Songs of the Earth (49 page)

If events had come about differently he might have been amongst them, sworn to sweat and bleed and if necessary die for the white and gold. Of course, if events had come about differently he would not be here on the far edge of the Empire, trying to find
his place in a different Order, and he would never have known Aysha.

He missed her. Less than a day apart, separated by only a hundred yards and a few walls, but he missed her. It hurt more than he had ever realised it could. He told himself that she had responsibilities as a Council member, that it was her duty to attend with the others, but he could not silence the selfish little voice at the back of his head that whispered that her duties and responsibilities were what kept her from him.

Merciful Mother. He dropped his head onto his knees. What was the
matter
with him? He couldn’t think of anything but her, couldn’t even enjoy an unexpected day’s liberty without hiding himself away in a corner and brooding on her absence. Two months ago he would have given almost anything for a few hours’ respite from the Masters. Now he had it, and he couldn’t think of anything better to do with it than to freeze his arse on a cold stone floor and feel sorry for himself.

Greased timbers squeaked on the floor below and Gair barely had time to clap his hands over his ears before the bell’s huge mechanism began the counter-swing that would strike the hour. It seemed to go on for ever, shaking the floor underfoot, even the very air in his lungs, before the echoes shuddered away into the startled scolding of the gulls.

He took his hands from his ears and pushed himself to his feet. He couldn’t stay there much longer or he’d be deaf. Stretching the stiffness from his limbs he leaned on the balustrade. From up there, the islands looked very different to the green jewels of summer. Now every one was capped with the unseasonable snow, darkened to muddy brown around the shores, as if they had trailed their skirts in a puddle. The snow bore little resemblance to what he was accustomed to in the north. The deep, clean cold of the Laraig Anor was easier to bear than these damp chills.

Most of the harbours and coves he could see were full of boats, though a few slivers of sail on the horizon said there were hardier
souls who’d chanced their craft in the hopes of making a catch before the weather closed in again. Off Pencruik the smacks and cobles lined up in rows, blunt-bowed, stubby-masted things amongst which the sea-elf ship rode at anchor like a Gimraeli
sulqa
in a field of donkeys.

Gair launched himself from the tower balustrade as a black-tipped gull and swooped down towards the ship. Once or twice as a boy he’d seen sea-elf rakers in Leahaven, and once a chaser beating out to sea past Drumcarrick Head, but he had never seen one close to. She was extraordinary, all sleek curves, resembling something grown rather than something made. From cathead to stern-rail every line flowed as smooth as water. Across her transom where her name would be painted was a row of golden characters unlike any he had ever seen before, but he knew she was called
Morning Star
. That much news at least had come up from town with the carters, but that was all. He didn’t even know the name of her master.

Banking round the
Star
’s tall masts, he passed along her port side. Two sea-elves watched him from the aft deck. Both had long white hair and sharp-boned, ageless faces. The man wore a seal-skin jerkin and carried a long knife on each hip. He was frowning. Beside him, the woman dressed in subtle shades of green inclined her head gravely as Gair passed. A gentle but firm pressure, like the wind but not like it, pushed him away out to sea.

So sea-elves had the gift as well. The woman on deck had recognised that although he might look like one he was not a gull and had acknowledged him graciously. However, she had made it equally obvious that he was not wanted near the ship. He wondered how much of that was due to a liking for privacy and how much due to the passenger they had set ashore.

The sea-elf had pushed him onto a course that would take him clear across Penglas Sound and over the outer islands, towards the Five Sisters that rose like blunt teeth from the sullen waters. The thinnest of winter sunshine silvered the wave-tops, so he followed
its path towards the furthest islands. Flying in such chill air was exhilarating and the concentration required to keep him from slapping into a rising swell prevented him from brooding. Out beyond the smallest Sister he saw another sail, angling down from the north. Likely just a coble out after mackerel, but it made a good excuse to stretch his wings a little further before he turned back. He dipped his shoulder and veered north.

Gradually the ship emerged from the haze. She had a high prow, ornately carved into the head of some snarling beast, a square-rigged mast and an ensign as big as a bed-sheet flying from the stern. The flag was midnight-blue, apart from a bold white star in the centre. Something niggled at Gair, but he was curious about the carved prow and swung in closer to get a better look. In a matter of seconds he was face to face with a dragon’s head, luridly painted, with glass eyes and ivory fangs.

A dragon-headed ship. A flag with a star, the brightest, whitest star of them all, the Pole Star, riding at the cross-hilts of the constellation known as the Sword of Slaine.
Nordmen
. Gair changed course. The braided and bearded warriors of the Northern Isles, with their horned helmets and double-headed axes, were rarely seen in the Empire; few chose to trade with the mainlanders. Most preferred to pillage the island communities of the Eastern Ocean; Gair had never heard of them in the Great Sea before. A ruddy-bearded face appeared at the railing above a massive plaid-wrapped body, and he decided not to wait around. As he banked away he saw a splash of golden yellow that caught his eye. It was a silk shirt, open at the neck, being worn by a pale-skinned, dark-haired man who did not appear to feel the cold in the slightest.

Gair’s unease became a sour taste of fear. Something was wrong. The sweet music of the Song had become a jangling discord as another mind brushed against his colours. The man in the golden shirt took hold of a mast shroud to steady himself and
stepped up onto the bulwark, one foot on the railing, heedless of the salt spray on his glossy boots.

Well, well, well
. The voice was cool, sardonic. Familiar.
An emissary to welcome us. Come here, little bird
. An invisible hand scooped Gair up.
Let’s play
.

Savin
. Gair folded his wings and darted down into the next trough. What was he doing here? Unseen greasy fingers plucked at him, forcing him to jink sideways and up once more to regain height. The hand came in again, scooping Gair up, but he managed to beat free. He looked back and realised he was well beyond the Five Sisters. They were barely visible on the horizon, just knots in the thread that was the line where sky met sea. Goddess, how far had he flown? It would be a close-run race for the islands.

Savin reached for him again, but this time did no more than tweak his tail. Gair swerved away and flew straight into a wall of solid air that batted him back the way he had come. Flapping hard, he tried to climb above it, but it was as clear as glass and implacable as a fortress wall. Savin gave him a push from below, then whisked the hand away and left him tumbling in the disordered air.

A laugh bubbled into Gair’s thoughts.

Little bird, you can do better than this, I’m sure. Show me what you can do, if given sufficient motivation
. The hand swatted him down towards the heaving sea. Gair plunged into the Song for the shape of the fastest bird he knew. Aysha had tried to teach him the trick of flowing from one shape to another whilst in motion, but he had
never yet perfected it. Now he had one more chance to master it, or face drowning. Holding the keen, arrow-sharp melody of the raptor in his mind, he let the gull shape unravel and pushed himself towards the new Song.

A heartstopping plummet brought him within inches of the wavetops, but now he was beating his wings strongly, and his peregrine shape was able to dart clear of the pressure against his back and strike out for clear air. It was not the ideal shape to be over water, but he did not know what else to do. Heart drumming in his chest, he dived for the nearest of the Sisters.

The islands were closer now. He could make out their shapes, the necklace of white foam amongst the rocks. If he could keep drawing away, maintain the gap for a few seconds more, he might have a chance. Unseen fingers tweaked his tail again: Savin was still behind him, as close as his shadow. Somehow Gair had to find the strength to pull ahead.

The smallest of the Sisters appeared beneath him, jagged and hostile. At this time of year the sea was marginally warmer than the land, and where the two met confusion reigned in the air. A gull would have ridden it easily, but the peregrine was a creature of upland moors and Gair struggled with the conflicting currents, wings beating desperately to capture some lift. As soon as he’d gained sufficient height, he surged over the rocky channel towards the next island.

He felt Savin behind him like hot breath on the back of his neck. He could not be sure whether the pursuit was physical, or whether Savin was reaching out with his mind, and he didn’t dare spare a second to look. All he could do was fly straight for Chapterhouse and hope he had enough time.

Come to me, little bird
, Savin sang.
I know who you are!

Over the second island Gair gained a little more height, but it was harder to take advantage of it. He was unaccustomed to flying this fast for this long; it was a world apart from the easy gliding
and tumbling of the fire-eagle. His wings were tiring, but he could not afford to rest.

Over the channel between the two largest islands talons slammed into his back and sent him plunging towards the foaming rocks. Burning pain shot through his neck and feathers flew. He screamed aloud and, twisting free, he scrambled up into clear air above the island. Another peregrine wheeled into view ahead, shrieking a challenge. Immediately Gair felt a resonance in the Song inside him. Fear spasmed in his gut.
Savin
– and he was desperately strong.

The peregrine swooped towards him. Talons raked his back again, costing him yet more height. Gair swerved, but he was unable to recover in time. The rising slope of the island was too close and he ploughed headlong into the snow.

He panted for breath as the chill struck through his feathers, sapping his strength, making him shiver.
Move
. He had to move. Savin couldn’t be far away, though he could not see him. He had to move! There, a rock. He floundered through the snow towards it, hopped up. His feathers were damp, clumped. He shook himself to settle them, and the gashes across his neck and shoulder burned. Scarlet speckled the snow around him.

Weary and shaken, Gair started to heave himself back into the air for the long flight to Chapterhouse. At once Savin slammed into him and knocked him sideways. A heavy silver paw planted in the centre of his chest, pinning him down. Behind it reared the mask of a snow leopard.

Gair’s heart pounded. No matter how he kicked and flapped, he was unable to wriggle out from underneath the broad paw, and its fur was too thick for his beak to penetrate. He shrieked again as the cat’s weight bore down on him.

He could do nothing as a falcon now. A little more pressure from that paw and any bird’s ribcage would shatter as if made of spun sugar. Releasing the Song, Gair stretched into his human shape. Despair crouched on his chest in the shape of a snow leopard, its ebony claws pricking his skin. Fully grown, the cat could take
down a musk deer at a flat gallop … Gair did not know the shape well enough to even attempt to meet it on its own terms. He could do nothing at all.

Walnut-sized golden eyes narrowed. The leopard shifted, silver coat bunching over heavy shoulders as another paw was placed on Gair’s chest, this time just below his throat. It growled, and he gagged. Its breath stank of rotten meat.

‘What do you want, Savin?’ he gasped.

You
.

He felt pressure on his mind far heavier than that on his breastbone, crushing his brain within his skull, squeezing tears from his eyes.

This
.

Wrenching pain. Savin’s presence blew through him like the first icy blast of winter, shrivelling everything it touched. Gair scrambled for the Song to throw up a shield, but Savin tore it from his grasp. The alien presence intensified. It grew stronger, heavier, filling his head, weighing him down as surely as the ocean squeezed the last breath from a drowning man.