Maerad's feelings of dismay deepened as the three of them walked slowly toward the table. It seemed a very long way, and her feet were heavy with reluctance.
She saw that nine figures were seated there. They would have seemed dwarfed in that huge space but for the sense of power that emanated from them, which grew stronger the closer she approached. There were far fewer people sitting than there were chairs, so each Bard sat alone, with empty chairs on either side. Maerad gulped and glanced at Cadvan; his face was unreadable. Her mouth had gone completely dry. She fought a sudden strong impulse to run out of the Hall, out of the First Circle, out of Norloch altogether. Steadily she paced on.
At last, Maerad reached the High Table of the First Circle of Norloch. She and Cadvan and Saliman stood by the table while the Nine Bards of the First Circle regarded them in silence. Maerad was sure, in the absolute silence that filled the Hall after their footsteps had ceased, that her thumping heart must be audible to everyone there. She looked down at her feet, desperately trying to gather together her scattered wits. It was as if the force beating through the Crystal Hall wouldn't let her think or see; all her awareness was dissolved in the pulsing heart of the Light.
She heard someone stand up and speak. It must be Enkir, the First Bard, she thought. His voice was icy and clear.
"Welcome to the Council of the First Circle of Norloch, Saliman of Turbansk and Cadvan of Lirigon," the voice said. And then it was edged with a barely concealed spite or anger. "And who is this other you dare to bring here, into the very inner sanctum of the Light?"
Maerad heard Cadvan's voice ring out confidently beside her.
"My Lords, Bards of the First Circle, I wish to present to you my student, Maerad of Pellinor."
As Cadvan said her name, Maerad reluctantly dragged her eyes up from her feet.
Directly before her, on the other side of the table, stood a tall, thin Bard dressed in white robes. He was staring straight at her, and his nostrils were pinched white with rage. He had a fierce, hooked nose set between dark, flaming eyes, and deep lines furrowed between his nose and his mouth. His brow was high and white, and also deeply lined. It was a proud, intelligent face, pitiless as a hawk at the moment that it stoops for a rabbit; but it was cold, as a beast never is, and beneath the coldness Maerad sensed a bitter cruelty. So Maerad first perceived Enkir, First Bard of Norloch; and as her eyes met his, her dizziness overbore her and she felt her knees buckle beneath her, and her sight went black.
She knew that face. She had seen it before.
The world shattered into pieces around her, whirling into a storm of confused images. Maerad collapsed to the floor, but she was not aware of Cadvan and Saliman bending over her in alarm, nor of the murmured consternation of the other Bards.
The towers of Pellinor were burning.
The darkness itself seemed to be screaming. There was a chaos of noise: the roar of flames, the crack of stone and wood buckling and crashing, yelling, the clang of metal on metal. Maerad squeezed her eyes shut, but still the noise went on and on and on. She sobbed with terror.
Someone was carrying her. Her mother. She pressed her face into her shoulder, breathing in her warm scent to block out the acrid stench of smoke and another smell, unfamiliar and much worse, the reek of blood. She was being jolted up and down; it hurt.
"Don't cry, Maerad," her mother whispered in her ear.
"There's my brave girl." She looked into her mother's face, glimmering whitely in the darkness. Milana was not afraid. Her face was smirched with ash, grim with despair and grief. But she was not afraid. She was as hard and beautiful as adamant. Maerad swallowed her tears.
"What happened to my daddy?" she whispered.
Milana's face twisted with anguish. "We'll tell later," she said.
But Maerad knew what had happened to her daddy. She had seen him hacked down just inside the walls of Pellinor, as the cruel men had burst through the gate with brands of fire and black swords.
"And where's Cai?"
"Cai's with Branar," Milana said, between gasps. Branar was a friend of her father's. "We'll meet them in the Linar Caves. Just be brave, my little one. We must be very quiet."
Soon they were running through the outer streets of Pellinor: tiny cobbled lanes that were eerily empty. The sound of the flames was now muted, but they still cast flickering red shadows over them; Pellinor's topmost tower was on fire. Milana's feet sounded too loud; her footsteps echoed off the walls. After a while, Milana said: "I have to put you down now. My arms hurt. Can you run?" Maerad nodded, and Milana clutched her hand, and they ran together. Maerad's chest felt as if knives were going in, but still she ran.
They turned and twisted around the corners, Milana always stopping sharp and peering around, and then dashing down the street, but they saw no one. Where was everybody? Maerad was too frightened now to cry. Milana's hand bit into hers, and she shook it to loosen the grip, but Milana didn't notice.
At last they reached Milana's goal, a small, stout door in the outer wall of Pellinor that Maerad had never seen before. It was completely hidden by a veil of ivy, and hastily Milana pushed the tendrils back and, fumbling at her waist, brought out a bunch of iron keys. She sorted through them, panting, and at last found the right one, which she thrust into the keyhole and turned with both hands. She shot back the bolts and pushed it open. It swung out with a loud creak, and she started and looked around. Nobody was there. She dragged Maerad through and pushed the door shut behind her.
But somebody was waiting for them outside the door.
"Where are you going, Milana of Pellinor?" A tall shape loomed in the darkness. Milana gasped and pulled Maerad close to her. She heard the whisper of metal as Milana drew her sword. The voice laughed softly.
"Don't think that any blade will wound me."
"Enkir." Milana's voice wobbled with relief, and then she stood straighter, and the darkness around them was illuminated by a silver light, blooming softly from Milana. "What are you doing here?"
"I asked where you were going," said Enkir harshly. Maerad peeked out from her mother's cloak; the light glimmered on the Bard, so she could see his face outlined in silver. His eyes were lost in darkness, and black shadows carved his face.
"What business is that of yours?" said Milana fiercely. "Are you blind? Are you deaf? Do you not know what has happened?"
"I thought you'd try to escape here. The secret ways of Pellinor are not unknown to me." Enkir stooped forward, staring into Milana's eyes. "I want your son. Now. Where is he?"
Maerad, close against her mother, felt her go very still. She didn't answer, but the light around her brightened. Dropping the sword, Milana lifted her hands, and Maerad's head buzzed with her power. She felt, almost like the clash of swords, Enkir's will answering her; the collision of the two forces shivered through her. Milana stepped back, her eyes wide with shock.
"So it was you who let them in!" she cried hoarsely.
"Treacherous fool!" She stretched out her hands again, and a bolt of light hit Enkir. For a second it seemed that he would fall, but he collected himself and stepped slowly toward her, his face suddenly cold.
"No, Milana," said Enkir, with a cruel smile. "You are the fool. All your petty Bard powers are no use against me. I can crush you like an ant." He leaned forward and hissed savagely. "Your days are done, you Bards, prattling childishly of the Balance and jabbering your witless songs. I have seen the future; I know what it is. Only those with the wit will survive."
"You're mad!" Milana gasped. But then Enkir grabbed Maerad, pulling her out of Milana's grasp so suddenly that her nails raked Maerad's hand. Maerad screamed: his fingers pinioned her arm like steel. She felt something cold against her neck and screamed again. Enkir held a blade against her throat.
"Tell me where the boy is," said Enkir. "Or I will cut the girl's throat."
"I don't know," said Milana desperately. "I don't know where he is."
"I'm in a hurry! Don't play me for a dunce. You know wher
e he is. I know he's not in Pellinor." Enkir pressed the blade closer to Maerad's throat, and she felt it cut her; a trickle of blood tickled down her neck. "Tell me, or the girl dies now."
Milana stood, white and still, the light within her fading.
"You'll kill both of us, anyway," she said coldly, after a long silence. "No. I won't tell you."
Maerad looked frantically at Milana. Was she just going to let her die?
Enkir paused, as if momentarily at a loss. Then he started to laugh softly. Maerad's skin crawled.
"No, Milana, I will not kill you," he said. "I do not wish to kill the boy either. I'll let the girl go too. Come, I can be a reasonable man."
Milana spat on the ground. "That's what the word of a traitor is worth!"
"Not to kill you would amuse me. That should reassure you. I could even make a few coins out of the deal." Enkir paused. "And you could have your daughter. Who otherwise will die, slowly, in terrible pain, in front of you."
"Don't!" screamed Maerad. "Don't let him hurt me!"
Milana's face contorted in an agony of indecision.
"Give her back!" she said suddenly.
"Tell me where the boy is!" He pressed the blade closer, and it cut Maerad again, and she started to weep. She stared desperately at her mother, terrified she wouldn't tell, that she would let this man kill her.
Milana's face suddenly crumpled. "He was taken to the Linar Caves. I don't know if he's there." For a second she lost all self-control, and hid her face in her hands.
There was an awful moment of stillness, and then Maerad felt Enkir's iron grip release, and he pushed her toward her mother. She stumbled over to Milana and clung to her legs, sobbing hysterically.
"See, Milana?" said Enkir quietly, a vicious triumph in his voice. "I keep my word. Now, I wish to see if you have kept yours."
He strode forward and grabbed Milana's chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. Maerad looked up in panic. What was he doing to her mother? Enkir's eyes stabbed red flames, and Milana didn't seem able to move, staring transfixed at his blazing eyes and shaking all over. Suddenly she collapsed, and all the light went out of her. Maerad stood trembling by Milana, staring dumbstruck at the tall man. He was standing over Milana's still body, his face shiny with sweat. He ignored Maerad completely, as if she weren't there.
"That's the end of you, Milana of Pellinor," he said, breathing hard. "There's a lesson in that. How easy it is to break your paltry kind!" He wiped his face with his hand and spat on the ground. "You'll make a slave, anyway. Not much of a slave." He kicked Milana's body, smiling with such malignancy that Maerad hid her face in terror, feeling the roaring in her ears, her world spinning, breaking, spinning ...
Her cheek was pressed on cold marble, and somebody stroked her brow gently, saying her name. The roaring began to abate, and Maerad stirred.
"She moves," said the voice. She realized it was Cadvan. Maerad kept her eyes closed, battling to regain herself. She was in the Crystal Hall of Machelinor, she remembered now, at the Council, and at last she knew what had happened to her mother....
Enkir, the First Bard of Norloch! Her whole being clenched in hatred. Treachery, treachery ...
How could she have forgotten? The torment of the memory was its own answer. It had sunk to the darkest part of her mind. If she had let herself remember that—the merciless breaking of Milana, the malice of Enkir, her own childish terror—she would have gone mad. But now she knew, and she would not go mad. She let her head loll, feigning unconsciousness. How long since she fainted? What now?
"Perhaps she hit her head on the floor?" Saliman's voice was close by. She couldn't have been out for long, then. Perhaps a few seconds. She waited until her mind was a little clearer, and then moved, groaning.
Somebody slipped a hand under her head and lifted it. She fluttered her eyes open and saw Cadvan's face close to hers. He held a goblet filled with water. "Drink this," he said. She sipped obediently, and then sat up.
"I. . . I'm sorry," she said. "I don't know what happened." The sense of power that had so dizzied her before was still there, but now it no longer muddled her mind. She felt completely lucid, her mind clearer perhaps than it had ever been. Her first thought was that she could not let Enkir know that she recognized him. It would probably make no difference; he was no doubt signing her death warrant in his head right now. Her name was enough for that.
Slowly she got to her feet, and then turned to the table of Bards and bowed. She saw Nelac to her left, staring at her in concern.
"I ask the Bards of the First Circle and you, Enkir, First Bard, to forgive my weakness," she said. "I was overwhelmed by the honor of being here." Her voice was steady and certain, and Cadvan glanced at her with surprise.
"Then please sit down," snapped Enkir. She met his eyes, veiling her expression with polite humility; he stared at her coldly. She realized that he could do nothing to her here, in front of all the First Circle, without revealing his treachery. She took her place at the table, between Saliman and Cadvan, and the Council began.
Saliman spoke first, telling of increasing pressures in the Suderain: continual harassment from the forces of the Black Sorcerer Imank in Den Raven, which was increasing in both frequency and power.
"We are now hard beset, and if we fall, then all Annar lies open to the Black Army," he said. "So the Circle of Turbansk sent me to ask for help. I have traveled north and east in Annar since this winter, and I think now that help cannot come. Your borders are already threatened. Yet still I ask." He nodded and sat down.
"We will consider this," said Enkir. "Thank you, Saliman of Turbansk. And now, Cadvan of Lirigon. We hear that you come bearing news from the north." He glanced at Maerad as he said this, and despite her resolve, she shivered.
Cadvan spoke first of his capture and subsequent escape from the Landrost. "It is very clear to me now," he concluded. "From what I saw in the Landrost's throne room, I am certain that the Nameless One has indeed returned and that the recent troubles of Annar do, as some of us have feared, stem from his stratagems."
An audible stir went around the table.
"I remain to be convinced," said Enkir, staring at Cadvan with dislike. Maerad looked between the two Bards: surely they were somehow alike? A dreadful doubt began to stir within her; she struggled with some memory, something the Hulls had said....
"But of course there are many of the lesser Dark who would like us to believe such a thing. You admit yourself you were weakened, and I question your judgment. How can you be so sure that you are not misled, Cadvan of Lirigon?"
"If I am indeed a Truthteller, then what I saw in the throne room was true," Cadvan answered. "But tell me, Enkir of Norloch,"—and here Maerad caught a flash of mockery in his eyes—"what makes you so certain that he will not return? Has not the Lore always spoken of that as a certainty?"
"The Lore is open to many interpretations, as well you know, Cadvan of Lirigon," answered Enkir. "I counsel caution on this subject."
"Hulls ride openly in Annar, the Schools are threatened or corrupted, we are beset from all sides: evil fears, long chained, are awoken in this land, and you counsel caution!" said Cadvan heatedly.
"What do you mean?" asked another Bard. "Saliman spoke of Hulls...."
"I have not finished my tale, Tared," Cadvan replied. "I beg you, bear with me. Before I journeyed down the Empty Realm to the east of the Annova and was captured by the Landrost, I went, as I was instructed, north to Zmarkan. I traveled there from west to east, and I heard many rumors of unrest and travail. Many people, and not all of them fools, say that a black power has awoken there, an ancient power. I followed the rumors to their source, as far north as I could go. There, in the wastes, a shadow is spreading. I saw from afar the peaks of its fortress, and I felt its deadly breath. I can think only one thing: the renegade Elidhu, the Ice Witch, the Winterking himself, is now woken from his long sleep, and seeks to reestablish his sway over the north."
There was an astonished si
lence.
"Surely this cannot be!" said a short Bard on Cadvan's right. "The Winterking was banished beyond the circles of the world, long, long ago." He shook his head.
"It cannot be, Caragal, and yet it is so," said Cadvan, turning to face him. "Just as some say the Nameless cannot return, and yet he does."
Caragal nodded sadly. "The Flame ever darkens," he said. "I cannot argue that."
"Now," said Cadvan, "we come to the nub of this tale. For it seems to me certain, as I have said, that all the signs we have traced in the past years are, as we feared, the mark of the Nameless as he prepares his most deadly assault against the Light. And worse, that he has made alliance with the Winterking. I suspect that the Nameless himself brought him back."
"There are many kinds of shadow," said Enkir mockingly. "We must not leap in fear to the worst conclusions."
"I am convinced of his return," said Cadvan. "And I think if we do not move now, then we are lost."
"Move where?" Enkir smiled. Maerad thought it as cold as the glimmer of winterlight over frost. "Always you were impulsive, Cadvan of Lirigon, and apt to leap where the more wise might pause and see an abyss."
"Do you claim that I lie?" said Cadvan. He seemed calm, almost serene, but Maerad sensed an overwhelming anger rising within him. There was a tense pause, and then Enkir smiled again.
"I would not have the temerity to say any such thing," he answered smoothly. "I say only that what you suggest is unlikely in the extreme. The Winterking, the Nameless: such figures are shadows from a child's tale of fear. I think, for all your well-meaning enthusiasm, that you are mistaken, Cadvan of Lirigon."
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