The Singer of All Songs

by Kate Constable

  A thrill of dread ran down Calwyn’s spine. This was the lore she would learn after midwinter moondark; this was the shadowed face of the Goddess that only the initiated were allowed to glimpse. ‘But Lady Mother, that comes to only eight Powers.’

  Marna smiled. ‘All the lessons you’ve missed haven’t harmed your arithmetic. Can you not guess the first of all the Powers? It is the greatest power of all, that which moves everything that is, and everything that is not, the Great Power that is unknown and unknowable, the mystery that lies beyond our understanding. It is the Goddess.’

  Calwyn said quickly, ‘But the Goddess rules over the Power of Ice –’

  ‘That is the face she turns toward us here. All the chantments, all the gods, are but aspects of the same unknowable mystery, just as each face of a jewel strikes light in a different direction. Our Great Mother Taris is the name we call her here, but she has other faces and other names in other places.’ Marna placed her hand lightly on Calwyn’s head. ‘You will understand it better in time. These are matters which have occupied the greatest priestesses for generations. You cannot expect to know it all in a heartbeat.’ Stiffly she got to her feet, and tugged a fold of her long robe free, where it had caught on a twig. ‘I am too old to perch in the trees; let us walk by the river.’

  The ducks squabbled on the water; hoping for scraps, they crowded up to the bank and quacked for attention. Marna looked up, and sniffed the air. ‘There will be rain tomorrow.’

  Calwyn would not be so easily deflected. ‘Is Darrow a priest of iron, then?’

  Marna gave her a strange look. ‘So he has told you his name? It’s said that sorcerers are superstitious about giving out their names . . . Perhaps it’s not true. But no, he is no priest. A sorcerer is different from a priest or priestess. The sorcerers of the Outlands do not serve their gods in the same way that we serve our Mother Taris. They use their chantments for themselves, not as we do, for the good of us all; their power is corrupted. You know that an Outlander cannot be trusted. An Outlander sorcerer can be trusted least of all.’

  Now it was Calwyn’s turn to be silent. At last she ventured, ‘I think this sorcerer can be trusted, Lady Mother. He is – not respectful. But I think he is honest.’

  Marna smiled. ‘We shall see.’

  ‘He told me to tell you, if you didn’t understand what he meant when he spoke of the Singer of all Songs, that you should ask him, and he would explain himself.’

  Marna said drily, ‘I understand well enough. Outlander arrogance! We may be shut away from the world here, but we are far from ignorant.’

  ‘May I ask him to explain it to me, then, Lady Mother?’

  ‘No, you may not!’ Marna quickened her pace, and Calwyn thought she had made her angry. But then she said in a quiet voice, ‘You are like enough to your mother to frighten me, child. Sometimes I think that she ran away from us because no one would answer all her questions; that is why I have tried never to turn away any child’s question, no matter how foolish it may seem.’

  It was true. Thinking back, Calwyn couldn’t remember a single time that Marna had laughed or been impatient, however tiresome the novices’ questioning became. She said, ‘Is the Singer of all Songs a person who wants to become as the Ancient Ones were, masters of all the chantments?’

  The High Priestess shook her head. ‘Even in the time of the Ancient Ones, there was no chanter who was master of each and every field of chantment. But there is a tale, as old as the Ancient Ones themselves, that one would arise who has that gift: to sing all the chantments, the high notes and the low, the swift rhythms and the slow. And this person would be more powerful even than the Ancient Ones were, as powerful as the gods themselves.’

  Calwyn drew in a sharp breath. ‘What if he does find Darrow here? We would never be able to protect him!’

  ‘Peace, child. It’s a hearthside story, that’s all, a fable, not a true prophecy. No one person could ever master all the chantments. No voice could ever be so supple, able to sing the highest of high notes for ice-call, the lowest of low for ironcraft, and all else in between. Think of it. It’s impossible. No man’s voice can reach all the notes we sing in our chantments of ice; that is why Antaris is ruled by priestesses, not by men and women together. In other lands,’ she added a little sadly, ‘it is different, no doubt.’

  Calwyn remembered the growling notes she had heard Darrow singing by the Wall. Could she ever learn to sing deep from her throat like that? It did seem unlikely. ‘Then there’s nothing to fear,’ she said.

  ‘I did not say that.’ Marna’s voice was troubled, and she turned and began to walk back the way they had come. ‘Any man, any sorcerer, who is deluded enough and proud enough to think that he can achieve such a feat is dangerous indeed, perhaps even deranged. No, we must be on our guard, in case the Outlander’s hunter does come seeking him. But this is nothing that should worry you, child,’ she added, as if she only now recalled that Calwyn was still a novice, not a full priestess, almost as if she regretted speaking so openly. She patted Calwyn’s sleeve. ‘Go and see to your bees, my daughter. I think I hear the song of the swarm you have been waiting for.’

  With an exclamation, Calwyn broke away and ran back toward the hives. A cloud of bees was pouring from Amara hive in pursuit of their queen, streaming toward a settling place high in the branches of one of the apple trees, a thousand restless creatures swirling thick in the air. Calwyn could see some stragglers emerging from the old hive, small golden dancers looping in confusion. Softly she sang to them, an ancient soothing song that Damyr had taught her, persuading the strays to join their sisters in the swarm, and one by one they obeyed her.

  When she thought to turn back to help Marna across the long grass of the orchard, it was too late; the High Priestess had already gone.

  two

  The Silver River

  MARNA WAS RIGHT; next day the spring rains began. For Calwyn, it was almost as bad as winter. Except for her brief morning and evening visits to the bees, she was trapped in the weaving rooms with the looms and spindles and the incessant shrill chatter of the other women.

  She had been excused from spinning long ago on the grounds that her thread invariably came out in lumps, but her weaving and stitching were not much better, so she knew, when Tamen stopped by her loom, that it would not be to praise her work.

  The Guardian stared down her long nose at the misshapen cloth. ‘It’s lucky we’re not relying on you to keep us in warm garments, Calwyn. There’s a hole here I could put my finger through.’

  Gilly, who was sitting beside her with a lapful of mending, tittered, then hastily lifted her own work to her face and pretended she hadn’t heard.

  Tamen paid her no attention. ‘No matter. I have another task for you, if you are willing. I should like you to visit the Outlander in the infirmary and speak with him.’

  ‘Gladly!’ Calwyn pushed back her stool with relief.

  Tamen drew her aside, out of hearing of the others. ‘Ursca tells me that he trusts you more than anyone. I would like you to watch him. Talk to him, find out if he has another purpose here, if he has come to spy for Merithuros, or another land. Can you do that?’

  ‘If you wish, my Sister,’ said Calwyn, taken aback. ‘You don’t believe his story, then?’

  Tamen snorted. ‘Only a child would believe such a fantastical tale. He must take us for fools, or else he is truly mad. See what you can discover.’

  The Outlander did not seem particularly surprised, nor pleased, to see her. He was out of bed, and the bandage on his head had been reduced to a thin strip of linen, but he was still shut inside the tiny cell at the end of the infirmary, his broken foot propped on a stool. Outside, the rain was coming down in silver sheets onto Ursca’s garden; he stared dourly at the falling water, as though it were the cause of all his troubles.

  ‘You gave them my message, then,’ he said, by way of greeting. ‘I have had a visit from your High Priestess, and the other one – the Guardian. At l
east they gave me that courtesy, though not the courtesy of believing what I had to say.’

  ‘I think Marna believes you,’ said Calwyn. ‘Tamen –’ She hesitated. ‘Tamen has a sceptical mind.’

  He shrugged impatiently. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m finished in any case.’ He gestured toward his injured foot. ‘I am a wounded duck that’s fallen into the swamp. All that remains is for the hunter’s dogs to find me and rip me to pieces.’

  ‘They don’t teach courage in the Outlands, then,’ said Calwyn tartly. ‘Your foot is hurt, but not your tongue. Instead of complaining that you can’t run, why not stand and fight?’

  ‘Fight him? With chantment?’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘What a fine idea. I should never have thought of that.’

  Calwyn was silent for a moment. Then she said, ‘One of the gardeners here was born with a crooked foot, and one leg a whole handspan shorter than the other. He has built himself a shoe with a thick sole, and he carves walking sticks that are marvellous to see.’

  ‘What a clever fellow,’ said Darrow acidly.

  Slowly she said, ‘Perhaps it’s easier for him to bear, since he’s had his whole life to grow used to the idea. Perhaps if it had come upon him suddenly, like this, he would have been as angry and unhappy as you.’

  The stranger’s face became still. Only his grey eyes flickered as he stared out at the rain; the whisper of its falling filled the tiny room. He was bitter indeed, but she liked his bitterness; he was different from anyone she had ever known.

  At last she ventured, ‘Perhaps it’s better to be angry and unhappy than to be mad.’

  Darrow’s mouth twisted in a smile. ‘Is it? I wonder.’

  After that they did not speak for a long time. Calwyn drew up another stool, and he did not tell her to go away. So they sat together and listened to the music of the rain.

  The next time, she brought him one of Tuw’s sticks, and he sat, turning it over in his hands.

  ‘I know you’re not ready to use it yet. But I thought, if you had it waiting, it would be easier.’

  ‘It is a fine piece of work. I had some skill in carving, once, a long time ago.’

  ‘You talk like an old man whose life is nearly over!’

  His face went still as he fingered the pattern of growing leaves and berries that Tuw had wound about the stick.

  Calwyn could have bitten her tongue. She rushed on, ‘Tuw was glad to give it to me. He sits by the fireside all winter long, making them. He has too many to use them all for himself.’

  ‘Did you tell him it was for the Outlander?’

  Her hesitation gave him his answer, and he smiled. ‘I thought not.’

  ‘If you like,’ she said, to change the subject, ‘I can bring you a knife, and some wood. It might pass the time for you, until . . .’

  ‘Until I am brought to slaughter?’

  ‘Until your foot is healed.’

  ‘Ursca says that it will never heal.’ His voice was light and bantering, but there was pain in his eyes.

  ‘In time, it will heal enough to bear your weight. And then I can show you the orchards, and the hives. I’m the beekeeper here.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ She stared at him in surprise and he looked away, flushing. ‘I have been asking questions about you,’ he admitted shyly. ‘It seems I am indebted to you twice over: once for bringing me from the Wall, and once for supplying the jelly that restored my wits.’

  ‘You have the bees to thank for that, not me. And Ursca says your wits would have returned even without the jelly.’

  ‘In any case, I thank you,’ he said quietly, and he laid the stick carefully against the wall, like a precious thing.

  Tamen would not permit him to have a knife.

  ‘If he wished to harm us, my Sister, he could do so easily enough without a whittling knife!’ exclaimed Calwyn.

  ‘I am aware of that. If I had my way, he would be bound and gagged even now. You will not give him a knife.’

  Do not be her enemy. Do not be her enemy. Calwyn took a deep breath. ‘What if I watch him all the time, and take back the knife when I leave?’

  ‘No,’ said Tamen curtly, and walked away, her heavy black-and-silver plait swinging down her back.

  But in the end Calwyn did give him her own small knife. ‘It’s meant for taking wax from honeycomb, not for carving wood,’ she apologised. ‘I fear you’ll find it too blunt.’

  ‘No matter.’ He turned over the little knife in his long, thin fingers, and tested the blade. Then he sang from his throat, very quietly, so that Ursca, bustling about in the infirmary, should not hear. Calwyn felt her hands tingling and her head grow light. His chantment was brief, but when it was finished, Calwyn reached out swiftly and touched the blade. Its edge was so keen that she didn’t feel the cut until she saw the red line spring across her thumb.

  ‘Careful!’ said Darrow.

  ‘Too late,’ she said ruefully. ‘I’ll put some honey on it.’

  And then he did something he had not done before: he threw back his head and laughed.

  One day, not long into summer, but sooner than she had expected, she saw him limping slowly through the orchard toward the hives, balancing himself carefully with Tuw’s stick. She waved, but he was concentrating too hard to wave back; as he came closer, she saw that his lips were moving. He was using chantment to keep the weight of his bandaged foot from the ground, as he had done on the first day.

  When he reached the tree closest to the hives, he used Tuw’s stick to lower himself painfully to the grass. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘that was a little more difficult than I expected.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have tried such a long walk for your first time.’

  He waved his hand dismissively. ‘I have been shuffling around the infirmary for days already, it was time to give Ursca a rest from me. But my other foot is stiffer than I thought. And my voice also,’ he added.

  Calwyn was silent, frowning.

  ‘What? You don’t approve of chantment? We were told always that Antaris was the one land where chantment was cherished and respected, not hidden away and feared as it is everywhere else in Tremaris.’

  ‘It’s not that. But we’re taught not to use chantment for trivial matters. Tamen tells us that every breath of cold that we make may grow and grow until it’s a storm in the Bay of Sardi, and a hurricane by the time it reaches Doryus.’

  ‘Perhaps it is true. There was uncommon bad weather last time I sailed through the Great Sea.’ He stretched his leg in front of him. ‘Sing up a snowstorm now, I pray you, and it might hinder Samis from pursuing me.’

  Samis. He had never before spoken the name of the one who hunted him.

  She asked, ‘What is sailing?’

  He looked startled. ‘Sailing – in a boat – a craft that floats on the sea.’

  ‘We have no – no boats here.’ She pronounced the word carefully. ‘How do you dare? What would happen if you fell into the water? You would die.’

  ‘I can swim a little.’ Seeing her blank stare, he made motions with his arms. ‘Swimming. Moving through the water.’

  ‘Can sorcerers breathe in water?’ Her eyes widened. This was a wondrous gift indeed, beyond all imagining.

  ‘Indeed,’ he said solemnly. ‘Shall I show you how?’ But he could not keep his face straight, and they both laughed. ‘Even without breathing water, it’s possible to keep afloat,’ he said. ‘Have you never learned to swim?’

  She shook her head. The idea was incomprehensible. ‘Did you sail all the way from Merithuros?’

  ‘I have sailed all across the Great Sea, and back again, and north, too, as far as the Outer Isles.’

  The names meant little to Calwyn, but she was impressed all the same. As far as the Outer Isles. The words were as magical as any chantment.

  Darrow picked up a green apple from the grass, and frowned at it. ‘This is early fruit. In Kalysons, the trees bear apples only when the summer is nearly gone.’

  ‘Our summer is so short, pe
rhaps our trees have to start the season sooner, or they wouldn’t have time to bear fruit at all before winter returns.’

  ‘Hm.’ Darrow unfolded Calwyn’s little knife, and began to carve patterns onto the small green globe, whistling between his teeth.

  ‘You’re very cheerful today.’

  ‘Travelling makes me cheerful always, even if it is only the journey from the infirmary to here.’

  Calwyn watched as the point of the busy knife dug into the apple. Darrow took great care with his patterns, but they made no sense to her; the lines were not even, they meandered around the unripe globe. At last he was satisfied; he held up the apple on the palm of his hand. ‘Behold Tremaris!’

  Calwyn dropped down eagerly beside him. ‘Show me!’

  ‘Where I had my schooling, they teach that Tremaris is a sphere, just as the moons are.’ He pointed at the lines he had carved into the apple’s green skin. ‘Here is the shoreline of Kalysons, and the Great Sea.’ He spun the fruit on its stalk. ‘Here is Merithuros –’

  ‘Where is Antaris?’

  ‘Here. At least, I believe so. And there are the Wildlands beyond, the forests and the untamed lands – all this half of the apple, blank and unnamed.’

  Calwyn reached out for the apple, but Darrow held it away from her, and made as if to devour it with one bite. ‘Stop!’ she cried, half laughing, half in earnest, and caught at his arm. Their eyes met, then Darrow smiled a wry smile.

  ‘At least there is one Daughter of Taris who is eager to save the world.’ He tossed the apple to Calwyn. Her face was flushed; embarrassed, she fixed her gaze on the globe, spinning it around and around, tracing the carved lines and notches with her fingertip.

  ‘I’ve never seen a model of Tremaris like this before.’ She looked up. ‘If it is a question of saving the whole world, and not just your own skin, you should be even more determined to defeat him. Samis, I mean.’ She spoke the name lightly, not looking at Darrow.