The Bone Queen

by Alison Croggon

  He picked up her note and read it again. I looked out of my window and everything was changed.

  He breathed slowly, in and out. He turned his perception inwards, seeking the edge from which he could leap outside his body, into the dizzying, unboundaried reaches beyond the World. And from there, gathering his mind, he walked step by step into the Shadowplains, where everything was changed.

  XVI

  CADVAN knew by the quality of the light that the morning was still young. For a few moments he lay there, idly listening to the noises floating through his window; a cock crowing, Stefan greeting a passer-by outside, a clop of hooves as a rider passed the inn. Then he realized he was wrapped in his cloak, and the events of the night before flooded back. He sat up abruptly and stared sightlessly at the opposite wall, wondering if it had been a terrible and strange nightmare. Yet he was aware of a new ease, as if deeply rooted illness had been driven from his body. He hadn’t slept long, but it had been deep and untroubled, and there was a new clarity in his mind. There had been some – parasite – that was now gone. Even the thought of it made his innards clutch in disgust.

  Now, he said to himself, whatever darkness I find in my soul is mine alone…

  He poured some water from a ewer into a bowl, washed his face, pulled on his boots and went downstairs. The inn was quiet; Stefan was out, perhaps attending to his chickens. There was no sign of Dernhil. Cadvan wandered into the kitchen, where Stefan’s daughter, Celb, was chopping vegetables, and asked for some bread and cheeses and tea. He broke his fast soberly in the front parlour, looking out of the latticed window. Banks of grey clouds were gathering overhead, and the smell of rain was on the wind.

  He heard Stefan in the porch, stamping his feet and taking off his overboots. He thought of asking if there had been any word from Nelac, but let it slide; surely Stefan would tell him if there were news. For a moment he felt guilty: there was too much that was urgent, too much to worry about. If they heard nothing from Nelac today, it was a sign that something was grievously wrong. But just now, Cadvan thought, just now I want to sit and be still and wonder what it is to be me.

  That blackness, the inexorable wave that overwhelmed his being. Was it really part of him, or was it the foul thing that had insinuated itself into his mind, poisoning his thoughts? Was he now free of it? The thought lifted his heart. But, no, he said to himself, setting his jaw: that darkness, as Dernhil had told him last night, was all his own. His wounds lay in his own choices, his own crimes. What had lifted was something else entirely; it was as if a toxic mist that had muffled his Bardic senses had cleared. He was less blind now, that was all. But surely that was something…

  He had been sitting for an hour when Dernhil came downstairs and sat awkwardly at the table. Both Bards were stricken by shyness.

  Cadvan pushed the bread towards him and Dernhil studied it dubiously. “I’m not especially hungry,” he said.

  “Nevertheless, you should eat,” said Cadvan. “I’ll ask Stefan for some more tea.”

  Dernhil shrugged and broke some bread. Cadvan studied his face, hiding his anxiety: Dernhil’s skin was pale, almost transparent, as if you could see the bones beneath.

  “I slept very well,” said Dernhil, giving him an ironic glance. “Better than I have for an age. You needn’t worry, Cadvan; you can certainly cast a healing sleep.”

  “I asked too much of you, I fear.”

  Amusement flickered over Dernhil’s face. “Asked? You demanded, Cadvan.”

  “Well, yes. Though if you had straightly refused, I would not have argued…”

  “Yes, I know. But it was a terrible thing.”

  Cadvan could think of no answer and an uncomfortable silence fell between them.

  “As it turned out, you were right to ask,” said Dernhil at last, relenting. “And I am tired, which is only to be expected, but not so tired that it is a damage. Be sure I’m well used to monitoring my health.”

  “Good,” said Cadvan, more abruptly than he intended.

  “It is a strange … intimacy, scrying,” said Dernhil, after a pause. “But intense and vivid though it is, the impression fades quickly. You can only absorb so much knowledge…”

  Cadvan, grateful for Dernhil’s tact, cleared his throat. “Yes. But the important question is what has happened to that – thing – you cast out of me.”

  “It’s anybody’s guess. Before I came down, I looked for any tracks, anything we could trace. But I felt nothing. Aside from the broken window, of course.”

  “We must tell Stefan about that,” said Cadvan.

  “I did already. He all but clucked, but he has forgiven me. And I asked him if there had been word from Nelac. No word at all. I’m worried, Cadvan. I’m sure something is wrong.”

  “It’s yet early,” said Cadvan. “In any case, I think we should ride to the School, rather than wait for Nelac.”

  “Both of us? You are exiled, Cadvan.”

  “Even so. I can hide my face. And this is too important. Will it tire you too much, do you think?”

  Dernhil sighed, and contemplated his empty plate. “No, I’m not too tired,” he said. “And I think you are right; but I fear the Bards will punish you.”

  “How could they punish me more?” said Cadvan.

  “One of the punishments for breaking exile is death.”

  “And it has never been used, in all the annals of all the Schools. Not once. They could throw me out. But they won’t know me; I’ve a little skill at disguise. The last person they’d expect to see with you would be Cadvan, formerly of Lirigon.”

  Dernhil laughed. “Perhaps,” he said. “But it would still have to be a good disguise. There isn’t a single person in Lirigon who would not recognize you on sight.”

  “Not if I am someone else,” said Cadvan. “And I will be.”

  Later, as they travelled to Lirigon, Dernhil kept glancing sideways at the stranger who rode beside him. Cadvan had transformed himself utterly before they left the inn, using a charm of which Dernhil knew nothing. Once Dernhil had recovered from his astonishment, they had decided that Cadvan’s new name was Garth, and that he was a local farmer with urgent news for Nelac. Garth could have been Cadvan’s kin, a cousin, perhaps; he had Cadvan’s high cheekbones and firm mouth, and his build and colouring. But his skin was wrinkled by wind and sun, his nose misshapen by an accident or a brawl, his expression good-humoured and open and perhaps a little simple. The transformation was startling. It was not a glimmerspell, the illusion magery that was a source of much play and delight to Bards, because a Bard’s eye could see right through a glimmerspell if they wished. Dernhil was fascinated.

  “I have never heard of such a charm, Cadvan,” he said. “Where did you learn how to do this?”

  “It’s Garth, remember?” said Cadvan. “I met a Pilanel a few years ago, who taught it to me when I cured his prize horse of founder. And I have kept it close and secret ever since. It is sometimes useful.”

  “I don’t know much about that people,” said Dernhil. “I am told they are powerful Dhillarearën, for all their lack of Schools. But many Bards will not trust them.”

  “Those Bards are foolish,” said Cadvan. “The Pilanel are a wise and ancient race. And they have, as you see for yourself, some useful mageries of which we know little. It is as well I ride a poor horse; it completes the disguise.”

  “It’s complete indeed. I thought this would be a perilous enterprise, and I’m not even nervous! The chief difficulty will be convincing Nelac that you are who we say you are.”

  “Nelac will know,” said Cadvan.

  When they arrived at the School of Lirigon, the rain that had threatened since dawn began to arrive in little squalls and eddies. They passed through the gates without remark, and Cadvan rubbed down Brownie in the communal stables. Nelac’s horse, Cina, was still in her stall, which reassured them that he was still in Lirigon, and Dernhil gave her a message just in case Nelac passed them by mischance.

  As he walked throu
gh the grey-cobbled streets, lined with poplars now turning to the gold of autumn, Cadvan felt his chest constrict; this was where he belonged, and he could never be a part of it again. They passed a Bardhouse where a group of musicians sat in one of the ground-floor rooms, playing one of the Canticles of Light. Cadvan halted, involuntarily overwhelmed as the music flowed over him. His whole body ached to be part of the world of Barding, to know this difficult beauty living again in his hands. Dernhil turned to him, taking his elbow in sudden concern, and Cadvan started and smiled painfully.

  “I’d almost forgotten,” he said. “I feel like I’m haunting a house where I used to live.”

  “It’s always hard, coming back,” said Dernhil. “But we must hurry, or we’ll get soaked. The weather’s beginning to set in.”

  The cobbles were already dark with rain when they reached the Bardhouse where Nelac lived. No one was about: the household was already busy at classes or other business. Dernhil knocked on Nelac’s door, but there was no answer. He swore softly.

  “He’s out,” he said. “I hope we didn’t pass him on our way here.”

  “I doubt he’s far away,” said Cadvan. “He won’t mind if we wait.”

  He pushed the door open, and they entered Nelac’s sitting room. Inside was dark and chilly, and a fire had fallen to ash in the grate. Dernhil woke one of the lamps, and it was only then that they saw Nelac slumped on the couch. Cadvan ran to kneel beside him, taking his hand. It was as cold as the earth. Colder.

  “Has he died?” whispered Dernhil, at his shoulder.

  “I don’t know.” Cadvan felt for a pulse, first in Nelac’s wrist, then at his neck. “I can feel nothing. But…”

  “I’ll get help.”

  “No, wait.” Cadvan put his hand on Nelac’s forehead and began to glow with Bardic magery. As he did so, the Pilanel charm was broken, and his disguise fell away. “He’s not dead,” he said at last. “But he is absent. I don’t know how long he has been away. Long enough for the fire in the grate to burn out…”

  “Absent? What do you mean?”

  “My guess is that he has entered the Shadowplains, and has yet to return.”

  “Do you think he has been here all this time we were waiting? Why did nobody find him?”

  “Perhaps nobody thought he was here. People are reluctant to interrupt Nelac, after all. But my guess is that he has been here since last night.”

  “What shall we do?”

  Cadvan stood up, considering. “I think you should light a fire and warm the room,” he said. “I’ll try to find him.”

  “In the Shadowplains?”

  “That’s my best guess.”

  Dernhil bit his lip. “You know that you’re no longer disguised? If we’re found here, and Nelac as one dead, I don’t know what will happen… They might think you killed him…”

  “Then we had better find Nelac, no? Bolt the door, so no one can interrupt us. If this doesn’t work, you’ll have to find Bashar and tell her what has happened.”

  Dernhil stood up, and started pacing the room in agitation. “I’m not sure. I think I ought to find Bashar now. I know nothing of the Shadowplains, Cadvan, only what I have seen in dreams, and that is bad enough. I wonder how you can find anyone in there…”

  “I know more than I care to remember,” said Cadvan. “One thing I do know is that time passes differently there, if indeed it passes at all. You can spend what seems like days in the Shadowplains and when you return here, only a little time has gone by. If Nelac has been here since last night, I am sure he is trapped.”

  “And if even Nelac may be trapped there, why not you?”

  Cadvan hesitated. “It’s a risk, certainly. But I think it’s a gamble that I must take. My Knowing is open now, Dernhil, and I think … it’s difficult to explain, but perhaps I can trust it. Let me try.”

  Dernhil halted, and met Cadvan’s eyes. “And if you end up like Nelac?”

  “Then call Bashar, and we will deal with what we must deal with. But I think I will not.”

  After a long pause, Dernhil nodded.

  “Light the fire,” said Cadvan. “It’s cold in the Shadowplains.”

  It was cold in the Shadowplains, but while you were there you didn’t feel temperature. Here was no smell, no taste: only a sensation that afterwards you thought of as a memory of taste, a tang of acrid air. You knew hardness, softness, light and dark, length, breadth and height, you could hear whispers and cries and the sound of your feet treading down the shadows of grass. Distance was very different: far and near meant as little as they did in dreams. You moved around as if you had a body, but somehow you knew it was an illusion, a memory formed by the mind to cover the unfamiliar. As some of your senses shut down, others, of which you were scarcely aware in the World, sharpened and blossomed. It made it hard to describe being in the Shadowplains: the meanings words had in the World had little purchase. As Bards often said when they recorded their experiences, it was like attempting to describe colour to someone who had never in their lives been able to see.

  Even fear was different: it had a muted quality, as if it were a feeling that was witnessed rather than experienced. Cadvan was frightened now. As the sky opened above him, still and dark with its scattering of white stars, he felt horribly visible, as if the ground itself were aware of him. It usually took a while for the Shadowplains to coalesce from indeterminate shadows into something that was seeable, but this time it was quick, snapping into instant, clear focus.

  For a time, how long he couldn’t tell, Cadvan didn’t move. He stood in the middle of a long slope, which gradually shelved down into a wide valley. At the bottom there was a winding darkness, which looked like a river, although Cadvan already knew that there was no water there. Rather, it was a course filled with a dark vapour, its surface curling and wisping in strange formations, responding to air currents that were undetectable in this windless place. Bards in Lirigon called it the River of Forgotten Souls. Behind Cadvan the slope ran up and up, like a vast wave, and at its top he could see sharp outcroppings of stone.

  Gradually the sense that he was being watched ebbed away, as if whatever had noted his arrival had lost interest in him. Cadvan wrenched his mind into focus: it was too easy in the Shadowplains to lose yourself, to become like the shades that he could see drifting along a pale path that meandered down the slope, without memory or desire or hope. It was this leaching of yourself that Bards warned was the chief peril of entering the Shadowplains: it was as if your soul slowly evaporated, leaving only a husk. It was no place for the living.

  Cadvan gathered his will and stepped onto the path, grasping for the intuition he had felt in Nelac’s study. There, he had sensed Nelac, faint but unmistakable, in the inner constellation that mapped the presences of those he loved. That was all he needed to listen to, that echo of love: he fastened his mind onto the thought. He looked uncertainly up the slope, and then turned down towards the river. He walked slowly and deliberately, as if his heels were dogged with loathing.

  The long slope seemed at once crowded with people and yet empty. Somehow everyone was at a distance: although he saw many shades wandering up and down the path and across the grey grasses, none ever came close to him, and he never passed anyone. He wondered if Ceredin were among the souls he saw, but pushed the thought aside. It could only distract him. He felt strangely heavy, as if his limbs were made of mud, but he forced himself on. He was nearing the river, and could see the coils of vapour on its uneasy surface. Nelac was near by, he was sure, but he couldn’t see him.

  Cadvan had always tried to avoid the River of Forgotten Souls when he had entered the Shadowplains. Once, he had been forced to cross it, treading the Bridge of Tears, a stone arch unmade by hands that linked the shores, and it had seemed to him that the vapour entered his soul like ice, numbing his thoughts. But that time he had not been alone. Perhaps Nelac had gone too close to the vapour. Cadvan halted, questing for the faint light that had guided him, and turned to walk along the
shore. And at last he saw something: a still, dark figure, motionless on the bank of the river.

  Cadvan no sooner perceived Nelac than he was beside him, saying his name. Nelac didn’t respond, and Cadvan took his arm and shook him. The old Bard turned and looked at him incuriously, gently removing his arm from Cadvan’s grasp, and turned back to face the river.

  “Nelac,” said Cadvan again. “It’s me, Cadvan. You must come back.”

  Again Nelac turned, but no recognition flickered in his eyes. “I knew a man named Cadvan once,” he said slowly. “You have something of his likeness…”

  Cadvan took Nelac’s arm again, and this time Nelac didn’t resist. “Come,” Cadvan said. “You must leave the river behind.”

  “Come where?” said Nelac.

  “Come home.” Even as he said these words, Cadvan felt uncertainty rising inside him: what did home mean? Surely it did not exist, surely it was a dream… With an effort, he recalled Lirigon, the sunlight falling through the latticed window of Nelac’s chambers, the red-tiled roofs, the streets of grey stone, the apple orchards of the Fesse where he had run as a boy. But it was as if these memories slid away as soon as he recalled them, as if they peeled off and dissolved in the vapours of the river.

  “Home,” Cadvan said stubbornly, and pulled Nelac’s arm. Nelac took a step, and then another, stumbling like a blind man. “I have come to take you home. But first we must leave the river…”

  Cadvan turned his face to the slope above them and began the long trek upwards, dragging Nelac with him. Nelac didn’t resist, but would not walk on his own; if Cadvan didn’t push him along, he simply stood where he was. Cadvan’s only thought was to leave the deathly river as far behind as possible. He placed one foot in front of another, step by step by step, and every inch was a slow anguish.