Pellinor 04: The Singing

by Alison Croggon

  "But some got away," said Maerad quickly. "Surely some people escaped."

  "Always some escape," Silvia answered. She had noticed Maerad's anxiety, and attempted to comfort her. "Saliman is a resourceful Bard, and a powerful one, and no mean warrior. I am sure he would have as good a chance as anyone."

  That was cold comfort indeed. For a time, the only sound was the sleepy popping of the fire.

  "When did you hear this news?" asked Cadvan.

  "Only a fortnight ago," said Silvia. "It is a heavy blow. We can look for no help from the south, and can only hope that Amdridh holds against the Black Army."

  "Turbansk has never fallen before," said Cadvan. "Not even through all the long years of the Great Silence. It must be a vast army."

  "I saw it," said Maerad suddenly. The Bards gravely turned to look at her. "I saw the army in a dream. A huge army, stretching farther than the eye could see, with monstrous soldiers made of iron. And I saw Turbansk laid waste and all its towers and walls crumbled." She suddenly wanted to weep. "My brother is there."

  Now Silvia was astonished. "Your brother?"

  "My brother, Hem. Well, Cai is his proper name, but he only calls himself Hem. We found him, Cadvan and I, in the middle of the Valverras. The Hulls kidnapped him; I think that's why they sacked Pellinor, because Enkir and the Hulls wanted to find him. They thought he was the One, not me. We

  took him to Norloch. And then, when Norloch was burning, Saliman took him to Turbansk, to join the School there. And now ..." She felt tears gathering like a hot ball in her throat, but she didn't want to cry. "Now, I don't know where he is."

  "Silvia is right, Maerad," said Cadvan gently. "If anyone could make sure that Hem is safe, it is Saliman."

  "Yes," said Maerad harshly. "But we don't know if Saliman is alive. Do we?"

  There was a long silence. Malgorn, looking at Maerad sympathetically, wordlessly filled everyone's glasses. It did seem strange, Maerad thought suddenly, to be speaking of war and death in such a comfortable and beautiful room, drinking out of delicately blown glasses. Nothing seemed to be quite real.

  At last she broke the silence. "I think I would know if Hem was dead," she said. "It's as if there's a—a kind of thread that binds me to him. I don't think I imagine it."

  "Sometimes," said Silvia gravely, "it is like that between people. I do not doubt you, Maerad."

  Maerad looked up into Silvia's gentle, dark eyes, now filled with a deep sadness and love. She looked away swiftly, because kindness would really make her weep, and she did not wish to weep here, among people who had also suffered deeply. "If Hem is still alive," she said, "then so are other people. Saliman too."

  "I hope you are right," said Malgorn.

  "I have to find him." Maerad already felt light-headed, but drained her glass anyway. "I have to find him very soon."

  Malgorn almost smiled. "In all of Annar and the Suderain, you seek your brother?"

  "It's a Knowing I have." She stared fiercely at Malgorn. "I know it's important. Beyond wanting him and loving him—of course I want to find him because of that. But it's more important even than that. I don't know why."

  Such was the passion and certainty in Maerad's voice no one in the room disbelieved her. Malgorn nodded gravely. "Well, then, you must seek him," he said, with a special gentleness that she had not heard in his voice before. "But first, I think you must sleep."

  Maerad woke late to another clear winter day. The pale sun spilt through the casement, and she lay idly, listening, as she had almost a year ago, to the noises of the School: musical instruments tuning up; a dog barking; pigeons cooing outside her window. Her room was warm, and it was no punishment to leave her cozy bed and wash herself and dress.

  She wandered downstairs to see what she could get for breakfast. She met Cadvan in the corridor, on the same errand.

  'We're up a bit late," he said. "But there will be something. I'm ravenous!"

  "Something" turned out to be meat pastries, warmed up for them by the Bardhouse cook, and fresh rye bread, white cheese, and fruit. They took their bounty to the small dining room where they had eaten the night before, and set to with pleasure, talking over their plans for the day. Maerad wanted to wander around in the sunshine and visit her favorite places in Innail, and perhaps to see the swordmaster Indik and others she had met on her last stay here. Cadvan, his brow creased, was already planning further ahead.

  "What shall we do, Maerad?" he asked, pushing back his plate with a contented sigh. "I believe you utterly when you say that we have to find Hem. But how do we go about that? He could be anywhere in Edil-Amarandh. And traveling, as Malgorn said last night, has become perilous: Annar is already at war. It would be good to have some idea of where to start, at least."

  Maerad studied Cadvan gravely. Unlike Silvia and Malgorn,he was little changed from when she had first met him, aside from a thin white scar that curled around his cheekbone and around his left eye, the mark of a Hull's whiplash. He had always had a certain grimness about him. Perhaps, thought Maerad, he was a little more careworn; yet she often had the sense that his grimness was a veil, and that underneath it welled a brilliant fountain of joy. Her thoughts made her feel strangely shy.

  This was the first time he had asked her what they ought to do next. Always it had been Cadvan who made the decisions, who led the way. It made her realize again how she had changed in the past months. And perhaps Cadvan had changed as well. He was prepared to go with her, unquestioningly, on a dangerous quest, which most people would dismiss as mad and futile.

  "I think we have to go south." Maerad frowned, pondering her ignorance of Annar. All she knew was that the Suderain was south of Annar, and that Turbansk was—had been—in the Suderain. And that, if they were lucky, Hem would be heading north. If he had survived. "I mean, Hem would likely be coming north—maybe."

  "What do you feel, though?" Cadvan stared at her intently. "Maerad, I trust that you are correct, that your Knowing speaks true in you. I remember when we first found Hem, how your Knowing guided you then, against my better judgment." Cadvan unconsciously rubbed the scar on his cheekbone— meeting Hem had led to the battle with the Hulls that had nearly killed him and that had marred his face. "I think perhaps we can use that sense to guide us. But you must be certain: you must not let the Knowing be muddied by your hope."

  Maerad paused awhile before she answered, searching inside herself for her truest feeling. She knew exactly what Cadvan meant. In Gilman's Cot, when she had been a slave, there had been a saying: "Hope shines in the dying man." The more desperate you were, she thought, the more danger there was of being misled by your hopefulness.

  She missed Hem with every fiber of her being. He was the only family she had left: her mother and father were dead, killed by the Dark. Her brother's thin, mischievous face rose up in her mind's eye. She thought with a pang that he probably looked different now. When she had last seen him, he had seemed to her, for all his toughness, to be mostly a little boy. But boys his age, in the awkward space between childhood and manhood, changed so fast.

  She sighed, and tried to focus her thoughts. Or, more precisely, tried not to think at all, so that whatever was in her mind would rise up and speak. She waited, with a relaxed attention, for what she knew to reveal itself.

  "I think it is south," she said at last. "Some kind of—tug— that way. I don't know anything else."

  "South it is, then," Cadvan said. "As soon as we can. But for now, I would dearly love to rest in Innail. It has been a difficult winter, and I doubt that spring will be any easier."

  Maerad felt a huge relief, as if she had passed some test she had not been aware she was taking. Cadvan's implicit trust moved her deeply: she doubted herself so fiercely. A sudden tenderness washed over her, and she almost reached out to brush back the lock of hair that dropped over his forehead as he leaned across the table toward her; but she checked herself, and again looked down at the table, a slight flush rising in her cheeks. She and Cadvan had been
close companions for many months, but their intimacy was hedged with many unspoken barriers.

  "I need a new sword," she said, changing the subject. "Arkan took Irigan when he captured me."

  "And a horse. Unless you want to run south wolfwise," said Cadvan.

  "I think I have been too much a wolf lately." Maerad loved the strength that went with her wolf-self, the sense of freedom, the vivid and exciting sensual world of smell and taste and instinct, but even before Cadvan had raised the possibility, she had begun to be secretly afraid that she might forget how to turn back into herself.

  "Well then, we can mix business with pleasure today, and ask Indik about both mount and sword," said Cadvan, standing up to gather their plates.

  "I wish I had Imi." Maerad thought sadly of the mare who had carried her the length of Annar, and who had been her dear and gentle friend.

  "She's with the Pilanel. They are good with beasts, especially good with horses, so you must not worry for her. It would be some detour to go north over the mountains to get her back."

  Maerad knew that was only sense, but still regretted the loss of her horse. For months it had been the four of them, Cadvan and Maerad, Darsor and Imi. It would be strange to have another mount.

  Cadvan still wanted Maerad's presence in Innail to be known as little as possible, and he insisted that she leave the Bardhouse heavily hooded. Maerad didn't protest: although it was sunny outside, the air was still and cold.

  Their first stop was to visit Indik, swordmaster and horse-master of Innail. On her last visit, Maerad had almost hated him. He had taught her the rudiments of swordskills with scant patience. Even as she had cursed him, she had given Indik her grudging respect; if he was harsh, it was not without reason. Later she had seen another, warmer side of him, and now thought of him fondly.

  Indik's house was at the outer rim of the School, and for Maerad it was sheer pleasure to walk through the paved stone streets, greeting the buildings that now seemed so familiar to her, although in truth she had lived here only briefly. The gardens were wintry, the trees not yet coming into leaf, but Innail was still beautiful. She felt as if she were breathing the beauty in, as if she had been starving for it.

  "It's strange," she mused to Cadvan. "In the north, I saw so many things that I will never forget. I saw the Hramask snow-lands under the winter sun, and the seas of the north with their bergs of ice, which are like the most outlandish castles you ever saw, and their islands of ice and fire. I saw the heavenly dancers in the sky. But this"—she gestured at a house they were now passing, with wide, shallow stone steps leading up to a door carven with leaves—"this is different."

  Cadvan glanced across at her. "There is a beauty that humans make that answers to our need," he said. "A need for home, maybe."

  Home. Maerad rolled the word on her tongue. Yes, coming back to Innail was like coming home. "I don't have a home," she said. "Pellinor was my home, and that was lost to me a long time ago."

  "These are still your people," said Cadvan. "Innail is not so far from Pellinor. And it is the place where you first came into your own, Maerad. It is not surprising that you should love it." He looked around him, his face alight. "One day you must come to Lirigon, my birth home," he said. "There the houses are built of dark stone and have red clay tiles. The marketplace of Lirigon is famous for its pottery. There is good clay near the Lir River."

  Maerad did not answer. At first her heart lifted at the thought of visiting Lirigon with Cadvan, but its mention also raised a dark memory. On the road to Lirigon, as she and Cadvan had made their way northward—a lifetime ago it seemed—Maerad had killed a Bard, liar of Desor, who was traveling with a Lirigon Bard, Namaridh. She and Cadvan had become bitterly estranged afterward, and that had led to disaster.

  "I do not think I can ever go to Lirigon," said Maerad at last. "There is a black crime on my soul."

  Cadvan looked at her in surprise. They had not spoken of the murder since they had reunited such a short time ago; it had been too painful to essay. "There is, Maerad," he said. "You will have to answer to it, if you have not already."

  "How could I have answered already?" asked Maerad, with an edge of bitterness.

  Cadvan reached for her gloved left hand, but she flinched. "You have suffered much since then," he said. "And I think that suffering has made you wiser. It doesn't always do that, you know. Suffering can destroy the soul; it can make people mean where once they were generous, small where once they were great. It can turn people mad. Remember that half-mad woman we saw in Edinur?"

  "Her name was Ikabil," she said softly, remembering the woman's broken face.

  "That was done to her. And things at least as bad have been done to you, Maerad. But you have not broken. You entered your suffering, and it has made you better understand the suffering of others."

  Maerad listened in silence, her face averted. "I cannot undo it," she said. "And I wish I could."

  "No, you cannot undo it. When all this is over, when peace returns to Edil-Amarandh, we will address this question. Only then can you answer to liar's people, and hear justice. For the moment it must be put aside. But Maerad"—and now Cadvan's voice was urgent—"remember this. It is only through understanding the darkness in yourself that you can understand the good, for the stars do not distinguish between good and bad as people do. There is much light in you. It shines more brightly

  than it ever did. And by the laws of the Balance, the light in you must be weighed in the scales, as much as your crimes."

  They walked on for a while in silence, and Cadvan added, "I do not mean that there will be nothing to answer."

  "I know that," said Maerad. Her voice was so low he could barely hear it. "I do not seek to escape what justice is owed me."

  "If our labors bear fruit, it will be just," Cadvan answered. "If the Dark succeeds, there will be no justice anywhere."

  Maerad nodded again. "I know that too," she said.

  She was thinking of how she had felt when she had killed other beings—those of the Dark, the wer and the Kulag, or the Hulls. She had always felt that the act had marked her. She could justify it: they were evil, she had to save her own life. And yet, all the same, it seemed to her that killing the murderous creatures of the Dark had led, subtly but inevitably, to her killing of liar. Whether she liked it or not, whether she thought her assailants were evil or not, she was dealing out death, and she couldn't still the voice inside her that said that it was wrong. She reflected, not for the first time, that it wasn't so easy to know whether or not your actions were right. Sometimes, Cadvan had said to her once, there is no choice before you except between bad and worse.

  Ill

  A FAREWELL

  T

  HEY tracked down Indik in the saddlery, where he was overseeing some young Bards and apprentices who were polishing the saddles, bridles, and other equipment. The room was filled with a quiet hum of industrious activity and a delicious smell of linseed oil and leather. Maerad sniffed appreciatively.

  Indik glanced up when they entered and, despite himself, smiled broadly. He was a stern-looking, stocky man, the severity of his face exaggerated by a savage scar that drew the skin around his eyes into a squint.

  "I'll be leaving you scoundrels for a while," he said to his students. "If I find that any of you have been lazy while I'm away, a price will be exacted. Don't think that I won't notice. I will. That includes you, Rundal," he said, turning his fierce gaze onto a young man whose undisciplined hair framed his face with a mass of curls.

  This imp-faced lad of about fifteen looked up and nodded seriously. As Indik turned away, he winked slyly at his friend next to him. Maerad was quite certain that Indik saw this, but he gave no sign as he greeted them.

  "So you're still alive," he said gruffly to Maerad, unable to entirely conceal his pleasure. "Amazing. I think that deserves a wine, don't you?"

  Bards, Maerad reflected as she and Cadvan followed Indik to a nearby tavern called, predictably enough, the Horse's Ma
ne, thought every occasion deserved a drink. Even if there wasn't an occasion, they would invent one. So different from the thugs at Gilman's Cot, where she had been a slave; there they would gulp down the voka, an eye-stinging spirit distilled from turnips, until they vomited or fell senseless to the ground. Maerad had very seldom seen a drunken Bard, and had never seen Bards drinking themselves into a stupor. For them, drinking was all about pleasure: winemaking was considered one of the higher arts, and skilled winemakers were greatly revered.

  Once they had their wine, and were seated by a fire at a low table looking out through a mullioned window on a day that was rapidly clouding over, Indik began to talk about the recent events in Annar. Unlike Silvia or Malgorn, he seemed enlivened; a cold light burned in his eyes as he spoke of the battles that had taken place.

  "I've felt it coming," he said. "Like you, Cadvan, I knew something was happening these past years—a gathering. And now the storm breaks, no?"

  "Only its outriders, I fear," Cadvan answered. "The storm itself is yet to hit."

  "Yes, well. I heard about Turbansk." Indik was briefly gloomy, staring ahead, pulling at his lower lip. "That is bad, certainly. Very bad. And all this scheming from Enkir. That's bad too. If Norloch has gone to the Dark without a sword being raised, we are in desperate times indeed."

  Maerad glanced swiftly at the shrewd old warrior. No one else, even in Innail, had spoken of Norloch as being in alliance with the Dark; it was thought that Enkir was acting on his own black counsel.