Taste of Lightning

by Kate Constable

  ‘You must find a way. You will find the token, and bring it to me. You have two days, no more. After that, I go back to the Fastness of Rarr, to my home. I must have the token before I leave. And, of course, no one must know about this, especially the boy himself. Do you understand? If you do this simple thing, then there are horses for you. To ride now; later, to own. But if you fail –’ Wanion sucked in her breath. ‘Do not fail,’ she said.

  Tansy whispered, ‘Yes, Madam.’

  ‘That is good. We understand each other, yes? I have another gift for you. Lorison!’

  ‘Yes, Madam.’ Lorison darted across the room and returned with something clutched tightly in her hand. ‘Here, girl, take it.’

  Dazed, Tansy opened her hand, and Lorison dropped something into her palm: a luckpiece. Almost everyone in Baltimar had at least one luckbit, a little doll strung around their neck or tucked into a pocket. But even in the wavering light, Tansy could see that this was no ordinary luckpiece. It was made of mother-of-pearl, ivory and white satin, stitched with white silk. Without meaning to, Tansy closed her hand around it, and Wanion let out a pleased, hissing sigh.

  ‘It is good. This little one is my friend, you understand? It listens to you, watches with my eyes. It is part of me. Even when I am far away, I am with you. Do not try to destroy it, or you will be destroyed also. Now you are bound to me, yes?’

  Wanion’s beady, almost invisible eyes were fixed on her. The little doll seemed glued to Tansy’s hand; she was sure that if she tried to drop it, it would tear the flesh from her bones. Tansy’s mouth opened, and she heard herself say, ‘How can I get what you’re asking for? I’m a laundry-maid. I ain’t even allowed upstairs. How can I get near this boy?’

  Lorison giggled in pure terror. Tansy’s head swam. Wanion leaned forward in her massive chair, tipped slowly toward Tansy like a boulder about to crush her. She hissed, ‘You will help me, Tansy. Or it will not be a piece of this boy’s hair I take from you. It will be a piece of yourself.’

  Lorison seized Tansy by the arm and tugged her to the door, gabbling. ‘She’ll do it, Madam, I’ll see to that, don’t you worry, we’ll have it for you, night after next, I promise. She don’t understand, see, she’s a country girl, off a farm, she don’t mean no disrespect, just a bit simple in the head is all. Don’t you fret, Madam, I’ll see she does what she’s told this time.’

  With a flurry of curtsies, Lorison hustled them out into the secret corridor and slammed the iron-studded door. Then she shook Tansy so fiercely her teeth rattled. ‘You lost your senses? I picked you cos I thought you was a bright one! Would’ve done better to ask Pipkin the halfwit!’ She thrust Tansy away so hard her head banged on the stone wall and she saw stars. Lorison was crying. ‘See that? See that, you lackwit?’ She waved her left hand in Tansy’s face. All that remained of her little finger was a neat stump. ‘I tell people I got my hand caught in a hinge. But she did it. Oh, you stupid girl. You don’t know what she does. You got no idea. You know where my finger is now? Do you?’

  ‘No,’ said Tansy faintly. The sickly smoke had followed them into the corridor, or perhaps it clung to their clothes. Lorison’s face rippled.

  ‘She’s got it. So I ain’t never out of her power, and I never will be, so long as she’s got a piece of me. Why do you think she wants a bit of that boy? The part rules the whole, that’s why. She wants to make him her puppet –’

  ‘Why? Why him?’

  Lorison flipped her hand impatiently. ‘I don’t know. I don’t care, neither. All I know is, better him than me. That’s what you gotta think, too, better him than you. Oh you fool. You want her magic on you? You want to be like me? Want her finger and thumb pinching on your shoulder day and night like I got?’ Tears coursed down Lorison’s face as she pulled Tansy through the darkness. ‘Just you do what she says. Find a way. Don’t ask questions, don’t answer back. Who do you think you are? You’re a servant, same as me. Only I serve her now. She owns me. You, you might be lucky. Just this one thing she wants from you, a bit of this boy’s hair.’

  Tansy stumbled along, feeling stupid. ‘But how can I?’

  Lorison snorted. ‘You’d be pretty enough if you didn’t chop your hair so short. He’s a foreigner, they got strange tastes, maybe he’ll like you. What is he, halfway to a man? That age, they’ll touch anything with bosoms, even little ones like yours, if you let em. Oh, you’ll see. Get close enough and he’ll let you take more than a bit of hair. She’ll like that better, that’d please her.’

  ‘But I ain’t never even kissed a boy.’

  ‘Well you better learn, girl, and learn fast. You get what Madam wants, you give it to her, and that’s it, all over, and you can ride your precious horses till they drop dead under you. Me, I got no choice. She got a piece of me, see? Don’t let her get a piece of you.’

  The white luckpiece grinned up at Tansy from the palm of her hand; it burned her like a coal from the fire, and when she thrust it into her shirt pocket, it burned through the cloth like a brand above her heart.

  They emerged from the secret passages into a broom cupboard near the women-servants’ quarters. Lorison vanished, and Tansy was left, dizzy and sick, to grope her way to bed, with the thunder of the Witch-Woman’s laughter rolling in her ears.

  CHAPTER 2

  The Priest-King of Cragonlands

  SKIR watched the storm crawl across the horizon. Thunder rumbled like distant drums, and sheet lightning flickered in purple and silver fireworks over the northern sky.

  Skir’s heart raced. The hair prickled at the back of his neck, and he tasted a metallic tang on his tongue. He gripped the windowsill, forcing himself not to turn away, not to sweep the heavy curtains closed. It would be so easy to shut out the storm, and enclose himself instead in this safe, luxurious room.

  Beeman came in quietly. ‘All right, Skir?’ He knew how his pupil hated and feared thunderstorms. He came to stand beside Skir at the window. ‘A long way off,’ he said after a few moments. ‘You can count twenty between the lightning and the thunder. And it’s moving east. It won’t come any closer to Arvestel.’

  ‘I know,’ said Skir crossly, annoyed that his tutor felt the need to reassure him, as if he were a little boy hiding under the quilts. Yet he was grateful. After a moment he said, ‘It’s not near, Skir, as you can hear. No need to fear, or shed a tear.’

  Beeman gave a snort of laughter. ‘You still remember that?’

  ‘I remember.’

  Together they watched the convulsions of the storm as it drifted across the shallow hills. The mountains of Cragonlands were invisible from this far south, but Skir’s rooms faced north, holding the promise of a view that he would never be able to see. Actually, if anyone had asked, he would have preferred south-facing rooms. Then he might have glimpsed the sea, or at least the river-mouth. But a view of the water was not prized among the Baltimarans, and his northern rooms were considered a privilege: the windows framed the famous gardens of the Palace of Arvestel. Skir couldn’t understand why the Baltimarans took such pride in them: they were all hedges and fountains and geometric patterns; not a single wild thing growing anywhere. Even the flowers were grown in hothouses, all lined up in neat rows waiting to be drowned with fertiliser.

  Now the gardens, and the hills and woodlands that rolled away beyond them, were lit up by the erratic dazzle of lightning.

  As a tiny child, Skir had been struck by lightning. He had no memory of it, though his body seemed to remember: his hair crackling, the taste of metal in his mouth. He did have a vague memory of his mother singing, to comfort him. It was all he could recall of his mother.

  Someone had told him about the lightning, one of the priests in the Temple at Gleve, long before he came to Arvestel. The priest – who was it? Not Bettenwey – had been reprimanded for telling him; he was still quite small then, maybe six years old. Beeman knew that he knew, but they never talked about it. There were many things they never talked about.

  Beeman said, ‘It’
s awfully hot in here. Do you really need that fire?’

  Skir glanced indifferently at the hearth. ‘I told the maid to build it up while I was in the bath. I hate drying myself in a cold room.’

  ‘Haven’t you noticed it’s summer? I’ll open the window.’

  ‘No!’ said Skir. ‘No. Maybe later.’ He shivered, and glanced involuntarily outside, where the storm still flickered about the horizon.

  Beeman followed his look. ‘If you’re not going to bed yet, I’ll light the lamps.’

  Skir leaned on the windowsill as his tutor moved around the room. ‘Do you always have to be so damn tactful?’

  ‘I do my best,’ said Beeman in his mild, dry way. ‘I won’t light too many. Let’s be cosy.’ He set the taper to one lamp, then another, and made a puddle of golden light around the fireplace that softly lit the rest of the room.

  The floor was thickly carpeted, and long velvet curtains framed the windows. There were carved chairs and sofas piled with embroidered cushions, paintings in gilt frames, and fine porcelain vases filled with flowers. Scattered about the room were a harp, a flute, several paintboxes, an abandoned clay sculpture of a girl’s head, and an empty birdcage woven from silver wire. There were throw rugs of woven silk, and lamps in golden brackets.

  Through a doorway stood a curtained bed, heaped with sumptuous quilts in subtle shades of crimson and purple. Dirty shirts and crumpled socks were strewn across the floor around it. Skir’s clothes were all beautifully made and delicately embroidered, but without a single splash of colour. High-ranking priests of the Faith should wear dark blue, but the Baltimarans had declared that too, too dreary; they’d compromised on soft dove-grey. Skir’s shoulder-length red hair, damp after his bath, was tied at the nape of his neck with a grey ribbon, and he wore a grey silk dressing-gown.

  He was pale-skinned, slightly built, and looked younger than his sixteen years. He had a thin, clever face, dusted with freckles. His eyes were wide-set, the grey-green of the ocean on a miserable day. The last time he’d seen the ocean was on his journey from Cragonlands, five years before.

  Beeman drew the velvet curtains across the windows and blotted out the storm. ‘I forgot to ask, how was your riding lesson?’

  ‘Cancelled. Old Ingle said we should give the pony a rest.’ Skir looked up. ‘What?’

  ‘Give the pony a rest, indeed! How these people won a war, I do not understand . . . I’ll speak to Ingle.’

  ‘I don’t care, Beeman. I can’t be bothered with it, really.’

  ‘I’ll speak to Ingle,’ said Beeman, pretending he hadn’t heard, which was his usual way of defying Skir’s orders. ‘Your riding lessons are important. It’s good exercise, and it teaches you other things, too. You need to be firm, but gentle. You must make the horse trust you, and you must learn to trust the horse. Just like the relationship between the ruler and the ruled.’

  ‘In that case, it would be more useful for me to learn it from the point of view of the horse,’ said Skir caustically.

  Beeman laughed. ‘You’ll see I’m right one day.’

  ‘Oh, you’re always right. It’s very annoying of you.’ Skir sighed. ‘It hasn’t been as bad as I expected, actually. I’ve only fallen off three or four times, and I’ve hardly hurt myself at all. And at least I don’t wobble like the Baltimarans. No wonder the horses need a rest.’

  The Baltimarans were nervous about Skir’s riding lessons. He took them under the strict supervision of armed guards, and he was not permitted to ride anything but the smallest, tamest ponies, supposedly for his own safety. But really they were afraid that he might suddenly gallop off over the hills and head north for the border. Although everyone maintained the polite fiction that Skir was an honoured guest of the Baltimaran King, in reality he was a prisoner, a hostage.

  A nearer rumble of thunder rattled the ornaments on the mantel, and Skir jumped. Beeman said hastily, ‘Why don’t you finish your drawing?’

  Skir wandered to the table and peered at the half-finished hunting scene on its square of canvas. ‘Is it worth finishing?’

  ‘Certainly. The shadows are excellent. And the trees in the snow.’

  Skir held the picture at arm’s length. ‘But dogs aren’t my strong point.’

  ‘Oh, they’re dogs, are they? I thought they were goats. Perhaps, if you smudged them out, it could become a picnic.’

  ‘In the snow? They’d freeze their backsides. Maybe a Rengani picnic. Renganis wouldn’t let a bit of snow spoil their fun.’

  ‘Renganis don’t believe in fun, or picnics. Better make it a military training exercise. Well, if you don’t feel like drawing, shall we do some exercises of our own?’

  Skir rolled his eyes. ‘You mean the ceremonies? Again?’

  ‘Yes, review the rituals,’ said Beeman. ‘We’ve been neglectful the last few days.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Skir, please don’t take that moody tone with me. You know as well as I do that you must keep up your practice. When this is all over –’

  ‘When I’ve expired from a mysterious illness, you mean? Or fallen from the window in a tragic accident?’

  ‘I mean, when you’re restored to the throne. When you go home to Cragonlands. These are rituals the Priest-King performs every day. Every word and gesture must be perfect.’

  Skir slouched over the table. ‘But I’m never going home, am I? I’m stuck in this – this room.’ He flicked a contemptuous hand at the satin and velvet. ‘His Highness, King of the Northern Territories of Baltimar! I wish they’d put me in the dungeons! At least that would be honest.’

  ‘If you had ever seen a dungeon, you wouldn’t make such a fatuous remark,’ Beeman said quietly.

  Skir pushed the charcoals around the table. ‘Why pretend?’ he said. ‘Even if I do go back to Cragonlands one day, it won’t be as ruler. I might have the Circle of Attar on my head and the Staff of the Temple in my hand, but the Baltimarans will be pulling the strings and everyone will know it.’ Skir let his hands rise and fall limply, in imitation of a puppet.

  Beeman didn’t flinch. ‘Don’t try to out-guess fate, Skir. None of us knows what the future may bring.’

  Skir kicked at the table leg. ‘I know those ceremonies inside out. I’d rather practise writing the Signs.’

  ‘Not here. Let’s keep the Signs for when we’re safely outside the Palace, with no one watching.’

  ‘Don’t fuss. No one’s watching now.’

  Beeman was unmoved. ‘Spies are everywhere. We can’t be too careful. The Baltimarans may be rich, but they know nothing of the Signs.’

  ‘The way you carry on, you’d think the whole court was teeming with spies, instead of fat young men who’ve got out of fighting and lounge around pretending that they don’t sniff rust, and fat young women who spend all their time flirting with the fat young men, and fat old men who moan on and on about the war, and fat old women who moan on and on about the young people –’ Skir stopped; Beeman was laughing. Skir laughed too, a little ashamed of his own vitriol.

  ‘Nevertheless, there are spies,’ said Beeman, rubbing his eye. ‘That’s why I didn’t teach you to write for so long. It’s secret knowledge, priestly knowledge.’

  ‘But you’re not a priest, Beeman. How did you learn about writing?’

  ‘Oh, I picked it up along the way,’ said Beeman vaguely.

  Skir sat down near the fire and rested his chin on his hands. ‘Why you?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Don’t call me sir. You sound like the Balts.’

  ‘Don’t call them the Balts,’ said his tutor automatically. ‘Try to speak respectfully, even if you can’t think of them with respect.’

  Skir was not to be diverted. Tonight felt special, different from ordinary nights. He and Beeman usually went to bed early, unless there was a banquet or a concert or some revelry that Skir had to attend. They never sat up talking like this. Perhaps tonight Beeman might tell him things. There was one topic in particular that Skir both longed
and dreaded to talk about; but he wouldn’t ask about that, not yet.

  ‘Why you, Beeman? Why did the Baltimarans choose you to be my tutor?’

  ‘They didn’t.’ Beeman drew up a chair on the other side of the fire to face his pupil. His melancholy face relaxed a little, and he stroked his drooping brown moustache. ‘The priests sent me, with the King’s consent. They had to send someone. You were only a child.’

  ‘I was eleven. Boys of eleven fight, in Rengan. They fight in the war, beside the men.’

  Beeman frowned. ‘That’s Baltimaran propaganda. The conscription age for the Rengani Army is sixteen, for five years’ minimum service. It’s true, quite young children help to make the weapons in the manufactories. But they don’t fight. And anyway, as you know, a Priest of the Faith is not permitted to take the life of another.’

  ‘Have you noticed how the Balts – sorry – the Baltimarans always skim over the “Priest” part of my title? They don’t mind calling me “King”, even here, with their own King spitting-distance away. But not “Priest”.’

  ‘It makes them uncomfortable,’ said Beeman. ‘It’s not like Cragonlands. Baltimar has no Faith, no chantment, nothing to believe in.’

  ‘They believe in wealth. And winning wars. And they have their own magic.’

  ‘Superstitious rubbish. The magic of shreds and scraps.’ Beeman frowned. ‘They don’t understand what a chanter is, let alone a priest.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I know what a priest is, either,’ said Skir. He darted a glance at Beeman. But Beeman wore his usual absent-minded look, as if he were only half-listening. Skir leaned forward. He would make Beeman pay attention. He said loudly, ‘At least I know what I’m not.’

  Beeman unfolded himself and reached down to poke the fire. He said mildly, ‘What do you mean by that, Skir?’

  ‘You know. I’m not really the Priest-King, am I? I’m a fraud.’

  Beeman looked puzzled.

  ‘No,’ he said carefully. ‘You are the boy the priests recognised as the new embodiment of the Priest-King, when you were four years old.’