V
THE CARAVAN
H
EM was tired of walking. Every day, for what seemed like the past fifty years, he had slept on the ground, woken cold and stiff with the first light of dawn, and then spent all day walking. It wasn't just ordinary walking, either. He and his companions, Saliman of Turbansk and Soron of Til Amon, stumbled through a rough, marshy landscape, and they were constantly weaving charms—glimveils, shadowmazes, shields—to help keep them hidden from any Black Army scouts or patrols. It was exhausting, skulking like this. He was tired of eating dried nuts and fruits and salted meat. He was tired of everything.
He vented his feelings to Irc, the white crow perched on his shoulder who was his constant companion, using mindspeech. Aside from being the only way to speak to Irc, it had the advantage that the others could not overhear and rebuke him. When we get to Til Amon, Hem said, I am going to sleep all day. No, first I will eat. A big, big meal. A lamb roasted on the spit, with all the juices dripping, and roasted turnips and carrots and onions. And some spiced apples. His mouth watered just thinking about it. And then I will sleep. And no one will wake me up until I want to wake up.
Irc cocked his head and fixed him with his eye. You're lazy, he said. It's not so bad. Though some fresh meat would be good. You had a squab yesterday, said Hem. And you didn't share it! Irc looked unrepentant. You would have spoiled it by putting it in the fire, he said. Anyway, it was very scrawny. There was only enough for me.
Oh, you wouldn't understand, said Hem. You're just a bloody crow. Go away. You're too heavy.
Irc ruffled his feathers, a sign of offense. I am a very clever crow, he said. I am the King's messenger. I saved you from Dagra.
That doesn't stop you from being the most annoying bird I've ever met, said Hem.
Irc gave Hem a sharp nip on his ear and took off, soaring into the sky. Hem sighed impatiently, immediately regretting what he had said. I'm sorry! he called. I didn't mean it, Irc. I'm just tired, that's all.
Irc didn't answer. Hem watched him until he was out of sight. He'd be back later, probably having done a little hunting, and might have forgiven Hem by then. Or not, depending.
"Have you offended that bird?" said Saliman from behind him.
"He takes offense if you don't bow to him all the time," said Hem irritably. "I wish every day that Arakin had never made him a messenger. I've paid for it ever since."
Saliman, a black-skinned Bard of Turbansk and also Hem's mentor, laughed. "You and every bird he meets," he said. "Mind you, life would be far more tedious if you didn't have Irc to squabble with. Be of good cheer, Hem. We're not so far from Til Amon." He pointed to a mountain rising before them. "A few days at most, I'd say, the Light willing. We've been lucky. I think we have far outstripped the Black Army, if they are indeed planning to march on South Annar."
Hem nodded. Saliman was right, he knew; they had been lucky.
After he and Irc had stumbled out of the Glandugir Hills to Sjug'hakar Im, the nightmarish training camp where child soldiers had been trained for battle, and met Saliman, they had briefly returned (to Irc's deep displeasure) to the Bards in the caves at Nal-Ak-Burat. There Hem endured an uncomfortable session with Hared, who—despite the outcome of his disobedience—was furious with him for disobeying his orders at Sjug'hakar Im. After everything he had been through, especially after his grueling journey across Den Raven in a fruitless attempt to rescue his friend Zelika, Hem was in no mood to be told off.
"I found out things you wouldn't know otherwise," he said sullenly. "Even Saliman said he wouldn't dare enter Dagra. And I couldn't abandon Zelika. Perhaps you don't know what it means to have a friend."
Hared's face, hard at the best of times, closed at that jibe, and he said nothing more. After that, he treated Hem with a warier respect. A few days later, after several long and circular arguments, Hem, Soron, and Saliman left Nal-Ak-Burat, heading in the first instance for Til Amon. Soron was itching to return home, and Hem wouldn't be budged from his conviction that he had to find his sister, Maerad, who he was sure was somewhere in Annar.
Hared had wanted Saliman to stay in Nal-Ak-Burat with the other Bards of the resistance, to fight the Black Army. "Saliman, I will be frank," he said, during one discussion. "Movement has been easier this past fortnight, I grant you, since Imank vanished and the Black Army has been in disarray. But once Sharma organizes himself—which I foresee will not take long—those forces will no longer be divided. I have no doubt it will get much more difficult here, and the Light knows it is difficult enough. And to lose a Bard like you to a wild-goose chase—it goes hard, Saliman. It goes hard."
This was as close as Hared came to begging, and Saliman knew it was a measure of his desperation.
"Hared," he said gently. "I understand, my friend. Believe me, I understand. And I cannot say that I am not torn. It is always possible that I am mistaken. I know it looks like madness to you. But I cannot go against my Knowing. I knew from the beginning that Hem had some part to play in this. So far, he has not proved me wrong. And it is very clear to me that we have to find his sister."
Hared heard the decision in Saliman's voice, and knew better than to argue, but he shook his head sadly. The following day, Hem, Soron, and Saliman left the safety of the caves of Nal-Ak-Burat, heading west through Nazar, and crossed, at some peril to their lives, the Undara River into Savitir, until they reached the edges of the Neera Marshes. There they turned north, keeping the Neera Marshes to their left.
In all this time they had seen no one else; Saliman guided them away from roads and tracks, and they avoided all villages. The landscape they crossed was lonely: at dusk they heard the melancholy cry of the curlew calling in the night. Occasionally they came across a burned byre or the remains of slaughtered goats or other signs of war, but these were all cold, remnants of a violence now well past, and there were few signs of sorcery. Still, they kept vigilant, and it seemed to Hem that the landscape watched them warily, as if eyes noted their presence and waited anxiously for them to pass. They traveled swiftly: aside from the urgency of their quest, the strange emptiness of the land gave them no desire to dawdle.
At last they reached the northern reaches of the Neera Marshes, and again turned west to meet the South Road. Here they doubled their precautions: if the Black Army had scouts or, worse, was marching northward to South Annar, this was where they would most likely encounter problems. They traveled north with the road to their left a good distance away, their passing muffled by shadowmazing and shields so they would be invisible to the naked eye. Irc had investigated the road at regular intervals. Nothing, he said, moved on it, as far as his eye could see.
The worst that could be said of their journey was that it was dull. Soron had perked up the closer they came to Til Amon, his birth home. It had been a long time since he had last seen it.
"It is, of all Schools, the most beautiful," he told Hem one night as they huddled in their meager blankets for warmth, having decided against lighting a fire.
"It has some rivals," said Saliman. Hem could hear the smile in Saliman's voice. "Have you traveled to II Arunedh, the mountain of roses?"
"Aye, aye. And you remember, I lived in Turbansk for many years, and count it one of the fairest cities I have ever seen." He paused briefly, perhaps seeing in his mind's eye the ruin of Turbansk's beauty. "But beauty, Saliman, is in the heart as well as the eye, and Til Amon will ever hold my love."
"One cannot argue with love," said Saliman gravely.
"You have to concur all the same that for the natural beauty that surrounds it, Til Amon cannot be surpassed. It stands, Hem, on the shores of the Lake of Til Amon, and its towers rise high over the waters. On still days you see the city reflected in the lake, rippling at its own feet. From its walls spread the gentle meads of Amon, orchards and groves and vineyards and fields, from which come some of the finest fruits and wines in all Edil-Amarandh. It is, Hem, a cook's dream. And across the lake rise the Osidh Am, majes
tic and high."
"They are lovely mountains," said Hem. "Saliman and I rode through them on our way to Turbansk."
"That would have been somewhat south of us," Soron said. "Here the mountains are higher and harsher. They are not so easy to cross! But to wake in Til Amon on a still morning and to see the white-tipped peaks before you, trembling in the blue lake—ah, that is a sight that takes your breath away."
"Why did you leave?" Hem rolled over to look at Soron's face, but it was hidden in the dark.
"Why did I leave? At first, I wanted to learn of the cooking of the Suderain. There was much I wished to know. And then I became the chief cook for the School. And, somehow, I stayed in Turbansk. I made many friends there, and I came to love the city. As I think you might understand, Hem: there was much to love about it. And so, after a while, you realize that many years have passed without your noticing. But Til Amon is still my home. I am sad that I haven't thought to travel there these past years since my family died, and even as we come closer, my fear rises that it will already be ashes and rubble, trampled beneath Enkir's army."
The yearning in Soron's voice pierced Hem's heart, and he asked no more questions. I don't have a home, Hem thought. I don't remember Pellinor at all, and will never feel that way about it. Turbansk might have been a home for me, but it all lies in ruins. Where will I make a home, once all this is over? If it ever is? Will I ever find Maerad again? Have I already lost her, or is she still alive, looking for me? He was convinced she was alive, although he had no good reason for it; some sense of her presence touched the edges of his mind and assured him, in quiet moments, that she was alive and thinking of him. But how could he trust his feelings, when he had been so wrong about Zelika? He had been so sure that Zelika was alive among the child soldiers; he had chased her trail to the very fortress of the Nameless One, only to find that she had been killed weeks before. Perhaps his feeling about Maerad was as deceptive. He flinched away from the thought.
Maybe Zelika has found home, he thought. He thought of her as he had first seen her in Turbansk, an orphan who had fled the ruins of war in Baladh, desperate to revenge herself against the Dark. Maybe through the Gates she had found everything she desired. On this side, she had lost everything: her home, her family, hope ... maybe that was why she threw her life away.
Thinking of Zelika opened a rift inside Hem that was so deep and raw he could barely comprehend it. He could see her delicate face and wild hair as clearly as if she stood in front of him. He still couldn't quite believe that she was dead, that he would never see her again: sometimes he still found himself expecting to see her at his shoulder, an ironic smile on her lips, and caught himself with a pang.
Until he had lost her, he hadn't realized how deeply Zelika had wound herself into his heart. The knowledge of her death was still too recent: his body still bore the fading bruises from his hopeless, mad quest to save her, the terrible march through Den Raven to the dark city of Dagra, where he had witnessed things that frightened him more than his worst nightmares. He hadn't had much time to come to terms with what had happened to him in the past few months, but he knew that his failure to save Zelika hurt him more than anything else he had been through.
Hem lay on his back looking up into the clear winter sky, where the stars burned cold and white in the darkness, and it was a long time before he slept. The wrenching ache in his breast persisted through his dreams that night, and colored his mood the following day. Hence, he thought, his argument with Irc.
He hadn't seen Irc for some time now, and was feeling anxious: the bird wouldn't answer any of his summonings. He had clearly decided to punish Hem thoroughly. Hem sighed impatiently. If Irc disappeared for hours, he couldn't rid himself of his anxiety that something had happened to him; but still, it wasn't worth worrying unless Irc didn't turn up for dinner.
Irc reappeared later, as the first edges of dusk began to draw over the land and the travelers were looking for a likely campsite. He dropped from the sky and landed heavily on Hem's shoulder with no forewarning, so that Hem jumped.
The crow wiped his beak on Hem's shoulder and nipped his ear gently in greeting, as if they hadn't quarreled at all. Hem's hand automatically went up to tickle Irc's neck, even though he had sworn not long before that he would break his scrawny legs if he dared to show his beak again.
There are humans, said Irc. Not far away.
Hem halted in surprise. Humans?
They don't seem like soldiers. Or spies. They are very strange. Hem could hear the curiosity in Irc's voice. They keep shouting at each other. They have swords, and they try to hit each other, and then they stop and begin to argue.
Are they Bards or Hulls? asked Hem.
Neither. Though at first I wasn't sure.
Hem looked around, but he could see no sign of people. Where?
Ahead of us, not far, said Irc. Hem knew that Irc had little idea of distance: not far could mean anything between a hundred spans and a league. They have horses and a big wagon.
"Irc says there are people ahead of us," said Hem, turning to Saliman and Soron. "But he doesn't think they are soldiers or spies."
"People?" Saliman's eyebrows shot up.
"He says they are behaving very strangely. They seem to be fighting with each other. And he says that they have swords."
Soron frowned. "The last thing we need is trouble," he said. "Anyone wandering through this forsaken land is bound to be trouble."
"Like us, you mean?" Saliman said. He laughed. "Well, we shall just be cautious. It should be easy enough to avoid them."
It became evident that night that the strangers were not, in fact, far away at all. They saw a campfire burning through the scrub, and were close enough to see dark figures passing in front of it. Whoever these people were, they were clearly enjoying themselves: the sound of conversation, laughter, and even singing drifted over the night air toward the three Bards.
"Don't they know that the Black Army could be marching up this road any moment?" asked Hem in wonder as he lay sleepless in the cold, staring up at the bright winter stars.
"Clearly not," said Soron. "I wonder who they are?"
"Minstrels, by the sound of it," said Saliman sleepily.
Hem sent out his listening, the acute hearing that was a special ability of Bards. He could hear a dulcimer and a flute, and maybe a lyre, but he didn't recognize any of the songs. They were singing in Annaren, he thought, and they sounded cheerful and unafraid. He was suddenly full of yearning for some plain good fellowship.
"I think I'd like to talk to them," he said. "They don't sound dangerous at all."
"Go to sleep," said Saliman.
Hem sighed and huddled into his blanket. The ground seemed particularly hard tonight.
The people in the wagon were moving northward as they were, and so they followed them at a judicious distance all the next day. Irc was beside himself with curiosity, and spent most of the day observing them and bringing back reports. It seemed that there were three, two men and a woman. He was quite sure that they were neither Bards nor Hulls. Most interestingly, to Irc anyway, their wagon was made of gold.
Gold? said Hem.
And they are carrying a great treasure. Hem could hear the acquisitive greed in Irc's voice. Jewels and golden things.
You didn't go inside the wagon? asked Hem, aghast.
Irc didn't answer the question, and he ignored Hem's worried warning to stay out of the wagon. Irc couldn't resist bright things: he had a particular weakness for spoons and in Turbansk Hem had to continually raid Irc's treasure stores to replenish the dining hall's supplies.
Puzzled, Hem discussed Irc's observations with Saliman, who burst out laughing. "If the caravan is made of gold, I feel sorry for the horses," he said. "But I think Irc has discovered a group of players. The gold will be paint, and the jewels will be made of glass. Not that that would worry Irc. . . . The Light alone knows what they are doing wandering through the wilderness in the midst of war."
"Players?" asked Hem. "What are they?"
"Have you never seen them? Turbansk has some fine players ... I mean, it did . . ." Saliman paused for a moment. "They are people who tell stories. Plays."
"I've heard storytellers," said Hem. While in Turbansk, he had once heard a legendary storyteller, Nakar, in the marketplace, who had enraptured him with a tale of the lost love of the first Ernani of Turbansk, who had been kidnapped by water Elementals. The crowd at his feet had been silent and breathless, hanging on his every word. Although Nakar was not a Bard, Hem had thought the powers he held were very like those of Barding, although he couldn't have said why.
"No, these play out the story. They dress up as kings or lovers or villains and pretend they are the people in the legends. They travel from city to city, and make their living that way. There are some very good players in the Suderain, but mostly they are Annaren."
Hem fell silent, trying to imagine it. "I'd like to see that," he said at last.
"Perhaps, if our friends are heading for Til Amon, as seems likely, you will," said Saliman, grinning. "But you are not allowed to run away with them."
Alison Croggon - [Pellinor 04] Page 10