Alison Croggon - [Pellinor 04]

by The Singing (lit)

  "Aye. I am a respected tracker—quite rightly, I might say without vanity—and so when we lost sight and sound of you at the millstream, I was able to lead them the wrong way. At least, there was stony ground on the other side, so they believed me when I said that you had crossed the stream, and we made a wide search where I was almost absolutely sure you wouldn't be." He sighed and stretched. "I came back after nightfall, and walked upstream until I found your tracks. And have been fol­lowing them ever since. It was no great mystery how I found you, young Hem; you needn't fear for the strength of your glimveil. Your tracks were clear, and I could smell the horses. And the sleep spell was because I feared that if I did not find Saliman first, I might be killed by his companions. Which was quite a rational guess." He rubbed his neck again, and Hem saw that there was blood on his fingers: he had cut him.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I honestly did not expect to find a friend here."

  Grigar drew closer, so their heads almost touched. "There are more friends than you think in Desor," he said. "I am not the only one who has been watching with horror what has been happening here. I was only the first. But we must move quickly, Saliman; they will bring out the hellhounds at dawn tomorrow and they will find you. You are not safe here: the young man you killed, Hrunsar, is the son of Handar, the First of the Circle here, and they will be out for blood."

  Saliman's face hardened. "He had an ill manner," he said.

  "He was as corrupt a Bard as I've known, worse than his father," said Grigar. "I believe his father took him to the torture chambers when he was a child. You were unlucky he was at that posting; he was visiting a friend of his. Otherwise you would likely have got through without trouble." He sighed. "But now I propose to take you to the house of a friend of mine, a league or two from here. We must cover our tracks with every trick we have, from woodcraft to magery, and that is hard with two horses. The yellhounds seldom fail to track their prey once they pick up a trail, though on the way here I did everything I could to hide yours."

  Hem wondered what yellhounds were, and decided he didn't want to find out. "Won't the other soldiers notice that you're missing?" he asked suddenly.

  "I have a story. Do not fear for me. But we must hurry. You should wake your friend, who slumbers so beautifully. That was what I was hoping would happen to you, Hem."

  Hem mindtouched Irc, waking him, and he grumpily flapped over to perch on Hem's shoulder, giving him a sharp peck on the ear as Grigar watched with lively curiosity. Saliman gently shook Hekibel awake. She sat up, alarmed, her hair tousled, and when she saw Grigar, she gave a low cry and cov­ered her mouth, shrinking toward Saliman.

  Saliman put his arm around her shoulders. "Don't be afraid," he said. "This man is a friend, and we can trust him. He is going to lead us to a safe place. But now we must be quick."

  Hekibel blinked, but asked no questions. They swiftly dis­mantled their rough camp, and then there was a short delay while the three Bards worked together a weave of hiding charms to conceal from even the sharpest senses any sign of their presence. Then they moved off, leading the horses through the woods after Grigar.

  They reached their destination in the cold hour before dawn. Unlike the others, Hem had not slept, and now he was so tired he felt numb all over, and the weight of Irc on his shoul­der seemed like a stone. Once they had left the woods, Saliman had put Hem on Usha, and Hekibel mounted Minna. They went no faster, as Saliman and Grigar walked and led the horses, who themselves were stumbling with tiredness. After midnight a thick mist had begun to rise around them, obscuring the moon and stars. It was so dark that they couldn't see a span in front of their noses, and they were forced to use dim magelights. But although they followed no roads, Grigar seemed to know the countryside like the inside of his own head, and never appeared to be lost. Hem sank into a dull trance of exhaustion.

  At last they seemed to arrive somewhere and he started awake, shaking his head to try to clear it. Out of the mist loomed the outlines of what appeared to be a ruined farm­house, its roof slumped in decay, its stone walls crumbled with age and weather. Grigar led them around the back to a walled cobbled yard, where huge dockweeds nodded in the corners. Hem sighed. At the back of his mind, he had hoped that Grigar might be taking them to a place with beds—proper beds with linen sheets and warm blankets. But of course, he thought, it was too much to ask.

  "You should dismount," said Grigar. Hem nodded, slith­ered off Usha's broad back, and stood shivering next to the oth­ers. He was cold to the bone. He stared at the ruined house: it was completely dark, with no sign of habitation. What now?

  "Saliman, forgive me, I must ask you all to turn your backs and close your eyes. It is better if you do not see what I am about to do, and it will only take a moment."

  Hekibel had said nothing at all on their long journey, and looking at her white face, Hem thought she seemed to be on the brink of collapse.

  "I do not want to shut my eyes," she said. "I do not know you."

  "But I do know Grigar," said Saliman, and he took her hand. "We should do as he asks." Hem felt a surge of jealousy; he would have liked his hand to be taken as well. He was just as nervous as Hekibel.

  "Please, close your eyes," said Grigar again. Saliman turned away from Grigar, his eyes shut, and after a brief moment, Hekibel and Hem followed suit.

  They heard Grigar murmur in the Speech, his voice so low that Hem couldn't catch the words. Then there was an indefin­able shift. Hem felt it through his whole body, as if the tempera­ture had changed, but he couldn't tell what had happened.

  "You may look now," said Grigar.

  Hem opened his eyes, and found that in that brief moment the light was completely different: there was now a rose tinge in the sky, a herald of dawn, and it was not as cold. Irc, sitting on his shoulder, gave a low caw, a mixture of surprise and pleasure. Hem blinked. Surely that wall had been crumbled ... He turned around, and saw to his astonishment that where before there had been a ruined house, he now stood in the yard of what seemed to be a prosperous, well-run farm. The door was open, and through it he could see a wide hearth where an orange fire burned low.

  "Welcome to the House of Marajan," said Grigar. "There are stables to your left, where you can bed down the horses. And although I couldn't send word of your coming, it will not take long to make us a breakfast worthy of the appetites we have earned."

  Saliman whistled. "I am amazed, Grigar," he said. "Where are we?"

  "Where we were before, but in another time. So deep goes the Dark in the heart of Desor now, there is no place that is safe in our time. And Marajan, as you will see for yourself, is a Bard of unusual powers ... but quickly, I'll show you the stables, and then I will tell Marajan you are here. Just come through the door when you are ready."

  "Are there beds?" asked Hem in a small voice.

  Grigar laughed, and clapped Hem on the back so the breath rushed out of him. The Bard was a big man, with big hands. "Aye," he said. "And you will be able to sleep as long as you wish. While we are here, there is no hurry."

  "I thought only Elidhu could take you to another time," said Hem dazedly, as they led the footsore horses to the stables. He was remembering how Nyanar had lifted him out of the unbearable present of the camp at Sjug'hakar Im. This place had a similar air of strange enchantment, of being somehow outside the flow of time.

  Grigar gave Hem a piercing glance. "I am curious about you, boy," he said. "What do you know of Elidhu?"

  "I met an Elidhu," said Hem, and then stopped. He hadn't meant to say anything about himself until he was wholly sure of Grigar, but in his weariness it had slipped out. He bit his lip, looking sideways at Saliman, as Grigar stared at him in aston­ishment.

  "Hem, it's all right," said Saliman. "Grigar has shown us much trust in bringing us here. Do you think that he is not endangered himself? But come, let's talk later, when we are warm and fed and rested. I can scarce stand up."

  When he entered the house, Hem felt himself relax for the first time s
ince he could remember. It had the same tranquil air as Saliman's Bardhouse in Turbansk, although it was a very different place. They entered a stone-flagged kitchen, filled with a delicious smell that made water fill Hem's mouth. Grigar sat at a big wooden table with long benches on either side, and over his head dried herbs and onions hung from the dark wooden beams that stretched across the ceiling. A vase of deep blue gentians was set in the window, and there were red cushions on the benches. A large brick oven with an iron door took up all of the far wall, and a kettle was singing on the hob.

  By the stove there stood a tall woman with long, black hair, very white skin and very blue eyes. If she hadn't been so tall, Hem might have mistaken her for his sister; she had exactly the same coloring as Maerad. She turned when they entered, and came toward them with open hands.

  "Welcome, my friends," she said. Her voice was low and musical, and her smile was warm. "Welcome and thrice wel­come. I am Marajan, and this is my house. But please, sit down. I have hot broth here, which will take the chill from your bones, and when you have finished, there is fresh bread in the oven."

  Hekibel looked dazed, and stumbled as she walked to the bench. Saliman caught her elbow, and she looked up into his face gratefully, trying to smile. Hem suddenly understood that Hekibel knew very little of magery, and that the shock of Marajan's house was for her perhaps as great as any they had suffered in the past days. When they had been in danger, she had been brave and stern, no matter how frightened she had been; but in this peaceful, beautiful place she had lost her bear­ings and no longer knew what to do. She looked very fragile, her face smudged with weariness and dirt, her hair tangled, her borrowed clothes filthy; and she was staring at Marajan with awe, as if she wished very much that she were better dressed.

  They were given mugs of broth, which warmed them down to their toes. Then Marajan drew the bread from the oven, and laid new butter and good cheese and a pot of dark honey and smoked meats on the table, with bowls of spiced chutneys and jams and other preserves, a jug of ale, and another of fresh springwater. Hem realized that he was ravenous, and ate his fill, passing titbits to Irc; and as soon as he had quelled his hunger, he promptly began to fall asleep at the table.

  Marajan asked no questions of her guests, and quietly made sure that they had everything they wanted. Then she led them to bedchambers upstairs, closing the shutters to keep out the morning sun. Hem didn't bother to wash: he climbed between the sheets gingerly, almost with disbelief, as if the clean, soft bed were a dream that he might wake from at any moment. He was asleep before his head touched the pillow.

  When Hem woke up, he didn't know where he was. He blinked, looking around disbelievingly at a small but com­fortable bedchamber. It had plain whitewashed walls that were now striped with golden bars of light that slanted in through the shutters, and by his bed was a scrubbed wooden chest, on which was placed a vase of lilac, its brown tips just now swelling with blue buds. Then memory filtered back: this was Marajan's house, and for the first time since he could remember, he was not in immediate danger. He jumped out of bed and flung open the shutters, and found himself look­ing out over a green field that slanted down to a stream. White cows grazed peacefully in the lush grass, and a sinking sun threw a rich honeyed light over everything.

  Hem stared in wonder: the contrast with the Desor he knew was almost too much to take in. And then he realized that, for the first time since Maerad had summoned him, he had no sense of her; the urgency had vanished, along with every trace of her presence. He puzzled over this for a while, disturbed.

  Perhaps, he thought, it was because they were in an earlier time. Perhaps neither of them had been born yet...

  Irc flapped up to the windowsill, ruffled his feathers with pleasure, and was about to fly off to explore, when Hem stopped him.

  It's magery, he said. / don't know how the enchantment works. You might fly off into that and never come back.

  It's nicer than where we've been, said Irc, a little sulkily.

  I know, said Hem. Ask Marajan first. You're a nuisance, but I'd hate to lose you, all the same.

  Irc nipped his ear, but stayed. Hem saw that his clothes, cleaned and mended while he slept, were folded neatly on the end of the bed, and he dressed and found his way downstairs to the kitchen, guided by the sound of voices. Saliman, Grigar, and Hekibel were seated around the table, but Marajan was not there. On the table were bread and wine and ale, and the smell coming from the oven suggested another good meal was on the way. Hem sniffed the air in appreciation, and sat down with his companions.

  "This is better, yes?" Grigar smiled across the table, and for the first time Hem smiled openly back. Until now, he hadn't really trusted Grigar—despite Saliman's assurances, he still thought that they might be led into a trap.

  "Yes, it's a wonderful place," said Hem. "But who is Marajan? And if we're in the past, when are we? Irc wants to stretch his wings, but I told him to stay close; I don't want him getting lost."

  "Irc can explore as much as he likes, as long as he is back when we leave," Grigar said. "This house is not on an enchanted island of time, but in its own time. We're the ones who have stepped back. About a hundred years, in fact. This was once what Desor was like. I still find it hard to believe how it has changed."

  Hem told Irc he could explore, with stern instructions that he was to return at once when he was called, and went out into the cobbled yard. Irc leaped up joyously into the luminous twilit sky. He wouldn't be long, Hem reflected, as it was almost time for dinner. He watched him for a time, absorbing the gentle sounds of evening: the faint clink of cowbells, the comfortable squabbles of birds settling down to rest, the faint soughing of the trees. The peacefulness slowly filled him up, and he sighed with a profound, undirected happiness.

  He looked across the field and saw Marajan walking toward him, carrying an iron bucket. She was dressed for farm-work: her hair was gathered in an untidy bun on her neck, and her dress was tucked up around her thighs, revealing heavy boots. She smiled when she saw Hem.

  "Your crow looks happy," she said when she reached him. "Did you sleep well, Hem? You look rested."

  "Yes," said Hem, with feeling. He was slightly tongue-tied around Marajan. Her grave beauty and the frank, generous clarity of her gaze made him feel shy. She seemed almost the most Bardic person he had ever met, and in his short life, he had met some of the greatest Bards in Edil-Amarandh.

  "I am glad," said Marajan. "I can see the marks of deep wounds in you, and griefs beyond your years. You have trod­den a dark path, and I fear that it will be darker still. If I could, young healer, I would bid you stay with me until all your hurts were healed. But, alas, I cannot ask that. You are of your own time, and cannot step out of the flow of years for very long. Even here, you can stay but a day and a night."

  Hem stared at her in wonder. "Who are you?" he blurted out. "Are you a Bard? I mean ..." He spluttered and blushed, feeling that he had been discourteous.

  "I am a Bard, yes. But not quite like other Bards, as perhaps you are not." She was silent for a time, staring out over the fields. "I have seen you in dreams, Hem, and also your sister. Perhaps I prepared this space for you, knowing that you would need a haven when the darkness crept over Annar."

  Hem looked at her in astonishment. Marajan smiled again, and Hem perceived the sadness graven in her beauty, deepen­ing her luminous glance as the coming night enriched the colors of twilight. "It would not be surprising. I am your mother's mother's sister. The Elemental blood runs strong in Pellinor, and to some of us are given the gift of visions, which can seem as much a curse as a blessing. In your time, I am already beyond the Gates of Death, and it is a true gift to see you, brief though this meeting must be . . . but come, it is almost supper-time, and there is much to speak of, before you must return to your own time. And I should hate to burn the meat."

  Hem followed Marajan indoors, his head whirling: Marajan was his grandmother's sister? He felt a pang of loss to think that she was dead in his
time. She seemed not at all ghostly, but rather one of the most alive people he had ever met. He wondered if Saliman knew that she was one of the House of Karn, and if he was aware of her Elemental powers; surely it was her Elemental gift that permitted her to make a doorway through time.

  After a leisurely and merry dinner, they talked long into the night. Grigar told them that he was part of a group of Bards that worked secretly against the Nameless One in Annar. Their net­work was extensive, stretching from the Suderain to Lirigon, and it included all the Seven Kingdoms. They were in contact with Hared at Nal-Ak-Burat, although Grigar told them that communication was becoming more difficult by the day.

  "Annar becomes more and more like a prison," he said. "You were lucky you struck no trouble, coming up the West Road; frankly, I am surprised. There is civil war almost every­where. The recreant Enkir has declared war on what he calls the rebel Schools, and even now marches on Eledh. Arnocen and II Arunedh know they are next, and are ready for war. The Black Army lays siege on Til Amon, and if they fall, all Lanorial lies open to Enkir and the Nameless One. Lirion and Culain have mustered their soldiers."

  "It is a bleak picture you paint, my friend," said Saliman.