The Tenth Power (2 page)

Calwyn watched as Trout and Mica, heads close together, struggled with Mica’s skate-blade. Trout looked tired, and when Mica glanced up, Calwyn saw the bruise of shadows under her eyes.

‘You see the moons last night, Cal?’ she asked eagerly. ‘It were theWhale’s Mouth.’

It was the formation that the priestesses of Antaris called the Goat andTwo Kids. ‘Yes,’ said Calwyn. ‘The middle of spring.’

‘So why’s it still winter?’ Mica shivered. ‘It ain’t right. I don’t like it. Remember when you sung up ice for me that first time, Cal, and I got so excited? Reckon I’ve seen enough ice and snow now to last me all my life.’

‘I remember,’ said Calwyn shortly. Mica’s face fell.

‘Don’t wriggle, Mica.’Trout frowned with concentration as he tugged at the leather thong that fastened Mica’s skate to her boot. He was seventeen now, a serious young man, no longer the nervous boy that Calwyn had met almost two years before. But his blue eyes were still round and questioning, and his thatch of brown hair still flopped untidily over his forehead. As usual, his bootlaces were strung through the wrong holes, and one of his coat buttons dangled by a thread. He sat back on his heels. ‘There, that should hold it.’

‘Trout, it’s too tight! My foot’ll fall off!’ Mica winced as she wriggled a finger through the lacings. She, too, had grown up in the past year; she had become a striking young woman, with her golden eyes and thick, honey-coloured hair. But she looked miserable now; her nose was red and swollen, her lips were chapped, and her eyes streamed with the cold.

‘Better too tight than too loose,’ said Trout mildly. ‘You’ll twist your ankle again if you’re not careful.’

‘Look.’ Calwyn opened her mittened hand and showed them a prickly sprig. ‘It’s bitterthorn. Ursca uses it to dull pain and help bring sleep. It grows near theWall.’

‘So there ain’t far to go?’ Mica’s face brightened.

‘We’ll reach Antaris by nightfall.’

‘At last!’ mutteredTrout fervently. ‘Hot baths, clean clothes, a proper bed!’

‘The beds in the Dwellings are hard, Trout,’ said Calwyn. ‘The sisters of Antaris live simply. Don’t expect luxury.’

‘But they have mattresses?’Trout squinted through the glass lenses that perched on his freckled nose. ‘We won’t have to sleep on the ground?’

‘Of course not,’ said Calwyn irritably.

‘Antaris must be like Emeran, where me and grandma lived,’ said Mica wistfully. ‘Like when all the men went out to sea, fishin, and all the women was left behind together. Even better, cos there ain’t no pirates.We had good times, peaceful, all singin and that, with no men racketin around.’

‘What’s wrong with having men around?’ asked Trout, slightly hurt.

‘I don’t mind
you.
Boys is all right.’

Trout screwed up his face, and hauled Mica to her feet. Born in the Isles of Firthana, where snow and ice were unknown, Mica was far from steady on her skates, though her skills had improved greatly since the start of their journey. She slid out onto the frozen river, whirling her arms wildly. Layers of wool and fur made her as round as a little barrel, and only a few strands of tousled hair poked out from her knitted cap. In the middle of the river, she wiped her nose on her sleeve and began to sing a high, lilting chantment of the winds. The snowdrifts, fallen branches and the slush of dead leaves on the ice blew aside, clearing a path for them.

‘Mica! Don’t forget the Clarion!’ called Trout. He held out the precious, golden Clarion of the Flame, the last relic of the Power of Fire. At first, Mica had been wary of using such a powerful artefact, almost too nervous to bring it to her lips, but now the slim little trumpet was an old friend.Without the magic of the Clarion to keep them warm, to start their campfires, to clear the snow from their snug tent and to light their way when the dark drew in every afternoon, the three travellers could not have survived this journey. Even when it was not being played to summon the chantments of fire, the Clarion glowed with a steady, comforting warmth. Mostly, Calwyn andTrout let Mica hold it; she had to be warm to sing her chantments, and she suffered from the cold more than they did.

Mica skated back, grabbed the Clarion and tucked it inside her jacket. ‘Brr, that’s better!This’ll stop my throat-ache.’With a brave grin, she wobbled away again.

Trout was a better skater than Mica. As a student in Mithates, he had skated every winter. He’d told Calwyn and Mica about skating parties on the River Amith, with races and picnics and dancing on the ice.That was strange to Calwyn. In Antaris, where each novice must cross the black ice of the sacred pool to become an initiated priestess, skating was a skill to be exercised with respect, not a matter for fun and games.

But Trout was not reckless. He was a sturdy, dependable skater who never showed off. Now he and Calwyn tugged on the pack harnesses and set off in stride together.

‘Wait for us, Mica!’ Calwyn called. ‘How many times do I have to tell you, it’s not safe!’

With a tremendous effort, Mica halted her headlong glide. ‘You say that every day, but the ice ain’t broke once yet!’ she yelled, her breath a white cloud.

‘You don’t know the signs of thin ice, Mica. Keep to the edges.’

‘Don’t be cross with me, Cal,’ said Mica plaintively, but in truth she was tired, and relieved to drop behind the others. For a time, the only sound was Mica’s high, eerie song of chantment, and the steady swish of blades on ice.

‘Calwyn,’ saidTrout in a low voice. ‘Don’t be too harsh with Mica. This journey hasn’t been easy for her, you know.’

‘It isn’t easy for any of us,’ snapped Calwyn. ‘You think it’s easy for me?’

‘No, no – I mean – I know why you’re in such a bad mood all the time…’ ‘If you know so much then why talk about it?’

Scowling, Calwyn tucked her chin into her scarf and scanned the river ahead. Once, if she had seen a crack in the ice, she could have sung a swift chantment to seal it. Once, she would have made this journey singing softly all the way. And as Mica sang to clear their path, Calwyn could have sung to strengthen the ice beneath them.

Not so long ago, Calwyn had been a chanter, a gifted chanter. Most chanters of Tremaris could sing the chantments of only one of the Nine Powers. Calwyn had been taught the Power of Ice by the sisters of Antaris, and then she had learned the chantments of the winds from Mica. She had also sung the songs of the Power of Beasts, which tamed animals. And in Merithuros, half a year ago, she’d begun to learn the chantments of ironcraft, the power that moved everything of the earth except air, fire and water.

It was all gone. All her gifts of magic were lost.
Merithuros
stole them from me
, she thought bitterly, though at the time she had given herself freely to try to heal that dry and troubled land. But the task had overwhelmed her – and now this never-ending winter seemed a cruel joke at her expense, reminding her every day of what she’d lost. Her fists clenched hard, and the crushed fragments of the bitterthorn twig crumbled and blew away across the ice.

Trout ventured a change of subject. ‘Steel blades would be better than iron. Stronger. Lighter, too. Do you ever use steel skate-blades in Antaris, Calwyn?’

‘We have steel knives,’ said Calwyn, dragging her thoughts from her own misery. ‘But metal’s very precious in Antaris: the traders have to carry it to us all the way through the mountains. We use bone blades for skating.’

It felt strange to Calwyn to say
we
of the priestesses of Antaris. Almost two years had passed since she had run away with Darrow, the Outlander who had breached the ice Wall. So much had happened in that time. She had travelled across oceans and through deserts. She had seen the fabled Palace of Cobwebs, and walked the desolate streets of Spareth, the city abandoned by the Ancient Ones. She and her friends had fought Samis, the most dangerous sorcerer Tremaris had ever seen, and they had defeated him – or so they’d thought.

There were reports that Samis was alive, and hiding in Gellan. Certainly his half-sister, Keela, believed so; she had fled from Merithuros to join him there. Now Darrow, with Tonno and Halasaa, had travelled north to the Red City.

The thought of Darrow was, as always, bittersweet. Darrow had carved the little wooden hawk that Calwyn wore at her throat. He had become her friend, then more than a friend. But now she was not sure what they were to each other.What had happened to Calwyn in the deserts of Merithuros had changed everything. Darrow was Lord of the Black Palace, the ruler of all Merithuros. And she, Calwyn, was nothing.

After the loss of her chantments, she had pushed Darrow away. She knew that had hurt him deeply, but her despair and her misery were so great she couldn’t bear anyone near her. Sometimes she thought she almost hated Darrow; at times, she hated herself. She wouldn’t have blamed Darrow if he’d begun to hate her, too. It might even be a kind of relief if he did. But mostly she was numb, beyond feeling.

Now Calwyn was returning home, as an injured animal crawls back to the safety of its den. She was sure of only one thing: Marna, the High Priestess, would be glad to see her. Remembering Marna’s smile, the twinkle in her faded blue eyes, and the gentle touch of her hand, Calwyn spurred herself to go faster. Her skates bit smoothly across the ice, one long stroke after another.

In one way, it was lucky for the travellers that this fierce freeze had lasted so long. They had skated upriver across the plains and through the mountains, making their journey much quicker than if they’d walked all the way. Calwyn had never known the rivers to freeze so hard, nor so late in the season.

‘Cal! Cal!’ Suddenly Mica swooped past them. ‘Come on! Can’t you feel it?’

‘Mica,
wait
! For the sake of the Goddess!’ shouted Calwyn, but as she andTrout rounded the bend, she saw why Mica was so excited.

Ahead, spanning the width of the river, shone a steady, impervious gleam, a shimmer like a vast mass of diamond. The greatWall of Antaris reared over them.

Calwyn’s breath caught in her throat. How many times had she stood beside this towering barrier? How many days had she walked along it, singing it into being with chantments of ice-call? She knew it better than she knew the shape of her own face. She knew the Wall in the hot sunshine of high summer, and the mellow dusk of autumn, in the clean fresh light of spring, and as it appeared now, in the blue shadows of winter.

But something was different. It wasn’t just that she viewed the Wall from the outside now. What was missing was her awareness of the magic that had built and sustained the mighty rampart of ice, the living power that hummed through it and crackled all around it. Mica was a chanter: Mica had sensed strong chantment even before theWall came into view. Once Calwyn, too, would have known that they were close to the Wall. It would have called to her, just as it had called to Mica.

But Calwyn felt nothing.TheWall appeared to her as it did to Trout, who stood gazing up beside her, open-mouthed. It was a marvel, yes, a wondrous sight. But it was dead, lifeless, no more than a slab of frozen water. It was Mica who shivered, Mica who heard the call of the Goddess, Mica who shied instinctively from the shimmering surface. ‘Anyone’d feel safe, with
that
protectin em,’ she murmured in awe.

Trout reached out to the Wall, but Calwyn struck his hand away. ‘Don’t! It’ll kill you! It’s death to touch the Wall, the chantments that flow through it are so strong.’

Trout shook himself. In Mithates, chantment had been outlawed generations ago. And thoughTrout had been the unwitting finder of the Clarion, the only relic of the Power of Fire, which the people of Mithates had renounced, he still had to be reminded of the possibility of magic. He had a practical mind, interested in how things worked, and making them work better; he had built the direction-finder that they’d used to steer their course. (Mica called it his ‘which-way’, and the name had stuck.)

Calwyn stood staring at the Wall. Then she curled her thumb and forefinger into a circle, as the villagers of Antaris did when they approached the immense shining barrier, and she made the sign that they made, touching the circle to her forehead, her throat, her heart. This was the way the common folk made reverence to the Goddess Taris, Mother of the priestesses. Calwyn could no longer count herself as a Daughter of Taris. She had lost the most precious gift the Goddess had given her.

‘Cal?’ asked Mica timidly. ‘We goin in?’

‘Yes,’ said Calwyn, without moving, and the two girls remained motionless, side by side, gazing upward. Trout waited for a breath or two, then, still balanced on his skates, he tottered up onto the riverbank to explore theWall as it curved further into the forest.

A moment later the girls heard a shout. They hurried to where Trout stood by theWall with his eyes averted, pointing mutely.

Mica and Calwyn didn’t scream; they had seen enough horrors to prevent that. But Mica turned away with a shudder, and bile rose in Calwyn’s throat.

There was a body inside the Wall. It was a woman; long reddish hair swam around her like a gossamer scarf. Her back was to them, her face hidden, but she wore the yellow tunic and shawl of a priestess. Shafts of blue light trapped the body like the bars of a cage; brilliant diamond cracks in the ice seemed to target the bloodless flesh like arrows.

‘You never told us you put dead people into theWall,’ said Trout accusingly.

‘We don’t!’

‘Then how did she get there?’

‘It must have been an accident – ’ Calwyn faltered. ‘Quickly, Mica, the Clarion!We have to set her free!’

‘She’s dead, Calwyn,’ saidTrout bluntly. ‘It’s too late to help her.’

‘We don’t know that!’ cried Calwyn. ‘A little village boy lost his way in a snowstorm, and we found him, blue and cold, not breathing. But the sisters brought him back to life. Mica, quick!’

Mica pulled out the Clarion and breathed through it as gently as she could. She was the only chanter among them; only she could call forth the power that the Clarion held. As she played, a clear note rang out, and the golden Clarion glowed brighter.

Slowly the ice of theWall began to melt. Chantment met chantment, fire breathed to ice, as the music of the little horn unfurled. The thick, curdled ice became transparent; puddles of water formed around their feet. ‘Careful!’ cried Calwyn. ‘Don’t burn her!’