The Singer of All Songs
Page 1
KATE CONSTABLE was born in Victoria but spent much
of her childhood in Papua New Guinea, without television but
within reach of a library. She studied Arts/Law at Melbourne
University before working part-time for a record company.
The Chanters of Tremaris series has been published in the USA,
Japan, Denmark and Slovenia. Kate now lives in Melbourne,
Australia with her husband and two daughters.
The Chanters of Tremaris
BOOK 1 The Singer of All Songs
BOOK 2 The Waterless Sea
BOOK 3 The Tenth Power
Praise for the Chanters of Tremaris series
‘I am such a hugh gigantic big fan of the Tremaris series! I read
The Singer of All Songs and The Waterless Sea ten times each.’
JINNY, NZ
Praise for The Singer of All Songs
‘The Singer of All Songs ROCKS!!’
MEGAN, USA
Praise for The Waterless Sea
‘This fantastic book takes you through a journey of courage,
determination and friendship. The story keeps you guessing and
wanting to read more. If you’re looking for a worthwhile read,
then definitely go for The Waterless Sea.’
BIANCA, AUSTRALIA
KATE
CONSTABLE
First published in 2002
This edition published in 2005
Copyright © Text, Kate Constable 2002
Copyright © Illustrations, Beth Norling 2002
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
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National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Constable, Kate, 1966– .
The singer of all songs.
New (cover) ed.
For children.
ISBN 1 74114 532 5.
1.Wizards – Juvenile fiction. 2. Adventure and adventurers – Juvenile fiction.
I. Title. (Series: Constable, Kate, Chanters of Tremaris; bk 1).
A823.4
Cover and text design by Sandra Nobes
Cover images: David Tomlinson/Lonely Planet Images; Sandra Nobes
Set in 12 on 14 pt Centaur by Midland Typesetters, Maryborough, Victoria
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
for Alice
Contents
The Wall of Ice
The Silver River
City of Cheesestone
Blacklands
The Clarion of the Flame
The Troubled Sea
Blood Moon
The Song of the Trees
The Desolate City
one
The Wall of Ice
LONG BEFORE SUNRISE, even before the first faint blush of gold had touched the snowy peaks that ringed the valley of Antaris, the bells began to peal. The sky was still dark overhead, and the three moons sailed silver-bright between fading stars as the priestesses gathered under the cloisters. A hundred women shuffled and rustled in their yellow robes, their breath rising in puffs of mist into the cold air.
The sisters did not whisper to one another. Shivering, they drew their shawls over their heads and nodded in silent greeting. It was forbidden for any of the Daughters of Taris to use her voice on this day, unless to do the work of the Goddess. But the quiet footsteps of the priestesses on the stones of the courtyard and the swish of their robes made a kind of wordless murmur beneath the steady clang of the bells.
Slowly the sky began to lighten. By the pond, the ducks shook out their feathers; the goats bleated, rubbing their bony heads against their pens. Sunlight crept down the wooded slopes of the valley in a wash of gold, and the snowcapped mountains sparkled pink and blue-white. But the orchards, the river and the walled gardens, the grey stone Dwellings where the priestesses lived, and the villages and cottages of the ordinary folk of Antaris, those who had no gift of chantment, were all in cold shadow.
In the courtyard, the sisters turned their faces upward, to the square of pale sky that framed the three moons, strung like beads on some invisible thread. Steadily they breathed. The chilly air burned their nostrils and lungs, but they didn’t falter. In and out, to the rhythm of the bells, they breathed together. Some closed their eyes and swayed a little, back and forth; others held up their hands as if to gather in the air and the power that it held.
Nine times a year, the three moons, the Lamps of the Goddess, sailed full in the sky; nine times the sisters set out for the Day of Strengthening.
The first time Calwyn helped perform the ritual, two years before, she’d stayed awake all night, too full of pride and nervous anticipation to sleep. But she was sixteen now, almost a full priestess, and the idea of a long day’s walk and chantment, all on an empty stomach, no longer seemed as enticing as a festival. She wriggled her toes in the narrow strip of warmth under her bedcovers, calculating the last possible moment she could wait to get up before Tamen would notice her absence. Would it really matter if the Wall did melt away? She had never seen any attackers from the Outlands lurking in the forests.
Even the traders, who came every year to bring goods from the lands across the mountains, were far from being bloodthirsty invaders. Indeed, they seemed reluctant to be in Antaris at all, uneasy for every moment they spent within the Wall, always struggling for breath in the unfamiliar thinness of the air, jumping with fright at the sight of any yellow-robed sister. The only time Calwyn ever saw a look of happiness on an Outlander trader’s face was at the end of their stay. Last year she and the Guardian and some of the other priestesses had led them back to the Wall and had sung the spell of unmaking, to melt a gap in the ice through which they could squeeze themselves and their handcarts, laden now with precious honey, herbal medicines and fine woven cloth. When the crack was sealed up again behind them, Calwyn heard a great pent-up rush of laughter from the far side of the Wall. the nervous laughter of those who have managed to escape from death, and can’t quite believe their luck. The memory made her smile. The Outlanders feared the magic of Antaris, and they were right to fear it.
As the last echo of the bells died away to silence, Calwyn threw back the covers and leapt out of bed. Pulling on loose trousers and a soft yellow tunic over her undershirt, she ran down the stone steps toward the cloisters, braiding her long dark hair into two plaits as she went. If she was lucky, she could slip into the back of the crowd without Tamen or Marna seeing her. Down the steps and out into the chilly courtyard she ran, with her boots still unlaced, stumbled, tripped and cannoned into the tall upright figure of Tamen herself, the Guardian of the Wall.
A warning finger rose to Tamen’s lips as she gave Calwyn a cold glare and pointed silently to the throng of women who stood breathing as one, the cloud of their sighs rising toward the dimming moons and the slowly brightening sky. Calwyn bent to
her shoes, glad to hide herself from that forbidding stare, and relieved that, for today at least, the Guardian was silenced by the ceremony. Perhaps by the time they returned at nightfall, Tamen might have forgotten to be angry, and she would escape yet another lecture. Perhaps.
Plump Gilly, one of the younger novices, nudged her and grinned. It was Gilly’s very first Strengthening that day. Calwyn thought she looked as excited and scared as if this were her first Festival of Shadows, the one night of the year when the priestesses mingled with the men chosen from the villages, under the warm shelter of spring moondark. Although the novices took no part in that ritual until after their initiation, Gilly was already beginning to flirt and stretch her eyes at the lads who tended the fields and cut up the firewood for the sisters. Calwyn herself was to become a full priestess next midwinter, but when Gilly asked her who had caught her eye, she had no answer. There were plenty of handsome youths among them, but they were all so juvenile, so absorbed in skittles and kick-ball and bantering with the village lasses, that Calwyn had no time for them.
‘They’ll be lining up to dance with you around the fires, with your big black eyes and your long black hair!’ Gilly had said more than once. ‘Though it is a shame you’re so tall and skinny –’
‘I’m not very good at dancing,’ was Calwyn’s stiff reply. In truth, she wasn’t looking forward to the Festival of Shadows. Now she gave Gilly a quick, distant smile, and turned away.
Marna, the High Priestess, was standing on the wide steps, robed in the same regal dark blue cloak that Tamen wore, and holding the silver-topped staff of her office. She wore no jewels, but her silver hair was piled high on her head like a crown. She raised one hand, and in her clear voice sang out the blessing of the Goddess upon them all as they set out to perform Her work. With heads bowed and hands clasped in their sleeves, the sisters listened, and then, as the last faint notes died away, they turned and began the steady shuffling march away from Marna, finding the paths that radiated out from the Dwellings in every direction toward the Wall.
As they walked, they began to sing. Calwyn heard the sweet clear notes rising around her on all sides, a net of chantment that spread slowly out from the heart of Antaris toward the Wall, a golden mesh of magic woven from their voices, with her own voice one strand of gold among many. The sun was coming up, flooding the valley with light, and she could see the narrow path that her feet followed, winding away through the orchard and across the river. Already to her left she had lost sight of Gilly; she’d vanished behind the outbuildings. But she could still hear Tamen’s strong voice on her other side, and see her tall unbending figure as she made her way along the neighbouring path. These were not the everyday paths that the sisters used, broad and indistinct, blurring into the grass. The paths that were used only for this ritual were narrow as one foot’s width, worn into a deep groove by generations of priestesses, back and back to the first days of Antaris.
Calwyn sang, and as she sang she felt her sleepy crossness fall away. As always the ancient song flowed easily, dreamily, from her lips, the words so old that their meaning shimmered just out of reach of sense. In the apple orchard, pale buds starred the branches where the trees were coming into blossom. The dark mounds of the beehives slumbered at the end of the orchard. Lately, Marna had decided to make the keeping of the hives Calwyn’s special responsibility; Damyr the old beekeeper was too feeble now to turn the heavy frames, or even to walk as far as the hives without help.
The river ran slow and wide at the foot of the orchard. Gingerly, Calwyn crossed the narrow bridge that spanned it, careful not to slip on the dew-damp stone; as with everyone in Antaris, the dread of water and drowning ran deep in her bones. One of her earliest memories was the sight of a fish, plucked from the river, writhing as it choked on the bank. As we breathe the air, so the fish breathe the water. And just as the fish die when they come into our world, so we perish when we enter theirs. She couldn’t remember who had delivered the warning, she’d been so young. But even now she tried not to look at the dangerous water as it swirled beneath her feet, and when the bridge was safely crossed, her song lifted in relief.
As she sang and walked through the woods and up the slope, the sun rose steadily higher, until at last she could glimpse the shimmer of the Wall ahead. The famed Wall of Antaris, smooth, impenetrable, stood as high as the height of three men, as wide as a river, vast and gleaming and slippery in the sun.
As she drew closer, Calwyn held out her hands for the ritual incantations, and almost at once she was aware of the chantment taking hold, the tingling in her hands that signalled the flow of power, and the sudden sharp consciousness of everything about her as her voice rose and fell. Up and down the Wall, the sisters were all singing the same words, summoning the same magic, calling on the Goddess to make the great Wall solid and without flaw, to strengthen the ice barrier between Her daughters and the dangers of the lands beyond.
Calwyn’s senses were so heightened now that she could almost hear the sunlight falling on the trees and the sweet grass, and smell the scent of each tiny wild herb that grew in the moist shadows of the Wall. She could hear the unfolding of every leaf toward the light, and the gentle gurgle of the distant river, and far off in the orchard the familiar hum of the hives. And now, very faintly, she could hear the voices of the other priestesses joined in song, a shimmering web of chantment that rose and fell, circling the lands of Antaris. Now there was nothing else but the rush of power, making whole what was damaged, making strong what was weak, drawing together the humming of the morning into the fabric of song. There was no Calwyn, no Wall, no path beneath her feet, only the light and the song and the ever-shifting eternal bright movement of chantment.
Calwyn did not touch the Wall. The power that hummed and crackled through it was so strong that only the Guardian herself could lay hands on it safely. As Calwyn sang, she could feel in every fibre the pulse of the living, dangerous flow of magic between herself and the Wall that was the presence of the Goddess, called up by her voice and the ritual words she sang. The ice seemed to set before her eyes; in the places where the sun’s growing warmth had produced a slippery sheen, the ice grew hard and brilliant once more. Calwyn began to walk slowly along the length of the Wall. the sun at her back, singing as she went. She walked with care; the path was uneven, a rough groove beside the towering rampart of ice, and she was light-headed from walking and chantment and going without her breakfast. The sisters always fasted before embarking on important rituals. She would not eat before sundown, when she returned to the Dwellings.
All morning she followed the path she knew so well, singing without cease, giddy with magic, methodically checking the surface of the Wall for any weakness or flaws. It sometimes happened that the earth shifted, or a rock fall from the mountains might crash against the Wall’s far side and crack it. Even the digging of rabbits and burrowers beneath the Wall might weaken it a little.
She was just past the panna groves when she saw him.
Calwyn stopped in her tracks, and her song faltered on her lips. For the space of a heartbeat she thought she must be dreaming; the steady chantment she’d been singing without pause since dawn jerked almost into silence.
A young man was lying across the path. His eyes were closed: he was asleep, or dead. She could see at once that he was not a man of Antaris. His face was pale, and his hair was fair as straw, rather than dark and glossy. He was slightly built, not stocky like the men of the villages. His jerkin was too short, and his mud-stained cloak was too long. He did not belong here.
Her first thought was for the Wall; there must be some breach, some gaping inexplicable wound through which he had entered. It was her fault. This was her stretch of the Wall. the half-day’s walk from the crest of Goats Hill to the river. She must have been careless that last Day of Strengthening, in the depth of winter. There was a blizzard that day, the whirling snows so thick that she couldn’t even see the Wall ahead. Priestesses had been lost in blizzards like that before
, but this time the Goddess had watched over them all, and every one of Her daughters had stumbled back safely to the Dwellings. Could it be that she’d missed something in the blinding snowstorm, some crack, some crumbling, that had let this man inside their lands?
But the Wall was whole. There was nothing, no gap, no crack, not even a patch of roughness that might give toehold to a climber. It stood, shining, impervious, rearing up beside the path, as solid as ever. Relieved, she turned her attention back to the unmoving body of the stranger. She took a step closer, still singing the words of the chantment of strengthening. Its rhythms were so familiar, and she had practised it so often, that she could sing it without thinking; she could have sung it in her sleep. The man did not move. Surely he must be dead. The Goddess had seen his presumption and struck him down. Calwyn could see now that his foot was injured, twisted back on itself, and there was blood on his boot. There was blood on his head too, from a great gash across his forehead, matting the straw-coloured hair.
Still singing, Calwyn took another few steps forward and bent to study his face. He was older than she’d thought at first, nearer thirty than twenty. His features were boyish, but his nose was slightly beaked, giving him a hawk-like look, and there were lines around his closed eyes, as if he’d stared long into the sun. He looked pale and peaceful, and cold, lying there in the Wall’s shadow. Should she leave him here to rot in the woods at the mercy of the Goddess, or should she run back along the Wall and fetch Tamen? Tamen would know exactly what to do. Somehow it seemed wrong to leave the body of an Outlander untended, so close to the sacred Wall. But she couldn’t move him by herself. She would have to go back to the Dwellings, and bring a party of men to carry him –
Suddenly the stranger’s eyes flew open.
Calwyn gave a little scream, and was instantly ashamed of herself. But the Outlander was as startled as she; he struggled up on his elbows and tried to pull himself away, dragging his broken foot across the ground. His eyes, grey as a winter sky, were wide with dread. And then he did something that surprised Calwyn utterly: he began to sing.