Taste of Lightning

by Kate Constable

  ‘Sorry,’ said Skir stiffly, and he rolled himself in his coat and pretended to go to sleep while Tansy and Perrin hissed and whispered together about him.

  It was long after midnight when Tansy woke and saw a glow on the horizon. She whispered, ‘Perrin?’

  ‘Yes.’ His voice came quietly out of the dark. ‘I can see it too. They’ve lit the shore fire.’

  For a few moments they were silent, watching the eerie flicker of the flames against the sky.

  Tansy whispered, ‘Why?’

  ‘The fires are meant to keep chantment at bay. Maybe the soldiers we fought at Rarr heard me sing and told your Lady Wanion one of us was a chanter.’

  ‘And Skir.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Perrin after a pause. ‘And Skir.’

  ‘So she knows – she knows where we are?’

  ‘I only said maybe.’

  ‘But you let our fire go out . . .’

  ‘Better cautious than a corpse, as the commander likes to say. Don’t worry, Tansy. Go back to sleep.’

  ‘No. I’ll keep watch now.’ Tansy sat up, shivering, and wrapped her blanket round her shoulders. She thought Perrin had fallen asleep, but after a long time he spoke again.

  ‘Don’t tell Skir.’

  ‘No,’ said Tansy. She kept her eyes fixed on the distant orange glow until, just before dawn, it died away. Only then would she let herself sleep again.

  The next day Skir rode Sedge alone. After midday they came to a patch of shingle that led down onto a long stretch of hard sand. Tansy and Perrin slipped from Penthesi’s back, and pebbles skittered underfoot as they led him down. Skir hesitated at the top. He squeezed his legs gently. ‘Go on, Sedge.’

  Sedge flicked her chestnut ear questioningly, then set one hoof on the shingle. The stones shifted. Sedge put another hoof down, then another. Too late to turn back now. It was all right, thought Skir with relief, and then the world swung sideways. Sedge screamed in pain and fright as the shingle rushed up to slam against Skir’s face. He rolled over, winded, and stared up at the wide blue sky.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ cried Tansy.

  ‘I – I don’t think so.’ With infinite care, Skir raised himself on his elbows.

  ‘She was talking to the mare,’ said Perrin.

  Dazed, Skir looked around. Sedge was down. Tansy was at her side and feeling up and down her legs as she soothed her. The chestnut tried to struggle to her feet, but kept collapsing, and at last Tansy gathered her head into her lap.

  ‘Her leg’s broken.’

  Skir closed his eyes. ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid! I told you I couldn’t do it, I knew I’d mess it up.’

  Tansy spoke past him to Perrin. ‘Can you heal her? Can you make her heal?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There must be something, some magic to help her!’

  Perrin squatted beside Sedge. ‘There’s only one thing I can do.’

  ‘What?’ Tansy looked up eagerly, but Perrin kept his gaze fixed on Sedge as he rubbed the mare’s nose.

  ‘I can sing her to sleep, Tansy. That’s all.’

  ‘To sleep? You mean – you mean she won’t wake up?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Penthesi whinnied, and Sedge lifted her head to answer, a soft, bewildered nickering.

  ‘She knows, Tansy. She knows there’s nothing else to do.’

  Tansy bent her head over Sedge’s neck, and said nothing.

  Skir said, ‘But it’s only her leg! Can’t we bandage it?’

  ‘That wouldn’t do no good.’ Tansy spoke without bitterness or blame, just a terrible sadness. ‘Perrin’s right.’

  ‘Poor old girl,’ murmured Perrin, stroking Sedge’s velvet nose. ‘Poor old girl. Stay there, Tansy.’ And he began to sing a chantment, a crooning song like a lullaby, and Skir felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck as they always did when Perrin sang.

  Penthesi lowered his head, as if he knew exactly what was happening. Skir patted his neck, and the big horse snorted into his hand, then turned back to watch Sedge.

  The chestnut lifted her head; she heaved a great breath, then laid her head calmly in Tansy’s lap while Perrin’s chantment drifted over her. Tansy whispered something that Skir couldn’t hear; she was crying.

  Skir walked away to the water’s edge where foam hissed and died on the sand, and each wavelet smoothed the beach like the caress of a gentle hand.

  When he returned, Sedge was dead. Perrin sat beside the big, motionless body. Already flies had collected around the soft dark nose and the sealed eyes. Skir sat on the sand.

  ‘Where’s Tansy?’

  Perrin gestured down the beach to where two tiny figures, girl and horse, walked slowly side by side.

  ‘It was my fault,’ said Skir leadenly. ‘I killed her. I wrecked two dolls and now I’ve killed two living beings. First the soldier, now Sedge. It’s Wanion’s magic coming after me.’

  Perrin hesitated, tempted to agree, then he shook his head. ‘No, Skir. Not everything in the world revolves around you. You didn’t kill Sedge. I did. With my chantment.’

  Skir was silent for a moment.

  ‘Have you sung that chantment before?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When I had to.’ Perrin brushed the sand from his hands and stared hard at Skir. ‘And what about you? What kind of chantment do you sing?’

  Skir stiffened. ‘I’m not supposed to talk about it.’

  ‘Really? Not even one chanter to another? It’s just that, in all this time, I haven’t heard you sing one chantment.’

  Skir frowned at the sand. ‘The Priest-King’s power is sacred. It’s only to be used for the defence of Cragonlands.’

  ‘But I thought you couldn’t be Priest-King any more. You’ve defiled your office. So now you’re just an ordinary chanter. Like me.’

  ‘I’m Priest-King until the Temple releases me.’ Skir’s frown deepened.

  ‘You haven’t been very successful at defending Cragonlands, have you? The Balts invaded, what, twenty years ago? And you haven’t exactly shaken them off yet.’

  ‘The insurgents –’

  ‘Your precious insurgents wouldn’t have got far without the Rengani Army behind them, my friend.’

  ‘We don’t need any of you.’ Skir’s face was scarlet. ‘Why can’t you leave us alone?’

  ‘Why don’t you make us, if you’re such a mighty chanter?’

  ‘Because I’m not!’ cried Skir. ‘I’m not a mighty chanter. I’m not any sort of chanter. I can’t do it. All right? Are you satisfied now?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Perrin softly.

  There was a silence while they both stared away at Tansy and Penthesi walking along the beach. Skir kicked the sand. As they watched, the girl and the horse turned, and began to walk back toward them.

  Skir said wretchedly, ‘I’m supposed to be an ironcrafter. The Priest-King is always an ironcrafter. When you said that, about fixing Sedge’s shoe – I thought you knew, I thought you were making fun of me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ironcrafters can move the earth, shake the ground, make the mountains quake. But I can’t. I never could.’

  ‘So why did the priests choose you?’

  ‘I don’t know! They made a mistake. I suppose they couldn’t find anyone. There has to be a Priest-King . . . Beeman said I might grow into my gift, he said it sometimes happens that way.’ Skir glanced at Perrin. ‘Is that true?’

  Perrin shrugged. ‘I’ve never heard of a gift that didn’t show itself in childhood.’

  ‘I knew it,’ said Skir savagely. ‘I know the songs, they taught me all the chantments, but it never – the magic never –’

  ‘If it doesn’t come, it doesn’t come,’ said Perrin. ‘You can’t force it.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter anyway,’ said Skir dully. ‘They won’t let me be Priest-King any more. All those years I spent learning the rituals, wasted. Bettenwey will have to find someone else . . . He’s the High Priest. Or he was –
I don’t even know if he’s still alive . . .’ He pushed his fingers into the sand. ‘Maybe he’ll give it to you.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Perrin.

  ‘But you’re a chanter.’

  ‘Not a chanter of iron. Only a chanter of the beasts.’ Perrin swept some sand into a pile and crumbled it with his fingers.

  Tansy and Penthesi trudged toward them; Tansy leaned into the big horse’s body.

  Perrin looked up. ‘You all right?’

  Tansy nodded without speaking; her eyes were red and swollen. Perrin put his arms around her, and the two of them stood there for a long moment in silence.

  Skir stood too and brushed sand from his hands. ‘Perrin?’ he said.

  Perrin looked over his shoulder. ‘What?’

  Skir flung back his head. ‘I want you to sing to me like you did to Sedge. I want you to – to sing me to sleep.’

  No one spoke. Tansy disengaged herself from Perrin’s arms, and they stared at Skir. The silence crackled with tension, like the pause between a lightning flash and its roar of thunder. At last Tansy said softly, ‘You ain’t serious.’

  ‘I’m perfectly serious.’ Skir spoke louder. ‘You heard me. I want to die. I’ve been training all my life to do one thing, and I can’t do it. I’m supposed to be a chanter, but I’m not. No, Tansy, that’s right, what do you think of your mighty Priest-King sorcerer now? I killed that soldier and now I’ve killed Sedge. Wanion’s cursed me. I ruin everything . . .’ He swept his arm around to encompass the beach, the sea, the body of the dead horse, Tansy and Perrin and Penthesi. The waves roared. ‘It’s too hard!’ cried Skir. ‘I’d rather be dead!’

  His words rang out in the empty sky.

  At last Perrin said, ‘Songs of the Beasts don’t work on people.’ His voice was cold and distant.

  ‘Why not? We’re animals too, aren’t we?’

  ‘We’re different. We speak, we have language, the Power of Tongue.’

  ‘Penthesi speaks, in his own way. You understand him, so does Tansy. And some people don’t speak –’

  ‘Skir, the chantment won’t work.’

  ‘Just try it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But I’m asking you to. Maybe I won’t mess up my next life. You tell him, Tansy.’

  Tansy stared at him. ‘I ain’t asking Perrin to kill you!’

  ‘There you are,’ said Perrin crisply. ‘Tansy doesn’t want you to die. Happy now?’

  ‘Just try!’ shouted Skir.

  ‘I won’t do it, you lackwit,’ said Perrin. ‘Clear?’

  Skir swung his fist, but Perrin dodged the blow easily. At the same instant, his fist flew out and crunched into Skir’s face. Skir thumped backward onto the sand. After a moment he sat up, holding his nose. Blood seeped between his fingers.

  ‘Perrin!’ shouted Tansy. ‘What did you do that for?’

  Perrin winced as he nursed his knuckles. ‘Just trying to knock some sense into him.’

  Tansy stamped her foot. ‘A few days ago you were ready to die for each other and now you’re punching each other in the head! And next to poor Sedge’s body, too. Ain’t you got no respect?’

  A muffled moan came from Skir. ‘What am I going to do?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what to do. We’re going to Cragonlands, taking you home, just like we planned. Ain’t that right, Perrin?’

  ‘Right,’ said Perrin. ‘Taking you home to Cragonlands.’

  ‘We ain’t come all this way for nothing. And here’s you two squabbling like ducklings over a crust. You forgotten we got Madam chasing after us, and half the Army, too? You ain’t dying, Skir, not after we went to so much trouble to keep you alive. Tip your head back, that’ll stop the bleeding. Come here, you stupid boy, you’re shaking.’

  Tansy put her arm around Skir, and he didn’t pull away. He leaned into her as earlier she had leaned into Penthesi and Perrin, and she felt the heat of his skin against her body. He was as hot as a child who’s been a long time crying. He held his sleeve pressed hard to his nose. She kissed his hair roughly. ‘It’s all right. It’s all right.’

  Perrin spat onto the sand. ‘Save it, kids. We’d better move on. It’ll be dark soon, and we can’t camp anywhere near that.’ He nodded to Sedge’s body. ‘It’ll stink by morning.’ He heaved the packs and bundles onto Penthesi’s back, took the horse’s bridle and stalked away down the beach.

  Skir and Tansy pulled apart. Skir cautiously felt his nose. Tansy snapped a handful of sea-grass and scattered it over Sedge; the mare’s once glossy coat was dull now, and her legs stuck out as stiff as poles. Tansy paused over her. ‘Funny, ain’t it? How she ain’t here no more.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Skir, and all at once he was in the clearing by Elvie’s hut, with the dagger in his hand, and there was the soldier jumping out at him, and it was so sudden, so quick, the feel of the dagger as it went in, the noise as it came out. The young soldier’s eyes going wide, his wispy yellow moustache, his open mouth, his crooked teeth – As if Tansy sensed his thoughts, she turned to him. ‘You’re a priest. You got any words to say, words for the dead?’

  Skir pulled himself upright. Of course he knew what to say. This was one part of his role that always felt right and true: he spoke well, and he knew it, and he knew that others knew it too. He tasted the solemn power of the words, even there on the beach, under the wide sky, without the echoes of the Temple to give them strength. Though somewhat muffled because of his swollen nose, the familiar speech flowed without a stumble.

  ‘Sedge, our sister in faith, we honour you in death as we honoured you in life. From earth and air, from fire and water, you were born. To earth and air, to fire and water, you will return. As the rain joins the river, your spirit joins the Great Spirit and becomes one with it. You are not lost. You have come home.’

  He bowed his head, and the gulls cried overhead. Tansy blinked.

  ‘Did you think that up yourself?’

  ‘Me? No! It’s ancient, as old as the Temple. Maybe older. We say those words when a priest dies.’

  Tansy nodded. ‘Well, it was beautiful.’

  Skir said, ‘Tansy, are you angry with me for not being a chanter?’

  Tansy was quiet. Then she reached for his hand and squeezed it. ‘I ain’t happy that you lied to me. But I ain’t angry. You can’t help what you are, no more than anyone.’

  ‘I suppose that means Perrin can’t help being obnoxious,’ said Skir savagely.

  That made her laugh. Skir thought, I should kiss her now. Right now, while we’re alone, while she’s holding my hand. Now, after I made her laugh, while she isn’t thinking what an idiot I am.

  But it was too late. Tansy wiped her nose on her sleeve, and sighed. ‘Better catch up with Perrin and Penthesi, I guess.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Skir. At least they were still holding hands as they walked together, both grateful for the silence and the falling dusk.

  CHAPTER 11

  Dody’s Leap

  THE next day they loaded Penthesi and set off along the beach, hidden from the road by the swell of the dunes. The sand was baked hard, and the sun glared overhead. They walked mostly in silence. Skir had two black eyes. Tansy suspected that Perrin might have actually broken his nose. How would the Cragonlanders punish someone who broke their Priest-King’s nose? Because whatever Skir said, sorcerer or not, he was still the Priest-King.

  Tansy squinted against the rising sun as she walked with Penthesi. It was as if Skir were two people: the self-assured priest, master of words, who had spoken over Sedge’s body; and the miserable boy who scuffed his boots in the sand ahead of her, his head twisted against the sun’s glare. And because of that, Tansy’s own feelings were a muddle between awe and respect on one hand, and a kind of exasperated, protective fondness on the other. Tansy remembered Elvie’s sly smile as she’d questioned her about the boys.

  And what did she feel about Perrin? He was two people, too. There was the arrogant obnoxious smart-breeches that Skir complained about, bu
t there was also the gentle man who’d stroked the mare’s nose as he sang to her . . .

  Penthesi snorted, and looked mournfully around for Sedge. Tansy murmured, ‘I know, my sad boy. You loved her, didn’t you? You’ll miss her, poor Sedge.’

  Perrin stalked ahead. ‘Look!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘We’re almost there.’

  Now they could all see the brown folds of the mountains of Cragonlands, floating on a thick haze of green: the dense forests of needlewood that marked the border.

  Skir said nothing; he stared ahead, tenderly touching his swollen nose.

  ‘Cheer up!’ said Tansy. ‘You’re nearly home.’

  ‘If they still want me,’ muttered Skir.

  ‘Least Wanion can’t catch us there –’

  ‘Sh!’ Perrin held up his finger for silence. Swiftly he scrambled to the top of the dunes to check the road, and just as quickly slid down again. ‘Soldiers.’

  Tansy put her hand automatically to her sword-hilt, just as once she would have clutched at her luckpiece. ‘How many?’

  ‘A company. A couple of hundred men.’

  ‘Which way are they coming from?’

  Perrin gestured ahead; the troops were between them and the forest.

  ‘Solk’s Wood,’ said Skir dully. ‘The road leads to Solk’s Wood. It’s a garrison town. Crawling with soldiers.’

  Perrin’s hands curled into fists. ‘Then why didn’t you –’ With an effort, he controlled himself. ‘It might have been useful to know that earlier,’ he said through gritted teeth.

  There was nowhere to hide. The beach was wide, and empty; only the soft mounds of the dunes, scattered with clumps of sea-grass, stood between them and the approaching soldiers. They could all hear the faint clink of metal, the tramp of boots, growing louder every moment, and there was nothing they could do but wait for the troops to pass. Tansy felt a trickle of sweat run down her nose. Penthesi shifted from hoof to hoof, not understanding why they’d suddenly stopped, and Perrin reached up to pat and shush him.

  Perrin looked very handsome with his tousled dark hair and his clear, angry blue eyes. Angry with Skir, thought Tansy, and felt a stab of protectiveness. While the others stood tense and alert, Skir had slumped onto the sand; his head drooped between his knees as the sun beat down on the back of his neck.