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him, and he would explain himself.’
    Marna said drily, ‘I understand well enough. Outlander arrogance! We may be shut away from the world here, but we are far from ignorant.’
    ‘May I ask him to explain it to me, then, Lady Mother?’
    ‘No, you may not!’ Marna quickened her pace, and Calwyn thought she had made her angry. But then she said in a quiet voice, ‘You are like enough to your mother to frighten me, child. Sometimes I think that she ran away from us because no one would answer all her questions; that is why I have tried never to turn away any child’s question, no matter how foolish it may seem.’
    It was true. Thinking back, Calwyn couldn’t remember a single time that Marna had laughed or been impatient, however tiresome the novices’ questioning became. She said, ‘Is the Singer of all Songs a person who wants to become as the Ancient Ones were, masters of all the chantments?’
    The High Priestess shook her head. ‘Even in the time of the Ancient Ones, there was no chanter who was master of each and every field of chantment. But there is a tale, as old as the Ancient Ones themselves, that one would arise who has that gift: to sing all the chantments, the high notes and the low, the swift rhythms and the slow. And this person would be more powerful even than the Ancient Ones were, as powerful as the gods themselves.’
    Calwyn drew in a sharp breath. ‘What if he does find Darrow here? We would never be able to protect him!’
    ‘Peace, child. It’s a hearthside story, that’s all, a fable, not a true prophecy. No one person could ever master all the chantments. No voice could ever be so supple, able to sing the highest of high notes for ice-call, the lowest of low for ironcraft, and all else in between. Think of it. It’s impossible. No man’s voice can reach all the notes we sing in our chantments of ice; that is why Antaris is ruled by priestesses, not by men and women together. In other lands,’ she added a little sadly, ‘it is different, no doubt.’
    Calwyn remembered the growling notes she had heard Darrow singing by the Wall. Could she ever learn to sing deep from her throat like that? It did seem unlikely. ‘Then there’s nothing to fear,’ she said.
    ‘I did not say that.’ Marna’s voice was troubled, and she turned and began to walk back the way they had come. ‘Any man, any sorcerer, who is deluded enough and proud enough to think that he can achieve such a feat is dangerous indeed, perhaps even deranged. No, we must be on our guard, in case the Outlander’s hunter does come seeking him. But this is nothing that should worry you, child,’ she added, as if she only now recalled that Calwyn was still a novice, not a full priestess, almost as if she regretted speaking so openly. She patted Calwyn’s sleeve. ‘Go and see to your bees, my daughter. I think I hear the song of the swarm you have been waiting for.’
    With an exclamation, Calwyn broke away and ran back toward the hives. A cloud of bees was pouring from Amara hive in pursuit of their queen, streaming toward a settling place high in the branches of one of the apple trees, a thousand restless creatures swirling thick in the air. Calwyn could see some stragglers emerging from the old hive, small golden dancers looping in confusion. Softly she sang to them, an ancient soothing song that Damyr had taught her, persuading the strays to join their sisters in the swarm, and one by one they obeyed her.
    When she thought to turn back to help Marna across the long grass of the orchard, it was too late; the High Priestess had already gone.

two
The Silver River

    M ARNA WAS RIGHT ; next day the spring rains began. For Calwyn, it was almost as bad as winter. Except for her brief morning and evening visits to the bees, she was trapped in the weaving rooms with the looms and spindles and the incessant shrill chatter of the other women.
    She had been excused from spinning long ago on the grounds that her thread invariably