Songs of the Earth (51 page)

Alderan knelt beside him. ‘There, lad,’ he said, wrapping the spare cloak around him, ‘you’re home now.’

Gair whimpered as the cloak brushed the wound on the back of his neck. His breathing was ragged, and blood and sweat plastered his hair to his forehead.

Alderan helped him to stand, but the young man slumped against him. ‘Come on, you stubborn Leahn bastard,’ he muttered, thrusting his shoulder under Gair’s arm. ‘Stay with me. I brought you here for a reason and I’m damned if I’m going to lose you now.’

Gair floated in darkness. Vast as a night sky, starless as death, it crowded around him and stretched away into unimaginable depths. He felt neither heat nor cold, saw no movement, heard no noise, not even the sound of his own breathing. There was no sensation of the passage of time, for he had nothing to measure it against, only an endless now. The void was absolute.

Then he saw a flicker in the dark, faint at first. A hazy patch appeared, silvery as the moon behind clouds. It brightened and spread, the darkness giving way grudgingly, seeming to become darker still as if the light only emphasised the blackness. When it filled his vision, he felt drawn to it. Something beyond the light pulled him closer. He was too tired to resist. So tired, so very weary. Easier to let go.

A shape passed across the light, twisted and stretched. Colours slid over it like the surface of a soap bubble. Another shape, darker this time, loomed large, then faded back to a blur in the bluish-silver light. It was familiar somehow; it tugged at his memory. Curious now, in spite of the weariness, Gair strained forward into the light and the swimming shapes.

Pain exploded through him. Colours stabbed into his eyes like shards of stained glass; his mind was wreathed in fire. He screamed, and sound tore at his ears. Voices boomed and whispered round his head, shrieked along his nerves to add to the agony. Strong hands held him down, pinned his thrashing limbs and gripped his head like a vice until he thought his skull would be crushed by those iron fingers. Waves of pain rolled through him and he howled.

A woman’s face floated through the mist above him. She smiled gently and laid something cool on his face. Her lips moved; she was speaking, but her voice was sonorous and distorted, as if coming from the bottom of a pond.

Gair could not make out the words. He could not think for the pain.

She continued to smile and speak and stroke his face and slowly the pain diminished. With it went the light, and as that faded, so too did awareness, until darkness claimed him again.

Danilar watched the sunrise over the rim of a mug of scalding tea in his study. The first day of what the calendar said was a new year was dawning blue and crisp as an eggshell. A good omen for the year to come, according to superstition. As Chaplain of the Suvaeon Order he could not countenance such beliefs, but he knew as well as anyone that although the Goddess moved in ways beyond the wit of man to comprehend, She was inclined to drop the occasional hint.

Today was undoubtedly one of those days. True, the cloister below his window was still waist-deep in snow, apart from the little patch he kept clear for the birds, and ice bearded every gutter and cornice, but the sun shone from a clear sky and that was enough to inspire a little hope.

Tea finished, Danilar hummed a psalm or two as he swept the path and put out water and scraps for the sparrows. A few of the bravest darted down from the ivy-covered pillars to hop about his feet, alternately watching him and their imminent breakfast with bright black eyes. They had no words with which to say grace, but he was sure that they had souls, so he made obeisance to the Goddess on their behalf with a prayer for wild creatures, then put the broom away.

As he latched the closet he heard footsteps on the far side of the cloister. He looked round to see one of the curates, padding carefully over the frosty flags towards him.

‘A letter for you, Chaplain!’ he called, flourishing the parchment. ‘Well, for the Preceptor, actually, but the man said to give it to you.’

Could it be?
Danilar took the letter from the curate. He did not recognise the hand on the front, but then he had no reason to. ‘Is he waiting?’

‘I sent him to the hospitaller for some hot tea. I thought it might be welcome on such a raw morning.’

‘And a good thought it was,’ Danilar said. ‘Run and tell him I’m on my way. I’ll be but a moment.’

He went back upstairs to his study to fetch a small purse from his desk. After a moment’s thought, he added a few more marks from his strongbox in acknowledgement of the speedy completion of the errand. In this winter, the fellow had more than earned it.

Danilar found the messenger perched on a stool in the kitchen, nursing a large mug of tea. A flicker in the man’s expression as he took the purse said he had gauged the coin in it by its weight and found himself pleasantly surprised. Then Danilar bade him finish his breakfast in his own time, and set out for the Preceptor’s lodging.

Ansel’s already poor health had deteriorated further over the winter. Not long after the first snows his chest had worsened, and only few days before Eventide, Danilar had taken the sacrament to him and found him collapsed on the floor of his study, barely able to breathe. Hengfors’ prognosis was grim, yet somehow Ansel had held on, as defiant to the last as St Agostin reborn.

The Preceptor was in bed when Danilar let himself in. Hengfors’ assistant bent over him, a bottle in one hand, the other proffering a spoon.

‘You should take the syrup, my lord,’ the young man insisted. ‘You won’t get better without it.’

‘I’m not going to get better, with or without Hengfors’ concoctions,’ Ansel rasped. ‘Take it away.’

Danilar closed the door quietly behind him. Ansel’s head turned towards him a fraction, then dipped the merest nod. The Preceptor’s complexion was appallingly pale; the only way to tell him apart from the pillows piled behind his shoulders was the hectic colour in each cheek.

‘My lord, I really must insist—’

‘Take it away, damn it, or I’ll insist you drink it yourself!’ Ansel broke off, racked by coughing. He balled a stained handkerchief to his mouth.

Danilar touched the physician’s elbow. ‘He’s a terrible patient, isn’t he?’ he murmured. ‘Why don’t you try again later, when he’s in a better humour?’

The physician hesitated. ‘I’m not supposed to leave him.’

Danilar applied a little more pressure to his elbow, gently ushering him aside. ‘That’s all right; I’ll keep an eye on him. Go on,’ he said, smiling, ‘I’ll send for you if you’re needed.’

Shooting a dubious look at the bed and its glowering occupant, the physician corked his bottle. ‘Well, I suppose half an hour won’t hurt,’ he said, then remembered his position and drew himself up to his full height, which was rather less impressive than Danilar’s. ‘But you must promise to call me at once if there is any deterioration.’

‘I promise,’ Danilar assured him, still smiling serenely.

Mollified, the physician withdrew.

‘Thank the Goddess for that,’ Ansel growled as the door closed. ‘The vapours from that bottle were making me see double.’

‘Oh, I doubt it was that bad.’ Danilar drew up a chair. ‘How are you feeling today, apart from prickly?’

‘Same as ever. Dreadful.’

‘Perhaps you should take your medicine, then.’

The old man’s face wrinkled further into a scowl. ‘It doesn’t do any good.’

‘Well, at least it can’t do you any harm,’ said Danilar.

Ansel grunted. ‘It tastes awful. Like rotting fish.’

‘Medicine is not meant to be pleasant. The quicker you get well, the quicker you can stop taking it.’

‘I’m not going to get well, Danilar.’

‘I know.’

‘I’m beyond the reach of any of Hengfors’ potions.’

‘I know that, too.’

‘But you’re still going to insist I take the stuff?’

‘It will make Hengfors feel better, even if you don’t.’

‘Blast it, man, why are you so reasonable? It makes it very difficult to be annoyed with you.’

‘Precisely.’

What Ansel said next was short, pithy, and would have made an Imperial legionary blush, had it not been interrupted by further coughing.

Danilar held a basin for the old man to retch into and reflected that even after the Goddess had called him to Her service Ansel remained a fighting soldier at heart. When the bout was over, he put the basin back on the nightstand and covered it with a napkin. There was a little more blood, now; it could not be much longer.

Ansel slumped back on his pillows. Mucus rattled in his chest as he fought to draw breath into his lungs. His eyes were closed, the lids blue, translucent as paper. ‘So, Chaplain,’ he croaked, ‘to what do I owe the pleasure of your company this fine morning?’

‘I have a letter for you.’

Now the old man’s eyes sparked. ‘There is news? Read it for me.’

The letter was sealed with a disc of blue wax impressed with the shape of a swallow. Danilar eased it off with his thumb and opened the paper. The message inside ran to only a couple of lines, written in a neat, sloping hand.

‘The feast of St Saren,’ he said, ‘unless the weather changes. Certainly no more than six weeks.’

He laid the paper on Ansel’s blankets. The Preceptor folded it up carefully and smoothed it between his hands. ‘St Saren’s day,’ he remarked. ‘How appropriate. I just pray I’ll live to see it.’

‘I’m sure you will. You’re stubborn enough.’

‘Maybe, but you know as well as I that She’ll pay scant respect to that. She’ll call me when She’s good and ready.’ Ansel fell silent, as if his little speech had exhausted him.

Danilar walked to the window to open it a little. The room was overheated, too stuffy for a man with a chest complaint. Through the frost-patterned glass he saw a flock of robed figures in the cloister below. Faces were difficult to pick out, but the scarlet was unmistakable.

‘Ansel,’ he said, ‘there’s a whole gaggle of Elders outside and they’re heading this way.’

The Preceptor chuckled. ‘I was wondering how long it would take. Send them away.’

Danilar turned. ‘You know what they’re here for?’

‘Oh, I have a fair idea. I’ve been expecting them any time this last month.’

‘Are you going to keep me in suspense?’

‘Just send them away, Danilar. I’m not in the mood for their prating.’

Danilar waited, but Ansel volunteered nothing more.
So be it, but I pray Goddess he knows what he’s doing, even if I don’t
. Lips pressed into a disapproving line, he went out through the antechamber to the apartment’s outer door and opened it.

Goran was pulled up short, his hand raised to knock. ‘Oh!’ He blinked, heavy features more than usually florid. ‘Chaplain, good morning to you.’

‘Elder Goran,’ Danilar said pleasantly. From the whiff of brandy, Goran was well fortified against the cold. ‘Good morning. Won’t you step inside?’

Goran realised his arm was still raised and lowered it, folding his hands in his sleeves as he crossed the threshold. The remainder of
the delegation followed at his heels and ranged themselves in a half-circle across the doorway, rosy as robins in their ceremonial scarlet.

No doubt to make the maximum impression on a frail old man. I don’t care for the way this is shaping up at all
.