‘They call me Trout, by the way.’ The boy held out his hand; it was filthy, and covered in burn marks and the scars of many small injuries, and there was a grubby bandage around one finger. It looked as though his clothes had also gone a long time without washing: his trousers were streaked with oil, there were various unidentifiable stains down his shirt, and he seemed to have been using his bonnet as a dishcloth.
‘I’m Cal –’ Too late, Calwyn remembered that she was supposed to be a boy. ‘Cal,’ she said firmly. Together she and Trout picked up the machine and piled the wood into the cart, though Calwyn’s hands were still shaking. She hadn’t eaten that day. Perhaps, she thought with sudden hope, this Trout might be able to give her some food, and maybe shelter for the night. With a little difficulty, they were able to balance the contraption on its one remaining good wheel, levering the front part between them and pushing it along, back across the bridge.
‘Perhaps I should have used the horn. I forgot all about it.’ Trout pointed to a small battered clarion fixed to the steering handles.
‘Never mind that,’ said Calwyn. ‘The sight of you flying along on this thing was terrifying enough. What do you call it? I’ve never seen anything like it before.’
‘Of course not. This is the first one that’s ever been built. I haven’t named it yet. It’s for transporting supplies swiftly on a battlefield –’ He halted suddenly in the middle of the road and stared at her suspiciously. ‘Were you following me? Did your college send you to spy on me?’
‘If you want to keep your inventions secret, you shouldn’t ride them about in the street,’ said Calwyn tartly. Her head was throbbing; perhaps she had been walking in the sun too long.
A look of dismay dawned on Trout’s face. ‘You’re right. If the Masters of the College find out, I’ll be in trouble again. But I needed a long run, and there isn’t room enough inside the walls.’
Calwyn felt herself warming to him. ‘Are you in trouble often?’
‘All the time, especially after the business with the explosion. Though it was the fire that really upset them. But that wasn’t my fault. It got away from me.’
‘Yes, they should teach you how to control your chantments,’ said Calwyn absently, forgetting that magic was outlawed here.
Trout stared at her through the spokes of the bent wheel, as if trying to decide whether she was joking or serious. ‘Chantments? Where do you come from? Antaris? They still believe in magic up in those mountains, or so they say.’
Calwyn didn’t reply, struggling to wheel the machine straight along the bumpy cobbled street. At last she said, ‘Supposing I were from Antaris. What would you say then?’
‘Nothing.’ He gave a snort of laughter. ‘I don’t believe those stories.’
‘What stories?’
‘You know what I mean. The stories of the witches with their magical songs, who can raise up walls of ice out of nothing, and make a snowstorm on a summer’s day. They’re tales to frighten children, nothing more. Anyone with any sense can see that those things aren’t possible. Only fools and babies would believe those stories. Chantments! You might as well believe in the gods!’ He gave another derisive snort.
Calwyn was sorely tempted to sing up a flurry of snow to whirl about his head, just to prove him wrong, but then she winced as pain stabbed behind her eyes. All she wanted was to sit somewhere dark and quiet, and sip a cool drink of water until her head stopped aching.
‘Here we are; this is my gate.’They came to a halt below the towering walls. He said hesitantly, ‘Would you mind helping me a bit longer? My workshop’s just inside.’
Calwyn held the gate open whileTrout clumsily manoeuvred the cart inside; the gateway was so narrow that they couldn’t both go through it together. Inside was a lush green lawn, dotted with spander trees. Trout led the way toward a cluster of low buildings that looked like sheds or stables. ‘They banished me out here,’ he said cheerfully. ‘After the fire.’
Calwyn held the machine upright while he fumbled in his pocket for some keys. He unlocked the nearest shed, then he helped her wheel the cart inside. ‘Just drop it anywhere, it doesn’t matter.’
Obediently Calwyn let her side of the contraption fall, and looked around, her eyes adjusting to the shadows. Trout fumbled for a light, and the room suddenly brightened with a white glow from the brightest lantern that Calwyn had ever seen. The workshop was an incredible jumble of objects, bits of machinery, little cogs and wheels and gears like the inside of a windmill, and all sorts of things she couldn’t recognise. There were tools and nails and screws, glass jars, lumps of rock with glittering veins of minerals running through them, rows of stoppered vials filled with different coloured liquids, balls of string, flints and coils of wire lying all over bench tops and stools and scattered on the floor. There was a large burned patch on one bench. She said, ‘It looks as though a storm has blown through here.’
‘Yes, people often say that.’Trout gazed vaguely around the workshop. ‘Thanks for helping me. I should offer you something – something to eat.’ He looked hopefully along the workbench, but nothing remotely edible sprang to view.
‘If I could just have some water –’
He fetched a jug and a beaker, and watched as she gulped the water down. But the throbbing in her head and her fingers refused to go away.
Trout said suddenly, ‘Are you really from Antaris? Why are you dressed as a boy?’
So he wasn’t quite as vague as he appeared, after all. Calwyn said shakily, ‘What a ridiculous idea. How could I possibly be from Antaris?’
Trout looked at her shrewdly. ‘I suppose you’re right. I’ve heard that everyone from Antaris is kept locked away in the mountains and forbidden to leave on pain of death.’
‘You shouldn’t believe everything you hear,’ said Calwyn. ‘I think there are a few who manage to escape. Those who want to see more of the world.’ She thought suddenly of her mother.
Trout pulled off his bonnet and rubbed his hands through his hair until it was even more untidy than before. ‘More of the world? No, thanks. I’ve got enough to keep me busy for a whole lifetime between these four walls.’ He tapped the bench with its odds and ends of machinery and strange tools. ‘This is wide world enough for me!’
‘What about your machine? That could carry you far beyond Mithates.’
He looked surprised, considering. ‘Yes, I suppose it could carry a traveller further than he could go on foot. I hadn’t thought of that.’
Now it was Calwyn’s turn to laugh. ‘Why did you build it, if not for that?’
‘I told you, to carry supplies into battle. Or to carry messages more swiftly between a commander and his soldiers.’
‘Battle. Of course. Tell me, is everything you make here designed to help in killing people?’
‘Of course not.’ His voice was indignant. ‘We have loads of inventions for defence.’
He picked up a pair of pliers and bent over the mangled contraption. Calwyn leaned over too, and the buzzing in her head intensified. Something was calling to her, screaming to her, and all at once she knew exactly what it was. She reached out her hand to touch the battered clarion that dangled by a wire from the iron frame. At the precise moment that her fingers touched it, the screaming in her head cleared. She whispered, ‘What is this?’
Trout looked puzzled. ‘Just a little horn I found lying about. No one wanted it.’
She could only nod dumbly. Now she understood what the throbbing in her head had signified; it was as though she had touched her flesh to the sacred Wall without knowing the power it held. This object, this small battered instrument, immeasurably ancient, was an artefact so charged with magic that her senses had reeled from it until she comprehended what it was. The chanters of Mithates might have vanished, but they had left this precious gift behind them. And this boy Trout had tied it to his cart with a length of wire as though it were a child’s toy!Trembling, her fingers fumbled to set it free.
‘Please – m
ay I have it?’
Trout shrugged. ‘I suppose so. Though I don’t see what use –’
But he never got the words out. Even as Calwyn struggled with the last twist of the wire, the door of the workshop flew open. A figure stood in the doorway, outlined in the red light of the sunset.
Trout looked round, frowning. ‘Hey! Who’s that? Mind the light – shut the door, will you?’
It was too late; the lantern guttered in the draught, and went out.
‘I’m sorry,’ came the voice from the doorway, and Calwyn’s heart leapt.
‘Darrow!’ She flew across the workshop with a glad cry. To her surprise, Darrow opened his arms and gathered her into a rough hug. For that brief moment, with the cloth of his jacket pressed to her cheek, she felt so utterly safe and so joyfully relieved that nothing else mattered. Her head swam; she thought she might faint.
But now Darrow’s strong hands were holding her away, and she struggled to see his face in the dusk. He said gently, ‘You have found something, little one. Give it to me.’
‘You mean the clarion? What is it?’
Darrow spoke low, barely louder than a breath. ‘It is the Clarion of the Flame.’
five
The Clarion of the Flame
CALWYN COULD HEAR Trout fumbling to relight the lantern; there was a loud crash as it fell to the ground. He clucked in annoyance. ‘How did that happen? I hardly touched it. Cal, there are candles by the door, if you could throw one over.’
‘Cal – Calwyn,’ repeated Darrow softly. ‘Calwyn, my little runaway. Where is the Clarion?’
‘Here, on the floor. I must have dropped it, I was so surprised.’ Her head buzzing with confusion and a faint unease, Calwyn dropped to her knees and blindly felt about in the wreckage of the cart. ‘Where are the others?’
‘Waiting for us.’
‘If someone could pass me a candle – oh, never mind, I’ll get it myself.’ Trout stumbled across the workshop and tripped over the pile of twisted metal on the floor. ‘Ow!’
Calwyn groped through the wreck of the cart. ‘Darrow, have you found any chanters of fire? How did you know about the Clarion?’
‘Those who wield power know the objects of power. I followed its scent, just as you did.’
‘I didn’t know what it was, until I touched it –’
On the other side of the workshop, by the door, Trout struck a flint to light a candle, and as the spark flew, Calwyn saw the glint of the small, dented trumpet. She pounced and held it aloft. By the candle’s light, she could see that its surface was etched with a design of leaping flames, flickering and shifting in the reflected light. The pattern was half worn away and tarnished, yet the Clarion shimmered and glowed with its own light, like the glow of embers from a fire that had burned for a thousand years. Held high in her hand, it seemed like a living thing. Calwyn caught her breath. There was no mistaking that it was an object of great power, more ancient than the stones and spires of Mithates or the towers of Antaris, steeped in mystery and infused with secret magic. How strange it was that this little battered horn, hardly bigger than her hand, should be the source of such immense power. It was as if the spark that Trout struck could light up the whole world like the break of day.
She stood up and held out the Clarion to Darrow. His back was to the light and she couldn’t see his face, but she heard a soft hah! as his fingers closed around the horn. Yet Calwyn didn’t want to let it go. Since Darrow first appeared, she’d felt a prickling of disquiet; now that feeling grew more definite. Something was wrong here. Holding firm to the Clarion, she was aware of a tingling in her fingers. Surely there was chantment nearby.
Could Darrow feel it too? Anxiously she sought his eyes as they stood there, each holding onto the warmth of the Clarion, joined by its golden fire. Then Darrow reached out with his other hand and gently caressed her hair. A thrill shot through her.
‘Calwyn, Taris’s child,’ murmured Darrow. ‘We can be together in all things now, and all the world will be ours: the mountains and the oceans, the islands and the deserts, the forests and the plains.’
Softly, rhythmically, his hand stroked her hair. Her eyes closed. She couldn’t move; with every gentle caress she felt weaker. His words flowed about her like honey, rich and sweet, intoxicating. To roam the world as she pleased, with Darrow at her side – Softly, softly, his hand moved over her hair.
‘Tremaris needs a leader.’ Darrow’s voice was as musical as the humming of the bees. ‘With the help of the Clarion, with your help, I will be the Singer of all Songs. And you, little Calwyn, will be my empress. All the peoples of Tremaris will bow down before you. They will obey you in all things, never question you . . .’
Never to be questioned, always to be taken seriously! At once a dozen voices flashed through Calwyn’s head: a piece of old rope would be more useful – next time, try to hold your tongue – think before you speak, child, and you will not appear so foolish – we have despaired of you, Calwyn – How sweet, how sweet it would be to prove all those voices wrong.
‘Excuse me!’Trout’s voice broke into her reverie. ‘You can’t just take that trumpet, you know. I mean, I’m the one who found it, after all. I’m not saying you can’t have it, but it’s only fair if we trade, isn’t it? I’ll tell you what –’ Darrow gave an impatient growl, and Trout fell silent as abruptly as if someone had clapped a hand, or a wad of cloth, over his mouth.
Calwyn blinked. She had fallen into a dream; now for the first time she truly heard what Darrow had said to her. Empress? People bowing down? Impulsively she tightened her grasp on the Clarion. At the same moment Darrow clenched his hand hard around it, and she saw a gleam of ruby light, a light that refused to be hidden, a blood-red light from the jewel of a square ring.
‘Darrow?’ she whispered. Then, ‘Samis?’
His hand shot out to circle her wrist, grasping it so tightly that her hand hurt. Now at last she recognised the chantment, as dense in the air as the shimmer of sunlight over a dusty path in summer. It was there in the tingling of her hands, the confusion in her head. Convulsed with horror, she wrenched at the Clarion, she twisted her wrist in his iron grasp, but she could not break free. She felt a scream rise in her throat. ‘Let me see your face! Let me see your face!’
‘My face?’ It was Darrow’s voice: dry, amused, familiar as her own. The man who held her arm swung her effortlessly around so that the candle shone full on his face. And it was Darrow’s face that gazed at her, a half-smile playing about his lips. He pulled her closer, so close that his breath was hot in her ear, and whispered, ‘Do you doubt me now, little one?’
She shook her head violently from side to side like someone struggling to wake from a nightmare. A voice cried out like a distant memory, ‘I am not persuaded!’This was not how Darrow spoke to her, this was not how Darrow acted. This was not how Darrow looked.
She whispered, ‘Your scar. Where is your scar?’ She let go of the Clarion, and reached out a fingertip to touch the corner of his eyebrow, the place where the silver scar should run.
Darrow’s face contorted with rage; then, like a reflection broken up by ripples, his face wavered and dissolved before her eyes. There was no face, no figure standing in front of her: only a yawning space where darkness shifted and congealed. But the space that was shifting darkness still held her fast; she looked down and saw a band of clotted dark around her arm, as if it had been eaten. Somehow this was more horrible than anything else had been.
Frantically she yanked herself backward, but the sorcerer’s grip was too strong. A voice came out of the faceless dark: ‘Join me, little priestess. In Antaris, they spoke of you as a healer, and a keeper of hives. Help me to heal Tremaris. Help me to bring order to the swarms.’
‘Never! I will never help you!’
‘Why do you fight me, little one? We are the same, your Darrow and I, we both strive for the same end. Yet only one of us will succeed: there is only one Singer of all Songs, and I am stronger than he.’
‘You’re lying!’ gasped Calwyn. ‘Darrow doesn’t want to be Singer of all Songs, he has no wish to be emperor of – of anywhere –’
The wavering dark resolved itself, as if the surface of the water became still; once again Darrow’s face was gazing at her, quizzical, affectionate, and it was his voice that spoke to her. ‘Why, little one! It was my own idea to collect the Nine Powers. It was only when I realised that Samis’s gifts were greater than my own – far greater – that I turned against him. Make no mistake, beneath my soft words, I have the same ambition I have always had.’
‘It’s not true!’ cried Calwyn, and in desperation she began to sing a chantment, a song of icy cold to wrap about the hand that held her, a song to chill him to the bone. It should have made him drop her wrist in an instant.
A look of pained bewilderment crossed the face that was, and was not, Darrow’s. ‘Little one, Calwyn, my heart, surely you don’t mean to hurt me?’ He didn’t seem to feel her chantment any more than the pricking of a thistle; his clutch on her arm was tighter than ever. Calwyn sang on, but her voice was shrill with fear, the magic feeble. Wildly she kicked out, lashed out with her free hand, thrashed in his grasp like a roancat. She heard a snarl of chantment, and felt her clothes drag on her like lead, pressing her inexorably to the ground. She screamed, ‘Trout! Help me!’
And then several things happened very quickly. Trout snatched up a spool of wire and hurled it toward Samis’s head. The sorcerer at once raised a hand to ward it off, and growled out a note of chantment. The spool halted in mid-air, then crashed to the ground; but he had loosened his grip on Calwyn’s wrist, and his attention was distracted. It was only for a heartbeat, but that was all she needed. Instantly she threw herself onto the Clarion, seizing it with both hands and wresting it from the sorcerer’s grasp, then she dived for the still-open doorway, clutching the little horn to her chest. Trout followed her, slamming the door behind them.
The Singer of All Songs Page 11