Skir looked at the others. Perrin wore his lazy grin; Tansy watched him anxiously. After what seemed like a long silence, but lasted only a breath, Skir said, ‘Thank you, Bettenwey. I’ll follow you.’
CHAPTER 13
Broken Fire
SKIR’S room was just as he’d left it five years before, though it seemed much smaller than he remembered. There was the narrow bed with its warm orange coverlet, the round rug, even the shelf of toys: a bat and ball, a spinning top, a box of marbles. It could have been any child’s room. But on the other wall, a row of hooks hung with ceremonial robes declared that this was also the room of the Priest-King of Cragonlands.
Skir ran his hand down an embroidered edge. Even his vests in Arvestel were more delicately stitched than this rough ribbon, but he touched it reverently. The robes were small; they wouldn’t fit him any more.
Bettenwey watched him. ‘Memories?’
‘Yes,’ said Skir. ‘Lots of memories.’ He dropped his hand. ‘Bettenwey, I must talk to you.’
Bettenwey raised a hand to silence him. He checked the corridor outside, then shut the door firmly. ‘We must be careful, even here.’
‘Just like Arvestel,’ said Skir. ‘Beeman always –’ He stopped.
‘Your tutor sent us regular reports on your welfare,’ said Bettenwey. ‘But we have had no word from him since the beginning of summer.’
Skir’s heart sank. ‘Isn’t there any way we can help him?’
‘We could not extricate you, My Lord. I fear there is nothing we can do for your tutor.’ Bettenwey sounded regretful, but not overly upset.
That’s one thing I can do. I’ll go back and rescue him myself, thought Skir. If I’m not allowed to be Priest-King any more. He said in a rush, ‘Bettenwey, there is something I have to tell you. On the way here we were attacked by Baltimaran soldiers. During the fighting, I – I killed one of them.’
Bettenwey sighed. ‘That is very sad, very regrettable. Unfortunately accidents happen in times of war. I am sorry if you have suffered over it, My Lord.’
‘No – no. That’s not the point. I mean – I’ve taken a life. A Priest-King who breaks the Faith – well, he can’t go on being Priest-King, can he?’
A strange expression flickered over Bettenwey’s face. He seemed almost annoyed. ‘Not at all. As I said, this is a time of war. You fought to defend your own life, did you not? There must be a ceremony of cleansing, of course. I will arrange it for tomorrow, if you wish. But in the long term, it need not interfere with your duties.’
Bettenwey stared at Skir with his bright dark eyes, his hands clasped inside his sleeves. Skir was bewildered. He had agonised over this for so long, and the High Priest had brushed it aside as if Skir had done nothing more serious than accidentally step on a beetle. Perrin was right all along: no one cared. In a vivid flash of memory, Skir saw the young soldier’s face. He told himself fiercely, But I care!
Bettenwey said blandly, ‘Is there anything else, My Lord?’
‘Yes,’ said Skir. ‘You know there is. How can I be Priest-King? I’m not a chanter. You all thought I might grow into it, but I haven’t. I’ll never be able to sing the chantments of iron. I should never have been chosen. I’m a fraud.’
Bettenwey closed his eyes, and sighed. Then he said, ‘Sit down, Skir.’ It was the first time he’d used the familiar form of Skir’s name.
Skir sat on the bed. Bettenwey drew up a chair, closer than Skir would have liked, and stared into his face. ‘Listen to me. We will have this conversation once, and once only, then we will never speak of it again. Do you understand?’
Mutely, Skir nodded.
Bettenwey spoke slowly and deliberately. ‘There was no mistake. You were chosen as Priest-King, and that choice cannot be unmade. You are Priest-King until the day you die. There is no release, no escape, no loophole. Do you understand?’
‘But I didn’t mean –’
‘I said, Do you understand?’ Bettenwey’s face was dark as thunder. ‘You are not supposed to have any power. The Council of Priests rules Cragonlands, as it has always done. If you prove yourself worthy, one day, you may participate in the decisions of the Council, but until that day your role is purely ceremonial. If your guardian did not make that clear to you, then he has done both you and us a grave disservice.’
‘But the chantments –’ stammered Skir. ‘The magic –’
Bettenwey gave a short, sharp laugh. ‘Trickery, that’s all. There is no magic in the Threelands. Chantment comes from the Westlands, it does not belong here. We may have a use for the Singer of All Songs and her chanters in time, but that is none of your concern.’
Skir was reeling. None of this made sense. The ground had opened beneath his feet and he was falling, falling. No chantment – trickery – purely ceremonial – a grave disservice – He forced himself to listen to Bettenwey.
The High Priest said, ‘Has it occurred to you that your arrival may not have been convenient for us?’
‘Not – not convenient?’
‘We have plans afoot, complicated plans. It may be possible to use your return to our advantage, but we have little time to work with. Why did you not send us word from Baltimar? We could have given you instructions. You should have stayed in hiding until we were ready. Now there are whispers the length and breadth of Cragonlands. The Baltimarans are suspicious. They have tightened patrols along the border, too late to catch you, of course, but it has caused us problems. Three of our agents have died as a result of your thoughtlessness. Do you wish to be cleansed of those deaths, too? You have acted like a child, Skir. You think only of yourself. You do not understand the least part of how the world works.’
Skir stared into Bettenwey’s dark, furious eyes. All trace of warmth was gone. Skir was aware of a dull ache in his stomach, a deep throb of anger. He said tightly, ‘Would you rather I hadn’t come back at all?’
‘Yes, frankly. Your sneaking back here has created all kinds of trouble for us. And to cap it all, you bring that Rengani petticoat and a Baltimaran whore with you!’
Skir stood up. ‘Get out of my room.’
Bettenwey rose to his feet. For a long moment they stared at each other, then Bettenwey bowed coldly. ‘My Lord.’ With a swish of robes, he swept from the room and slammed the door.
Skir sank onto the bed and buried his head in his hands. ‘Welcome home, My Lord!’ He began to laugh, and the laugh became a hard, hiccupping series of sobs. After a time, the candle by his bed flickered and died, and the darkness reared up to engulf him.
‘It’s all right,’ said Perrin to Tansy as soon as they were alone. ‘He’s going to confess to the High Priest. Couldn’t you see it in his face? He wanted to do it in private.’
‘Oh . . .’ Tansy let out a long breath. ‘I thought he didn’t want to be friends with us no more. Too grand for us now.’
‘If they make him give all this up, I wonder if they’ll pay him compensation?’
Perrin wandered about the room they’d been given. It was a large, square room in the priests’ wing, not far from the stables, pleasantly, but not luxuriously, furnished. A pair of shuttered double doors faced an internal courtyard. There was a low table on which a simple supper had been laid, and several chairs. Two wide beds were set against opposite walls. Perrin dived onto one of them. ‘A bed at last! Do you know the last time I slept in a proper bed?’
‘I ain’t slept in a bed since Elvie’s,’ said Tansy.
Perrin stopped bouncing. ‘I wonder where she is now.’
‘Gone back to Wanion, I’ll bet. She were tougher than she looked, that one.’ Tansy picked up a leafy stalk from an earthenware plate and regarded it doubtfully. ‘We meant to eat this? Or is it just decoration?’
‘They don’t seem to go in much for decoration round here. Now what I want is a place to wash.’ Perrin prowled across the room and flung open a door.
‘Aah!’ he said, with deep satisfaction. ‘A bathroom. And a jug of warm water. Not as good as a tu
b, but it’ll do. Excuse me.’
Tansy picked at the supper plate, but she had little appetite. When Perrin emerged, pinkly scrubbed and fresh-shaven, she said rather wistfully, ‘Think Skir’ll come along to say goodnight?’
‘I doubt it.’ Perrin sat beside her, towelling his hair. ‘He and that High Priest will have plenty to talk about. Don’t look so grim, Tansy! We’ve got food, and comfy beds, and a bathroom – a bathroom! Enjoy it while it lasts – who knows where we’ll be tomorrow. One day at a time, that’s my motto.’
‘I know,’ said Tansy. ‘I wish I was like you.’
Perrin laid down the towel, suddenly serious. ‘Don’t wish that, Tansy. I wish I could be more like you.’
‘Me? Why?’
‘Because you’re brave, and loyal, and quick-thinking.’
‘You’re quick, too,’ said Tansy. ‘And brave.’
Perrin laughed. ‘But not loyal. Even Bettenwey could see that. I envy you. And Skir, too. I wish I . . .’ He went on slowly, thinking it out as he spoke. ‘I wish I knew what to think, how to feel, how to act. I do things because I can, not because I should. But you always know what’s right.’
‘Not always,’ said Tansy. ‘I didn’t know if I should tell Skir about you taking him back to Rengan. I didn’t want to lie, but – I didn’t want him to think bad of you.’
‘He knows now. I told him.’
Tansy’s face lit up. ‘Oh – good! That’s what I wanted. Did he – was he angry?’
‘He’ll get over it. Let’s not talk about Skir. Let’s talk about me.’
‘How you only think about yourself?’
They both smiled. Perrin touched her hair, then took his hand away. Their heads were close together now, the dark and the fair.
Perrin said softly, ‘I’m not thinking about myself now.’
‘I ain’t so sure about that,’ said Tansy dryly.
‘Be brave, Tansy,’ whispered Perrin.
She leaned across the space between them, and kissed him.
In the morning, Perrin flung open the double doors and let the fresh cold sunlight stream into the room through the ironwork grille. He came back to sit on the edge of the bed.
‘Hello,’ he said softly.
‘Hello.’
‘Still hate me?’
‘Hmmm.’ Tansy reached up to touch his face. ‘Let me think about it.’
Much later, they had begun their breakfast of hard-boiled eggs and stewed peppers and hot coffee when there was a rapping at the door. A servant announced, ‘Rise for My Lord Bettenwey.’
Automatically, Tansy and Perrin scrambled up, but when the High Priest entered he motioned to them to be seated.
‘Please, go on with your breakfast. I will not trouble you for long.’
Tansy was frightened by Bettenwey. Timidly she said, ‘We was wondering if Skir – if the Priest-King could have breakfast with us.’
‘Is he still the Priest-King?’ asked Perrin casually.
Bettenwey looked at him coolly. ‘Of course. Why would he not be?’
‘That’s what I told him. I knew it’d be all right.’ Perrin looked smug.
‘Unfortunately, My Lord Eskirenwey’s arrival, though of course welcome, was – ill-timed.’ said Bettenway. ‘This is what I wish to discuss with you. I’m afraid I must ask for your patience. My Lord Eskirenwey’s return cannot be announced until the appropriate moment. Until that moment arrives, we must keep his presence here secret. I’m sure you understand.’
‘All right,’ said Tansy doubtfully.
‘Hold on,’ said Perrin. ‘How are you going to keep it secret from people who visit the Temple?’
‘My Lord Eskirenwey has agreed to remain in his room until further notice. I’m sure that his friends will also respect the necessity for discretion?’
Perrin whistled. ‘You’re locking us in? Indefinitely?’
‘For a short while only.’ Bettenwey stood. ‘I knew I could rely upon your intelligence.’
Tansy jumped up. ‘What about Penthesi? He’ll fret if he don’t see us!’
‘The horse will be well cared for.’
Perrin said, ‘Can’t we at least see Skir?’
‘I’m afraid that will not be possible.’ The High Priest withdrew toward the door. ‘Your co-operation is appreciated. Please regard yourselves as our honoured guests.’
The door closed behind Bettenwey. Perrin looked at Tansy. ‘Honoured guests, my backside. Prisoners, more like.’
Tansy said, ‘Gives me shivers up my spine, that Bettenwey. Near as bad as Lady Wanion.’
‘He’s a smart man.’ Perrin prowled across the room and yanked the door open; a pair of armed servants barred the corridor. Perrin saluted them, and shut the door. ‘Just checking . . .’ He threw himself down on the rumpled bed and patted the space beside him. ‘You know, it might not be so bad, being locked up in here all day.’
‘You mind your manners,’ said Tansy, reaching for her coffee cup. ‘I ain’t finished my breakfast.’
The next few days passed in blank misery for Skir. He was more of a prisoner here, in the only home he could remember, than he had been at Arvestel, among strangers. At least at Arvestel he was free to walk outside; he’d had his painting, conversations, music, light and air and luxury . . . All the things he thought he despised about Baltimar turned out to be the things he missed most.
No. What he missed most was Beeman.
After their argument on the first night, Skir and Bettenwey maintained a cold civility. They were never alone together. They had one disagreement, in Skir’s only secret meeting with the Council of Priests, when he learned that Tansy and Perrin were locked up too. He insisted that they be freed, at least within the Temple walls, and Bettenwey backed down. They would be permitted to move about inside the Temple precinct, so long as they spoke to no one.
Skir longed to see them, especially Tansy. He felt like a shadow of a person, drifting around his sparsely furnished room. Outside the Temple, with Tansy and Perrin, he had been real. How long could Bettenwey keep him here? What was he waiting for?
Then one day Skir found out.
Starved for company, he had struck up a tentative friendship with the servant who brought his meals. At first Ulia was too awestruck to speak, but gradually she began to tell him scraps of gossip from the kitchens. ‘There are rumours all over Gleve, My Lord. Some say you’re here in the Temple, and some say you’re dead.’
Skir shovelled eggs onto his fork without comment. He had begun to wonder if Bettenwey planned to murder him in his bed. Then both rumours would be true. ‘Have you seen the two who brought me here?’
‘The two foreigners? Yes, I’ve seen them, My Lord.’ She gave a sly smile. ‘He’s a charmer, that lad, isn’t he? Reckon I might have more news of them, come tomorrow. You wait and see.’
Perhaps Perrin would use the Signs to send a message with Ulia, thought Skir. But the next day it was a priest who brought his breakfast tray, the same timid-faced woman who had let them into the Temple.
‘Where’s Ulia?’
‘She cannot wait on you today, My Lord.’
‘Why not? Is she ill?’
‘She – she has been whipped, My Lord, on the High Priest’s order.’
‘What? What for?’
‘She was weak, and disobedient. She spoke with the foreigners. She plotted to help them meet you, against the High Priest’s specific instructions.’
Skir threw down his knife and fork. ‘And she was whipped for that?’ He dragged on the dark blue tunic that marked him as a high-ranking priest and jammed the twisted copper wire, the Circle of Attar, onto his head.
‘What are you doing, My Lord?’
‘I’m going to speak to Bettenwey,’ said Skir grimly. He pounded on the door. ‘Take me to him at once.’
The servants who guarded him lowered their staffs and looked questioningly at the priest.
‘It is forbidden, My Lord,’ she said.
Skir glared at her. ‘Y
ou’d follow the orders of the High Priest rather than the orders of your Priest-King? I’ll be Priest-King here long after Bettenwey has gone to his next life, and I have an excellent memory. Take me to him now, or you’ll regret it.’
The woman twisted her hands together. ‘My Lord – the High Priest is taking the morning prayer.’
‘Then I’ll wait in his rooms.’
Her eyes darted nervously down the corridor.
Skir said, ‘I’m not going to run around all over the Temple. And you can’t stop the Priest-King from seeing the High Priest.’
A moment later Skir was marching down the corridor after the priest with the two servants at his heels, and a moment after that he’d banged the doors closed and shut himself in Bettenwey’s empty room.
The High Priest’s quarters were far larger than Skir’s own, almost as big as Skir’s sitting-room at Arvestel. It gave Skir a perverse satisfaction to see that Bettenwey was even more untidy than he was. The bed was unmade, robes and shirts lay crumpled on the floor, and a big table by the wall was strewn with parchment scrolls. Skir paced up and down. It was a relief just to have a larger space to walk about in.
He glanced at the scrolls that lay on the table. Temple business, tedious matters of protocol, the minutes of boring committee meetings . . . Then he froze in shock. He re-read the Signs, unable to believe what he saw. But there was no mistake.
When Bettenwey returned from the morning prayer, Skir was standing by the window with the scroll in his hand. ‘Shut the door,’ he said.
‘My Lord, may I ask why you are in my room?’
‘Shut the door. What is this?’
‘Those papers are records of Temple business, and no concern of yours, even if you could read them.’
‘Surely Temple business is my business. And I can read them. Fascinating stuff.’
Now it was Bettenwey’s turn to freeze. ‘My Lord?’
‘Beeman taught me to read the Signs. You must have known that.’
‘He was not instructed . . . I don’t believe –’
Skir read from the scroll. ‘Operation Broken Fire. The operation will take place on the first day of autumn.’