The Singer of All Songs by Kate Constable Read Free Book Online

once, a long time ago.’
    ‘You talk like an old man whose life is nearly over!’
    His face went still as he fingered the pattern of growing leaves and berries that Tuw had wound about the stick.
    Calwyn could have bitten her tongue. She rushed on, ‘Tuw was glad to give it to me. He sits by the fireside all winter long, making them. He has too many to use them all for himself.’
    ‘Did you tell him it was for the Outlander?’
    Her hesitation gave him his answer, and he smiled. ‘I thought not.’
    ‘If you like,’ she said, to change the subject, ‘I can bring you a knife, and some wood. It might pass the time for you, until . . .’
    ‘Until I am brought to slaughter?’
    ‘Until your foot is healed.’
    ‘Ursca says that it will never heal.’ His voice was light and bantering, but there was pain in his eyes.
    ‘In time, it will heal enough to bear your weight. And then I can show you the orchards, and the hives. I’m the beekeeper here.’
    ‘Yes, I know.’ She stared at him in surprise and he looked away, flushing. ‘I have been asking questions about you,’ he admitted shyly. ‘It seems I am indebted to you twice over: once for bringing me from the Wall, and once for supplying the jelly that restored my wits.’
    ‘You have the bees to thank for that, not me. And Ursca says your wits would have returned even without the jelly.’
    ‘In any case, I thank you,’ he said quietly, and he laid the stick carefully against the wall, like a precious thing.
    Tamen would not permit him to have a knife.
    ‘If he wished to harm us, my Sister, he could do so easily enough without a whittling knife!’ exclaimed Calwyn.
    ‘I am aware of that. If I had my way, he would be bound and gagged even now. You will not give him a knife.’
    Do not be her enemy. Do not be her enemy. Calwyn took a deep breath. ‘What if I watch him all the time, and take back the knife when I leave?’
    ‘No,’ said Tamen curtly, and walked away, her heavy black-and-silver plait swinging down her back.
    But in the end Calwyn did give him her own small knife. ‘It’s meant for taking wax from honeycomb, not for carving wood,’ she apologised. ‘I fear you’ll find it too blunt.’
    ‘No matter.’ He turned over the little knife in his long, thin fingers, and tested the blade. Then he sang from his throat, very quietly, so that Ursca, bustling about in the infirmary, should not hear. Calwyn felt her hands tingling and her head grow light. His chantment was brief, but when it was finished, Calwyn reached out swiftly and touched the blade. Its edge was so keen that she didn’t feel the cut until she saw the red line spring across her thumb.
    ‘Careful!’ said Darrow.
    ‘Too late,’ she said ruefully. ‘I’ll put some honey on it.’
    And then he did something he had not done before: he threw back his head and laughed.
    One day, not long into summer, but sooner than she had expected, she saw him limping slowly through the orchard toward the hives, balancing himself carefully with Tuw’s stick. She waved, but he was concentrating too hard to wave back; as he came closer, she saw that his lips were moving. He was using chantment to keep the weight of his bandaged foot from the ground, as he had done on the first day.
    When he reached the tree closest to the hives, he used Tuw’s stick to lower himself painfully to the grass. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘that was a little more difficult than I expected.’
    ‘You shouldn’t have tried such a long walk for your first time.’
    He waved his hand dismissively. ‘I have been shuffling around the infirmary for days already, it was time to give Ursca a rest from me. But my other foot is stiffer than I thought. And my voice also,’ he added.
    Calwyn was silent, frowning.
    ‘What? You don’t approve of chantment? We were told always that Antaris was the one land where chantment was cherished and respected, not hidden away and feared as it is everywhere else in