Cadvan had dared. Knowing the absolute bans against sorcery, knowing the peril, knowing the punishment visited on mages who flirted with the knowledge of the Dark, he had dared. He had read all the sorceries that Likod had shown him, but this was the last: after that, ill and shaken for days, he had decided that he needed no more knowledge of the Dark. He had congratulated himself for knowing his own limits; he had never been tempted to invoke the spells until he challenged Dernhil. Later, after the disaster in the Inkadh Grove, he had often wondered at himself. But Bards were inquisitive: seeking knowledge of all kinds was at the heart of Barding. Cadvan was driven by an overwhelming curiosity.
Likod had cunningly pricked his vanity, flattering him with a respect that underlaid his open scorn – Cadvan was, after all, the Bard who had, wholly untrained, broken Likod’s attempt at chaining him. Likod’s mockery was sly. Cadvan wholly believed that the Light was more powerful than the Dark, that the purity of his allegiance and his will would protect him from its malignity, and Likod did nothing to disabuse him of that idea. Surely, Cadvan had thought, it is better to know than not to know. Surely the Light would ultimately benefit from his insight into the Dark. And so he had looked. He had survived the looking, but reading the spell had frightened him more than anything he had yet encountered in his life.
It was the sorcery that summoned the Shika from the Abyss. The Shika. The winged terror. In all the annals of Barding, there was no description of them: those few who survived their presence said they defeated all knowledge, that they were beyond human perception. They were the purity of fear that tore through the deepest levels of being. They were unbodied force that could make the very stone shake with terror, that could bend time itself and enclose it in a prison of torment, a nightmare that reached beyond the ease of death. They could never remain long in the World when they were summoned, and even the Nameless One only called them in the last resort. And now Likod was summoning them, not as a last resort but as a first play, to destroy the very heart of Lirigon.
All this flashed through Cadvan’s mind in less than a moment, as he watched Nelac raise his hands with careful deliberation, preparing his own magery. Bashar still seemed unaware of their presence. How was that possible?
Likod is summoning the Shika, Cadvan said into Dernhil’s mind. I fear that window opens on the Abyss…
Then he must be stopped.
The sheer wasteful recklessness of Likod’s gesture made Cadvan cold with rage. So Likod planned to wholly destroy the Light in Lirigon, using the worst weapon he knew. Cadvan hoped bitterly that Likod would die of the spell. But it was Bashar who would die, not Likod. He wondered where Likod was: this kind of possession required him to be close by, but there was no sign of the Hull. How much of Likod’s being was enmeshed in Bashar’s mind? Where was his body?
The force of the sorcery was increasing with each moment, a terrible pressure that beat on them unbearably, as if it would scrape the flesh from their bones. And then there was another voice in the room. Cadvan almost stumbled with the relief of it. The light in Bashar dimmed and almost went out, and she turned to face them, swaying. Her eyes made Cadvan flinch: her irises had vanished, so they turned sightless and white.
Nelac lowered his arms, and a dazzling light leapt into the room, pitiless and fierce. The spell shattered, and its force hit the chamber in a brutal wave. Bashar stepped back and almost fell, her mouth opening in protest. A thread of smoke trickled from her lips and dissipated in the air. Nelac spoke again, and the thread thickened into a plume of blackness that hung suspended between Nelac and Bashar. And then, as if she had suddenly snapped to attention out of a trance, Bashar stood tall and straight, and the smoke curled back into her nostrils, like an animal fleeing into a burrow.
Dernhil and Cadvan felt the breaking of Likod’s spell as a stunning blow: Dernhil’s shield shook and faltered, and he staggered back. At once Cadvan lifted another, stronger shield over both of them, and his disguise fell away. In the chaos of the breaking spell, Cadvan heard a rattling beat of insectile wings, a voice that came from no earthly throat. A gout of terror beyond reason pulsed through his body. In that moment he thought that even if they all died in what followed, it was better than the coming of the Shika.
Even though it was broken, the spell was still in motion; its splintered energies were now released into the room, spilling in glittering shards of sorcery, gleams of razor-sharp power that hung spinning half-seen in the air, defeating the eye as they winked in and out of visibility. The window seemed to blink, and Cadvan knew that outside was no longer the Abyss, but the storm that was hammering Lirigon. A gust of hail-laden wind blasted into the chamber. A glass ewer crashed to the floor, and loose paper whirled in eddies about the room. Dernhil stumbled to his knees, and Cadvan took his wrist and hauled him up, meeting his eyes in urgent query.
I’m all right, said Dernhil. All the blood had fled his face. What should we do?
Nelac said to do nothing.
Yes, said Dernhil. Cadvan could feel his frustration, which was close to panic. Up until the point where we had to fight for our lives…
I don’t believe Bashar has seen us, said Cadvan. Her eyes see elsewhere.
Cadvan’s head began to buzz, as if his eardrums might burst. He was shaking with the effort of keeping the shield strong, but when Dernhil recovered from the breaking of his own shield, they melded their powers, and after that it was a little easier. Sheltered from the worst of the chaos that was ripping the room apart, the two Bards stared in wonder and fear at the strange struggle before them.
Nelac and Bashar were absolutely still, as if they were both statues carved of different spectrums of light. The narrow space between them was filled with a writhing shadow, which moved now this way, now that, under the influence of two opposing forces. For a long time the issue seemed to sway in the balance; then, it seemed all at once, the shadow coiled into Nelac’s mouth, like a fat, black snake, and vanished. Bashar instantly collapsed to the floor and lay as one dead.
Nelac turned and stared at Cadvan and Dernhil, as if he only now realized that they were present. Cadvan saw with a clutch of fear that his eyes were white, as Bashar’s had been. Then, as in a nightmare, he saw Likod step in through the open window, as if he had been standing outside in mid-air. There was a perceptible click, as if something snapped into focus, and the fragments of sorcery that were spinning about the wrecked chamber began to collect together, linking bit by bit into threads that wound about each other, re-weaving the spell. The illumination that streamed out of Nelac was now the wrong colour, the same fierce cold that had possessed Bashar.
It’s over, thought Cadvan, with a wondering despair. We are lost. He glanced at Dernhil and saw the same desolation in his face.
Nelac closed his eyes and lifted his hands, and Cadvan waited numbly for the word that would set the spell in motion again. He knew that he and Dernhil should stop it, but in his horror he was unable to move. It was all he could do to stay upright, to keep himself alive in the midst of the murderous currents of power that swirled around them.
The word was never said. Nelac’s eyes snapped open, and the blind whiteness was gone. His eyes were his own again, and they burned with a blue fury. He sent a blast of force against Likod that made him stumble, but Likod recovered almost at once and set a thick curtain of smoke about him, against which the white fire faltered and went awry.
Now the Bard and Hull were locked in combat, Cadvan felt the pressure lift slightly, and he realized he could move and think. The spell was still weaving itself together, as if it had a life beyond the will that had set it. The metallic taste of sorcery thickened in his mouth. Perhaps, he thought, nothing could stop it now, even if Nelac prevailed…
He knew this spell; once read, it imprinted itself for ever, like a brand or a scar. Later, ashamed and sickened, he had tried everything to remove it from his memory, but he only had to think of it and the scorched letters crawled across his vision as pitilessly as when he had
first looked inside the book. Perhaps, knowing this spell as he did, he could find how to undo its inexorable process, its strange unlife. Gingerly at first, fearing that he might distract Nelac, he sent out his will and began to examine the spell. It burned, and he flinched, and then set his jaw and tried again.
At once he was puzzled; it was the same spell he had read, he was certain, but other energies moved within it that he couldn’t read. Perhaps it was two spells, woven together. It resisted him with a force that made him gasp. He shook with strain, blinking sweat out of his eyes, but didn’t dare even to wipe his face. With part of his awareness, he saw Nelac sway and almost fall.
Cadvan decided to ignore the parts of the spell he didn’t understand. There was a beginning in this weaving, a first thread that, once found, could undo all the others. The sorcery ran backwards and forwards across three Circles, forcing each open to the others, and its construction was intricate and hard to follow, sharp and toxic. But he thought he knew where to look: and at last, when he had begun to despair, he saw a glint of sorcery shaped to trigger and amplify the spell in endless repetitions, a form of constant remaking that would patiently repair any breakage. With all the force of his despair, Cadvan said a word to reverse it, praying he was not mistaken, that he had found the right word. It writhed and flickered and disappeared, and he felt, with an immeasurable relief, the spell beginning to unravel, collapsing inward on itself. As it unravelled, the sorcery wound about it was exposed. His gorge rose: it was loathsome, like something thick and rotting, a heaving of undead flesh writhing towards a parody of life.
Likod, immediately aware of what Cadvan had done, whipped around to face him. In that moment his attention was distracted, and Nelac brought his arms down like an axe and said the word for ending. It flew from his lips like an arrow of white fire launched at Likod’s throat. Cadvan saw Likod’s eyes widen in shock in the instant before it hit him: a dark shield filled the room like smoke, and then he wasn’t there.
A foul weight lifted from Cadvan’s mind. He realized, with a sob of relief, that the sorcery that had puzzled him had vanished with Likod. He wondered if this other spell permitted Likod to step bodily through the wards of Lirigon, into the high chamber of the First Bard. Yet this sorcery wasn’t broken, as the summoning had been, and with a chill he understood that it was merely removed; he could feel its forces at work, close at hand, even though he could feel no trace of Likod’s presence.
But there was no time to think. Cadvan and Dernhil started forward, but Nelac forbade them with a look. He spread his arms wide, and the unbound shards of sorceries spinning about the room gathered before him in a field, as iron filings crowd around a lodestone. Slowly and painstakingly, he touched each sliver with the tip of his finger. As he touched each part, it curled up like burning paper and disappeared. The erasing of the spell seemed to take for ever, but at last it was done. The buzzing in Cadvan’s ears stopped, and there was only the noise of the wind and the rain.
“Close the windows, Cadvan,” said Nelac. His voice was hoarse, as if he had burned his throat.
Dernhil grabbed Cadvan’s arm, forbidding him to move, and Cadvan turned, startled.
“Your Name,” Dernhil said to Nelac. “Say your Name.”
Nelac frowned, as if he could not remember. “My Name?” he said. “You know my Name, Dernhil.”
“Say it.” The tension cracked in Dernhil’s voice.
Nelac laughed. “Validur,” he said. “My Name is Validur.” And he crumpled to the floor, next to Bashar.
Cadvan latched the windows and shuttered them, his hands shaking. It was suddenly pitch-dark, so he set a magelight and hunted down the lamps, turning on any that were not broken. Clear Bardlight leapt into the room.
Dernhil was kneeling beside Bashar, his hand on her forehead. “She yet lives,” he said. “Nelac too. His pulse is strong and there is no injury; I think he will revive soon. But Bashar…”
Cadvan put his hands on Bashar’s chest, wincing as the sense of damage flowed up through his fingers. Physically she was unharmed, but her mind was torn and splintered, a pulp of anguish. He concentrated, melding with Dernhil: together they could stem some of the pain, but they could do little to close the wound. Likod had riven her mind as brutally as if he had attacked her body with a cleaver, and the only thing that had kept her alive was his will and intent. She hovered now on the very brink of death. Drawing on their deepest reserves, Cadvan and Dernhil did what little was possible, patching the smaller injuries, numbing pain where they could, setting sleep where they couldn’t. When they had finished, they sat back on their heels.
“She’ll live now, I think,” said Dernhil. His voice was empty with exhaustion. “I didn’t know that could happen to a Bard. I wonder whether we should have let her go…”
Cadvan met his eyes, and looked away with a feeling like shame. The impulse was always to heal, always to save; and yet they were also taught that healing on the precipice between life and death sometimes meant a choice. He was not a good enough healer, he thought, to have yet faced that choice. He remembered what Nelac had said in the hallway earlier. Perhaps some things were worse than death.
In the intensity of their attempt to save Bashar, they had all but forgotten Nelac. He stirred and sat up, groaning, and looked around the wrecked chamber.
“She lives?” he asked.
“Aye,” said Dernhil. “But she needs a healer beyond our capacities.”
“I have nothing left,” said Nelac. “Nothing.” He hid his face in his hands.
Even speaking hurt, thought Cadvan. He wondered dully who they could call to help, if no one was present in the Bardhouse. He listened: was he imagining it, or was the wind dying down?
“The storm is passing,” said Dernhil. “And those voices are gone. It is only the wind that keens now.”
For a time all three sat unspeaking, too exhausted to move. Cadvan’s ears caught the sound of motion in the Bardhouse, voices and footsteps, and he thought they should call for help; but even that felt beyond his means. At last, Nelac stood up, grimacing. “Come, my friends,” he said. “Our task isn’t finished.” He stumbled over to a nearby shelf and picked up a bottle, which he unstoppered and sniffed. “Medhyl. I thought so. I don’t know why I hadn’t the foresight to bring some here myself…”
Nelac took several sips before passing the medhyl to Dernhil and Cadvan. Its herbed, clean taste woke Cadvan’s palate, and he felt its virtue at once, lifting the hollowing exhaustion that followed the making of powerful mageries. He leant over Bashar, wondering if there was anything else he could do to help her, when footsteps sounded in the hall outside.
“Nelac! By the Light, what has happened here?”
All three Bards turned in surprise and relief. Coglint and Noram of Ettinor stood at the threshold, ashen with shock. When Noram recognized Cadvan, his face darkened.
“Bashar is near death,” said Nelac. “We have done what we can, but she should go to Norowen.”
“What have you done?” said Coglint. “What evil have you brought here?”
“There will be time for explanation after,” said Nelac. “Now there is sore need.” But Noram was already calling for help, and they heard voices and feet running. Coglint shielded himself, and ran to Bashar and lifted her, gravely studying her face. Noram didn’t take his eyes off Cadvan.
Two Minor Bards ran in and Coglint issued hurried instructions. Before long, bearers carefully lifted Bashar onto a stretcher and took her away. Hard on their heels, four soldiers bearing the livery of the Thane of Lir entered the room.
“No,” said Nelac in alarm. “Coglint, Noram, you misunderstand what has happened here.”
“I see a Bard who has had traffic with the Dark, and I see the work of the Dark,” said Noram. His voice was hard. “Would you have me doubt the evidence of my eyes? I do not know what caused you to betray the Light, Nelac. And you, Dernhil, of all people! I am deeply grieved. But it seems that Bashar was correct in her fears.”
The soldiers drew their swords and warily approached the three Bards. Nelac drew back his shoulders, his form flickering with rage.
“Lemmoch!” Such was Nelac’s authority that everyone in the room halted, suddenly still. “Stop this madness! Think for a moment. Since when have you had cause to doubt my service to the Light? Dernhil has more reason to hate the Dark than anyone here but Bashar. More is at work than you know. Before you judge what has happened here, listen.”
Coglint hesitated, and began to tell the guards to wait, but Noram cut him off. “Why have you brought this exile into Lirigon?” he said, hatred palpable in his voice. “Tell me that, Nelac. By your own acts you stand condemned. You are caught in the very act of treason, and you’d parley in the midst of the ruin you have made?”
He nodded to the armed men. “Take them,” he said. “They will languish at the pleasure of the First Circle until judgement is called against them.”
“You fool,” said Dernhil. “Nelac just saved the School from the worst attack it has yet suffered. And you’d imprison him?”
“It’s no use arguing with these idiots,” said Cadvan impatiently. He was cursing that he hadn’t thought to hide himself.
“No,” said Nelac. “This is not the time to argue.” A lightning blazed out of him, and the soldiers and other Bards froze, their faces tight with fear. With a supreme effort, Nelac had broken their mageshields and set a charm of fastening, a making so simple that even a child could do it without thinking, and their feet were bound to the floor.
“Coglint, Noram,” said Nelac in the Speech. “I am sorry to do this to you, but you must understand that all of us are imperilled, and hasty judgement now endangers the whole School – perhaps all of Annar. Understand that none of us wishes you harm.”
Coglint was pale with anger and fright. “You dare to attack me!” he said. “Me, a Bard of the First Circle! And you have the hide … in the very act of murder…”
The Bone Queen Page 22
