The Crow

by Alison Croggon

  The breeze swiftly picked up. Then there was a sudden gust of a stronger wind, ruffling his hair, and above him a rumble of thunder. Hem felt his hair prickle and stand on end. There was going to be a storm.

  He wondered briefly if the Bards of Turbansk had planned this, or the Black Army, or if it was nothing to do with either of them, just the weather breaking in its natural pattern. He didn't know enough about the weather of Turbansk to be sure. Then he decided he didn't care. He stood in the garden, letting his skin drink in the delicious cool air, waiting for rain to fall. But there was no rain, and the cool breeze seemed to caress him in farewell and then disappeared. The heat sprang back, like a beast that had been lying in wait for its prey. Hem sighed with disappointment, and remembered how tired he was. He walked back to his chamber, fell on his bed, and slept.

  The next day it seemed, if anything, even hotter, although the sun was hidden behind slate-gray battlements of cloud that stretched from one horizon to another. They bore down on Turbansk heavily, rumbling ominously with thunder. Every now and then a charge of sheet lightning would leap up from the south horizon, throwing a livid glare over the city.

  Hem hadn't seen Saliman at all for the past two days, although he left daily messages at the Ernan, to let the children know that he was still alive. Zelika was still coming to the Healing Houses, patiently helping in the easier work, cleaning and making bandages and splints and medicines. She had been quiet and thoughtful after her confrontation with Saliman. The two children, as had become their recent custom, broke their fast silently together, yawning. They were preparing to leave the Ernan when Saliman entered the room. He was in full armor, and in a great hurry.

  "Good, you're still here," he said shortly. "You will be needed at the Healing Houses today; Oslar has to arrange for all the wounded to be carried to the harbor. Then come back here and wait. I will come for you."

  "Is it going to rain?" said Hem, stupidly he thought, once the words had left his mouth.

  "Yes," said Saliman. "I doubt the clouds will break today, though. It will be a bad night. Oslar will send you back at the third bell, and there will be a supper set for you. I want you to wait until I come here."

  "What if you don't?" said Zelika, her voice sharp and tight, as Saliman was leaving. It was the question on Hem's lips, but he did not dare to ask it. "What if something happens to you?"

  "If I do not come for you, someone else will. Do not fear. Put on your armor, and pack anything you want to take with you. Be ready." He turned and looked intensely at Hem, his face stern, and said in the Speech, Now it finally begins, Hem. There is no time for lament or sorrow or fear. If you love me, do as I wish, and remember that I love you and need you to be strong. If I do not come back, you will be taken care of. I will see you tonight, the Light willing. Expect me in the darkest hours.

  Hem nodded, his mouth suddenly dry. Saliman turned and vanished out of the door.

  "What did he say?" said Zelika.

  "He said that it begins, and that we have to do what he says," said Hem, staring after Saliman. Despite himself, his voice wavered. Maybe that's it, he was thinking; Saliman really thinks this time that he may go to his death. And he never said a proper good-bye...

  Zelika pursed her lips. "About time," she said. And then, feeling as if his legs were made of water, Hem walked to the Healing Houses with her.

  There was no sense of peace there today; the Houses were all ordered bustle. Wounded people were being lifted onto litters and carried down to the harbor through the alleys, even as others, newly wounded, were being carried in from the walls. Orderlies were loading huge baskets of supplies onto donkeys. Hem was immediately busy, dispensing madran or binding limbs so that they would not be damaged by movement. He noticed that the bandages he was given were made of strange materials, instead of undyed muslin.

  "We are running short," he was told, when he questioned why he had bandages with flowers embroidered on them. "We go not a day too soon, I say." Hem nodded gloomily, and took the incongruously cheerful bandages back to the Chamber of Poppies. Here, he thought, there were many who should not be moved at all.

  "Better that than being slaughtered here in their beds, Hem," said Urbika briskly, when Hem turned in dismay from a badly injured woman who was moaning with pain. He had already given her as much madran as he dared. Urbika gave Hem a tight smile. "There is no help for it, when the Black Army drives us."

  "No, I suppose not," said Hem haltingly.

  Urbika squeezed his arm, and moved on to the next soldier. Ire, who was perched as usual on Hem's shoulder, gently nibbled his ear. Hem scratched Ire's neck, obscurely comforted, and took a deep breath. He cast a sleep spell on the woman, hoping that it would not be too much with the madran, and supervised the orderlies who loaded her onto the litter. Then he moved on to the next task. He was feeling dizzy; things seemed to be moving too fast, after ages and ages when it felt like nothing was happening at all. And yet lots of things had been happening, he thought, confusedly. It was just all too strange, and too dreadful.

  By evening, the Healing Houses had been emptied. Hem stood at the doorway looking forlornly down the road to the harbor, watching the last litters slowly wind their way through the evening shadows. It was already dark, with the clouds lowering overhead, and very hot; the air pressed on him with a stifling weight, and the setting sun lit everything with a strange, lurid glare. He felt stunned with weariness.

  Oslar, who was to travel with the wounded, came to the door, a small cloth bag that held all his possessions slung over his shoulder.

  "Well, Hem, we now go our different ways," he said.

  Hem looked up at him miserably. "Yes," he said.

  "I am sorry to leave you. Perhaps you do not know how much I have depended on you these past weeks, and how grateful I have been for your help. It was a heavy burden I laid on you."

  Hem continued to stare down the road. "I don't want to go," he said at last. "I would have liked to stay with you."

  Oslar put his arm around Hem's shoulders. "That is how it should be," he said. "Alas, things are seldom as they should be. I have only once had a student as naturally talented as you, and he too did not go the way of the healer."

  "Who was that?" asked Hem curiously, twisting his neck to look up into Oslar's face.

  "Saliman, of course," said Oslar, smiling. "He was my apprentice when he was not much older than you. But his burning desire was to understand the High Lore, and he traveled to Norloch to study with Nelac of Lirigon. It is, perhaps, possible to be too talented."

  "Oh," said Hem, surprised. "I suppose that's how he knows Cadvan."

  "Yes, he and Cadvan of Lirigon are very old friends," said Oslar. "He came back here, of course, since he is Turbanskian to the bone. I thought once he would be my successor. He travels other roads, alas; I shall always regret it. Our fates do not always unwind as we expect."

  "No," said Hem, with an edge of resentment.

  "Nay, do not be bitter, Hem, although these are bitter times." Oslar bent and kissed Hem's forehead. "I expect to see you again, the Light willing, when all this is over."

  Hem looked up gravely into his face. "I've got a lot to learn," he said, although that was not at all what he wanted to say to this wise, gentle Bard, who had been so kind to him and whom he might never see again.

  Oslar smiled, as if he understood what it was that Hem was unable to say. "Aye, my boy. All you need for learning is desire, and you have that. May the Light shine on your path."

  "And on yours," said Hem fervently. Without saying anything more, Oslar stepped out onto the darkening road, and Hem watched him until he disappeared into the gloom. He felt bereft, as if a brief, shining chapter of his short life had closed forever.

  X

  THE WEST GATE

  Hem waited for Zelika for some time at the doors to the Healing Houses, but she didn't come. At last, thinking she had probably gone ahead of him to the Ernan, he wandered moodily back to the palace.

 
The city lay deserted under the crushing heat, and the flags of the awnings in the marketplace hung sad and limp, rags of former joy. Ire had disappeared on one of his mysterious forays, probably to thieve some shiny object or other. Hem was worried; he did not know what was going to happen, and he did not want to lose Ire. On the way he bumped into Soron, and poured out his worries about Ire's absence.

  "I told him," he said. "I told him to be here at sunset."

  "He always turns up," said Soron. "If not now, he'll definitely be there for supper. And I'm sure Zelika will be at the Ernan. I'll come with you; I was going that way anyway."

  Hem was grateful for the Bard's company. Busy at the Healing Houses all day, he had not had a chance to find out what was happening in the rest of Turbansk, and Soron was full of news. The diversionary force that was to attack the Black Army was, he told Hem, to be led by Har-Ytan herself.

  "How do you know?" asked Hem, amazed. "I thought the attack was a secret. Does everyone know about it?"

  Soron laughed. "No, not everyone. All the same, Turbansk is a town that loves rumor and gossip, and it would not surprise me if word had got out that something was to happen tonight."

  But another thought had struck Hem. "Saliman said that everyone who went on that attack would be killed."

  Soron looked somber. "Their chances are small, that is for sure; but I am certain that not all will die. They attack only to retreat. You see, when Baladh fell, Har-Ytan said that she would stand or fall with Turbansk. And she has chosen, if need be, to fall. But she will lead a stern fellowship of warriors, many of the flower of our ranks. And even among them, Har-Ytan is a mighty warrior in her own right. They will not be beaten easily, even by such forces as assail us."

  Hem, thinking of Har-Ytan's statuesque figure, had no trouble believing that she was a mighty warrior. "But you haven't said how you know," he said. "Were you there at the planning of it?"

  "Nay, I am not so important," Soron answered, with a deprecating smile. "No, I know for other reasons." He paused, and looked sideways at Hem. "When Har-Ytan said she was to lead the ranks, she called her sons and gave to her heir, Ir-Ytan, the ruby of the Ernani, which is the emblem of her power. He is to be the new Ernani, if ever Turbansk shines again after this darkest of nights."

  Hem remembered his first sight of Har-Ytan in the magnificent throne room in the Ernan, standing as if she were sheathed in living flame, the great ruby ablaze on her brow. He breathed in sharply, feeling a great sorrow well up inside him.

  "Then she believes she will die," he said flatly.

  "She is as brave an Ernani as ever ruled this city," said Soron. "She faces death without fear. When I first came to Turbansk from Til-Amon and was presented to the Ernani, I thought I had never seen a woman at once so beautiful and so frightening. Yes, the thought of her passing breaks my heart. I am glad I have seen such a woman." He was silent for a few moments, and then continued. "Well, as I was saying. She gave the ruby to Ir-Ytan, and Mundar, her consort, became hysterical."

  "Hysterical?" said Hem with interest, thinking of the languid, spoiled young man he had briefly met and disliked.

  "He did not know that Har-Ytan planned to do this, I believe. And for all his faults – for I do not rank Mundar as among my favorites – he loves Har-Ytan with all his heart and soul. Unlike some who have been in his position, it is not mere self-interest that keeps him there. He rent his clothes and his hair, and smashed his head against the walls until blood ran down into his eyes. I've never seen anything like that – not even Har-Ytan could calm him."

  Hem stared at Soron in astonishment; he could not imagine it. "By the Light! He didn't seem... I mean, I would have thought..."

  Soron smiled a little sadly. "You are yet very young, Hem. But I hope you never have the occasion to feel such grief." Hem gave Soron a questioning glance that the Bard didn't notice; the boy thought privately that, however young he was, he knew quite enough of grief. But he said nothing.

  "Anyway," Soron continued. "You healers were too busy to be disturbed, and so I was called to help. I brought my strongest teas and potions, and at last he quieted down. Har-Ytan stood there, in full battle gear, the Sun of Turbansk blazing on her breast, a sight to strike terror into any Hull: and yet there were tears in her eyes, as she kissed him farewell. She left the room without looking back."

  Soron shook his head, remembering, and they walked for a time without speaking.

  "Do you know what will happen tonight?" asked Hem at last.

  "I know a little," said Soron, giving Hem a measuring look, as if weighing whether to tell him more. "The world will be a sadder place by the end of this night, I wager. Turbansk will not stand. I go with you and Saliman, after the seaway is cleared."

  "You're coming to Annar?" Hem said, pleased. He liked Soron.

  "The Light willing. It is my home, after all, and in dark times one longs for home. I wish to fight there. But we do not head there first; we must meet up with some friends of Saliman's. There is yet work to do."

  The palace was strangely empty; apart from the guards at the gate, they had seen no one. When they reached Hem's chamber, neither Zelika nor Ire were there, but a substantial meal was waiting on the low table in covered dishes. To Hem's relief, Soron stayed with him and shared his meal.

  They ate in silence, and Hem stared at the bundles laid against the wall – his and Zelika's, packed and ready for their departure. Each moment he felt tension twist higher inside him; he wished he knew where everyone was. He put some food aside for Ire, and walked restlessly about the room, trying to calm down.

  Outside, it was growing darker and darker. There was a sudden flash of lightning, throwing an ominous glare briefly over the room, and then a low rumble of thunder. Why wouldn't it rain? The pressure of the unburdened storm was almost as bad as everything else. Not far from Hem's room, in the Western Chamber, there was a huge water clock, which at every hour struck a silver bell. It struck now, and Hem jumped.

  Soron, lying listlessly on a couch in the corner, watched Hem walking up and down.

  "Sit down, Hem," he said.

  Hem sat down, but in a short time he was up again, pacing the room. "I hope Zelika hasn't done anything stupid," he said. He was reflecting that her uncharacteristic obedience over the past few days had really been too good to be true. "And it's unlike Ire, not to be here for dinner."

  "Ire will turn up. As for Zelika... well, if she has done anything stupid, as you say, there's nothing you can do about it. Have you tried to call your bird?"

  "I did, and he did not answer. I hope nothing has happened to him. And what if he comes back here and we're already gone?" Hem went to the window and looked out into the breathless evening. It was not yet completely dark. "He won't be able to find us. I don't know where Saliman is taking us. And what's going on out there? I can't stand it, this waiting." He plumped down on some cushions, biting his nails, and then started striding around the room again. "Why did Saliman want me to wait here, anyway? It's unbearable."

  Hem didn't speak his greatest fear, that Saliman might not come back at all. Perhaps he now stood at the prow of one of the great fighting triremes, staring ahead through the lapping darkness of the Lamarsan Sea toward the fleet of black ships that gathered malignly on the horizon. Perhaps already one of the terrible missiles of magefire had landed on the deck, splintering the frail wood, setting fire and death about it, and the great ship was sliding beneath the black surface of the waves.

  Hem had seen too many times what happened to flesh and bone when one of those missiles hit a human being. He could imagine all too clearly Saliman's body torn and broken – floating burned and abandoned in the water. For a moment the vision was so vivid he was almost convinced it was true, that Saliman was already dead. He shook himself, and remembered that very few Bards came to the Healing Houses; Bards had ways of protecting themselves, after all. But Saliman would be at the thickest of the fighting. "The Light protect Saliman," he breathed to himself. "Oh, the Light p
rotect him..."

  "You're making me nervous," Soron said. He was sitting languidly on a cushion, wiping the sweat from his brow. "What will happen will happen, Hem. There's nothing we can do about it."

  Soron was right, Hem knew, but nothing would stay his anxiety. Another flash of lightning and a huge clap of thunder made him jump; the thunder was so loud that for a moment he thought the walls of the Ernan were falling down. Almost instantly a great flash of sheet lightning lit up the room.

  "It's going to start raining," said Soron.

  "It's felt like that for ages," Hem said. "But nothing has happened."

  "It will. When the wind changes."

  "What wind?" asked Hem.

  A heavy silence fell between them, and Hem decided to go out into the garden. It was no cooler outside than inside, but it made a change. He lay down on the glazed tiles and stared up into the darkening sky, which trembled with small lightnings. He emptied his mind and tried to call Ire, investing the summoning charm with all his power and love. He had already attempted this once that evening, but had received no response, and he feared to hear nothing again: it made him very afraid that Ire was dead. Perhaps, in his insatiable curiosity, the bird had ventured too close to the battlements and had been hit by a stray arrow.

  But this time he thought he felt a faint pull in his mind, an echo of a voice that could only be Ire's. It seemed very far away. Hem sat up, puzzled, and tried the mindtouch once more: again that faint pull. What is that bloody bird doing? he growled to himself. Is he hurt, and unable to come? What is it?

  And where was Zelika? It was most likely that she had stolen away to be part of Har-Ytan's force, and the thought made him so furious he felt like punching the wall with his bare hand. How could she be so selfish? How could she lie to Saliman? And she would probably be killed, and that would be the end of her. At least he need never again listen to her endless strictures on how badly he pronounced Suderain... a lump rose in his throat, and impatiently he wiped away the sudden tears that welled in his eyes. If she died, it would serve her right. If he ever saw her again, he would throttle her.