The Tenth Power (3 page)

They were not skilled at using the last artefact of the Power of Fire; the Clarion’s power was far greater than their ability to control it. Mica had grumbled that it was ‘like tryin to ride a sea serpent’.They had learned through trial and error which notes made heat and which made light, when to breathe through the Clarion gently and when to play a fiercer blast. Calwyn tried to guide Mica, and Trout observed, and remembered. Sometimes the Clarion did as they intended; often it did not. After one or two nearly catastrophic accidents, they had learned to be cautious.

‘Play it like when you’re starting a campfire,’ suggestedTrout.

Mica blew a succession of rapid, staccato notes. Calwyn watched in an agony of impatience as the ice dripped and melted, until the thinnest possible crust of ice remained around the body. ‘Stop!’ she shouted, and simultaneously Trout yelled, ‘Watch out!’

The head lolled, and the woman’s body smashed to the ground, stiff as a wooden doll. A faint blue tracing of veins was visible beneath her pale skin, and her calloused hands were large and strong. Calwyn rushed forward, dragging off her mittens with her teeth. ‘Give me the Clarion!’The trumpet still pulsed warm with the afterglow of chantment, and Calwyn held it to the woman’s breast, her hands, her belly, as she would have held a hot poultice. The priestess’s hazel-green eyes stared up unseeing; her mouth was wide, stained with something dark, and one strand of hair was caught between the cold lips. ‘It’s Athala,’ said Calwyn as she worked frantically over the body. ‘She’s our shoemaker.’

Trout looked at Mica and shook his head. Mica, who still had great faith in Calwyn, set her mouth stubbornly. She picked up Athala’s cold, stiff fingers, and rubbed them between her gloved hands.When Calwyn placed her cheek close to the cold face, she felt no stir of breath or pulse; when she breathed into the blackened lips, there was no quickening response. When she lifted her mouth away, her own lips felt numb, and she tasted the unmistakable aniseed flavour of bitterthorn. So Athala had been drugged, or drugged herself – perhaps the bitterthorn was disguising the presence of the spark of life.

Along with her chantment, Calwyn had lost the special awareness she’d gained with the help of her friend Halasaa. He was one of the Tree People, the first inhabitants of Tremaris, and he was gifted with the Power of Becoming. He could heal injuries and illness, and speak with animals.

Half a year ago, Calwyn would have known, without this blind, desperate groping, whether this woman was alive. She folded Athala’s hands around the Clarion and held it to her throat, willing the blood to pump again through the ice-cold body.

She couldn’t have said how long they crouched there while the early winter dusk gathered around them. At last Trout touched her shoulder. ‘It’s no use, Calwyn. She’s dead.’

‘It ain’t your fault, Cal.’ Mica slipped an arm around her friend’s waist. ‘You tried your best.’

Calwyn shook her off. ‘I could have done better than that, once,’ she said bitterly.

‘Not even Halasaa could have helped her,’ saidTrout. ‘She was dead, Calwyn, dead a long time, I’d say. She was past healing.’

Calwyn closed the hazel-green eyes and drew the yellow shawl over Athala’s face. ‘Her body should be burned, and the ashes scattered under the blazetree in the sacred valley.We can bring her inside the Wall ourselves, but we’ll have to send people to carry her back to the Dwellings.’ Calwyn pulled on the mittens she’d discarded while she tried to revive Athala; her hands were stiff with cold. ‘It’ll be dark soon.We should go in.’

Trout examined the breach dubiously. ‘Is that gap big enough?’

‘Yes,’ said Calwyn shortly. Part of her was horrified at the blasphemy of melting a hole in the sacredWall. The voices of her childhood echoed in her mind:
the first duty of every priestess is
the care of theWall
. And now she had mutilated it.

Trout and Calwyn dragged Athala’s body inside the Wall and laid it gently down. Mica threw the packs one by one through the gap. Once they were all safely inside, they trudged back to the river, and skated on. For some distance, the river and theWall diverged, but after a time the river veered toward the rampart again. It was so dark now that Mica held the Clarion to her lips. A stream of golden light, warmer than any lantern, flowed from the mouth of the little trumpet, and cast a pool of brightness around the travellers.

Suddenly Trout gasped, and put out his hand to halt the others. The three huddled together, staring.

Body after body was ranged inside theWall, a line of the dead as far as the light of the Clarion could reach. Perhaps three dozen of the sisters were held upright in the ice, all robed in yellow, their unbound hair swirling about their frozen bodies.

‘Oh, no –
no
!’ whispered Mica.

Calwyn covered her face with her hands.

Trout said, ‘What’s happened, Calwyn?Why?’

‘How should I know?’ said Calwyn sharply. ‘There must be a reason. Perhaps – perhaps the way to the sacred valley is cut off, and Marna decided to keep the dead bodies here until they could hold the proper rituals.’ Even to her, that sounded absurd.

‘But why so many?’ Trout persisted. ‘Didn’t you say about two hundred sisters lived in the Dwellings? There must be thirty or forty here.’

Calwyn shivered. ‘Perhaps it was Samis. Darrow and I escaped, but maybe the sisters …’ She swallowed. Never in her darkest thoughts had she dreamed that Samis might have destroyed Antaris; never had she imagined returning home to a wasteland.

‘Samis done this?’ whispered Mica.

‘I don’t know. Perhaps. It might have – amused him – ’

Calwyn turned away, too afraid to examine the faces of the dead. ‘Take off your skates. We can walk to the Dwellings from here.’

None of them wanted to skate past that silent, dreadful file.They thrust their skate-blades into the packs, then turned their backs to theWall and crunched across the hard-packed snow toward the Dwellings.

two
Snow- sickness

DUSK HAD DARKENED
into night before they reached the stone bridge at the foot of the orchard. As the three trudged uphill through the snow, struggling under the weight of the packs, Calwyn pointed out a cluster of domed shadows near the riverbank. ‘Those are the beehives.’

Mica and Trout both knew that Calwyn had kept the hives in Antaris; she had spoken of it often. ‘These are our apple trees, the sweetest apples in Tremaris. There’s the Bee House.That’s where I – where the beekeeper stores the frames for the hives, and the smoke-lanterns.’ This stream of talk about safe, ordinary things did not reassure her companions; Calwyn’s voice was nervous. ‘There are the Dwellings. That building with the tall windows is the great hall. That’s where the sisters eat, all together. And we sing there after dinner every night, in winter.’

‘There ain’t no singin now,’ whispered Mica.

Calwyn paused. The looming hall was dark and silent. No lamplight glowed in the windows, and no clatter of plates or murmur of voices floated into the night. A cold hand clenched Calwyn’s heart.

‘Dinner must be over,’ she said abruptly.

‘Think they’ll find us some leftovers?’ said Mica. ‘Ain’t you hungry, Trout?’

Trout grinned briefly; they had all been hungry for days. But his voice was serious. ‘It’s awfully dark, Calwyn. And quiet.’

‘Somethin’s wrong, ain’t it? Somethin big.’ Mica coughed violently, and clutched the Clarion to her chest.

‘Marna will explain everything,’ said Calwyn, too quickly. ‘Let’s find her, before we see anyone else.’ She bent her head and trudged off across the snow.

Mica trotted after her. ‘You ain’t shy of em, Cal?’

‘It’s not that. Marna will understand when I tell her who you are, but the sisters don’t welcome strangers.’ That was an understatement. ‘They’ll be very suspicious of you two.’

‘But we ain’t strangers,’ said Mica. ‘We’re your friends.’

‘You can’t blame the sisters for being careful,’ Trout said. ‘The last person who came across theWall was Samis, after all, and who knows what
he
did while he was here – ’

‘But there ain’t no need to be scared of
us
!’

‘Come on!’ urged Calwyn. Even if they couldn’t find Marna first, she wanted to avoid Tamen, the Guardian of the Wall, second in rank to the High Priestess.When Darrow arrived in Antaris, Tamen would have sacrificed him to the Goddess if she’d had her way.

Calwyn’s heart was beating hard as they skirted around the jumble of outbuildings that clustered near the Dwellings: the milking-sheds, the duck-houses, the goat-pens and woodpiles. With every step, Calwyn’s sense of foreboding grew stronger. She could smell the familiar rank odour of the goats, and hear faint bleats and muffled bells. But there was no lantern-light, no muttering from the sheds. Goats must be milked, eggs collected, clean straw forked into the pens. Where was everybody?

‘Stay close,’ said Calwyn softly. ‘In case we meet any of the sisters. And Trout, cover your head. The men of the villages never come so close to the Dwellings.’

Near the kitchens lay the walled gardens where the herbs and vegetables grew.They were fallow now, and blanketed with snow. And beyond that –

Calwyn drew in a sharp breath. She had forgotten. She had seen the collapse of the infirmary herself, from high in the branches of an ember tree, as she and Darrow fled. But it was a shock to see the blackened ruins, the fallen beams and toppled stones, all thick with snow. One lone wall stood, with a row of bare hooks where Ursca had hung her bunches of healing herbs.

‘Was there a fire?’ asked Trout in a hushed voice.

Calwyn nodded. ‘Samis destroyed it, so we could see the power of his chantment. I thought they would have rebuilt it by now.’

They were standing in the open yard bordered by the ruins of the infirmary and the rear of the Middle House, where the sisters and the older novices slept. From high inside the building came the sound of a racking cough, quickly suppressed. At least
someone
was alive, thought Calwyn, allowing herself to admit her worst fear only as it was proved false.

But as the muffled coughing stopped, another sound began: a desolate sobbing. On and on, the lonely crying echoed around the yard, fading at last into the darkness.

Mica clutched Calwyn’s hand. Trout wrapped his arms around his body. His eyes were hidden behind his lenses, but his mouth was set in a firm line, as if he was trying to stop himself from crying too.

Calwyn grippedTrout’s elbow and squeezed Mica’s fingers. ‘Marna’s rooms are this way. She’ll explain everything, you’ll see.’

The High Priestess would send for food, and a basin of warm water so they could wash, and Calwyn would sit on the low stool by the fire, with her Lady Mother’s hand resting on her head as if she were still a little girl. Marna’s eyes would crinkle with that serene smile.
There’s nothing wrong here, little daughter. Nothing
but a long winter. Yes, Samis was here. It was a terrible time. But he is gone.
Perhaps Marna had given her up for dead, just as she’d grieved for Calwyn’s mother, Calida. Calida had run away from Antaris too. She’d returned in the depths of winter, bringing her baby daughter Calwyn to be raised by the sisters. But Calida had caught a winter fever and died before dawn on the very night she’d returned.

Calwyn pulled herself back from her thoughts and hurried on. She had been damaged by her adventures beyond theWall, but she was alive, and she wanted to show herself to Marna. But when she turned the corner, she stopped and stared up at the darkened windows, frozen with disappointment. Mica and Trout watched her, their breath drifting in clouds of mist, waiting for her to decide what to do next.

‘We’ll go to the kitchens,’ said Calwyn at last. ‘There’s always someone there, day and night, to tend the fires.’

‘And we can get some food,’ said Trout.

Calwyn herself was no longer hungry. What could have happened? Dead bodies locked inside theWall, the buildings dark and deserted, the animals untended.Where was Marna? And that hopeless, miserable weeping…

The kitchens were on the eastern side of the Dwellings. Wisps of smoke unfurled into the murky dark, and there was a smell of burned bread and rotting vegetable scraps. Calwyn slowed her pace.The kitchens had never smelled rotten before. Durtha, the head cook, was scrupulous about keeping the larders and sculleries clean and fresh. The novices on kitchen duty always complained about how much scrubbing they had to do.

Cautiously, Calwyn beckoned her friends through the storerooms: the fish room with its long stone tanks, the room where the sausages and salted meats hung from their hooks, the mead and honey room. They were in the dairy, lined with shelves of milk-jars and hard round cheeses, when the sound of voices startled them.

‘No, no, I’ve already checked the cellars – ’

‘But Durtha said – ’

‘ – doesn’t matter – Tamen said the Bee House – ’

The three held their breath until the footsteps died away.

‘Wait here!’ whispered Calwyn. ‘I’ll go in alone.’ She crept up the steps into the main kitchen. It was deserted, as though everyone had been suddenly called away to some more urgent task. The sisters hadn’t had their dinner after all. Piles of scrawny vegetables lay chopped on the long table; a spoon sat propped in a bowl of batter. At the far end of the room, cauldrons bubbled over the massive hearth that took up the whole of one wall.