Taste of Lightning

  The temple yard was a square, with a square pool of water in its centre. Skir and the others sat in the shade of a walkway on woven carpets and ate dry bread and yoghurt and chopped fruit. There was hay for Penthesi, but not much.

  Perrin said, ‘I want to ask you something. At Dody’s Leap, when I sang the chantment to you, did it work? Or did you jump by yourself?’

  Skir scraped yoghurt from his dish. ‘The chantment worked. But only because I – I let it in. I wanted it to work, so it did.’

  Perrin looked away at the square pool, narrowing his eyes against the light. ‘So if I had sung you to sleep on the beach that time, it would have worked after all?’

  ‘Only if I’d wanted it to.’

  Tansy said, ‘Was that what made you faint? The magic coming into you?’

  Skir had his own ideas about why he’d passed out at the edge of the ravine. He sensed it had something to do with the Faith: a darkness had settled him briefly, instead of forever; the merest taste of death, to remind him what he had chosen, and what he had given up. But he wouldn’t speak of that in front of Perrin. He shook his head.

  Tansy said hastily, ‘Let’s not talk about it. Perrin, why’d you ask about that anyway? Do you want to know if you could . . . if you could force someone to do something . . . against their will?’ She slowly turned pink.

  Perrin said, ‘There are some things that aren’t worth having, unless they’re given freely.’ He and Tansy exchanged a long look.

  Tansy, flushed scarlet, scrambled up and went to see to Penthesi.

  Perrin leaned back against the rough mud-brick wall with his arms behind his head. ‘Think she loves me?’

  ‘Tansy doesn’t love anyone except Penthesi,’ said Skir.

  ‘She loves you,’ said Perrin.

  Skir managed to gaze at him steadily, though his heart had flopped over in his chest.

  ‘Yes, she loves you,’ drawled Perrin. ‘Like a brother.’

  He slid it in as smoothly as a knife between the ribs. Skir said, ‘I think Tansy has enough brothers already, don’t you?’

  ‘Definitely,’ said Perrin.

  Skir leaned forward. ‘You don’t deserve her.’

  Perrin’s smile faded. ‘I know.’ There was a pause. ‘Has she told you –’

  ‘No,’ said Skir coldly. ‘She hasn’t told me anything.’

  ‘Good,’ said Perrin.

  The two young men stared at each other, neither of them willing to be the first to look away. For the first time, Skir thought, Perrin had let his cynical, mocking mask drop; he looked young and vulnerable and somehow naked. But in a flash the mocking mask returned; Perrin laughed, and broke their gaze. ‘Hey, Tansy!’ he called. ‘You want this last slice of melon?’ He unfolded himself and prowled away, leaving Skir to feel somehow cheated.

  That night a man arrived to take them to Gleve.

  Diz towered over all of them, and met Penthesi eye to eye. He had a fearsome moustache, a mane of curling black hair, and a fierce stare. He dropped on one knee to Skir. ‘My Lord, we must go quickly. The Balts don’t know you’re here yet, but it won’t be long. The news is spreading though the province like fire.’

  ‘Please, stand up,’ said Skir. ‘And you mustn’t call me Lord. If the Baltimarans don’t recognise me yet, they soon will if you carry on like that.’

  ‘Forgive me, My –’ Diz swallowed. ‘I’ll wait outside while you farewell your companions, then we must be off.’

  ‘Whoa there!’ said Perrin. ‘Who said anything about farewells?’

  Almost in the same instant, Skir said firmly, ‘These are my friends, the ones who rescued me. Without them, I’d be dead. We travel together, or not at all.’

  Skir and Perrin’s eyes met; they were both startled.

  Diz looked doubtful. ‘Even the girl? The Baltimaran?’ He spoke as if Tansy wasn’t there.

  ‘All of us,’ said Skir.

  Tansy flared, ‘You can trust me.’

  ‘And the horse?’

  Tansy grasped Penthesi’s bridle. Skir saw her flush, and knew that if she had to choose, she would choose Penthesi. He said, ‘The horse comes too.’

  Diz scowled.

  ‘Good,’ said Perrin briskly. ‘All settled. How do we get to Gleve?’

  ‘Across the mountains, a secret way, off the roads. It is safe, but the journey is hard.’ He glared at Tansy. ‘She might find it difficult.’

  Perrin laughed, and clapped Diz on the back; he couldn’t reach his shoulder. ‘My friend, if you think anything is too tough for Tansy, you’re in for a pleasant surprise.’

  The journey to Gleve took another half-turn of the moons. Diz was not a talkative man, and his silence spread to the others. They trudged on, lost in their own thoughts. In any case, the mountains robbed them of breath; they had little left for conversation.

  Diz knew his way like a bird or a mountain goat; they followed no track that Perrin could see. Diz led them up stony screes and across barren valleys, dry and cold and glaring with sun; he led them as high as the snowline, where gnarled trees reached out from the steep slope like arthritic hands. He led them through an unlit tunnel that threaded deep into the mountain, where Penthesi shied and baulked, and Tansy and Perrin needed all their persuasion to coax him through the narrow passageway. When they emerged at last, the shock of the light drenched them like a bucket of icy water.

  Sometimes, far away, Tansy glimpsed another Cragonlands: a splash of green at the bottom of a valley where irrigated farms squeezed life from the dirt; a thickly wooded slope, basking in sunlight and protected from the cold wind by a fold of the mountains; the deep-blue sparkle of a river, fringed with trees and little cubes of houses.

  But Diz kept them well away from any villages or towns. He would not let them light a fire, even on the coldest nights; he would not let them leave behind even a footprint that might betray them. He would not lead them against the horizon, in case their silhouettes showed against the sky; he would not let them sleep all at once. Even in the most isolated places, someone always kept watch.

  Diz was part of the Cragonlands resistance. ‘One of the insurgents,’ said Skir, but Diz drew his terrifying brows together and spat on the ground.

  ‘That’s what the Balts call us. Not what we call ourselves. Nor rebels, like the Ganis say. We fight for our own land, against the invaders.’ It was the longest speech Diz ever gave.

  Diz and his companions were the reason the Baltimaran Army, for all their boasting of victory, could not really claim to have conquered Cragonlands, even after so many years in occupation. The resistance had destroyed the bridge and the cannon they’d passed near the border. The Rengani Army helped them in an uneasy alliance, hoping to gain control of the supply of rust, and thus obtain a powerful weapon against the Baltimarans. But the resistance was wary of Rengan too; they knew the Renganis would invade Cragonlands if they had the chance.

  Diz spoke to Perrin more often than the others. He was in awe of Skir, and Tansy was one of the enemy, no matter what she did. But in Perrin he recognised a fellow soldier and an ally, and he gave all the credit for Skir’s rescue to the Rengani. When Diz farewelled them on the last night at the hidden rear entrance to the Temple at Gleve, he bowed low to Skir, gave a grudging nod to Tansy and patted Penthesi. But he embraced Perrin like a brother, and Perrin was sorry to see him vanish into the darkness.

  The Temple at Gleve was the same shape and layout as the little village temple where they’d rested, but far more impressive. It was higher, three times as high as the buildings of the city that surrounded it, and to enhance its grandeur it was built on a hill that towered over the whole valley. The nine bells outside it were huge, twice the height of Penthesi, and plated with gold, and the roof-tiles were a dazzling scarlet. Bright banners flew from the arches of its portico, and its doors were rimmed with glowing bronze. To see the Temple at Gleve, no one would think that the priests and servants of the Faith were secretly persecuted, or that the Temple was the spiritual
heart of a vanquished people.

  They learned later that the Baltimarans had deliberately refrained from damaging the Gleve Temple; they’d preserved it in the same spirit in which Skir had been ‘invited’ to enjoy the King’s hospitality at Arvestel. If the invading Army had destroyed their Temple, the Cragonlanders might have risen up in mass rebellion overnight. But by seeming to preserve and even support the Faith, the Baltimarans hoped to win over the people they had defeated.

  The priests were shrewd enough to turn this desire to their advantage. Gradually they’d insisted on total control over the Temple grounds, beginning with the sacred inner rooms, then the priests’ quarters and courtyards, until the entire Temple precinct was forbidden to the Baltimarans. Only the highest-ranking officers were invited to the Temple, and they had to come alone, without escort.

  The priests took advantage of their privacy to shelter resistance activity. They treated insurgents hurt in the fighting, they taught the Signs, they supplied the resistance – though not with weapons. It was whispered that they even made rust and sold it in secret to fund the rebels. The Baltimarans suspected the priests, yet could prove nothing. But it would only take one careless action to smash the whole fragile arrangement.

  The Temple’s secret door was opened by a timid-faced female priest in blue robes. ‘Welcome home, My Lord.’

  But she spoke to Perrin, not Skir. Perrin flashed her his disarming, crinkle-eyed grin. ‘Thank you. But your Lord is standing behind me.’

  ‘My Lord, forgive me,’ stammered the priest. She stood back to allow Tansy to lead Penthesi into the dark passageway. ‘I couldn’t see . . .’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Skir. ‘It doesn’t matter. By the bones, show Tansy somewhere to put her horse and let’s get on with it.’ He twisted his hands together; now that the moment was finally here, he was shivering with nerves.

  ‘This way, follow me. The horse . . . Errett will show you to the stables.’ She beckoned to a man standing in the shadows.

  ‘I’ll go and settle him in,’ said Tansy. ‘Where will you be?’

  Skir looked around at the warren of corridors and darkened rooms. The priest held a lamp, and shadows leaped and trembled on the high stone walls. Skir said, ‘I don’t know where we are.’

  ‘The throne room is this way.’ The priest gestured. ‘Bettenwey is waiting.’

  ‘So he is alive?’ Well, obviously, Skir added to himself in a savage undertone. ‘Come on then.’ He strode away into the dark, and the priest scurried after him with her lantern.

  Perrin touched Tansy’s hand. ‘Don’t be long.’

  He hurried after Skir and the priest, but they set such a rapid pace that he couldn’t catch them. He was always one corner behind, just glimpsing the priest’s blue robes as they whisked around another bend, or vanished through another high, brass-studded door. He was aware of people watching in the dark, peering from doorways. He could hear whispers and soft footfalls, but he could see no one clearly. The Temple seemed to be thick with invisible, phantom inhabitants.

  At last Perrin turned a corner and found himself in a high, wide room. Compared with the darkness of the rest of the Temple, it blazed with light. The priest bowed and withdrew, and Perrin walked slowly forward between pillars lined with bronze. The floor was laid with dark mosaic tiles that reflected the lamps set high on the walls, so Perrin seemed to walk between pools of shimmering fire. The walls were hung with sheets of dull metal, etched with strange symbols – not the Signs, as Perrin quickly realised when he tried to read them, but mysterious designs that swirled like dust in the wind, or the clouds that streamed from the mountain tops, or the curls of a river along a valley floor.

  In spite of himself, Perrin was awed by the Temple. He’d never been anywhere so vast – except Arvestel. It was strange to think that Skir was Lord of this place. He realised that, through all their journey, he’d never taken Skir and his fretting seriously; he’d thought of him as a spoiled kid, a naïve drafty. Only now, seeing this place, did he appreciate that Skir’s responsibilities were real.

  At the far end of the room stood a group of high-backed chairs, placed apparently at random: for a throne room, Perrin thought, there was a remarkable absence of thrones. It was a great cold bare hall that glimmered with broken light, filled with mirrored flames, and echoing with voices and footsteps. It took Perrin a moment or two to find the small, slight figure of Skir. The dye had faded at last, and his red hair reflected the fire that hung from the walls. He faced a man who rose from one of the high-backed chairs as Skir entered.

  Perrin had expected the High Priest to be a doddering old man. Instead he saw a smooth-faced man of about forty, with dark intelligent eyes, a strong nose, and quick, decisive movements. His head was hairless, polished like a copper bowl, and he wore a thin strand of twisted bronze wire across his forehead. He advanced toward Skir with his hands outstretched to clasp those of the Priest-King. As if they were equals, thought Perrin; but then, he realised at once, Bettenwey had been in charge here for a long time.

  ‘My Lord Eskirenwey. Be welcome in your home.’ Bettenwey pressed Skir’s hands in his, then embraced him chest-to-chest. Skir pulled away uncomfortably, and Bettenwey turned to Perrin. ‘I bid you welcome, too, Swordsman. And where is your Baltimaran friend, the one called Tansy?’

  ‘You know everything about us.’ Perrin stepped forward to shake hands. Bettenwey smiled, and Perrin saw a shrewd man, a clever man, no fool. Of course, that didn’t mean he was a friend. He wondered if Skir realised that.

  ‘I don’t know quite everything.’ Bettenwey motioned them to sit. Again, the gesture struck Perrin: who was master here?

  Skir said, ‘Tansy is seeing to her horse. Or rather, the horse we borrowed from the King of Baltimar.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Bettenwey settled back in his chair. ‘You must tell me the tale of your adventures another time. Please sit, My Lord. Etiquette forbids that we should sit in your presence if you do not. Would you make boors of us?’

  It was a light reproof, but still a reproof, and Skir felt it like the sting of a slap. It was on the tip of his tongue to order Bettenwey to his feet again, but he bit back the words. Instead, he forced a smile as he sat down. ‘I’ve lived without etiquette since I left Arvestel. It’s been a refreshing change to have only friends around me.’

  Bettenwey inclined his head. ‘Baltimar’s daughter, Rengan’s son, and the Priest-King. For that reason alone, a remarkable journey. Remarkable, and unexpected. Your superiors, Swordsman Perrin, were very considerate. If we had known that our Priest-King was wandering unprotected through Baltimar and the border territories, think of our concern.’

  ‘The Renganis didn’t inform you of their rescue plan?’ Skir turned a puzzled gaze to Perrin.

  Perrin’s heart skipped. So Tansy hadn’t told him. Tansy, who couldn’t tell a lie, had kept the truth from Skir for his sake. He said quickly, ‘Rengani High Command wanted to take the Priest-King hostage for themselves. But I helped Skir to come home instead. He was not unprotected.’

  Perrin saw Skir frown, then smooth his face. His swift glance at Perrin said, We’ll talk about this later.

  ‘A loyal friend.’ Bettenwey measured Perrin with his eyes. ‘Though not loyal to his own people.’

  ‘I can’t win, can I?’ said Perrin mildly. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t have been pleased if I’d taken Skir to Rengan. But because I’ve brought him here, you don’t trust me.’

  Skir said loudly, ‘He’s loyal to me. That’s what matters.’ And again Skir and Perrin glanced at each other, startled by their own words.

  Bettenwey said, ‘And the girl? She is loyal, too?’

  ‘Tansy? I’ve never known anyone more loyal in my life,’ said Skir, and Tansy came into the room in time to hear him say it.

  ‘Here is Baltimar’s daughter herself. I trust the horse is comfortable? Good. Please, Tansy, join us, sit down. May I have your hands?’

  The four of them were seated in a circle; le
aning forward awkwardly, they could just about touch hands. Bettenwey gripped their fingers strongly, flung his head back and proclaimed, ‘Three strands in the rope. The strength of the Threelands is in you all. You have brought back Our Lord to us, and for that you will always have our thanks.’

  Skir pulled his hands away, and clutched the arms of the chair. There was no one else in the room but Bettenwey and Perrin and Tansy, nothing but flickering shadows and pools of deep dark. He must speak now; he must confess.

  But already the moment was lost. Bettenwey rose to his feet. ‘Forgive me, My Lord, my new friends. You are tired and hungry, and I have kept you here talking. We will speak again tomorrow. Supper and your beds await.’ The High Priest clapped his hands and a silent servant appeared and gestured to them to follow.

  ‘Goodnight,’ said Perrin, standing up.

  ‘Goodnight,’ echoed Tansy.

  Skir rose, and hesitated. Would he go with Tansy and Perrin, or join Bettenwey in the priests’ quarters? Somehow he knew that this choice was a crucial one; that his whole future hinged on it. For a moment it seemed obvious that Perrin was right: if he chose to say nothing, Bettenwey and the rest would accept him as Priest-King as they always had. It would be easy . . .

  But then he remembered. How could he have forgotten? There was more to being Priest-King than saying the right words and wearing the Circle of Attar. He had no chantment in him. He couldn’t be Priest-King even if he wanted to . . .

  And Skir knew that he did want to. Ever since he’d crossed the border, he’d grown more certain, and now, just as he was about to give it up, he realised that he wanted it very much indeed. He felt like Tansy, fighting for the first time after rehearsing all her life. It wasn’t what he’d expected; he wasn’t sure he liked it. But he knew he could do it, and do it well.

  And yet he didn’t want to leave Tansy and Perrin alone together. To let Perrin have her was to admit defeat. He wasn’t ready to give up . . .

  Bettenwey was waiting for him. ‘My Lord Eskirenwey. We have kept your old room as you left it. Do you remember the way?’