Songs of the Earth (18 page)

‘I got the feeling he didn’t like you very much.’ Absently, Gair rubbed the brand on his palm. The scabbing and inflammation was all gone, though the scar was still red, but sometimes it burned.

Alderan grunted. ‘His face makes my fist itch.’

‘He said you weren’t to be trusted.’

‘Did he now? Well, I told you he was a liar.’ Leaning back on the railing, he favoured Gair with a long look. ‘Or don’t you trust me?’

‘You’ve not led me wrong so far.’
Apart from not telling me a few things
.

‘And I never will, lad. You have my word on it.’

‘If you and Savin don’t get along, why would he be so eager to look you up in Mesarild?’

‘Don’t you have some sword practice you should be doing?’

‘I’m just curious. He’s like us, isn’t he?’

Alderan gave him another of those penetrating looks. He held it just a beat past the point at which it had become uncomfortable. ‘He’s gifted, yes, but he’s not like us. He has no respect for the Song. To him it’s just a tool to be used – you saw that for yourself, didn’t you? Parlour tricks. He thinks they impress people.’

‘So what did you fall out over?’

‘He did me a disservice some years ago,’ Alderan said shortly, ‘something for which I’ve never forgiven him. I’ll die a happy man if I never have to see him – or even think about him – for the rest of my days. And that’s my last word on the subject.’

‘What—?’

‘Don’t press me on this, Gair.’

Gair held up his hands. ‘I’m going.’

And with that he trotted back below decks to fetch his sword. An hour or two of practice would clear his head. If he emptied his attention of everything but the forms, what he had just learned could settle out, arrange itself into a pattern he could grasp. In time it would all become clear.

When he returned, Alderan was still standing at the railing, chin on his chest, his thoughts pulled tight around him like a cloak. As he walked past, Gair wondered what on earth could have happened between him and Savin to make Alderan look so furious.

From his perch above the cathead, Gair watched the islands draw nearer, evolving from an irregular line on the horizon into a series of hummocks like the humped coils of a sea serpent. After a while he could pick out the colours of the land, dark forest, green meadows, fields of tilled earth. A necklace of white foam decorated the shoreline.

As the
Kittiwake
altered course a fraction more to the north, the overlapping islands unfolded across their path, acquiring shape and definition. Tiny yellow houses clung to the slopes above long wooden jetties thrusting into the waters of a broad inlet. Grey-blue mountains rose in the interior, not high enough for snow in summer but still impressively craggy, making Gair itch to explore them. On the whole, it looked as if his new home was going to be a very pleasant place indeed.

Footsteps sounded on the fo’c’sle decking and Alderan leaned on the bulwark next to him. The old man’s mood had improved over recent days. He had given Gair several lessons in controlling the Song – novice exercises, he called them, simple things, not much different to what Gair had discovered for himself, such as keeping a candle lit in a draught, or making a draught to blow out a candle. Every time the Song came willingly to his call, his confidence grew.

‘That’s Penglas, up ahead.’ Alderan pointed at the approaching islands. ‘The town’s called Pencruik. It means ‘‘Port of the Isles’’.’

‘How many islands are there?’

‘Twenty-three, all told, but a few of them aren’t much more than sea-stacks. The ones you can see are Penglas, which is the biggest, with Penmor behind it to the left and Pensaeca to the right. The little ones next to Penmor are Penbirgha and Pensteir. There’s a chain running more or less due north from Penbirgha known as the Five Sisters, which you can just about see on the horizon, but the rest are all out of sight.’

‘Are they all inhabited?’

‘Most of them – the ones that have a safe anchorage for fishing or are big enough to farm. Chapterhouse is on Penglas, over that hill above the town.’ He pointed. ‘You can just pick out the top of the tower, there above those trees.’

Gair squinted in the direction of Alderan’s arm. Yes, there it was: a sliver of white against the bright sky. What would the rest of it look like?

Alderan clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I think you’ll like it,’ he said, as if he had read Gair’s thoughts. ‘Dail tells me we’ll be anchoring in a couple of hours, so get your things packed up. We’ll be ashore by mid-afternoon.’

True to the captain’s word, it was barely two hours past noon when the
Kittiwake
’s anchor splashed down off Pencruik and they said their farewells. The ship drew too much water to dock at the jetty, so they were rowed ashore in the launch. Although the steep streets of the town were busy, the harbour itself was almost empty. By dusk, Alderan said, it would be full of fishing craft, and the sandboats that supplied the glass-crafters, whose work provided a good quarter of Penglas’ population with a living.

The launch took them past the wooden piers, their salt-pickled timbers the colour of old bones, right up to the stone quay steps. Gair shouldered his baggage and climbed carefully up onto the quay behind Alderan, wary of the wet steps and his unsteady land-legs.
Beneath them, the oarsmen poled off for the long haul back to the
Kittiwake
.

Pencruik was a jumble of dusty cobbled streets, its tall houses rendered in pale golden plaster, with purple pantile roofs. Many had pots of herbs and bright-flowered plants on their doorsteps and windowsills, or spilling down from wall-tops. No two were the same height, nor had the same colour paint on their doors. The streets twisted about to meet at odd angles, following the rise and fall of the land, as if the town had grown there like a colony of barnacles.

In the market square, Alderan hailed a farm-wagon driver who agreed to carry them up to Chapterhouse, and they piled their belongings onto his cart. Gair made himself comfortable on some sacks in the back, whilst the old man sat up front with the wagoneer. The road zigzagged its way up into the hills above the bay. Set back from the roadway were farmhouses screened with poplars, where sun-browned children played amongst the chickens and dogs. Stone-walled vineyards, orchards of almond and olive trees and terraces of citrus fruit chequered the hillsides. To Gair, from the far north, oranges had always been rare treats; he found the abundance here staggering. When a party of fruit-pickers trooped past with laden baskets on their backs, he stared so much that a girl in dusty skirts smiled at him and tossed him one.

Alderan twisted around in his seat. ‘How do you like it so far?’

Gair, his mouth full of sweet, juicy orange, could only grin back. It was wonderful.

At the height of the pass the road dipped into pine forest before emerging once more into open fields in a shallow, bowl-shaped valley. A stream ran down the mountainside to feed a small lake in the valley bottom, near a prosperous-looking farm. Beyond it was Chapterhouse.

Gair knelt up for a better view over Alderan’s shoulder. Chapterhouse was built of white stone, speckled silver and pink, with roofs of the same purple tiles he had seen in the town. At the south end
was the high tower he had glimpsed above the trees; below the tower it looked like the buildings were arranged around open courtyards or gardens. Trees rose above the gables and what appeared to be a walled orchard occupied the sunniest side. Large, arched windows were set into the walls, quite unlike the narrow slits of the Suvaeon Motherhouse, and the boundary wall looked more like it was marking the limits of the property than keeping people on one side or the other.

‘It looks like somebody’s country estate,’ Gair said.

‘It was, once. It’s been extended somewhat over the years, of course – two hundred and seventy-seven students take a bit of accommodating,’ Alderan explained. ‘Then there’re all the Masters, and the adepts who choose to stay on, never mind the servants – so nearly five hundred of us at the moment.’

‘I didn’t think there would be that many!’

‘And how many did you think there would be?’ the old man asked as the cart rumbled past the farm gates. A woman fetching in laundry from a line in the yard paused to wave to them. Alderan waved back; the wagoneer doffed his cap. ‘You’re not the only boy in the world born with these gifts.’

‘I—’ Gair floundered. ‘When you said you were one of the last, I assumed there would only be a few dozen, maybe, not half a legion!’

‘When I was your age, there were only a few dozen
gaeden
, and most of them were old. It was a desperate race to find students to teach before we were robbed of all our teachers. Now our Order is much less fragile, but we’re still a long way short of what I would wish for. We have lost too many talents over the years, to ignorance, or prejudice, like you almost were. Or lost to imperfect control of their gifts. Every one of them is important, and should be saved if we possibly can.’

‘
Gaeden
? What does that mean?’

‘It’s what you are, and what you will be, if you choose to join us. What I am. It means ‘‘gifted’’. It’s an ancient word, older than
the Founding.’ The old man smiled. ‘Infinitely preferable to ‘‘witch’’, don’t you think?’

The cart passed through the open gates into the Chapterhouse yard. An archway on the right led to stables. To the left, through another arch, were laundry lines, and Gair could see maids in white aprons with baskets of linens. Ahead, broad stone steps led up to an age-blackened oak door, studded with enormous nails. When the cart stopped, he gathered up his things and hopped down. The air smelled of baking bread, and starch, and the tang of the sea.

‘Well, here we are,’ said Alderan, alighting next to Gair. He looked around. ‘Blast the boy, where is he? He was supposed to be waiting for us.’

Almost before Alderan had finished speaking a young man appeared in the doorway, chewing on something. When he saw them, he swallowed and trotted towards them, brushing crumbs from the front of his shirt. Over his clothes he wore a deep blue mantle that reached to his knees. The boy himself had dark curly hair, brown eyes, and an expression of elfin mischief.

‘Snacking again, Darin?’ Alderan asked. ‘It’s a wonder you’re not as wide as a wagon, boy!’

‘Master Saaron says I need to eat often, or I’ll get sick.’ Darin grinned, showing enviably even teeth. ‘Sorry I wasn’t here.’

‘So you should be. This is Gair.’

Darin stuck out a hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘Likewise.’

The grip was firm and friendly. Gair estimated Darin to be about his age, maybe a little younger. From his accent and colouring, Gair guessed he was Belisthan.

‘I have to find out what’s been happening whilst I’ve been away, so I shall leave you in the care of Darin here,’ Alderan said. ‘He’ll get you fed and watered and show you where things are. You can have this evening to get yourself settled in, but I shall be expecting you to be ready by Prime tomorrow.’

‘Ready? For what?’

‘For the testing, of course.’ Alderan sounded distracted, as if he was anxious to be away. ‘Don’t worry; it’s nothing you can’t manage. Darin will explain what it’s all about. Now I must be off; the rest of the Council will be waiting for me. I shall see you in the morning – early, mind.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Gair assured him, ‘I’m used to keeping monastery hours, remember?’