It was about twenty leagues south to Til Amon from the fork in the South Road, and they covered it in three days. The mountains swept up to their left: gray, naked edges of rock, their peaks hidden in thick cloud. On the first day, they reached the Lake of Til Amon, a huge body of water stretching south before them, iron gray under the gray sky. The wind swept down the mountains and over the lake, so when it reached them, it was knifed with ice. Their nights were short and comfortless.
As Hem huddled under the inadequate shelter of a small fir or in the lee of an overhanging rock, exhausted and unable to sleep, he wondered if he had been this physically miserable even on the journey across Den Raven. That had definitely been a darker road than this: but this journey was probably more uncomfortable. The chill pierced to the very marrow of his bones and never went away. Thinking about warm beds or hot meals only made things worse, and yet he couldn't stop it. On the third day, to cap his misery completely, he developed a heavy cold, with a painful cough. Saliman, who was a famous healer, listened to his chest with deep concern and made a charm that helped slightly. Hem, who had healing skills himself, knew that the only real remedy was rest and a warm bed, both of which were impossible. They had no choice but to continue on.
They reached Til Amon well after dark that day. Its high gates seemed to loom quite suddenly out of the mist and darkness. There was a bell-chain beside the gate, for late travelers. When Soron gave it an imperious tug, they heard the bell sound deep inside the walls; they stood outside the gate, shivering in the rain, until a guard opened a slit in a small portal beside the main gate and demanded identification. After what seemed to Hem like an unreasonably long time, he let them in.
At last they were under shelter. Hem, cold, feverish, and soaked to the skin, was too tired and sick to care. Before he did anything else, Saliman swept Hem to a Bardhouse, where he was handed over to a no-nonsense healer who listened to his chest, clicked his tongue in concern, and gave Hem a draft of a black liquid that tasted so bitter it made him almost gag. Then Irc, who had been clinging to Hem's shoulder trying to hide in the hood of his cloak, was firmly removed and Hem was put into a hot bath and dressed in dry clothes. Irc, deeply suspicious of the healer, watched every move from the side of the bath; he had never understood the human predilection for wetting themselves all over. As for Hem, the pleasure of being warm all the way through was indescribable, and he collapsed blissfully into a soft, welcoming bed and slept as he had not slept for weeks.
He woke late the following morning, and then only because Irc was pulling his hair. Sleepily he fended him off, trying to crawl back into the delicious space of dream, where he was still warm and comfortable. He had forgotten that he was in Til Amon, and expected that with wakefulness would come the dripping twigs, hard wet ground, and bone-aching cold that had been his lot for the past few days. But the warmth didn't disappear, and he suddenly remembered where he was, and sat up, instantly awake.
Food, said Irc irritably. I'm hungry.
Me too, said Hem. There was a yawning hole where his middle should have been. He jumped out of bed, and pulled on some of the clothes he had been given the night before. Where's Saliman? He'll know where the food is.
With Irc on his shoulder, he padded out of his room in bare feet and made his way downstairs. There he found the healer, who was shocked that Hem was out of bed.
"But I'm fine!" Hem protested. "I've never felt better in my life! And anyway, I need to break my fast. I don't like eating in bed!"
"Last night, you were as ill as any child I've seen," the healer said sternly. "While you're in my charge, you will do as I say."
Hem had no intention of returning to bed, and was about to argue the point heatedly, when Saliman entered.
"Good morrow, Edadh," he said to the healer. "And to you, Hem. What are you doing out of bed?"
"I'm feeling fine!" Hem said. "But the healer wants me to go back to bed. I'm just really hungry. And so is Irc," he added, as the crow gave an indignant caw. "I didn't have anything to eat last night."
Saliman exchanged an ironic glance with Edadh, and then made Hem sit in a chair and examined him carefully. When he had finished, he looked up at Edadh. "I'm afraid he's right," he said. "There's nothing wrong with him; the sickness seems to have disappeared altogether. This boy is very tough—I've seen him recover like this from a serious fever before, and I didn't believe my eyes. Well, I don't think there's a lot of point in confining him to his room: it would only cause you unnecessary trouble."
Edadh looked relieved. "I am glad to hear it, Saliman," he said. "A little surprised, I confess; perhaps he looked more ill than he was last night, although then I would have to believe that my healing skills are deserting me."
"Think rather that your skills are at their highest," said Saliman, smiling. "And that your healing has led to a miraculous recovery."
Edadh turned to Hem, spreading his hands. "Go then, and my good will with you."
Hem bowed, mollified. "And mine with you, too," he said. "Thank you for your care."
"You might as well come with me," said Saliman to Hem. "Do you have your pack?"
Hem ran upstairs, where his pack lay by his bed, and joined
Saliman. Although his first priority was breakfast, he was also very curious to see Til Amon. Like most Annaren Schools, it was built as a series of concentric circles, with major roads running like spokes through the circling streets. It wasn't, thought Hem, as beautiful as Turbansk: the buildings were of gray stone, rather than the rose pink from which most buildings in Turbansk had been constructed, and here there was not even the beginning of spring green. Naked elms and lime trees spread their dripping branches against the stone, and the only greens that Hem could see were the dark leaves of ivy, fir, and yew. A gray mist of rain concealed any views of the lake or the mountains. Under the dim winter light, he privately thought that Til Amon looked a little bleak.
As they walked briskly to the dining hall, Saliman told him that he and Soron had already conferred with the First Circle of Til Amon. "We didn't find them entirely unprepared," he said. "They have their own means of gathering news, and were aware that the Black Army would likely march first on this School, if they came up from the south. It is a blow, all the same; daily they also expect news of an army marching from Norloch."
"But none yet?" said Hem.
"Not yet. They have scouts through Lauchomon, as far as the West Road. II Arunedh and Eledh gather their own news, and they keep in contact with them too, of course. Their biggest fear is, of course, armies attacking from both south and north."
Hem fell silent, thinking of the siege of Turbansk. He had a sudden vision of a line of flame creeping over Annar, from south to north, from west to east, consuming everything in its path, leaving behind it a wasteland of ash and ruin. It opened a black pit of hopelessness inside him, and he shook his head to dispel his gloom. "Where's Soron?" he asked.
"At the Bardhouse," said Saliman. "I will find you something to eat, and then we will meet him."
Hem (and Irc) breakfasted lavishly. It was a long time since Hem had enjoyed good, plain Annaren cooking: he ate yeasty bread with lashings of cool, pale butter and honeycomb, a hunk of hard yellow cheese, coddled eggs, cured ham, and several exquisite herbed meat pastries. Saliman, who had already eaten, poured himself a mug of ale and watched him eat with amusement dancing in his dark eyes.
"I can't say that your appetite has diminished since we first met, Hem," he said. "Even if much else has changed."
Hem helped himself to another slice of the crusty white loaf that Saliman had wheedled from the baker. "It's not that I don't like Suderain food," he said, with his mouth full. "It's completely delicious. But I think fresh Annaren bread is the best thing in the whole world."
"There are moments when I agree with you," said Saliman. "But still, the smell of sweet flatbread just out of the oven is the smell of home for me."
By the time Hem had finished eating, the rain ha
d lifted and there was even an expanse of blue sky opening above them. Til Amon didn't seem so dreary on a full stomach, with the pale winter sun sparkling off the puddles, and Hem cheered up as he followed Saliman to the Bardhouse where he would be staying. It belonged, Saliman told him, to Nadal, the First Bard of Til Amon. It was a high, grand building that stood on the edge of the Inner Circle of the School, opposite the Library and the Meeting Hall. As they crossed the circle, a wide space paved with colored tiles in the very center of the School, Hem looked curiously at the people they passed: it seemed strange to see only pale Annarens. For months he had been among the people of the Suderain, black-skinned like Saliman or dark copper like Zelika, and he had become used to it.
He remembered that Karim had said he would be presenting one of his plays here, but there was no sign of the caravan. It would have been hard to miss, like a fabulous beast in the middle of the circle's austere symmetries. He supposed that the players hadn't yet arrived, and hoping that they hadn't run into any trouble, he followed Saliman through the high wooden doors that led into the Bardhouse and into Nadal's rooms.
Saliman ushered Hem into a pleasant sitting room, in which a fire at the far end flickered against the cold. Like the rooms of most Bards, it was decorated with an eye to both beauty and comfort. The walls were paneled with honey-colored wood polished to a soft glow, and covered with shelves that held the usual Bardic assortment of books, scrolls, curios, and instruments of various kinds. In the center, low couches covered in rough-woven silk dyed Thorold blue were arranged around a wide, low table. Soron was seated by the fire, talking earnestly to a tall, fair-haired Bard. They both rose when Hem and Saliman entered, and the Bard, who was of course Nadal, greeted them courteously, glancing in surprise at Hem.
"I'm surprised you're out of bed, considering how fevered you were last night," he said.
Hem bowed his head politely. "I think I'm quite tough," he said. "I feel fine this morning, anyway."
"There's nothing wrong with him, judging by his appetite," said Saliman. They sat down with the other two Bards, and his voice became brisk. "Now, Hem, I want you to show Nadal the tuning fork you took from Sharma while you were in Den Raven."
"Irc found it, really," said Hem. He felt a strange reluctance as he lifted the chain over his head; usually the tuning fork lay forgotten against his skin. He held it in his hand, feeling its weight: it was a simple object, made of brass, but he felt its veiled power as he touched it.
Nadal took the tuning fork curiously, and examined it closely. "It looks like nothing much," he said. "But that is often the way with magical objects. Those runes are very strange. I've never seen the like."
"I have," said Saliman. "As I told you. On Maerad's lyre. They clearly belong together. And the lyre is undoubtedly Dhyllic ware, made in the lost city of Afinil. I have wondered if Nelsor himself might have made these things. He was, after all, a master of scripts; those runes might be his own."
"From what Irc tells us, the Nameless One wore this about his very neck," said Soron. He was looking at the fork askance, as if it still held some trace of the Dark's presence. "And it seems very likely to me that it is something to do with the Spell of Binding that holds Sharma to this earth. Given what Hem has told us about his encounters with the Elidhu, Saliman's guess that all this is deeply to do with the magery of Elementals seems like a good one to me."
Nadal nodded, and handed the tuning fork back to Hem.
Hem quickly put it back on, hiding it beneath his clothes; he felt somehow that it was something that should not be looked at by the naked eye.
"These are deep waters indeed, and it's hard to find our way," said Nadal. "We know too little of the Elementals. For too long have our paths been sundered by mistrust. Your guesses seem good to me, but they are still only guesses."
"I agree there is too much we don't know," said Saliman. "Nevertheless, these are guesses informed by Knowing. You have not met Maerad—she has an unsettling power, Nadal, that is not Bardic."
"This boy's power is not so conventional, either." Hem caught Nadal's eye; there was an uncomfortable sharpness in his glance. "I felt it as soon as you walked in this room. You speak the Elidhu language, as your sister does?" Hem nodded. "We live in perilous times. How do we know that this power will serve us, and not some other necessity?"
Hem bridled, remembering the immense sadness of the Elidhu Nyanar as he spoke about his poisoned home, the hills of Glandugir that the Nameless One had marred beyond recognition. "The Elidhu serve their own ends," he said. "But they hate the Dark as much as we do. The Nameless One has destroyed their homes, too."
"Yes. Yes, you may well be right." Again Hem found himself subjected to Nadal's keen, searching glance. "Some wisdoms we have held dear as Bards might have to be put aside in this war. Perhaps they have been, indeed, blindnesses. Still, after all this time it seems strange to think of the Elidhu, who allied themselves with the Nameless before the Great Silence, as being on our side."
"It's not about sides," said Hem. He turned to Saliman. "The Elidhu were at Afinil, weren't they?"
Saliman nodded. "Yes, they weren't always distrusted by Bards. And it was only the Winterking and a couple of other renegade Elidhu who helped Sharma."
"I accept what you say, Saliman," said Nadal. "Still, there are many angles to this war, and they are not less important. We cannot let our hopes hang on such a slender thread. Let's not forget how desperate things are: Norloch has fallen to the Dark without a sword risen in defense. And now we hear that Nelac has been imprisoned by Enkir, and is charged with treachery."
Saliman looked up swiftly, his face anguished. "Alas, I feared that something of the kind might happen when we fled Norloch. But still, I am shocked that he dares to imprison a Bard as greatly loved as Nelac. He must think his arm strong indeed."
"As I told you last night, Enkir has raised soldiers from all over Annar. His garrison is now very strong. And the Schools are still divided. None save the Seven Kingdoms dare to stand openly against him, and some even now believe that he is their best bulwark against the armies of the Dark. The Fall of Turbansk was a great argument for Enkir: he drives with fear, and will use it as a cover for his own ends. And some Schools are already under attack; I heard that the Vale of Innail has been hard-pressed from the mountains in recent weeks, and there is civil war in Lukernil and Rhon, where bandits are roaming freely, by my guess under Enkir's blessing. Alas for Annar!"
"I wonder how closely Enkir works with the Dark," said Soron. "I can't but be surprised that he has sent no army marching on Til Amon; that is what everyone has been expecting."
"We have sent out scouts through Lauchomon, as far as the II Arunedh Road, and have seen no sign of an army. Yet. Unless he has found a way to make his soldiers invisible, or all our scouts are blind."
"I think Soron is correct," said Saliman. "If an army is already sent from the Suderain, why should Enkir attack Til Amon himself? Better by far to concentrate his forces on his other enemies."
"This makes it all the more likely, of course, that the Black Army will not pass us," said Nadal. "I am guessing that they hoped to surprise us. That advantage, at least, they have lost; we have been preparing for war since we had the emissary from Norloch, demanding our fealty. I wish I knew what forces are arraigned against us. Not all are human." He glanced at Irc, who had been sitting quietly on Hem's shoulder throughout the conversation. "I have some ravens here, birds of great wisdom, who offered their help; and they can fly more quickly than men can walk. I will hear something of what to expect today, I hope. But I judge that we can hold out against one army. We are protected by the lake on three sides, and our winter stores are deep enough to endure a long siege. I doubt theirs will be. They will get precious little pickings from Amon Fesse; our granaries and storehouses there have all been emptied and brought here, and our people are even now moving within our walls. They will not find us unprepared."
"The best news for us, Nadal, is that we h
ear that the Nameless One also marches on Car Amdridh," said Soron. "The full force of his fist will not fall on Til Amon."
"True," said Saliman. "He divides his strength and fights on two fronts, and that I judge is a risk. All the same, as I saw on the roads outside Dagra, he sends enormous strength out of Den Raven. He now reveals his full hand. It will not be a small army that moves on you now, Nadal; from here the whole of South Annar is open to him."
"Aye," said Nadal, but his voice was hard. "I do not cling to false hopes. But I would still place my wager on us."
The sun was nearing noon, and Nadal politely invited the three Bards to eat a midday meal with him. Although Hem had but lately finished breakfast, he assented enthusiastically. Saliman made no comment; after all, they had had thin enough pickings for the past few weeks, and no doubt there would be hard times ahead. Then Hem was shown to his room, which was next door to Saliman's on the topmost floor of the Bardhouse. It was a pleasant chamber paneled in the same honey-colored woods as Nadal's rooms. A fire had been laid and lit shortly before, and there was a comfortable bed piled high with bright cushions in one corner.
When Saliman left, Hem kicked off his boots and curled his naked toes luxuriously in the thick red carpet that covered the stone floor. He felt very content. Then he padded over to the casement and opened his window to let Irc out. Irc leaped out from the sill, eager to play in the sky after a day spent mostly indoors, and Hem watched him idly.
Alison Croggon - [Pellinor 04] Page 12