Most disturbing was Dernhil’s fear that the Bards had failed to banish Kansabur. The thought that, at the least, that harm had been contained was the one consolation of the whole sorry mess. Could Kansabur really have fooled some of the wisest Bards in Annar? Even Nelac had been sure that she had been banished into the Abyss… The Bards of Lirigon had hunted the Bone Queen for months, tracking her spoor from one haunting to another. This was a long and exhausting task, as Kansabur had no certain physical form. When Cadvan had summoned her, she had first manifested as the Bone Queen of Lirhan, taller and grimmer than most men, but nevertheless seeming, for all her sorceries, human and corporeal. But then she had become as insubstantial as smoke and vanished into the Shadow Circle.
It was a long time since Cadvan had considered much beyond the simple demands of his life in Jouan – it was more than a year since he had even read a book. But a Bard-trained memory, as Cadvan knew from his many wakeful nights, was as accurate as any written text. He knew already that he wouldn’t sleep this night. He gloomily poured himself another cider and set himself to thinking over what he knew.
According to the Law of Theyan, Bards had theorized that the universe must consist of eleven Circles, each intricately bound within the others. The Knowing of the Eleven Circles was an esoteric lore known to few, and the little Cadvan understood had only been gained through bitter necessity. Even the wisest Bards could only describe four Circles: the others were called the Seven Unknowns.
“The Circles are not places,” Nelac had told him. “It is only in the World that we understand place as place and time as time. They are neither within nor beyond nor beside our physical plane: none of those words mean anything in relation to them. We can but imagine them poorly, Cadvan: even a Bard’s perception of them is shaped by our limitations, by what it is possible for us to see or feel or know. If we enter those other planes, we shape what we perceive, and it is only a rag of the truth. Perhaps it is just as well: we cannot bear very much reality…”
The four Known Circles were the World, the Shadow, the Empyrean and the Abyss. The World was the physical plane. The Shadow was the reality Bards could most easily enter: it was a dimension of energies that could manifest directly in the World, and which could be perceived in dreams or trances. It was where the dead lingered on their journey to the Gates, in the twilight of their souls when they still had some connection to the living. Cadvan thought of his own ventures into that realm, and shuddered: those memories underlay some of his worst nightmares. Yet Ceredin had spoken from that plane, to both Dernhil and Selmana. He wondered now if it was the fear that he had learned in those terrible and strange journeys to find Kansabur that had made it impossible for Ceredin to speak to him; simple cowardice seemed not quite as shameful as refusing to hear her voice…
The Empyrean, the third Circle, was beyond the Gates, the irrevocable destination of the dead. Only one Bard, Maninaë, had ever gone that far and returned: and he had paid a terrible price, and ever after remained silent about what he had found there. The Abyss was more mysterious still, and no Bard had ever entered it. It was described as a place of unform, beyond human understanding.
“Neither depth nor height, neither mass nor nothingness, neither light nor dark, neither sound nor silence, neither life nor death, exist in the Abyss,” Nelac had told him. “It is a place of unbeing, comprised of terrible energies. Sorcery is above all the study of the Abyss: sorcerers seek to find and use the vast powers that sleep within it. Such energies transform into grievous power when they manifest in the World: they do not belong here, and they can do nothing but injure everything they touch. They are not inherently evil, you understand: in the Abyss, where they are what they are, these energies are part of what hold our cosmos together. It is only when a human will seeks to bind and use them that evil is made. And this is why, Cadvan, Bards renounce with such absoluteness the study of sorcery. It is, in its very being, an injury to the Balance: and the Balance is at the very heart of Barding, and of the Light…”
Even now, so long afterwards, Cadvan blushed at the rebuke. Before she embraced the immortality offered by the Nameless One, the Bone Queen had been a mortal woman. Perhaps, Cadvan thought, she had not been so different from Cadvan himself: talented, ambitious, arrogant… Perhaps in the beginning she had told herself that she was working to a higher good, or at least did no harm. Perhaps she believed it even at the end. Power was its own reason. Bards, even corrupt Bards, tended not to be especially interested in wealth or luxuries or other trivial vices: so much the easier to be seduced by the pure thrill of power. Cadvan remembered the dazzle through his entire being as he exercised that strength when he summoned Kansabur. For a few moments of exhilaration and terror he had felt himself capable of anything, anything at all: he could merely crook his little finger and empires would crumble, whole cities collapse into dust.
He had felt nothing like that elation when he and the Lirigon Bards had, at last, tracked down Kansabur and forced her – or thought they had forced her – back into the Abyss. Then the exercise of power had been an anguish so exquisite Cadvan still felt the echo of it in his bones: an intense labour that began as pain and finished as torment. Could it be true that they had failed in their task? He remembered uneasily that there had been a single instant – a flicker in the fraught moments just before the Circles had aligned and opened – in which the concentration of the Bards had faltered and broken against the will of their enemy. Could that have been the hole in the net? Yet the Bards, fearing that Kansabur might have fooled them, had searched for months afterwards for any trace of her, and found no sign; and the killings in Lirhan that had betrayed her presence in the World had stopped completely.
Cadvan wished he could believe she had been banished. In the deeper parts of his mind, a slow tocsin was ringing out an alarm. There was something he had forgotten, something that nudged at the edges of his memory, which he was now too tired to grasp. In the pit of his soul, he felt that Dernhil was right: but it seemed impossible. Perhaps Dernhil was mistaken, and was merely speaking out of an unfounded fear. Yet Nelac had been concerned enough to send Dernhil out to find Cadvan. That, more than anything, gave Cadvan pause: the Knowing of Nelac was not to be dismissed lightly.
The problem with fearing the worst, Cadvan thought sourly, was that too often it was the safest thing to bet on.
VIII
AS the early sun broadened over Jouan, stray beams crept past the edges of the shutters and played on the floor. Cadvan sat immobile, deeply wrapped in thought; lack of sleep left a heavy weariness in his body, but his mind was clear. He must leave Jouan with Dernhil. He wished that he felt as certain about everything else.
A knock startled him out of his thoughts. He looked up to see Hal peering in through the half-open door. Stubborn the goat was right behind her, demanding breakfast. Cadvan stood up hastily, realizing that he was late with the morning chores, and that he had completely forgotten that it was the day for Hal’s lesson.
“Stubborn needed milking,” said Hal reproachfully. “She’s a bit cross, but she let me do it. I know she’s saying she wants to be fed, but I already gave her a mash.”
Cadvan swore and stood up, stretching the stiffness out of his body. “I thank you, Hal. I’m sorry to put you to the trouble. I know you have a lot to do. And you,” he said to Stubborn in the Speech, “can stop calling me names.”
Stubborn looked at him scornfully, flicked her tail and trotted off behind the house. Hal gave him her quicksilver smile, and edged into the kitchen. “I don’t mind,” she said. “I did mind her trying to eat my breakfast. When she couldn’t wake you up, she came to me.”
“She’s a goat of remarkable intelligence and greed,” said Cadvan. “I hope you kept the milk.”
“I did,” said Hal, sitting down and propping her face in her hands. “I knew you’d say that. Indira said she would make some curds.”
Cadvan looked at his cold hearth with disgust. “And the embers have quite gone out. A po
or householder indeed!” He busied himself kindling the fire and putting a kettle on the hob to steep some tea, wondering how to tell Hal that he was planning to leave Jouan. He had been teaching her for months now, and she was an apt pupil, quick and gentle. She was already an accomplished healer, and it seemed wrong to stop her education now. A sharp pang of sadness made him realize that he was fonder of Hal than he knew; not only of Hal, but of Taran and his noisy, cheerful family, and of many others in the village. Leaving Jouan would be a wrench.
“You’re going to leave us, aren’t you?” said Hal, interrupting his thoughts. “Your friend, that was here last night. He came to find you, didn’t he? Has he come to take you away?”
Cadvan met her eyes, and nodded. Hal swallowed hard, and looked away.
“I must,” he said gently. “Yes, Dernhil is an old … friend. And he has brought some bad news that I must attend. But, Hal, I am sorrier than I can say. I’ve enjoyed teaching you.”
Tears started in Hal’s eyes at that, but she blinked them back. “I’ve enjoyed it too,” she said. “I’d like to learn more, but … I suppose it isn’t to be.”
Cadvan studied Hal’s thin, intense face. As was common, Hal had a little of the Gift: not enough to make a Bard, but enough to ensure a quick, empathic perception that made her a very promising healer. She would never use the Speech, the inborn language that woke the powers of a Bard, but her talents were considerable. Her stoic acceptance moved him.
“You’ve learned a lot already,” he said. “The truth is that I am not a very good healer, Hal. I know a little, as all Bards do, and I have the Gift. You’re actually much more talented at it than I am.”
Hal blushed with pleasure. “Eka asked me to help with that bad birth last week,” she said, with shy pride. “And she said that Ulana would have died without me being there.”
“She would have,” said Cadvan, thinking of Eka, who was generally a good midwife, but hadn’t spotted how seriously Ulana was bleeding. “I hope she paid you?”
Hal wriggled in her chair. “She gave me some coin,” she said. “A bit.”
“You could earn more, if you set up as a healer,” said Cadvan.
“I hope so,” said Hal. “I need to earn, but I don’t want to go down the mine again. Not after … not after the explosion. I keep thinking of Inshi. But people think I’m too young.”
“You are too young. But time will cure that.” Hal was curled up in the chair, staring at him. She was only a child, scarcely thirteen years old, but the resignation in her face was that of an old woman. Childhood burned out fast in Jouan.
“Hal,” he said. “When this is over … if I can – and I don’t know if I will be able to, mind – I will come back to Jouan and see how you’re faring. Even if I can’t live here, I can visit a while and teach you more. If I had time and some books, I could even teach you how to read and write. Jouan needs a healer, and why shouldn’t it be you?”
Hal jumped up and hugged him, her face blazing with sudden joy. “Would you?” she said. “Would you really come back, just to teach me?”
Cadvan unlocked her thin arms from his neck and stood her back from him, holding her shoulders. “Hal, I can’t promise it. I have other duties and … well, it might be dangerous. But if I can come back, I swear I will.”
Hal regarded him sternly from underneath her fringe of hair. “Don’t die,” she said. “I want you to come back.”
Cadvan laughed. “I’ll do my best not to die, then. Just for you.”
They were so intent, neither noticed that Dernhil was standing in Cadvan’s doorway until he cleared his throat. Cadvan invited him inside, and Hal, glaring at him, retreated to a corner.
“I don’t mean to interrupt,” said Dernhil, glancing uncertainly at Hal. “I can go for a walk, maybe, and come back later.”
“You’re taking Cadvan away,” said Hal fiercely. “Why? Why are you taking him away?”
Dernhil, taken aback, looked to Cadvan.
“Dernhil, this is Hal, my next-door neighbour,” said Cadvan. “Hal, this is Dernhil, a friend. You mustn’t blame him for what he can’t help. He is only the messenger.”
Hal scowled, and ran out of the house. Cadvan followed her with his eyes, and sighed.
“I see I am not making friends here,” said Dernhil.
“I’ve been teaching her,” said Cadvan. “It’s a crime to leave anyone so hungry for knowledge without the means of finding it. She’s a talented healer, you know…”
Dernhil smiled. “Whatever the Schools say, you are still a Bard, Cadvan.”
Cadvan glanced at him sharply, suspecting mockery, but there was none in Dernhil’s face. He relaxed, and waved to a chair. “I can offer some sour milk, or some tea,” he said. “But that’s about it for refreshments.”
“Tea would be most welcome,” said Dernhil, sitting down. “So I’m to take it that you’ve decided to come with me?”
“Yes,” said Cadvan shortly. “How can I not? Though I have no idea what you expect me to do.”
“The truth is, I don’t either,” said Dernhil. “Nelac told me that we should come straight to him. Aside from that…”
A silence fell between the two as Cadvan boiled more water for the tea. He poured it out into two clay mugs, and sat down facing Dernhil. In the daylight he could see more clearly the signs of exhaustion on Dernhil’s face.
“I think you’ve been travelling too hard,” he said abruptly. “Have you stopped to rest?”
Dernhil shrugged. “Does it matter?”
“You look as if you’re about to collapse.”
“If so, it’s my business.”
“Not if I am to travel with you,” said Cadvan. “I hardly want to be responsible for dealing you more injury.”
At this Dernhil frowned, and then he looked up and met Cadvan’s eyes, and reluctantly smiled.
“I see your point. Yes, the wound pains me still when I am tired. But I will not collapse, I promise you.”
Cadvan nodded. “I need to make arrangements before I leave Jouan,” he said. “That will take some days, I think. You should rest while you can, and then I will be in your hands.”
Dernhil looked scornfully at his hands, which trembled slightly as they held the mug. “They are poor things to put trust in, I fear,” he said. “But I thank you.”
“There’s no call for thanks,” Cadvan said harshly.
“But there is. You need not have answered as you have.”
“Like you, I have no choice.”
“There is always a choice,” said Dernhil.
For a moment it seemed as if the two Bards were about to argue, but then Dernhil laughed. “By the Light, if I have to fight even to show you gratitude, it will be a hard journey, Cadvan. Be less full of spikes, I beg you.”
Cadvan met Dernhil’s eyes and laughed, despite himself. His smile transformed his face: suddenly he seemed much younger, carefree and reckless.
“No spikes, then,” he said. “At the worst, the odd prickle.”
“Is that a promise?” said Dernhil.
“As good a promise as you’ll get, which isn’t much,” said Cadvan. “Sadly, I seem to be made of spikes.”
It was more than a week before Cadvan was ready to travel, although in truth it could have taken him a couple of days to dispose of his few possessions. When it came to the point, he found himself dragging his feet. He gave his house and furniture back to Taran, refusing payment, and he asked Hal to take Stubborn. He kept his cobbling tools, which had belonged to him since he was a child, and bought a horse and some supplies for the journey. The rest of his belongings scarcely filled a pack. He made his farewells, completed his unfinished cobbling orders and cleaned his house for the last time.
“We all knew that you would leave one day,” Taran said, on Cadvan’s final night in Jouan. They had just had another long argument about payment for the house, which Taran had again lost, and were sealing the deal with a drink in the tavern. “You’re not the kind of man
who would stay in a place like this.”
“I’m sorry to leave,” said Cadvan. “Jouan has been good to me.”
“It went both ways,” said Taran. “We’ve needed a healer here. And I think there would have been murder done over that business about Jorvil, if you had not been here.”
“I can’t say he loves me for it,” said Cadvan, grimacing. Jorvil, the leader who had cheated his gang, still bore Cadvan a heavy grudge for his part in the negotiations.
“That one, he was born sour,” said Taran. “Most are not like him.”
Cadvan thought of the miners he knew. They were hardened by their lives, and were often harsh in their dealings, but Taran was right: Jorvil’s bitterness and capacity for spite was unusual. “I hope you can keep an eye on his wife…”
“I will,” said Taran. “We all will. Some things have changed since you arrived, and for the better. It hasn’t done us any harm having a Bard around.”
“I’m not a Bard,” said Cadvan quickly. “Not any more…”
“I don’t know why you’re not a Bard, and I won’t ask, because it’s none of my business,” said Taran, giving Cadvan a shrewd glance. “But whatever important people say in their stone castles, we make our own judgements about the worth of a man. You’re a Bard to us. Our Bard.”
At this, something lurched in Cadvan’s chest. He turned away to hide his unexpected emotion. To cover the moment, Taran called for more drinks.
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