The Waterless Sea (35 page)

Calwyn stared at her hands.

‘Well,' said Darrow, after a pause, in the same dry, brittle voice. ‘If you will not promise to wait for me, then I must wait for you.' He stood up. Softly he said, ‘You were the one, Calwyn, who taught me never to give up hope.'

Blindly Calwyn reached out a hand to him, but already he had turned and begun to walk back along the terrace.

‘Darrow!' she whispered, but he didn' t hear her, and as she watched, his lean black-clad figure merged into the shadows of the Black Palace, and only the golden light of the dying sun remained.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Rosalind Price, Eva Mills and JodieWebster from Allen & Unwin for all their help; Lyn Tranter; Jan, Bill and Hilary Constable, Joy Taylor, Richard Evans and Elizabeth Reid for allowing me extra time to work; and Michael Taylor, for everything.

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A dark secret is tearing Tremaris apart. From the frozen Bay of Sardi
to the endless winter of Antaris, sickness is spreading and even
the seasons are slipping into chaos.

Calwyn has lost her powers of chantment and flees back to Antaris.
But instead of sanctuary she finds the community ravaged by a mysterious
snow-sickness and torn apart by tyranny. When she learns that Darrow,
too, has been infected, Calwyn begins a desperate race through the frozen
forests. But will she find the answers in time to heal him? And will she
have the courage to embrace the dark magic and save Tremaris?

The Tenth Power
brings the Chanters of Tremaris series to an
enthralling conclusion.

Moondark

T
HE AUTUMN NIGHT
was chilly, and the skies over Antaris were black. The three moons had turned their faces away, as if they could not bear to watch the scene below. Even the stars were hidden behind a bank of cloud, and the priestesses stumbled in the uncertain flicker of torchlight.

If the procession had led to the sacred valley there would have been music. The initiation of novices would have been accompanied by solemn, joyful songs, by chimes and drums. But on this night, there were no songs; there was no ritual music for what they were about to do.

The Guardian of the Wall led the way, torch held high. Her plait swung heavy down her back, black and silver intertwined, and her thin lips were pressed together. The sisters followed in silence. The hems of their wide yellow trousers were splashed with mud, dark as bloodstains.

At last the Guardian halted and turned. Behind her towered the Wall, the impenetrable barrier that protected the community of Antaris from the world outside. It was made of ice, high as three men, and wide as the nearby river. The Guardian raised her torch, and theWall reflected glints of fire in its depths: cold fire, without heat or warmth.

The silence of the sisters deepened and widened. Just as they sang together in their rituals, so now they were silent together, and the silence of many was stronger and more dreadful than the silence of one alone. The spit and hiss of the torches seemed unnaturally loud.

The Guardian beckoned, and one of the priestesses stepped from the crowd. She was a strongly built woman of middle age; the flames picked out gleams of red in her dark hair. Her skin was very pale, her face stiff and expressionless, as if carved from white marble. As she moved toward the Guardian, someone sobbed, ‘
No!
' The Guardian uncorked a small earthenware vial. With unsteady hands, the other priestess took it, tilted back her head and swallowed the liquid within. When she lowered the vial, her lips were stained black. She closed her eyes, and swayed; she reached back and unbound her long hair, shaking it loose around her face in the traditional gesture of mourning. Without a sound, she crumpled to the ground. The little vial rolled away, a few drops of dark bitterthorn brew trickling from it.

The Guardian nodded, and two priestesses wrapped their hands in their cloaks and propped the fallen woman carefully between them.

The Guardian raised her hands in a movement that was more challenge than entreaty. For the space of a breath, two breaths, there was no sound but the crackle of torches, the distant hoot of an owl in the forest, and the rushing of the river. Then, unsteadily, one priestess began the chantment of unmaking.

One after another, the sisters took up the song. Behind the forbidding figure of the Guardian, the Wall began to melt, revealing the deep dark of the forest outside as it dissolved. Some priestesses averted their eyes, either from the black night beyond the Wall, or from the pale, slumped body of their sister, or both. Hidden in the centre of the crowd, someone was weeping.

When the breach in the Wall was large enough, the Guardian held up her hands to halt the chantment. The two sisters clumsily manoeuvred the limp body into the gap. The Guardian sang a swift chantment, and a husk of ice swam up to enclose the body and hold it erect. Without pausing in her song, the Guardian gestured to the assembled sisters to begin a new chantment.

The spell of strengthening was faint and reluctant at first. But as more of the sisters joined in, the ice slowly thickened, and the body of the red-haired priestess was sealed in the very heart of the Wall. The Guardian lifted her hands, and the chantment ceased.

‘It is done.' Her low words fell like stones into an icy pool. ‘Now let us sing the song of mourning for our beloved sister Athala. We sing the song for those who die in childbed, giving life. Our brave sister has given us all the gift of life, this night.'

The Daughters of Taris loosed their hair around their shoulders, and took up the lamentation, singing now with their whole hearts, drawing comfort from the familiar ritual. Many of the sisters wept, and covered their faces with their yellow shawls. The procession turned, with the Guardian at its head, and wound its way swiftly back toward the Dwellings.

Only one priestess lingered, the chill breath of night on her face as she gazed at the lifeless body within the ice. ‘Taris, Lady Mother!' she whispered. ‘Deliver us from this darkness!' She scanned the sky, but the lowering clouds still veiled the stars. Winter was coming. Shivering, the priestess rubbed her hands together. They were so cold – and her feet were cold, too.

The priestess stifled a sob, and she stumbled after the others along the path to the Dwellings, where she had always known safety and welcome. But her home was safe no longer.

Chanters of Tremaris series

BOOK ONE
and
BOOK THREE