"My dear, dear boy," said Oslar. He was too wise to give Hem any false comfort, and just held him close. They sat without speaking for a time. Then Hem remembered where they were and squared his shoulders.
"I'm taking you away from people who need you," he said. He looked up at Oslar, his face still swollen with tears, and the old Bard smiled, a sweet, gentle smile that held more sorrow than joy.
"There is no pain greater for a healer, than to be forced to tend wounds that he cannot heal," he said. "You are right, Hem. It is a terrible, terrible waste." There was a short silence.
"Well, back we go," said Hem.
"I think you should go home," Oslar said. "For a while."
"No," Hem answered. He stood up, and looked into Oslar's face, his whole body stiff with determination. "No, Oslar. You need me here; you said so. I couldn't go home, it would make me feel much worse. Let me stay."
Oslar studied Hem's face intently, as if measuring him, and smiled sadly again. "As you wish, my boy. You are right, I do need your help." He stood also, sighing heavily, and they walked without speaking back to the Chamber of Poppies, and started again on their work.
* * * *
That night, Saliman joined Zelika and Hem for the evening meal. When he entered the room he looked at Hem sharply.
"What happened?" he asked, even before he greeted them. "Something happened today, yes?"
"Oh," said Hem unhappily. "The coffee seller in the market, Boran, he was brought in today, and he died." He didn't meet Saliman's eyes; he didn't feel like talking about it.
Saliman waited for Hem to say more, but when the boy remained silent he did not ask further. Zelika, who had been sitting quietly since they came home, glanced at Hem with a sudden quick sympathy.
They ate in silence. Halfway through their meal, Ire flapped in through the open window, landed heavily on the floor, walked over to Hem's foot, and gently pecked his ankle.
"Oh, go away," said Hem thickly, and kicked out at the bird. Ire flapped away with a caw of alarm and regarded the boy warily from a safe distance, ruffling his feathers.
Saliman leaned forward and clasped Hem's forearm. "Hem," he said.
Hem would not answer or look up.
"Hem, look at me."
Hem unwillingly lifted his eyes to meet Saliman's. What was he going to say? How sorry he was? Of course he was sorry. He saw sights as bad, or worse, every day. Everyone was sorry... But Saliman simply kissed the boy's forehead. Hem felt his lips warm on his skin, and from the kiss a light like a golden lotus opened and slowly flowered in Hem's chilled heart.
"Take care, Hem," said Saliman softly, letting go of his arm. "It is only the darkness in our own hearts that will defeat us, in the end."
Hem nodded wonderingly, feeling a new ease inside him.
He thought he began to understand why Oslar spoke of Saliman with such respect; healing was a matter of the mind as much as of the body. He looked across at Ire, who had turned his back on him and was preening his feathers huffily. Ire, I'm sorry, he said.
Ire said the crow equivalent of "Hmmmph."
Come here, you silly bird. I have some torua for you.
Ire could never resist torua, a kind of spiced meat, and he swivelled his head over his shoulder and regarded Hem coldly, his yellow eyes unblinking. Hem held the meat out, and slowly, with exaggerated dignity, Ire stepped over to Hem and took it delicately in his beak. He was clearly very offended.
You're still not talking to me, said Hem. Have it your way, then.
You kicked me, said Ire, and fluffed out his feathers with indignation.
I said I was sorry.
Ire swallowed the torua and stropped his beak on Hem's sandal, which was the closest Hem was going to get to forgiveness. Hem lifted him onto his lap and scratched his neck, and Ire stretched out his head, his eyes slowly closing in bliss.
"Well, at least someone is happy," said Zelika sharply. "And all the rest of us can just sit around, waiting to be killed." And then she laid her head on her arms and burst into tears.
Hem stared at Zelika, astonished at her outburst. Zelika had certainly been quiet tonight, but he hadn't realized... He put Ire down on the floor again and started up awkwardly, laying his hand on her back to comfort her, but she pushed him away and looked up, her face crumpled in woe.
"I – I'm not afraid of fighting," she said, hiccuping. "I want to fight. But this waiting, day after day after day... It's so horrible. I feel as if the whole city is slowly toppling down on top of me."
Saliman had watched the two children, his face unreadable.
"Sieges can go on for months," he said at last. "We have supplies enough to last through winter, if we can hold out."
"I know." Zelika sat up and pushed her damp hair out of her face. "I know that."
"But I do not believe that this siege will last that long," Saliman went on. "We hoped to hold off the Black Army for a couple of months, at least, to give Car Amdridh some breathing space. But Imank has only made two twists of the vice, and already the city trembles. And the Hull holds its major strength in hand. There is a main arrogance in these tactics, I would say: Imank is very sure of victory, and can wait for it, wait for us to crumble under our own weight; and then Imank will move."
"What does that mean?" asked Hem. During his days in the Healing Houses he had lost track of time, and of what was happening in the wider city. It seemed to him that Turbansk had been under siege forever; but when he thought back, he realized it was only about a month since the Black Army had arrived.
"It means that we are like a chicken on a chopping block, waiting for the blow to fall. It may come today, or next week, or not for weeks; but we all know it will come. And you must remember that Imank is not only a captain of soldiers, but also a mighty sorcerer; apart from the Nameless One, this Hull is the most powerful sorcerer in Edil-Amarandh. It is not just Imank's army that saps our will, steals the courage from our hearts and the strength from our arms, and sends evil dreams to plague our rest."
Zelika looked up, interested. "So Imank is magicking the whole city?"
"Something like that."
"Can't we magic back?"
"Of course we're magicking back," said Hem impatiently. He looked at Saliman's face, which had been gaunt with strain for weeks now, with a new understanding. "Isn't that so?"
"Aye," answered Saliman. "We fight on all fronts. And on all fronts, we are losing."
"We should do something else, then," said Zelika. Although her face was still damp with tears, a belligerent light flickered in her eyes. "Not just flap around while Imank the Hull does what it pleases. What have we got to lose?" She smiled. It was her frightening smile, reckless and fearless and more than a little mad, and Hem noticed Saliman staring at her curiously. He had not yet seen this side of her.
"Yes, Zelika, you are right," he said. "We have to wrest back the initiative from Imank. We have news today from Car Amdridh; they are ready, and our people have arrived there. We need not sacrifice ourselves to buy them more time. And so..."
Zelika's eyes sparkled. "And so?"
"We must first win back the sea route." Saliman leaned back. "Our people must be able to escape the city when it falls. For fall it will, and I think sooner rather than later. We must destroy the enemy fleet. But if Imank sees us coming, they will be ready for us; and so we are preparing an assault on the Black Army, to divert attention."
"Outside the gates?" said Hem, his eyes wide. "It's mad; everyone will be slaughtered."
"Yes," said Saliman shortly. "That is very likely. This is why those who fight in this battle will do so of their own free will. We are not Black Sorcerers like Imank, and we do not send our soldiers unwillingly to their certain death."
A terrible fear was building in Hem's chest.
"But you won't do that?" he asked, his voice cracking. "You're not going to – "
"Nay, Hem." Saliman smiled. "I am needed elsewhere. You forget that I am a captain of the harbor forces. I will be
sailing with the Turbansk fleet."
This was not much better. Hem bit his lip to stop himself saying anything.
"I'll go," said Zelika. "I'll volunteer."
"You will not." Saliman looked at her expressionlessly. "You will remain with Hem. I have other plans for you."
"I will go. They will not turn me away..."
Saliman stood up. "Zelika, I am not going to argue with you. If I need to lock you in a cage to keep you in the city, I will do so."
Zelika stood to face him, her lips drawn back from her teeth in a snarl, her nostrils quivering, and drew herself to her full height. Despite her slight figure, her rage made Hem quail. Ire discreetly retreated to the far wall; he was already familiar with Zelika's temper. "How dare you?" she said, with a quiet intensity that was more fearsome than shouting would have been. "How dare you speak to me like that? I will do as I like. You can't stop me."
The observing part of Hem watched Zelika with admiration, even as he warily got out of the way. She scarcely came up to Saliman's chest, yet she spoke with all the hauteur and arrogance of a queen.
"Zelika, of course I can stop you," said Saliman mildly. "I could pick you up with one hand, and I am not nearly so big as a dogsoldier. You would last outside the gates for about the space of three breaths, and before you died you would not make the smallest dint in the armor of the smallest warrior in Imank's ranks. You are not going."
For a moment, Zelika stood absolutely still. All her hauteur had fallen away, and her bottom lip trembled, as if she held back tears. Then something flashed in her eyes, and almost quicker than Hem's eye could follow, she had grabbed Saliman's arm. The Bard was too surprised to move, and with a strange twist, she seemed to pick him up bodily, and throw him across the table.
Ire cawed in alarm, as dishes and a carafe smashed on the floor and water splashed over the walls and furnishings. Saliman landed heavily on the floor and Zelika stood over him, breathing hard, crouched in a fighting pose. Hem backed against the wall, staring in mingled horror and astonishment. Saliman looked very angry indeed, and Hem wondered whether it might not be wiser to leave the room altogether. But before he could decide, Saliman had somehow leaped to his feet, as if he were pulled up by strings. Zelika whipped around to kick him, but he moved even more quickly than she did. She fell to the floor with a crash, and Saliman twisted her arm behind her back. Zelika writhed furiously, trying to loosen his grip, and he pulled her arm up savagely. She gasped in pain, and then seemed to collapse and lay without struggling further, her chest heaving.
"It is not wise," said Saliman evenly, "to try those tricks on me. Do not think, Zelika, that kindness equates to weakness. It does not."
A thick silence fell over the room, broken only by Zelika's panting.
"Will you attack me again?" Saliman asked.
Zelika shook her head. Slowly, he let go of her arm and she sat up, her curls straggling over her face, her black eyes bright with hate.
"Now, will you listen?"
Zelika stared at him. "You should not insult me," she said.
"I did no more than say truth. Did I not? You saw the dog-soldiers in Baladh, Zelika. If you so wanted revenge, why did you not attack them then? Why did you not harry the Black Army as they marched here? You had every chance: no one would have stopped you."
Now Zelika stared blankly at the floor, and Hem felt his heart constrict with pity. All her rage and hatred had evaporated as quickly as it had arrived, and she suddenly seemed like a small, very forlorn child.
"I was too afraid," she whispered. "And it made me ashamed."
"There is no shame in understanding what is the case." Saliman brushed some remnants of food off his robes. "You would have been swatted as easily as a fly, and your death would have made no difference at all. That is no way to seek revenge. So no more arguing; I do not wish to waste my time wrestling with a berserk child. I am your captain, and like a good soldier you will do what I command."
Zelika's bottom lip pushed out in a pout.
"Yes?"
"Yes," she said sulkily.
"Good. Well, first we ought to tidy up this mess. And after that, you will listen to what I have to say."
All three of them cleared up the remains of their meal – which had been flung all over the room – in silence. (Ire quietly stole the rest of the torua while no one was looking.) When the chamber was in some good order, if still a little damp, Saliman sat down on the cushions, waving the two children to do likewise.
"What an interesting evening we are having," he said pleasantly. "A change from our recent glum meals, anyway. All right, Zelika, I admit that you are not so bad at unarmed combat. You have given me a couple more bruises, which, frankly, I could do without. What you did not know is that I am counted among the best in the city, and if you had not surprised me, you would not have had a chance." He gave her a sly look. Zelika, uncertain whether he was mocking her, scowled down at her hands.
"You did land quite heavily," said Hem. He still felt a little stunned by the force of Zelika's temper, and watched her nervously, wondering if she was going to erupt again.
"I did," said Saliman. "Zelika is correct on one point: for those who are skilled in the arts of arbika-el, size is immaterial."
"I can fight," said Zelika, under her breath. Although she had been beaten, she didn't look in the least chastened. "I am the last of the House of II Aran."
"The House of II Aran is a family with many famed fighters, from a city that is a byword for warriors," said Saliman, glancing at Hem. "Most of Zelika's celebrated ancestors were a little bigger than she is, however, when they attained their fame."
Now Zelika was certain he was laughing at her, and her scowl deepened. Strangely, Hem thought, Saliman looked more cheerful than he had in days; the contretemps with Zelika seemed to have lifted his spirits.
"Nay, Zelika, don't frown so terribly." Saliman leaned forward and cupped her cheek in his hand. "You deserve a little teasing, after that display. I mean you no insult. Despite your skills in arbika-el – which I am very glad to know about – what I said earlier about how useful you would be in any foray outside the city remains true. I will not have you throwing away your life for no reason. I have other plans for you."
Despite herself, Zelika gave him a curious glance. "What plans?" she asked.
"It is now five nights from the full dark of the moon. We will make our assault from the walls and on Imank's navy three nights hence. We aim to win back the seaways, and gain some time in which all those who yet remain in the city can retreat over the Lamarsan Sea, back toward Car Amdridh. The retreat has been long planned, ever since we knew there would be a siege. But that is not the way I will go, and I think you two should come with me."
Hem's interest quickened. "Which way do you go?" he asked.
"North to Annar, eventually/' said Saliman. "I think, Hem, that is your way; I do not feel I can give you to another's care, although I have thought of sending you to Car Amdridh with Oslar."
Hem gave an involuntary cry of protest.
"Hem, in many ways that would be the most sensible plan, and Oslar has asked for you to come with him," Saliman said. "But there are many strands of fate working now, and we must follow the right ones, and choose as well as we are able between one thing and the next. They are not easy choices; at the best of times it is very hard to know what is right. But nevertheless, I think that you must stay with me, and that we must find Cadvan and Maerad. You came south only so you would be safe; well, you are no safer here than in Annar, even if it is already ravaged by war. I see no reason for you to stay in the Suderain."
At the thought of seeing Maerad again, all the breath seemed to leave Hem's body.
"And what about me?" asked Zelika, her brows drawn together in a dark line. "Why should I go to Annar?"
"Because I say so," said Saliman quietly.
Zelika looked up and met his dark gaze. She said nothing for a moment, her face unreadable, and then, to Hem's amazement, slow
ly nodded.
"I will be a good soldier," she said. "For now."
In the coming days, the weather continued hot and breathless. The sun rose in a blue sky and sucked the moisture out of everything, and a punishing dry wind blew from the southern deserts. Night brought no relief, and even the cool interiors of the Healing Houses began to heat up, as the stone walls absorbed the sun during the day. If Hem went into the courtyard and stood in the fountain until he was dripping wet, he would be almost dry by the time he walked back inside.
His routine continued unchanged, in its strange parody of everydayness, but now he began to feel an increasing tension prickling the city. He still felt heavily depressed when he woke, and when he rested, exhausted after a day spent with the wounded, the dread that underlay everything would pounce on him. But he was too tired to remember his dreams, which was perhaps just as well.
On the second night the heat was unbearable. There was no escape anywhere, and despite his weariness he couldn't sleep and tossed restlessly in bed. At last he got up and walked into the courtyard outside his room, to look at the stars. There were no stars at all, but he was too tired and hot to wonder where they were; the blackness enclosed him with an oppressive languor. Not the smallest breeze stirred the black leaves of the trees, or cooled the sweat that made his skin slick and itchy.
Hem sat under a tree, listening to the cicadas, which were very loud tonight, the harsh cry of some night bird, the clicking and booming of the frogs, the night chatter of monkeys squabbling in the trees. It was deceptively peaceful, but his skin crawled with a strange restlessness, as if he were expecting something to happen any minute. If he listened hard, he could hear underneath the ordinary night noises the faint thunder and bray of battle noises, and he knew that as he sat there, people were struggling, that they were hurting and dying; but now it all seemed very far away. He leaned back against a tree, looked up, and swallowed. He would like some water. He would get some in a moment. He felt too heavy to move.
Then he sat up, sniffing, suddenly alert. Something had shifted, but he did not know what it was. Then a blessedly cool wind whispered against his naked chest, nuzzling him gently. He breathed out with inexpressible relief, stretching his arms and standing up, letting the wind play around his body and dry him off. For a time, the relief of that coolness was all he could think about.
The Crow Page 15
