time he was locked up in the Temple, sulking, fighting with Bettenwey, he'd let Tansy slip away from him. And so Perrin had won. Skir thought,
I'll never forgive him for that. Not as long as I live.

It was too painful to look at them; his gaze moved past them to the sky beyond. The storm clouds had all gone, and the sky was bleached white with the approach of sunrise.

‘We'd better go soon,' he said. ‘I have to be at the Temple by dawn.'

‘It will be a long day.' Beeman scoured at his eye sockets with the heels of his hands. Elvie sensed the movement, and touched his sleeve.

‘Do your eyes bother you?'

He blinked down at her. ‘Yes, they do. I used to be very short-sighted, but Calwyn persuaded me to let her try her healing powers on them. It worked, more or less, but they always itch when I'm tired. Which is most of the time, lately.'

Elvie's face turned up hopefully. ‘Your friend, the Singer. Could she heal my eyes, too?'

‘I don't know, Elvie,' said Beeman. ‘Perhaps. I'm sure she'd do her best.'

‘It's a long way to the Westlands,' said Skir. ‘And with no guarantee of a cure. It would be a hard journey even for someone who could see.'

‘I'm blind, but I'm not helpless.' There was steel in Elvie's voice. ‘I won't go back to growing rust for soldiers. My mother is dead, and Wanion is dead. There's nothing left for me in Rarr.'

‘Of course. But you could stay here in Gleve. There are healers in the Temple. You could teach them about herbs.'

Beeman said, ‘Perrin could take her, Skir . . . Perrin! Come. You'd watch out for Elvie, if she went with you to the Westlands, wouldn't you?'

‘Certainly,' said Perrin promptly. ‘Be my pleasure.'

On opposite sides of the room, Tansy and Skir both frowned.

Elvie was silent. Then she turned her face to Skir. ‘I will stay here if you wish it. But you must tell me so. I won't give up the chance of sight for nothing. Give me reason to stay.'

Skir hesitated. He didn't look at Tansy. Then he reached for Elvie's hand. ‘I do wish it. I want you here with me.'

‘Very well,' said Elvie. She reached up to hold Skir's hand in both of hers.

Beeman said nothing, but the corners of his mouth turned down. He thought Skir would regret what he'd just done. Tansy saw it, and their eyes met for an instant; then she turned away.

‘The sun's nearly up,' she said in a strained voice.

‘We'd better leave,' said Skir again, but he freed himself from Elvie and joined the others by the window.

They looked out onto a scene like a charcoal drawing: grey and black and white. The dark carpet of the city flowed over the hills, sprinkled with pinpricks of lamplight. One high moon shone in the pale sky, a pearl nestled in grey silk. Perrin and Tansy stood together, with their arms around each other; Perrin's hand was twisted into Tansy's sleeve, as if he were scared she'd run away if he didn't hold onto her. Smoke still rose in a thick column from the Old Quarter, and drifted black across the wide grey sky. Beeman sighed, and rubbed soot across his brow. Elvie stood quietly, a little behind the others, with her face turned to the window – no, Beeman realised, her face was turned to Skir.

Skir took an awkward step closer to Elvie, but couldn't bring himself to take her hand. He wondered if he had done the right thing. He was responsible for her now . . . He wondered suddenly if he had brothers or sisters. He must ask Beeman.

A line of flame blazed abruptly along the horizon, too bright to look at, and light spilled across the valley, slow and thick as honey. Then, with a stately leap, the sun bounded into the sky, and the whole messy, beautiful, broken world was stained with fire.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks to Rosalind Price, Jodie Webster and Cheryl Klein for improving my writing; the Constable and Taylor families for endless support; Penni Russon for the title; and Michael, Alice and Evie, the lights of my heart.

I

THE CHANTERS OF TREMARIS

The Singer of All Songs

C
ALWYN IS A CHANTER OF ICE, BUT THERE ARE MANY KINDS OF CHANTMENT IN
T
REMARIS.

Calwyn lives quietly in Antaris tending the bees and learning the songs of ice-call. But then Darrow arrives, wounded, with terrible stories of hatred in the Outlands where chanters are persecuted and magic is a dying art.

Defying the Head Priestess, Calwyn and Darrow embark on a dangerous adventure, and soon they are pitted against the sorcerer Samis, who seeks the ultimate power of the Singer of All Songs.

‘Kate Constable writes with such grace and clarity that she stands out from the pack.
The Singer of All Songs
is one of the most enjoyable fantasies I've read in a long time.' Sara Douglass

‘A terrific book, beautifully written, with wonderfully rich imagery and fascinating magic.' Garth Nix

www.katecontstable.com

II

THE CHANTERS OF TREMARIS

The Waterless Sea