The Bone Queen

by Alison Croggon

Larla took his hand and kissed it. “Nelac, you are a kind, good man,” she said. “That counts for more than being a good Bard. I trust you.”

  “I am not only kind and good. Much of me isn’t kind or good at all. How can I trust myself?” he said.

  “You must.” Larla studied him, suddenly serious. “Perhaps the chasm will gobble us all up, but it won’t be because you’re not mindful or brave or don’t do what you must. And that’s all anyone can ask of you, or anyone else.”

  Cadvan dreamed. He was walking through a meadow in high summer, the lush grass and tangled wild flowers brushing against his knees. Grasshoppers leapt away like green springs as he disturbed them and bees zigzagged lazily, nuzzling the red anemones and the small yellow orchids that nodded amid the grass stems. Hidden crickets zithered around his feet. The sky arched above him, a deep, translucent blue. Somewhere in its cerulean vapours, so high up he couldn’t see it, he could hear the trilling of a lark.

  It wasn’t a place he had seen in his waking life, but with the clairvoyance of dream he knew that it was near Pellinor, one of the meadows that nestled on the lower slopes of the Osidh Elanor. He was walking towards a rocky ridge that jutted into the sky. He was in no hurry, but all at once he reached his destination, where a dark-haired woman was waiting for him. She stood with her back to him, looking up the sheer face of the mountain that towered above them. She wore a circlet of cornflowers and daisies that she had plucked from the meadow and woven together, and her long robe was as blue as the sky. She was playing a small lyre. Each note came to him with unusual clarity, as if that note had never been made before and would never be made again. Cadvan thought he had known the melody all his life, but he had never heard it before.

  Part of him assumed that the woman was Ceredin, returned past death, restored from the broken past to the future that had been promised them; but as he grew closer, he realized she was shorter, and that her hair was so black that the sunlight struck it with a blue shimmer. It wasn’t Ceredin.

  When she heard his step, she stopped playing and turned around, smiling, to embrace him. He knew then that he loved this woman, that he had loved her for a long time. There was a wildness in her vivid face which made him catch his breath, and for a time he forgot everything in the gladness that flooded through him. He reached for her name, which seemed to be on the tip of his tongue, just at the edge of memory, but he couldn’t find it. And then she vanished, and he was all alone on the side of the mountain, trembling with mingled delight and loss.

  After that Cadvan’s dreams became troubled: he saw in swift succession the same visions that had tormented him in Jouan; the burning sky, the lifeless lakes, the desolations where green would never grow again. Somehow these visions were linked to this woman, as if they were two futures, both equally possible, but each cancelling out the other. He cried out and Dernhil, slumbering in the same room, was briefly roused and muttered in irritation. And then, mercifully, a blank curtain drew across Cadvan’s mind, and his nightmares dissolved into the healing forgetfulness of sleep.

  When he woke it was late evening, and the naked stars were brightening over Lirigon. He remembered nothing of his dream, although a residue of its gladness remained, an unexplained lightness. For the first time since he could remember, he felt hopeful.

  IV

  XXV

  AS she had promised, Calis came to Larla’s house at sunset on the day they left Lirigon. She was heavily cloaked, and looked haggard and strained, barely acknowledging the Bards’ greetings. When she saw Cadvan she pressed her mouth into a grim line. Selmana noted that she was shielded, and bit her lip. That sign of mistrust brought home how serious their situation was; if even Calis thought they might attack her…

  “Well, Nelac,” Calis said brusquely. “I don’t have a lot of time. I can make no promises on what I will think about what you have to say, except that I will give you a hearing. But I will say to you that my first allegiance is to Lirigon and to the Light.”

  “As is ours,” said Cadvan.

  Calis’s eyes blazed with a sudden anger which she as quickly concealed. “As things stand, I am not inclined to believe that,” she said. “I will listen, for the love I bear Nelac. But you have brought the Dark into Lirigon. I want to know why I should not bring you to the First Circle for judgement.”

  “You have seen Bashar?” said Nelac.

  Calis nodded, and her face crumpled.

  “Does she yet live?”

  “Aye, but barely. And I am told that you three did this, that you were discovered in the very act of sorcery that has all but destroyed her. Nelac, how could you? What possible reason… What were you thinking?”

  “It isn’t like that,” said Selmana hotly. “It’s not that at all!” She spoke much more loudly than she meant.

  Calis studied her coldly. “Then what is it like?”

  “Today the Dark sought to destroy Lirigon,” said Nelac. “That these walls are not now in ruins and our people lying cold in the streets is because I and Cadvan and Dernhil fought back the sorcery that would have destroyed everything we hold dear.”

  Calis met his gaze, her eyes hard. “I’m listening,” she said. “As I promised.”

  Nelac took a deep breath, and related everything that had happened since Cadvan had left for Jouan. He chose his words carefully, leaving out no details, and it took some time. Calis sat without speaking, her face downcast. Selmana watched her, trying to guess what she was thinking, but it was impossible. Hearing Nelac pull the threads together, making sense of the strange and terrible events that were shaping their lives, was an odd relief.

  When Nelac finished, Calis sat for a time in silence, staring at her hands, which were twisted in her lap. It seemed to Selmana that she was struggling with herself, but again she couldn’t tell what she was thinking. What if Calis didn’t believe them? What then? She glanced at the others, who sat waiting for her response, their eyes averted. Only Larla watched Calis, frowning slightly, her body tense.

  Finally Calis looked up at Nelac, meeting his eyes for the first time, and Selmana saw that the anger had drained from her face. In its place was an immeasurable sadness.

  “I don’t know which is worse,” she said. “To think that you, my dear friend, had been seduced by the Dark, or to know the peril which you tell me stalks us. No, I do know. It is worse to think that you betrayed us. But I cannot be glad of the other.” She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand impatiently. “I saw Bashar an hour since… By the Light, I thought my heart was torn in two. The healers say that it is likely she will never speak again, even if she lives…”

  Her voice broke, and Nelac reached forward and took her hand.

  “I remember, when we first met … so long ago, now,” said Calis. “I loved her on sight. I thought she was the most beautiful human being I had ever seen. And now…”

  Selmana looked away from the naked pain in Calis’s face. In the silence that followed she felt a pang of jealousy: would anyone ever love her that much? She pushed it away as a petty thought.

  “Of course I’ll help you,” said Calis, when she had mastered herself. “I judge that you speak truly. Indeed, you give shape to many doubts and fears that have long troubled me. I too spoke with Milana, after that meeting…”

  “Nelac says we should go to Pellinor,” said Selmana. Despite everything, she felt a flare of excitement: Pellinor! It was famed as a centre of the Making, one of the Three Arts – Reading, Tending and Making – which comprised Bardic Knowing. Bards were taught all three, but most found themselves drawn to a particular area once they were instated as a full Bard. Some of Selmana’s friends still weren’t sure which they preferred, and some people never did decide; but for Selmana, ever since she could remember, before she even knew she was a Bard, it had always been Making.

  As a small child she had loved shaping things with her hands; she was fascinated by all the techniques of crafting and the intricacies of material things, wood and fibre and stone. She knew very ea
rly that she was a smith, that her deep love was the lore and craft of metal. When she became a Bard, she counted herself lucky to study with Calis, whose skill and learning in metallurgy was respected through all Annar. The only person who rivalled her knowledge was Milana of Pellinor. Pellinor had always been in her future: Calis had said she would write to Milana when Selmana was instated, recommending her as a talented Maker worthy of special instruction. But she could never have imagined that she would flee there seeking refuge, an exile from her home.

  Calis smiled at Selmana with understanding, as if she read her thoughts. “Perhaps you will be in danger anywhere, but it seems that Lirigon most imperils you. As for you three: the decree is that anyone who conceals your presence is also a traitor and will be punished just as you will be. Noram and Coglint say that they saw you performing sorcery. Cadvan’s breaking of the ban of exile counts against you sorely. It is believed that Cadvan has bewitched you both to do his will… And the mood in Lirigon is ugly, Nelac. You are already condemned. Even if you told the Circle everything you have told me, it could easily be read as the wiles of the Dark.”

  Cadvan stirred uncomfortably. “The more I regret being seen,” he said.

  “It is unfortunate, yes. But I think it is not the whole reason for the misjudgements in Lirigon.”

  “All the more reason for us to be here.” Cadvan gestured impatiently. “Likod even now wins this throw. Lirigon needs us. How can they outlaw Nelac? Even if I am condemned, Nelac surely deserves a hearing before such a decision is taken. Coglint wouldn’t even listen…”

  Calis paused. “I’ll demand that the Circle hunt Kansabur,” she said. “That at least may be argued for. Otherwise, I think you must leave tonight: it will be more difficult the longer you delay. But all the gates are watched.”

  “That useful disguising spell,” said Dernhil. “Can you cast the charm on others, Cadvan? Or perhaps teach it to us?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I would have to turn it inside out. I can try.”

  It took a few attempts, but in the end the disguising charm did work. At first Cadvan tried to teach them, but the enchantment was tricky and only Selmana had some success with it. Pilanel magery was little known among Bards, and widely distrusted or dismissed as primitive magic; some thought of it as akin to sorcery. Certainly, the thoughtstreams of Dernhil and Nelac couldn’t catch it. Finally Cadvan was able to refigure the charm, and transformed Dernhil and Nelac with some rough changes of hair and eye colour, and gave them stouter outlines. The effect wasn’t as startling as it was when Cadvan cast it on himself, but they looked sufficiently changed to pass any suspicious eye. They hoped.

  Then, with heavy hearts, they farewelled Calis and Larla and made their way to the Bard stables, which were in the outer ring of the School. An icy wind had sprung up, and the streets were empty, aside from a few stragglers hurrying to shelter. Selmana saw that most of the rubbish from the storm had already been cleaned away; if it weren’t for the broken trees, there would be little sign left of the tumult that had battered Lirigon that day. For some reason, she found this disquieting.

  The stables, as they had hoped, were deserted. The horses had all been fed and bedded down for the night, and aside from Cina, Nelac’s mount, they complained sulkily about being taken out. Selmana stroked her mare, Jacindh, breathing in her familiar smell; at least this was something she knew, in this newly strange and frightening world. Cadvan studied Brownie, and said he couldn’t face another journey on his bony back. He bade him farewell, and chose one of the horses kept for general use, a tough and fiery chestnut mare called Brera.

  Cloaked and hooded, they trotted through the darkening streets, heading for the East Gate. It was watched by a single Bard, a man Selmana vaguely recognized, which was unusual; mostly the Thane’s men did gate-watch. He was just lowering the bar when they arrived. He asked their business, which was also unusual, and demanded that they show their faces. Selmana heard the tension in his voice and her pulse pounded in her throat: what if the disguising charm was not enough? Jacindh danced beneath her, feeling her anxiety. They drew back their hoods, showing their faces, and Nelac, playing the family patriarch, said he was returning to his farm in Bural with his sons and daughter-in-law.

  “We’re late because it took so long to see a healer,” he said, his voice loud with complaint. “It was chaos here. My daughter was hit by a branch in the storm. She’s with child and we wanted to be sure all was well. We have to get home tonight, there are tasks neglected.”

  Alarmed by Nelac’s invention, Selmana tried to look pregnant and unwell. The Bard peered into their faces and demanded their names.

  “I’m Stefan of Bural,” said Nelac, without hesitation. “This is my daughter, Celb, and these are my sons, Halep and Idris. Can we go through?”

  The Bard wrote the names down, and then he nodded and opened the gate.

  “You just made it,” he said. “The word is that after the last bell no one will be let in or out of Lirigon.”

  “It’s been a bad sort of day,” said Nelac.

  “Aye, that it has. I’ll be glad to get home.”

  “So will we,” said Dernhil.

  Outside the School, they pushed their mounts along the north road. Its white stone glimmered before them, winding through the dark fields of Lirigon.

  “I didn’t like that he wrote down our names,” said Cadvan, when they were out of earshot.

  “Me neither,” said Dernhil. “I hope that Stefan of Bural doesn’t get visited by suspicious Bards. His cooking deserves better.”

  Cadvan laughed. “Indeed it does,” he said. “When all this is over, I’m planning to revisit his pigeon pie.”

  When all this is over, thought Selmana. She wondered if it ever would be over, or if they were now all condemned, like Cadvan, to homelessness, fleeing both the Light and the Dark. She passed the first leg of their journey in unrelieved gloom. Although the wind was cold, the night was clear and a huge moon, almost at the full, rose over them. Selmana rode unspeaking, stunned with tiredness. The hoof beats echoing on the stone road filled her with melancholy; with each step everything she had ever known fell further and further behind her. Nothing would ever be the same again.

  No Bard roads, the broad stone thoroughfares that linked the Schools of Annar and the Suderain, linked Pellinor and Lirigon; but even if there had been, the travellers would have chosen another route. Their first aim was to steer clear of other Bards. They rode due north from Lirigon, avoiding the impassable rock formations of the Redara, planning to take the little-used byways that ran along the foothills of the Osidh Elanor, the Mountains of the Dawn.

  Selmana had often ridden out to distant villages in the Fesse, but she had never in her life been out of Lirhan. She had loved those light-hearted summer excursions, when she and her friends would make camp and sing long into the night. Well, the others would sing: although she knew the words of all the lays, Selmana herself was, unusually for a Bard, completely tone-deaf. Sometimes, for a joke, she would be asked to sing; it was her party trick, because it always reduced her companions to helpless laughter. That life seemed so far away, as if it had happened to someone else. This was a different kind of journey, and not only because winter was hard on their heels. There was little pleasure in their camps, and no singing.

  The other three Bards were experienced at this kind of travel, and she was surprised by their toughness: she found it hard to keep up even with Nelac, who was clearly ill. She was shocked by how freely they used magery: all of them used charms, to light fires, or to bind branches into shelters against the rain, or to heal the strains of their exhausted horses. She had been taught never to use magery lightly. Only Cadvan observed the conventional restraints, calling on his powers only to ease his horse or to help Dernhil; he never cast a charm to ease his own aches. Dernhil teased him about it.

  “Time is against us,” said Nelac, catching her disapproving glance one evening. “And we must use the powers we have to move
as swiftly as we may. That’s what they’re for.”

  “I suppose so…” she said doubtfully. “It’s just that I’ve always been told never to do that.”

  Dernhil grinned. “One of the best things about being a full Bard is that you learn that you can break the rules,” he said. “And what are a few words of fire when the Balance itself is in peril?”

  Put like that, it was hard to argue, and Selmana found that she was soon using magery as much as the others. It did make a great deal of difference. Without magery, their journey would have been an intolerable trial of endurance; with it, it was simply damp, cold and exhausting.

  XXVI

  CADVAN wasn’t sure if he was more relieved or sad to leave Lirigon. Returning had only reinforced his exile: it had reminded him of everything he had pushed out of his mind since arriving in Jouan. He embraced the physical hardship of their journey: this gruelling ride through wild country was the truth about his life, the reality he must now accept, without the deception of hope.

  On this second departure he found his thoughts dwelling, for the first time in months, on his family. His main concern when he was in Lirigon was not to be recognized by anyone who knew him, but he could have visited his home, if he had wanted, if there had been time. His banishment meant that he was forbidden from the Schools only: a harsh punishment for a Bard, but merciful in that otherwise he was free to go where he willed. But he couldn’t face seeing his kin. When he had left the first time, he had thought it was for ever, but somehow this second leaving felt more final. Now there might never be another chance. Now he could no longer show his face even in the Fesse.

  Despite everything, somewhere in the back of his mind had glowed an unacknowledged hope that he would speak again to his brothers and sisters, that he would at last find a way to reconcile his differences with his father. Perhaps, after a few years, there might have been a way. He realized that now that hope was all but gone. Unless he could clear his name of the attempt to murder Bashar, he would never be able to return to Lirigon. His father and siblings would die, forgetting him, perhaps hating him, and he would live on, hating himself for what he had done to them.