The Singer of All Songs (5 page)

‘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 lore 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.’

A thrill of dread ran down Calwyn’s spine. This was the lore she would learn after midwinter moondark; this was the shadowed face of the Goddess that only the initiated were allowed to glimpse. ‘But Lady Mother, that comes to only eight Powers.’

Marna smiled. ‘All the lessons you’ve missed haven’t harmed your arithmetic. Can you not guess the first of all the Powers? It is the greatest power of all, that which moves everything that is, and everything that is not, the Great Power that is unknown and unknowable, the mystery that lies beyond our understanding. It is the Goddess.’

Calwyn said quickly, ‘But the Goddess rules over the Power of Ice –’

‘That is the face she turns toward us here. All the chantments, all the gods, are but aspects of the same unknowable mystery, just as each face of a jewel strikes light in a different direction. Our Great Mother Taris is the name we call her here, but she has other faces and other names in other places.’ Marna placed her hand lightly on Calwyn’s head. ‘You will understand it better in time. These are matters which have occupied the greatest priestesses for generations. You cannot expect to know it all in a heartbeat.’ Stiffly she got to her feet, and tugged a fold of her long robe free, where it had caught on a twig. ‘I am too old to perch in the trees; let us walk by the river.’

The ducks squabbled on the water; hoping for scraps, they crowded up to the bank and quacked for attention. Marna looked up, and sniffed the air. ‘There will be rain tomorrow.’

Calwyn would not be so easily deflected. ‘Is Darrow a priest of iron, then?’

Marna gave her a strange look. ‘So he has told you his name? It’s said that sorcerers are superstitious about giving out their names . . . Perhaps it’s not true. But no, he is no priest. A sorcerer is different from a priest or priestess. The sorcerers of the Outlands do not serve their gods in the same way that we serve our Mother Taris. They use their chantments for themselves, not as we do, for the good of us all; their power is corrupted. You know that an Outlander cannot be trusted. An Outlander sorcerer can be trusted least of all.’

Now it was Calwyn’s turn to be silent. At last she ventured, ‘I think this sorcerer can be trusted, Lady Mother. He is – not respectful. But I think he is honest.’

Marna smiled. ‘We shall see.’

‘He told me to tell you, if you didn’t understand what he meant when he spoke of the Singer of all Songs, that you should ask him, and he would explain himself.’

Marna said drily, ‘I understand well enough. Outlander arrogance! We may be shut away from the world here, but we are far from ignorant.’

‘May I ask him to explain it to me, then, Lady Mother?’

‘No, you may not!’ Marna quickened her pace, and Calwyn thought she had made her angry. But then she said in a quiet voice, ‘You are like enough to your mother to frighten me, child. Sometimes I think that she ran away from us because no one would answer all her questions; that is why I have tried never to turn away any child’s question, no matter how foolish it may seem.’

It was true. Thinking back, Calwyn couldn’t remember a single time that Marna had laughed or been impatient, however tiresome the novices’ questioning became. She said, ‘Is the Singer of all Songs a person who wants to become as the Ancient Ones were, masters of all the chantments?’

The High Priestess shook her head. ‘Even in the time of the Ancient Ones, there was no chanter who was master of each and every field of chantment. But there is a tale, as old as the Ancient Ones themselves, that one would arise who has that gift: to sing all the chantments, the high notes and the low, the swift rhythms and the slow. And this person would be more powerful even than the Ancient Ones were, as powerful as the gods themselves.’

Calwyn drew in a sharp breath. ‘What if he does find Darrow here? We would never be able to protect him!’

‘Peace, child. It’s a hearthside story, that’s all, a fable, not a true prophecy. No one person could ever master all the chantments. No voice could ever be so supple, able to sing the highest of high notes for ice-call, the lowest of low for ironcraft, and all else in between. Think of it. It’s impossible. No man’s voice can reach all the notes we sing in our chantments of ice; that is why Antaris is ruled by priestesses, not by men and women together. In other lands,’ she added a little sadly, ‘it is different, no doubt.’

Calwyn remembered the growling notes she had heard Darrow singing by the Wall. Could she ever learn to sing deep from her throat like that? It did seem unlikely. ‘Then there’s nothing to fear,’ she said.

‘I did not say that.’ Marna’s voice was troubled, and she turned and began to walk back the way they had come. ‘Any man, any sorcerer, who is deluded enough and proud enough to think that he can achieve such a feat is dangerous indeed, perhaps even deranged. No, we must be on our guard, in case the Outlander’s hunter does come seeking him. But this is nothing that should worry you, child,’ she added, as if she only now recalled that Calwyn was still a novice, not a full priestess, almost as if she regretted speaking so openly. She patted Calwyn’s sleeve. ‘Go and see to your bees, my daughter. I think I hear the song of the swarm you have been waiting for.’

With an exclamation, Calwyn broke away and ran back toward the hives. A cloud of bees was pouring from Amara hive in pursuit of their queen, streaming toward a settling place high in the branches of one of the apple trees, a thousand restless creatures swirling thick in the air. Calwyn could see some stragglers emerging from the old hive, small golden dancers looping in confusion. Softly she sang to them, an ancient soothing song that Damyr had taught her, persuading the strays to join their sisters in the swarm, and one by one they obeyed her.

When she thought to turn back to help Marna across the long grass of the orchard, it was too late; the High Priestess had already gone.

two
The Silver River

M
ARNA WAS RIGHT
; next day the spring rains began. For Calwyn, it was almost as bad as winter. Except for her brief morning and evening visits to the bees, she was trapped in the weaving rooms with the looms and spindles and the incessant shrill chatter of the other women.

She had been excused from spinning long ago on the grounds that her thread invariably came out in lumps, but her weaving and stitching were not much better, so she knew, when Tamen stopped by her loom, that it would not be to praise her work.

The Guardian stared down her long nose at the misshapen cloth. ‘It’s lucky we’re not relying on you to keep us in warm garments, Calwyn. There’s a hole here I could put my finger through.’

Gilly, who was sitting beside her with a lapful of mending, tittered, then hastily lifted her own work to her face and pretended she hadn’t heard.

Tamen paid her no attention. ‘No matter. I have another task for you, if you are willing. I should like you to visit the Outlander in the infirmary and speak with him.’

‘Gladly!’ Calwyn pushed back her stool with relief.

Tamen drew her aside, out of hearing of the others. ‘Ursca tells me that he trusts you more than anyone. I would like you to watch him. Talk to him, find out if he has another purpose here, if he has come to spy for Merithuros, or another land. Can you do that?’

‘If you wish, my Sister,’ said Calwyn, taken aback. ‘You don’t believe his story, then?’

Tamen snorted. ‘Only a child would believe such a fantastical tale. He must take us for fools, or else he is truly mad. See what you can discover.’

The Outlander did not seem particularly surprised, nor pleased, to see her. He was out of bed, and the bandage on his head had been reduced to a thin strip of linen, but he was still shut inside the tiny cell at the end of the infirmary, his broken foot propped on a stool. Outside, the rain was coming down in silver sheets onto Ursca’s garden; he stared dourly at the falling water, as though it were the cause of all his troubles.

‘You gave them my message, then,’ he said, by way of greeting. ‘I have had a visit from your High Priestess, and the other one – the Guardian. At least they gave me that courtesy, though not the courtesy of believing what I had to say.’

‘I think Marna believes you,’ said Calwyn. ‘Tamen –’ She hesitated. ‘Tamen has a sceptical mind.’

He shrugged impatiently. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m finished in any case.’ He gestured toward his injured foot. ‘I am a wounded duck that’s fallen into the swamp. All that remains is for the hunter’s dogs to find me and rip me to pieces.’

‘They don’t teach courage in the Outlands, then,’ said Calwyn tartly. ‘Your foot is hurt, but not your tongue. Instead of complaining that you can’t run, why not stand and fight?’

‘Fight
him
? With chantment?’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘What a fine idea. I should never have thought of that.’

Calwyn was silent for a moment. Then she said, ‘One of the gardeners here was born with a crooked foot, and one leg a whole handspan shorter than the other. He has built himself a shoe with a thick sole, and he carves walking sticks that are marvellous to see.’

‘What a clever fellow,’ said Darrow acidly.