Now it was filled with men and horses, with battle cries and turmoil, and the sound of blade clashing against blade. I remembered that I had once loved that sound. It seemed a long time ago.
I don’t know how many there were, it was impossible to count them. And it didn’t matter anyway. They had to stop. I had to stop them. Already there were men on the ground, the wounded and the dead, Skaya and Kensie one among the other.
I put my heels to the horse. It took a few reluctant steps forward and finally stumbled into a last exhausted gallop.
“Stop!” I yelled at the top of my voice. “Kensie! Skaya! Stop! Listen to me!”
I might as well have shouted at the storm. They paid me no notice. Probably they couldn’t even hear me through the clamor of the battle. And they were far too busy killing one another.
“HOLD!” It was the Weapons Master, and I had never heard a louder roar from any human throat. But not even his mighty shout could penetrate the tumult. Despair filled me. It was hopeless. No human on earth could get through to them. No ordinary voice would ever—
“STOP.”
No ordinary voice, no.
My mother’s voice.
No fearsome roar. Not even all that loud. It sounded as if she were standing right next to you.
The men in the valley froze. In the middle of striking, in the middle of leaping, in the middle of killing or dying. It was as if someone had waved a magic wand over them. Even the horses stood still, as if their legs had suddenly turned to wood. The only sound at that moment was the whistle of the wind as it swept through the valley, flattening the grass in great waves.
I knew that my mother had once made thousands of angry people in Dunark’s Arsenal Court stand still, be silent, and listen. And a moment ago I myself had been screaming at the fighting men to stop; I had no greater desire than to see them like this, unmoving and silent.
Still it was a frightening thing to watch. So unnatural. Like magic.
I understood why many people were afraid of my mother.
I even understood why some of them called her a witch.
But…
I shook myself like a dog coming out of water. She had given me this gift, this one moment of silence. If I didn’t use it, the silence would be brief indeed, for not even my mother could still the arms and voices of a hundred fighting men for more than a moment.
“Skaya!” I called, as loudly as I could. “Kensie! Both of you stand betrayed. Look! This man wears Kensie’s colors on his cloak, and Skaya blood on his hands. But he is no Kensie. His name is Morlan—and he is in the Dragon’s pay.”
I made my horse take another few steps, and next to me the Weapons Master drew Morlan’s horse forward, so that they could all see him. I raked the battleground with my eyes, and was immensely relieved to see a familiar figure still upright.
“Callan!” I called, “Skaya! Astor Skaya! Rest your weapons; come see for yourself whether or not I speak the truth.”
Callan was already headed my way—I could see his broad figure cutting through the press. And there, in the middle of the tightest knot of black-and-blue Skaya men, was Astor Skaya, in a shirt of mail so bright it caught the light like a salmon leaping upriver.
“Clan peace!” roared Callan over the heads of men mostly much smaller than himself. “I want clan peace, Skaya, until we get to the bottom of this!”
Nodding reluctantly, Astor Skaya sheathed his sword. “Clan peace,” he called back. “But I’m warning ye, Kensie—if this is another betrayal, there will be nothing called Kensie clan or Kensie lands in a year’s time!”
My muscles turned to water. I could have fallen off my horse from pure relief.
“Where’s Mama?” I asked. “She should help them to talk to each other. She is good at that kind of thing.”
“Your mother?” said the Master in a puzzled tone. “Is she here?”
I turned around.
My little sister was sitting on the ground, clutching her head as if she was afraid it might otherwise fall off.
“It hurts,” she moaned. “It hurts so much. I’ll never do that again, ever!”
Only then did I realize that it was not my mother’s voice that had stopped the Battle of Scara Vale.
It was Dina’s.
I didn’t see my mother until late that evening. And yet another day passed in a whirl of events before we had time to talk properly. She found me by the sheep shed just as I was pushing the sword into the thatch. My new sword that I had stolen by wrenching it from the hands of a wounded man.
“Are you hiding it?” she asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know about hiding,” I said. “It just seems like a suitable place to keep it.”
“I hear you killed a man,” she said.
“Yes. Valdracu. The one who had you shot.”
I could feel her behind me, tense and unmoving.
“Can you look at me now?” she asked. “Or are you too ashamed of it?”
I didn’t turn around at once. I had to think about it. I remembered the sound he had made. The eyes, growing empty.
“Davin?”
“Yes.” I turned. Met her eyes. “I’m not ashamed,” I said, “not about that. But I wish it hadn’t been necessary.”
She nodded.
“Welcome home,” she said, putting her arms around me very carefully, as if she wasn’t sure that I wanted it. But I did.
DINA
Silky
The sun was setting. It had been a hot day, and Beastie lay in the tall grass by the woodpile with his tongue hanging out like a pink ribbon. In the middle of our yard stood Ivain Laclan with a small, dappled gray mountain horse, much finer than Debbi Herbs’s gray pony.
“There is a letter,” he said, “from Helena.”
I took it, and read it carefully. She had written to me, not to my mother. She thanked me and my family for bringing back her grandchild. And she wrote how happy she was that the clan war between Kensie and Skaya had been averted with so little loss of life. It was a very grown-up letter. Not the kind you would normally write to a girl my age. And at the end it said:
“Tavis sends his warmest greetings.” That was probably a polite lie, I thought. I didn’t think he would ever feel any warmth for me. “And I send you Silky, who will serve you faithfully and well. You will have need of her when you follow your mother in her craft.”
“It’s a very fine gift,” I said awkwardly and didn’t quite know what to do with my hands. “Will you thank Helena Laclan for me, many times?”
“Aye,” he said, “that I will. Where is that hotheaded brother of yours?”
“Out somewhere with Black-Ar—I mean, with Allin Kensie. I don’t know where they are.”
“Ah, well,” said Ivain. “Perhaps it’s just as well. I had a mind to shake his hand, but he might not want to shake mine.”
“You are welcome to stay the night,” I said. “He’ll be back before dark.”
He shook his head. “Thank ye kindly, but I have already made my arrangements with Maudi Kensie. Shall I put up the nag for ye?”
“I can do that,” I said.
“Right, then. Good luck with Silky. She’s a fine little mare—a real lady’s horse.”
Smiling, I thanked him once more, and did not ask the question that was on my mind: did Silky know how to haul timber? If she didn’t, she would have to learn. That kind of thing could save your life.
Ivain Laclan disappeared over the hill in the direction of Maudi’s farm. I led Silky into the stable and let her get acquainted with Falk. He was of course completely delighted to have company at last. He pranced and whinnied and pawed the ground, probably telling Silky what a glorious male animal he was. Silky snorted and drew back from all his antics and pretended to prefer my company to his. She blew softly on my neck and nibbled at my hair, and when you touched that soft dark gray muzzle, it wasn’t hard to tell how she had got her name.
I fed both of them some hay, gave them fresh water, and then went ba
ck to the house.
Mama was sitting by the kitchen table, shelling peas. I showed her the letter.
“That is a grand and generous gift,” said Mama. “Laclan breeds very fine horses.”
I nodded. Mama looked at me.
“Why aren’t you pleased?” she asked.
“I am.”
“No,” she said, “not really. What’s wrong?”
For a while I just sat there, shredding empty pea pods into green slivers. In the end the words came bursting out of me on their own:
“I didn’t deserve it!”
“Why not?”
“She writes… she writes that I’ll need Silky when I follow you in your craft. But I’m not sure… I don’t think I can ever be a Shamer.”
I had tried. Rose had helped me. Davin too. But no matter how hard I strained, I had been able to say nothing whatsoever in the Shamer’s voice, not since that one word in Scara Vale. I had so wanted to look Davin in the eye again, and now I had my wish—but not quite the way I had imagined.
Mama suddenly got up. She went to the alcove I slept in and slipped her hand under my pillow.
“Is that why you don’t wear this anymore?” she said, holding out the Shamer’s signet.
Miserable, I nodded.
“I’m so sorry, Mama—but I don’t think I can be your apprentice anymore.”
“Why ever not?”
“Because… you know why! I can’t do it anymore. Most of the time I couldn’t even shame a mouse. I… I’m not a Shamer. Not anymore.”
“Oh?” Mama smiled, but there was a touch of sharpness in her voice. “Perhaps you should ask Callan about that. Or Astor Skaya. Or any one of the men who were in Scara Vale and suddenly lost the desire to fight. Many a full-grown Shamer would be hard put to do as much.”
“But that was…” I almost said “an accident,” but those weren’t quite the words. “That was something I did without thinking. And my head hurt so much afterward that I was nearly blind. When I try to do it, nothing happens.”
“Sweetie”—Mama sat down next to me on the kitchen bench—“it will come back. Sooner or later. You haven’t lost your gift. It has just gone into hiding, because an evil man made you abuse it. Don’t try to force it; it will come back on its own. When you are ready.”
She put the signet on the table in front of me and stroked my hair.
“I’m so glad to have you back,” she said.
“Do you want me to put it on again?” I asked.
“That’s up to you,” she said.
“When they took it away from me, it felt like I was no longer your daughter.”
She laughed. “That is the stupidest thing you have said in a good long while. Isn’t Melli my daughter? Isn’t Davin my son? Do you think you stop being mine just because you can’t always shame people?”
“No,” I said tentatively, “I suppose not.”
That night I lay with my hand under the pillow, holding the Shamer’s Signet. I couldn’t sleep. I could hear Rose’s quiet breathing, and Melli’s. I was thinking about everything that had happened. It was so incredibly lucky that Tavis was still alive. Actually I was lucky to be alive, too, and Davin, and Rose. It was lucky that I was lying here, with our new roof over my head, and that there was peace among the clans for now.
In the Lowlands, Drakan hunted down Shamers and burned them at the stake. Davin had told me that.
“Mama says he is spreading shamelessness around him,” he had said, “like some kind of infectious disease.”
My fingers slid across the cool pewter circle, tracing the edge of the enamel. It had become a dangerous emblem to wear. Particularly for someone like me who could no longer defend myself. But perhaps, tomorrow, I’d put it on again.
Maybe.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
An award-winning and highly acclaimed writer of fantasy, LENE KAABERBØL was born in 1960, grew up in the Danish countryside and had her first book published at the age of 15. Since then she has written more than 30 books for children and young adults. Lene’s huge international breakthrough came with The Shamer Chronicles, which have been published in more than 25 countries selling over a million copies worldwide.
COPYRIGHT
Pushkin Press
71–75 Shelton Street
London WC2H 9JQ
Original text © 2001 by Lene Kaaberbøl
English translation © 2003 by Lene Kaaberbøl
The Shamer’s Signet was first published as Skammertegnet in Copenhagen, by Forlaget Forum in 2001
First published in English in 2003 by Hodder Children’s Books
First published by Pushkin Press in 2019
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ISBN 13: 978–1–78269–228–7
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission in writing from Pushkin Press
www.pushkinpress.com
The Serpent Gift is the third book in the thrilling fantasy adventure of The Shamer Chronicles.
A watching face in a market crowd, a mist-shrouded figure on the moor, a haunting presence seen only when he wants to be seen. Sezuan has the Serpent Gift. With the eerie music of his flute, he can weave a web of lies and illusion to trap the keenest mind. He is also Dina’s father, and he has come to claim her.
Dina’s family set off in desperate flight, trying to escape Sezuan’s snare. But soon, with nowhere else to turn, Dina must learn to see through her father’s deceit and use her own gift against him.
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