Songs of the Earth (39 page)

At once he could feel the quiver of life in the wood in his hands and under his boots, the skirling song of wind and water thrumming through the very fabric of the ship. The Shipsinger stared at him a moment longer, then her expression softened a fraction and she turned her face into the wind. He felt the caress of her mind, cool and elegant and alien, then she drew on the Song through him and together they set their wills to driving the
Star
through the hostile waters. Now he had to hope that she would arrive in time.

Back in the dormitory, Gair saw a light under Darin’s door and wondered if the Belisthan would have time for a game of chess. Luck had been running his way of late and he was enjoying a run of six victories in a row, though each had been hard fought. Something so purely cerebral might be just the thing he needed to distract himself from the rather more visceral subject that had been occupying him lately. Maybe he could even dredge up the courage to ask for some advice.

When Gair knocked on the door, there was no answer. He knocked again, then opened the door just far enough to lean in and say Darin’s name.

The Belisthan was slumped across his desk, perilously close to the guttering stub of a candle.

Gair hurried to move the candle out of the way, then lifted Darin’s shoulders and leaned him back in his chair. He had
overturned his inkwell and there was a spreading black stain over his tunic and what looked like it had once been an essay. Next to it, the stone for Renna’s betrothal ring sparkled on top of its velvet pouch like a raindrop on a rose.

‘Darin, wake up.’ Gair shook him gently. ‘Come on, you’ve got to wake up now.’

Darin’s eyes fluttered half-open. They were glazed and his breathing was irregular.

‘Come on, Darin. You’re covered in ink, look.’

The boy’s head lolled again. Gair wondered if he was drunk; he certainly had an intoxicated look about him. But his breath did not smell of wine, and thinking back, Gair could never recall him drinking very much. Suddenly he remembered something Darin had said when they first met.

‘Darin! Wake up! When did you last eat?’

The Belisthan tried to say something, but whatever it was came out as a moan. Gair swore. Propping him up as best he could, he searched quickly round the room for some food, but there was nothing. A trawl through his pockets and then Darin’s was similarly fruitless.

Gair swore again, louder this time. He would have to get him to the infirmary. He carried Darin’s slight frame out into the corridor and kicked at the first door he came to. ‘Open up, Clovas! I need your help!’

The door was opened by a skinny twelve-year-old in nightshirt and adept’s mantle. He blinked uncertainly when he saw Gair with an unconscious Darin over his shoulder. Further down the corridor, other doors opened, and voices demanded to know what the racket was about.

‘Run down to the infirmary and tell the first Healer you find that Darin is sick and that I’m bringing him down.’

The apprentice stood there, his mouth open.

‘Clovas, this is serious.’ Gair grabbed the boy’s arm and hauled him bodily from his room. ‘
Run!
’

With a startled yelp, Clovas hared off down the passage. Gair followed as quickly as he could, ignoring the stares and questions from the other students. In no time at all the whole corridor was awake and milling about.

Gair’s swearing reached new levels of fluency. ‘Out of the way, damn it!’ He beat at them with his free arm, but they were confused, and slow to respond. ‘Come on, move yourselves!’

In frustration he reached for the Song and detonated illusory fireballs the length of the passageway to clear his path. Startled students fell back with shouts of fright, apart from a couple of adepts who demanded to know what he thought he was doing. ‘I haven’t the time to stand about arguing –
let me by
!’

He shouldered his way between them, ignoring the complaints as they trailed after him. He hurried down the stairs and as he moved out across the cloister the wind moaned between the pillars and threw wet leaves in his face. Not far now: past the entrance to the practice yards, left into the cross-passageway and bless him, there was Clovas, bobbing in the wake of Saaron’s scarecrow figure.

The grizzled Healer beckoned Gair into the surgery. ‘Bring him in, bring him in.’ Saaron gestured at the surgery table. ‘Lie him down there.’

The Healer produced a scalpel from a drawer and slit open Darin’s ruined tunic and shirt, then pressed his ear to the boy’s chest to listen to his breathing. He sought a pulse at neck and wrist with deft fingers and clicked his tongue. ‘Slow, dreadfully slow. Prop him up in a sitting position, will you?’

Gair held Darin’s shoulders against his chest with one arm and used the other hand to support his chin.

Saaron disappeared into the dispensary and returned a few moments later, stirring something in a beaker. ‘Let’s get some of this into him.’

With the spoon, he dribbled a little of the liquid into Darin’s slack mouth.

Gair thought he smelled honey. ‘What is it?’

‘Honey and warm water,’ Saaron told him. ‘Darin has something called sugar-sickness. If he doesn’t eat regularly, or goes without food for too long, he can lapse into a coma, like this, and if it’s not treated quickly enough he could die. I’ve seen it happen, especially with children. They don’t understand what’s happening, and they can’t describe it, so their symptoms go undiagnosed.’ Another spoonful went into Darin’s mouth; the youth spluttered and swallowed weakly. ‘How long since you found him?’

‘Only a few minutes. He was slumped over his desk. I thought he’d just fallen asleep over his work, but I couldn’t wake him up. I looked for food in his room, but I couldn’t find anything.’

‘Quick thinking. You’re Gair, aren’t you? Tanith has told me about you.’ Saaron lifted Darin’s eyelids and peered underneath. ‘How’s the head?’

‘Fine now, thank you. Is he going to be all right?’

‘I should think so, yes. And that’s due in no small part to the promptness of your actions, I might add.’ Saaron put down the beaker and scratched his head. His iron-coloured hair stuck up in all directions, as if he was unacquainted with the concept of a comb. ‘Darin’s supposed to have a box of sweets, fudge or something, in his pocket all the time, so that if he starts to feel unwell he can eat something. He’s probably lost it – he’s such a scatterbrain I’m amazed he doesn’t forget who he is sometimes. Can you help me carry him through there, do you think?’

The Healer waved a hand in the direction of the door that led to the ward.

Together they carried Darin into the whitewashed room. Long rows of beds lined the walls, with curtains that could be pulled out to provide privacy. Saaron led the way to one of the few individual rooms at the far end, for those patients who needed absolute quiet. A bed was already made up, with the covers turned back, and in a matter of moments Darin was stripped and tucked up warmly.

‘I’ll have one of the adepts sit with him until he wakes up,’
Saaron said. ‘We shall have to keep a close eye on him. He’s not been this bad in a very long time. I’ll let you know how he is tomorrow.’

Gair walked back to his room with Clovas hovering at his heels. The hubbub had died down, and most of the students were back in their rooms, but a few were leaning against the walls watching as the two affronted adepts put their case to Master Barin. Their chorus reached new heights when they saw Gair approach.

Barin beckoned him over, and Gair saw Clovas into his room before going to the Master.

‘Did you throw fireballs at these two, Gair?’ Barin asked in his deep, mellow voice.

‘I did.’ It was the truth; he wasn’t going to argue about it. ‘Darin was unconscious and I was trying to get to the infirmary. These two were in my way and wouldn’t move.’

Barin’s lips twitched. ‘I see. Thank you, gentlemen,’ he said to the adepts. ‘You can go back to your rooms. I think I can take care of this now.’

They made to protest, but a raised hand silenced them. Drawing their mantles around them sniffily, they stalked back down the corridor.

Barin sighed. ‘Do you have a habit of making enemies?’ he asked. ‘First Arlin, now those two.’

Gair was startled for the second time that evening. ‘How do you know about Arlin?’

‘Do you think we Masters don’t talk to one another? All Chapterhouse knows Arlin tried to break your head and you cracked his ribs. I believe there’re wagers on which of you kills the other first.’ Barin sighed again. ‘Gair, you can do things without thinking that adepts like Maarna there couldn’t manage with a week’s notice and a red-hot poker in his drawers. Now I know you don’t go out of your way to flaunt your talents, but you should be aware that there are some people who resent you for them.’

‘Like Arlin?’

‘A case in point,’ Barin agreed. ‘He is a very fair talent himself, and a fine swordsman – the finest we had, until you put a kink in his tail with your Suvaeon training. Not only that, you’re strong in your gift as well. I’m sure I don’t have to spell it out for you.’

Gair knew very well what the dark-haired Master meant. The last time he’d gone to the practice yards before breakfast, he’d returned to his water-jug to find someone had salted it. The time before it had been laced with pickling vinegar. He had no evidence, but he was fairly sure Arlin was responsible, even though they never exchanged so much as a word in Haral’s classes.

‘Unfortunately, Arlin is one of those people who cannot forgive another man’s good fortune,’ the Master went on. ‘Unless he can best you at something, he will never be content. I would suggest you let him get the better of you at swordcraft once in a while, but you’re Leahn, and I doubt your pride would let you.’

They had reached Darin’s door, where they stopped. Barin laid a hand on Gair’s arm. ‘Watch yourself, Gair,’ he cautioned. ‘There are people who will be envious of your talents, people who will resent you, through no fault of your own. These people can do you mischief, and they will, because they are accustomed to being the centre of attention and you are diverting it away from them, simply because of what you are. Remember that.’

‘I will,’ Gair promised.

‘Good. Now I can expect to see you for my tutorial tomorrow, yes?’

‘Of course, Master Barin. You have my word on it.’

‘And a Leahn’s word is writ in iron, so I shall hold you to it. I’m sure my brother will be pleased too. He tells me his pupils are weary of scouring Chapterhouse for you, only to find Aysha has spirited you away.’

Gair winced. ‘I suppose everyone knows now,’ he said gloomily.

‘Those of us who were there on the day can work out what it
means when a novice reports that Master Aysha says you’re studying with her. The other students have no doubt put the clues together as well. It’s hard to keep secrets in a place like this, you know. Students gossip worse than old women on washday.’

Gair could have wished it was different. She might not care who knew about her abilities – indeed, she positively brandished them in the face of the rest of Chapterhouse – but he did not feel comfortable with that. After hiding it for so long, it was too personal to share with the world. Still, the dice were cast now, he would just have to get used to it.

Barin stepped back and began walking down the corridor. ‘Remember, half-Prime tomorrow, and not a second later!’

It was no good. He would have to start again from the beginning. Lowering his sword, Gair walked back up the yard. He’d paid for his punctuality the day before with a gruelling tutorial under Barin’s critical eye, and it had been difficult enough to focus on the Song with rain drumming on the windows of the lecture hall and the winds moaning in the chimney like revenants without worrying about Darin as well. Now a full day had passed with no news from the infirmary, chewing further holes in his concentration. He’d almost taken off his own toes on that last pass.