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Marna lightly touched the ice-brand of the three moons that every priestess carried on the inside of her wrist. ‘The secrets of the other Powers were given to other peoples.’
    ‘Ironcraft – is that one of the other Powers? And wind-working?’
    Marna nodded. ‘Ironcraft is the chantment of Merithuros. And the people of the Isles possess the gift of windworking.’
    ‘And the others, Lady Mother?’
    Marna’s voice took on a dreamy, sing-song tone as she counted off the Powers on her fingers. ‘Ninth is the Power of Tongue, which commands all speech and language and song. Eighth is the Power of Beasts, which commands all animals that creep and run and fly. Seventh is the Power of Seeming, which makes illusions visible and hides what is real. Sixth is the Power of Winds, which governs winds and waves and weather. Fifth is the Power of Iron, which commands any object that belongs to the earth, excepting any living thing, or air, or water, or fire. Fourth is the Power of Becoming, which holds the secrets of quickening and growth and change. Third is the Power of Fire, which commands all that is light and all that is hot. And there is our own craft, the Power of Ice, the power of our Goddess, who commands everything that is cold: ice and snow and freezing. And it is the power of all that is dark: shadows and night and the blackness that lies in the deepest caverns and between the stars. And it is the power of all that is dead.’
    A thrill of dread ran down Calwyn’s spine. This was the lore she would learn after midwinter moondark; this was the shadowed face of the Goddess that only the initiated were allowed to glimpse. ‘But Lady Mother, that comes to only eight Powers.’
    Marna smiled. ‘All the lessons you’ve missed haven’t harmed your arithmetic. Can you not guess the first of all the Powers? It is the greatest power of all, that which moves everything that is, and everything that is not, the Great Power that is unknown and unknowable, the mystery that lies beyond our understanding. It is the Goddess.’
    Calwyn said quickly, ‘But the Goddess rules over the Power of Ice –’
    ‘That is the face she turns toward us here. All the chantments, all the gods, are but aspects of the same unknowable mystery, just as each face of a jewel strikes light in a different direction. Our Great Mother Taris is the name we call her here, but she has other faces and other names in other places.’ Marna placed her hand lightly on Calwyn’s head. ‘You will understand it better in time. These are matters which have occupied the greatest priestesses for generations. You cannot expect to know it all in a heartbeat.’ Stiffly she got to her feet, and tugged a fold of her long robe free, where it had caught on a twig. ‘I am too old to perch in the trees; let us walk by the river.’
    The ducks squabbled on the water; hoping for scraps, they crowded up to the bank and quacked for attention. Marna looked up, and sniffed the air. ‘There will be rain tomorrow.’
    Calwyn would not be so easily deflected. ‘Is Darrow a priest of iron, then?’
    Marna gave her a strange look. ‘So he has told you his name? It’s said that sorcerers are superstitious about giving out their names . . . Perhaps it’s not true. But no, he is no priest. A sorcerer is different from a priest or priestess. The sorcerers of the Outlands do not serve their gods in the same way that we serve our Mother Taris. They use their chantments for themselves, not as we do, for the good of us all; their power is corrupted. You know that an Outlander cannot be trusted. An Outlander sorcerer can be trusted least of all.’
    Now it was Calwyn’s turn to be silent. At last she ventured, ‘I think this sorcerer can be trusted, Lady Mother. He is – not respectful. But I think he is honest.’
    Marna smiled. ‘We shall see.’
    ‘He told me to tell you, if you didn’t understand what he meant when he spoke of the Singer of all Songs, that you should ask