Songs of the Earth (20 page)

Gair looked down at the Book of Eador that he’d found in the desk drawer. It was a mass-printed edition, rather than one of the sumptuously illuminated, hand-lettered volumes produced by the Church’s scriptorium. The leather cover was scarred, the pages dog-eared from handling. He opened it at the ribbon marker: Beatitudes, chapter eight:
Be welcome, all ye travellers. Be welcome in the House of the Goddess wheresoever you may find it on your journeys. Be at ease in this House that your burdens may be set down and your cares lifted from your brow
.

Since he was old enough to remember the words unprompted Gair had said his prayers at night and the blessing over every meal, and there had been times when he’d been sure he’d heard the Goddess’ voice speak to him. He had listened to the service and shivered with dark delight at tales of damnation, whilst he hoped with all his heart that he would find his place in heaven – although of course in those days his idea of heaven bore a strong resemblance to Uncle Merion’s house at Blackcraig.

Then the Song had struck its first note inside him. Somewhere in the aftermath the services had become an agony of dread and his prayers had become desperate pleas not to be found out. He did not think She had spoken to him since – or if She had, he had been unable to hear Her. Since then, it had seemed less and less
important to make the effort to speak when there was so little hope of reply.

If he were a true believer, he would be on his knees in chapel, praying for guidance and absolution from his sins, instead of sitting there on his arse … although if he had been a true believer, he would never have ended up here in the first place. He would have flung himself on the mercy of the Church and taken his fiery penance in the knowledge that his place in heaven was assured. He was not sure he had the courage for that kind of faith.

Without really wanting to, Gair found himself turning the pages towards the Book of Abjurations. He knew the words by heart, but he read them again anyway. Chapter twelve, verse fourteen:
Suffer ye not the life of a witch and shun ye all works of evil lest they imperil thy soul
.

Was Alderan right, and sin only existed in the minds of men? If so, was he a witch? In the eyes of the Church, the Goddess’ voice on earth, most definitely. In the eyes of other people? Maybe, maybe not. He had been born with this gift; surely that made it a gift from Eador Herself. Was he a witch in Her eyes? That was something he could not answer.

Chapterhouse’s kitchens were accustomed to early risers. When Gair entered the refectory an hour after dawn the servants were already busy at the hatches and a good quarter of the tables were occupied. He took his breakfast of warm spicebread and tea to the same corner seat he had occupied the night before and watched the comings and goings of the others whilst he ate.

Chapterhouse’s other occupants did not seem to fall into any particular type, as far as he could see. They spanned all ages, both sexes, and practically every nationality he could identify. He saw a few Leahns, long-boned and fair like him, olive-skinned Tylans, Belisthans, and a few desertmen, dark as polished mahogany. He even saw one Astolan, with that distinctive golden colouring and catlike grace. They all spoke the common tongue, but with a multiplicity of accents. The atmosphere of relaxed cheerfulness was a total contrast to the solemnity of the Motherhouse. There the novices had lived for their liberty hours, when they could go out onto the commons and run and shout and laugh themselves hoarse, grabbing as much fun as they could hold in the knowledge that it would have to last them the next seven days.

He was finishing his second cup of tea when Alderan appeared at the far doors. The old man now wore a long blue mantle
over his lived-in traveller’s garb, but he still managed to look rumpled.

‘Good morning,’ he said, arriving at Gair’s table. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Very.’ The strange room and different night-time sounds had kept him awake for only a little while, then he had slept like a stone.

‘Are you ready?’

‘I suppose so. It’s difficult to say, when I don’t know what I’m supposed to be getting ready for.’ Gair drained his mug and set it down.

‘For the testing. I assume Darin told you about it?’

‘He did. He was surprised you hadn’t mentioned it sooner.’

Gair was not particularly looking forward to it. He had spent so long concealing what he was that he found it difficult to be open about his gift. Calling up a glim in front of Alderan in the privacy of a ship’s cabin was one thing; being asked to demonstrate his gifts to the fullest extent of his ability, in front of a crowd of Masters who were complete strangers to him? That was quite another.

He eyed the old man, waiting for a reaction to his remark, but there was none. ‘What if I don’t want to be tested?’

‘You have to be. All students are. It allows us to assay your gift and find out what you can do, what you cannot, and what you might yet learn. Then we can give you the most appropriate training. You asked me to teach you, remember. If you refuse, we’d test you anyway’ – Alderan showed his teeth – ‘but it’s much more fun if you cooperate.’

Gair stood up. ‘You know, you didn’t tell me nearly as much about this place as you could have done.’

Alderan didn’t seem affronted. ‘I told you the truth,’ he said simply.

‘Just not all of it. “Deception is the handiwork of the Nameless, the Father of Lies. Be open and upstanding in all thy dealings and the Goddess shall smile upon thee.”’

Laughter burst out of the old man, loud and rich enough to make several people look round from their breakfast. ‘Quoting scripture at me now, by the saints! Fair enough, lad,’ he chuckled, holding up his hands. ‘I should have prepared you for this; my apologies again. You’ll do fine, though, don’t worry. After what you showed me on the
Kittiwake
I have absolutely no doubt that you’re up to the task.’

‘Then let’s get it over with.’

Alderan set a brisk pace through Chapterhouse’s white stone corridors to the south practice yards. Three quadrangles were arranged around a central block that contained the armoury. Shady walks surrounded the two smallest yards, one covered entirely, the other open to the sky, whilst the third, which was as big as the other two put together, sported tiers of benches under a shingled canopy. That yard was where exhibitions and gradings took place, Darin had told him.

At the door into the changing room, Alderan stopped.

‘What’s going to happen?’ Gair asked.

‘I can’t tell you; I’m your sponsor. All I can say is that there will be a number of Masters waiting for you who will ask you some questions. You must answer them truthfully, and try to do whatever is asked of you. I will also be there, but I cannot help. You must do this by yourself. Now go inside and get changed and I’ll see you in the yard in a few minutes. Don’t worry, lad; I have every faith in you.’

Gravely Alderan clapped his arm, then strode away down the passage.

Gair let himself into the changing room and made his way along the rows of benches to the far end, where a dark man somewhat shorter and a few years older than him was waiting. He wore a calf-length blue mantle and held an off-white bundle in his hands.

‘You must be Gair,’ he said, smiling. ‘Put these on. They should be about your size. The housekeeper had to let down the hems for your height.’

He held out the bundle, which proved to be a loose-fitting tunic and pants of a stiff fabric that reminded Gair of sailcloth. The garments were the same unbleached colour as the novices’ tunics. Gair stripped down to his smallclothes, and put them on, then folded his own things onto the bench. The generous cut was comfortable enough, but the fabric felt coarse next to his skin.

‘It’ll chafe a bit at first, but it softens up with wear,’ the adept told him as he fingered the weave. ‘You’ll soon get used to it. Ready?’

The adept opened the door into the yard and led the way outside. It was still early; the whole yard was in shadow apart from the west side, where a ribbon of gold lay across the uppermost seats. The beaten earth floor was cool underfoot, but the air was dry and promised a warm day to come. Back in Dremen, where summers were short, there would already be frost tipping the grasses with silver, and geese arrowing south in great ragged skeins. Here on the Isles, summer looked set to run to St Simeon’s and beyond.

The Masters were arranged in a loose semi-circle across the lowest seats at the south end. He could see Alderan, standing in the yard to one side. Apart from their long blue mantles, the Masters’ clothes were as everyday as those of anyone Gair might have met on the streets of a town, with dust on their hems and scuffs on their shoes. Ranged in front of them was an odd collection of objects, including a baulk of timber, a horse trough full of water and a pile of large rocks.

‘Six?’ whispered the adept. ‘You must be good. I only got two. Good luck!’

He bowed to the Masters and left by one of the corner arches under the stands.

Gair walked the last few paces to Alderan’s side.

Four men and two women watched him. One of the women had the coppery colouring and hawk-sharp features of the southern deserts. Dressed in a man’s shirt and breeches, she wore her
sleeves rolled up to the elbows, exposing lean, sinewy forearms, and her blue-black hair was cropped short, like a boy’s. When she looked up, the sloe-black eyes he was expecting were vividly, startlingly blue. The other woman, in contrast, was white-haired, plump and grandmotherly. Apart from an enormous emerald ring on one hand, she looked so homely she might as well have had flour on her cuffs.

The four men were equally different in appearance. Two were dark, and alike enough in features and build to be brothers, if not twins. Of the other two, one was fair and bearded, the other ruddily clean-shaven and inclining towards the plump. All six watched Gair with the intensity of bidders at a cattle auction. He made an effort to stand up straight and not fidget, finding that if he looked straight ahead at the empty bench between the two women, the stares were less disconcerting.

‘This is Gair,’ Alderan began. ‘He has come to us from the Suvaeon Motherhouse in the Holy City of Dremen, to be tested in his gifts and taught the responsibilities that accompany the privilege of power. He comes to us of his free will, with the knowledge that what he is and what he will become will set him apart from others in the world, for ever. He comes to us to be
gaeden
.’

‘Welcome, Gair,’ the Masters intoned formally. Hoping it was the correct thing to do, Gair bowed. The grandmotherly one gave him a smile as sweet as home-made butterscotch.

Alderan stepped back a few paces, behind Gair and to the side. At once the air thrummed with tension. On the back of Gair’s arms the hairs rose up as if someone had run their fingernails down his spine. Whatever it was he could feel, it was all around him, like a cage, even under his feet. A quiver of unease rippled through him that left his nerves fluttering. He was reminded of another cage, of iron this time, and had a struggle to put it out of his mind.

The thin golden-haired Master spoke first. His voice was
surprisingly deep and rasping for one so slender. ‘I am Godril,’ he said. ‘Can you work fire?’

‘I can.’

‘Show me a flame.’

Gair reached inside himself to the Song. It rose up to greet him, exuberant as a puppy, filling every part of him with energy. Quickly he sought out the whispery music of flame and stretched out his hand. A small yellow flame bobbed over his palm, pulsing with his heartbeat. He steadied it then left it floating in the air in front of him. Effortlessly, Godril snuffed it out.

‘This is illusion. Show me fire!’

A wisp of straw lay on the ground by Gair’s feet. He held it out and lit it like a taper. Gaze never leaving Godril’s face, he let it burn down to his fingers, then dropped what remained. It shrivelled to ash and disintegrated.

‘Now this.’ Godril pointed to the timber. It was a six-foot length of tree trunk, roughly squared off and as thick through as Gair’s waist. It was freshly hewn, the sawn edges still sticky with sap. Gair concentrated. Igniting green wood was always difficult, even with a good flint and plenty of tinder, but he thought he had the trick of it now. After some cautious practice on the
Kittiwake
he’d been able to make a reliable flame; this was just a matter of scale. Carefully, he called fire to the wood. Nothing happened at first, then the timber began to smoke. He drew a little more of the Song, and a golden tongue licked the splinters left by the saw. Then another appeared. They caught, strengthened. Fed by his will, fire ran the length of the timber and leapt skywards. Bubbles of sap hissed and burst.