The Waterless Sea (16 page)

Despite the threat he poses, the visitor remains. Is it possible that the sorcerers are afraid of him? The embassy to the Imperial Court returns. The Ambassador was not dead, after all. The visitor has been seen laughing. Who is this man, that the sorcerers are so cowed by him? He goes everywhere, he pokes his nose into everything.

One night, the visitor decides to poke his nose into the business of the astronomers. He ascends the ladder and steps onto the roof. It is the first time the boy has set eyes on him since the night of his arrival, when he was a tiny figure swathed in dusty robes. The star-seers fall back in a dismayed flutter of black crows round a bird of paradise.

The prince dresses as though he were still at court, in embroidered gloves, bejewelled shoes, a short brocade cloak that stands out stiffly from his shoulders like the ruff of a lizard.Yet the boy' s eye is drawn at once to the stranger' s large head, to his face. The prince' s face, in contrast to his foppish attire, is strong-featured and contemptuous. His lips curl, his eyes are hooded, as he stares about disdainfully at the star-seers' shabby equipment, the tarnished astrolabes, the chipped stone wheels that serve as star-maps. He is a young man, strong and proud and fearless. This is a man, thinks the boy, who should be Emperor.

The prince makes his way to the edge of the roof, where the boy stands. The boy has never seen a prince before. The prince' s gaze is cool and haughty. The boy thinks, you may be a prince, but you are not my prince. I am a man of the marshes, not a Merithuran. I will not be cowed by you, no matter what the rest may do.

The prince halts before him. One of the star-seers pulls timidly at the boy' s sleeve, but the boy stands his ground. The prince is not a tall man, but his massive, imposing head makes him seem bigger than he is. The boy and the prince stare at one another. The prince' s eyes are as dark as the spaces between the stars, but they flash with glittering light and power. The boy trembles. Suddenly he knows that this man is stronger and more dangerous than all the sorcerers of the Black Palace combined. Yet he cannot look away, he cannot move. It is the same paralysis that gripped him during the Testing. And like that paralysis, this inability to act will purchase him a reward he does not deserve.

The prince speaks. His voice is deep and powerful. ‘What is your name, boy?'

The boy feels a jolt of surprise. It' s so long since anyone asked that question, he has to think for a moment before replying. Perhaps his hesitation looks like arrogance. ‘They call me Darrow.'

The prince nods. ‘My name is Samis.' He puts his hand to his lips, then holds out his palm in greeting. Mechanically, as if in a dream, Darrow returns the gesture. His heart beats hard. He knows, dimly, that something important has happened, though he doesn' t know what it is.

As if he is no longer interested in the star-seers and their complicated work, Samis turns away, and goes down from the roof.

The next day, just as he has ordered cushions for his chair and plums for his dinner, Samis demands that Darrow be sent to him, to be a companion in his work. ‘That boy is the only one of you snivelling wretches who is not afraid of me,' he says.

And so for a second time Darrow finds himself unjustly saved.

four
The Captive Children

C
ALWYN DROPPED TO
her knees on the glaring-white roof of the tower. The child stared at her with wide, terrified eyes, but did not move. A low, continuous growl issued from it, like the warning growl of a frightened animal. But Calwyn knew that this was no animal' s sound: it was chantment, the throat-song of ironcraft. The child was singing. This was the song that had drawn Calwyn and Halasaa here.

The child was so filthy, so thin and ragged, that Calwyn couldn' t tell if it was a boy or a girl who peered at her through a tangle of matted, dirty hair. In one corner of the roof was a pot, and the stench that rose from it was indescribable. Beside the child was an earthenware water jug, the plainest, shabbiest object Calwyn had seen in the Palace.

Calwyn held out her hand. ‘I' ve come to help you.'

The child shook its head, still growling out that low, almost inaudible chantment.

‘What' s your name? Can you understand me?'

This time the child nodded. But the big eyes were still wary, and the ceaseless chantment droned on.

‘I know you can speak,' said Calwyn. ‘I can hear you singing.'

The child reached up a skinny paw and pushed back the tangle of hair. ‘Can' t stop.' The words were whispered so low that Calwyn had to lean forward to hear them, and the chantment began again at once.

‘You can' t stop singing?Why not?'

‘Palace will fall.'

‘But you must sleep, you must stop to eat and drink.'

The child shook her head – Calwyn was almost sure it was a girl – and a look of panic came into her eyes.

Gently Calwyn asked, ‘Are you Shada?'

At this, the girl gave a moan. Her hands crept to her mouth, muffling the chantment, and she began to rock back and forth. Her eyes were fixed on Calwyn' s face with a new expression, part greedy hope, part terror. A single tear trickled down her face, leaving a trail in the mask of dirt, and dripped onto the roof.

Calwyn moved nearer, trying not to alarm the child. ‘Heben sent me to find you. He' s here, in the Palace. We' ve been searching for you, and your brother.You' re safe now, we' ll take care of you.' She held out her hand, but the child batted it away, and shook her head more vehemently than ever.

‘We' ll take you, we' ll hide you. You' re safe now!'

The girl, Shada, broke off her drone of chantment just long enough to mutter in a fierce whisper, ‘No! Can' t!
He
knows. If I stop,
he
–' ‘He?You mean Amagis? Is he the one who keeps you here?' Calwyn' s mind was busy. Did Keela know what was hidden behind the little doorway in her rooms? She dismissed the thought; theThird Princess was too shallow and too frivolous to be involved in anything like this. ‘Come with me,' she urged.

Shada shook her head again, singing softly, her eyes filled with tears, and she gestured to her grubby feet.

Calwyn stifled a cry. The child' s feet had been broken. Calwyn knew something about injuries and healing. Skilfully and deliberately, someone had snapped the bones. Shada could not run, nor walk; she could not even stand.

Calwyn touched the child' s thin arm. ‘The Emperor is dead. The Court is in chaos. This is our best chance to save you.'

Shada' s dry lips never ceased moving, the soft growling never paused, but slowly she nodded her head. ‘My friend can heal you. Don' t be afraid. He' s waiting for us, just down the stairs. Be brave. I' ll carry you down to him.'

Calwyn put her arms under the child' s frail body and lifted. Shada gave a cry of pain, and bit her lip. At last the chantment fell silent. The child was small, and Calwyn was strong, but she staggered under the sudden weight.

Shada whispered, hot and urgent, into her ear. ‘The others? He' ll kill them! He' ll know I' ve stopped, he' ll come!'

‘You mean the other children?'

‘There are five of us, five came from – from the Black Place.' She shuddered, and hid her face in Calwyn' s shoulder.

Calwyn stood in the harsh sunlight, thinking hard. ‘Five chanters, like you? Only five?What about all the other chanter children?'

‘They' re in the Black Place. There are only five of us here, all over the Palace.'

‘With their feet broken, like you?'

A grimace, something like a smile, flitted across Shada' s face. ‘Locks and chains can' t hold ironcrafters.'

‘But why – why keep you here, like
this
?Who could be so cruel?'

Shada peered into Calwyn' s face. ‘We sing, night and day, all the time. We keep the Palace whole. We take turns to sleep.' Her eyes were huge, staring urgently into Calwyn' s. ‘If we don' t sing, the Palace of Cobwebs will crumble into dust.'

Calwyn took a breath, but there was no time to wonder at it now. ‘We' ll find the others, we' ll take you all away. The Palace will have to fend for itself. But we must hurry.'

Staggering, she stooped before the dark doorway. Shada cried out. The stairway was so narrow that they couldn' t fit inside it together. Calwyn thought rapidly. She set the child down, and tore off her stiff outer skirt. ‘We' ll make a sled. In Antaris, where I come from, we slide down the snowy hills on sleds – of course, I' m forgetting, do you know what snow is? Here, sit on the skirt, and I' ll pull you down the steps. It will hurt, Shada, I' m sorry –' But the child understood. ‘Like a sandskin, for sliding down the dunes,' she said. Her dark eyes were large with pain as she shifted herself onto the folded square of fabric. Calwyn was careful, but it was a rough, bumping journey down the winding stairs. And slow – so slow. One step at a time, they descended, down through the thickening darkness.

‘Halasaa, oh Halasaa –' Calwyn wasn' t sure if she said the words aloud or only called them with her mind, but at last an answering call sounded inside her head.

I am here.

‘I have the child. I have Shada.' He was just ahead of her, waiting at the place where the stairs widened. His hands reached out and held her firm. Calwyn let go her grip on the folded skirt, and steadied herself against the cool stone walls. ‘She' s hurt, Halasaa. Her feet. . .'

Calwyn could just see him in the dim light, kneeling before the frightened child. Gently he picked up one of the small feet and held it between his thin brown hands. Shada gasped, and flinched. ‘No – no!'

‘Halasaa won' t hurt you, Shada, I promise.'

Be still, little one.
Halasaa' s calm, reassuring voice sounded in both their minds, and then Calwyn heard, for herself alone,
Who would hurt a child like this?

‘I don' t know,' she said helplessly. ‘It must have been Amagis. They are Keela' s rooms, but I' m sure she knows nothing.'

He has broken more than her bones. Her heart and her mind are
damaged also.

‘Can you heal her?'

Halasaa nodded.
The injuries to the spirit are more serious than the
broken bones. But I can help her.
Already his quick caressing hands were moving over Shada' s foot in the silent magic of healing, the Power of Becoming that belonged to the Tree People. Calwyn sat back against the cold stone and allowed herself to rest. Her hands tingled, and her head buzzed with the pleasant, familiar sensation of chantment. As she watched Halasaa' s deft movements, she felt herself fall into a kind of dreaming trance, and unconsciously she began to move her own hands in an echo of his. Such a precious gift he had, this dance of healing, and he was the last to know its secrets. . .

She became aware of a noise in the rooms below. Instantly alert, she shot a look at Halasaa, but his face was severe with concentration. There it was again: a faint rustle of robes on the stone floor. Perhaps the servants had come back to fetch one last bundle of mats.

Quickly, without disturbing Halasaa, Calwyn crept downstairs to the little doorway. Rods of light pierced the shadows of the staircase; like everything else in the Palace, the door was made of carved stone, and there were tiny chinks in the carving. Calwyn put her eye to one of the gaps.

For a moment she saw nothing but the empty room. Then a swish of black crossed her vision, and she fell back, heart thudding. It was Amagis, his gaunt face hard with anger, and he was striding purposefully toward her.

She took one step back and began to sing, a swift quiet chantment of ice. Praying that he couldn' t hear her, she sang up ice all around the door, to hold it fast in its frame. Even before the song was complete, the sorcerer reached for the handle. Calwyn sang on, to reinforce the spell, her mind working frantically. She knew she had trapped them, but somehow she had to hold off the sorcerer until Shada was able to run.

Amagis rattled the door, expecting it to swing open. Then he swore and pounded on the door with his fists. Tiny splinters of ice flew from the door frame. Calwyn took a step back, then another, singing under her breath.

Calwyn.

Halasaa and the child were behind her. Shada was on her feet, eyes wide with terror.

‘It' s
him
,' she whispered. ‘He brought us from the Black Place.'

Amagis' s fists pounded on the door, a regular double thumping. Then Calwyn heard the sound she' d been dreading: a low throat-song, the gurgled notes of a chantment of iron. Amagis was tearing down the wall around the doorway; bit by bit, it crumbled away. Calwyn sang on, blocking the gaps with ice. More and more light flooded into the narrow stairwell. She could see Amagis' s grim face clearly now, and his hands raised for the chantment.

Suddenly Calwyn flung her arms up and sang out strongly, a different chantment, a song of the winds. She blew the door away. The force of the wind caught the sorcerer utterly by surprise; Calwyn glimpsed the shock on his pale face as the door hit him with full force. Its top edge clipped him beneath the chin and knocked him flat.