The Crow

by Alison Croggon

  * * * *

  Hem woke up and lay shivering, clutching his thin cloak around himself. There is no healing here. The dream voice res­onated through his skull as the terror of the dream receded. He bit his lip, wishing he could summon Ire. He struggled with himself, cursing his weakness, but he couldn't stand it; at last he cautiously reached out and felt for Ire's presence. Faint, too far off, but still perceptible. Perversely, that brief contact made him even more lonely.

  It was completely dark. He lay on the naked floor of a small room, thick with the acrid smell of urine and old food, but the stench lent no warmth; the air was freezing. His skin itched as small vermin nibbled him.

  What have I done? he thought to himself. There's no way out of this nightmare, except death. I don't want to die.

  There is no healing here. The voice mocked him.

  With a jolt, he felt the tiny vigilance outside the doorway stir, alerted perhaps by his brief mindtouch. Hem pushed his thinking down into the secret depths of himself, holding his breath; the thing sniffed around briefly, and then subsided without sending an alarm. Hem heaved a low breath of relief.

  Sleep, he thought, I need to sleep. He hurt all over with tiredness, but sleep would not come. He lay on his back and stared open-eyed into the darkness.

  After Zelika had been taken, Hem had lain in a stupor as the dusk deepened into night. Ire had returned to the hide some­time after the last footsteps had retreated, but he said nothing, not even nagging for something to eat. He crawled close to Hem, leaning into the center of his chest, crooning in sympathy with the boy's speechless misery.

  Around midnight, Hem sat up. He opened his pack and took out some food and shared it with Ire, who ate listlessly and then found a perch and went to sleep. Hem was beyond sleep. He stared into space for hours, thinking.

  It was possible, he thought coldly, that Zelika was dead. Unlikely, though: if they thought she was a spy, which she was, they would want to glean whatever information she had. And Zelika, he realized now, knew quite a lot. The full scale of the disaster of her capture began to unroll in his mind. A Hull could pick her memories like a vulture picking a carcass. They would know about Nal-Ak-Burat, about Hared, about the hopes and fears of the resistance. They'll know about me, Hem thought, with a clutch of panic. There was no way of keeping anything hidden if you were scried. Hem shuddered at the thought of such a violation, of what it would feel like to have a Hull inside his head, picking through his most intimate shames; but he pushed the thought aside. He was done with grieving and regret: the question was what to do now.

  He should report back to Hared and tell him what had happened. But he could not leave here without Zelika. The thought formed coolly, like a decision he had already reached without being conscious of it. He had to get Zelika back. He had to find out what the Hull had discovered.

  They'll know about me. If I show up, they'll know who I am.

  He looked at his arms. With his dark hair and olive Pilanel skin, Hem might have conceivably passed for a Baladhian if he had not spent the past few weeks underground. His skin was sallow and pale, too pale for the Suderain. His language skills were good enough now to pass without comment, but would not survive any deep probing.

  He thought of the disguising spell that Saliman had taught him during some idle hours in Turbansk. It was, Saliman had said, a speciality of Cadvan's, and it fooled Bard eyes. It was not a well-known technique, as few Bards could master it. It was time-consuming and exhausting, and it had a limited duration, so if he were to be disguised for several days it would have to be renewed regularly But perhaps, thought Hem, he could manage a limited version of it that wasn't so tiring, rather than a complete transformation of himself: a few subtle shifts in his facial features, changing his blue eyes to brown, refining his cheekbones and darkening his skin. He was thin, but he could make himself slightly thinner so he looked as if he had been half-starved for weeks. It might work.

  He knew how to shield himself, so the telltale glow by which Bards recognized each other was hidden. If he were to pass as an ordinary Suderain child, he would have to shield himself so deeply that no one would suspect the smallest glimmer of Barding within him, and he would have to keep the shield up all the time. That would be very tiring, but maybe not impossible. He had learned self-discipline and wariness in his years in the orphanage.

  Slowly, methodically, he thought through the details of what he might do and weighed the risks of his plan. If he were caught, the consequences didn't bear thinking about. But he knew, with a fierce certainty, that he could not abandon Zelika to the Hulls. A complex shame that he had simply watched as she was cap­tured – that, despite everything, despite Ire's astounding attack on him, despite the impossibility that he could have helped her at all, he had somehow allowed it – swirled beneath all his thoughts. He felt that now he could begin to understand a little of Zelika's madness: she had watched her family captured and killed, and could not exorcise the shame that she had survived.

  Hem knew that Hared would be furious; he would think he was being "heroic." I am not a hero, thought Hem, but I can't leave my friend behind, not knowing whether she is dead or alive, without even trying to rescue her. He flinched away from thinking about what Saliman might say.

  He began to prepare himself. If the Hulls had found out down, making himself as comfortable as he could on the prickly ground, and fell into a dead sleep.

  Ire was back the next day. Hared had sent back a curt message: Don't be a fool, and ordered that Hem come back to the base in three days' time. It was less incendiary than Hem had expected.

  He waited for three days, resting as much as he could, trying to control the nausea that constantly afflicted him in this place. He practiced holding it within him, willing his body to ignore it. He could do nothing properly if he were sick all the time. After a day, he found a way to suppress it; the sickness was still there, but he could live with it.

  That three-day wait was one of the hardest things he had ever done. Every moment he was tormented by the fear of what might be happening to Zelika; terrible images rose unbidden in his mind. But he knew he had to leave a gap between Zelika's appearance and his own if his plan was to have any chance of succeeding.

  Again and again he went over the sequence of events that had led to Zelika's capture, wondering if there was something he could have done to prevent it. He realized now that the main reason Zelika had agreed to come with him was that she hoped to find out what had happened to her brothers and sisters; he knew that she suspected that they had been captured rather than killed. He blamed himself: he should have guessed. Now that he thought about it, it was obvious; and yet the possibility that she might see one of her family hadn't even entered his head. Of course, she had lost all self-control when she had seen her brother. Uselessly, Hem cursed that cruel chance.

  Worst of all, he remembered it was his fault that she had come at all. It was Hem's cajoling that had made her agree to work with Hared. If it hadn't been for him, none of this would have happened. He allayed his misery by observing the camp with ferocious concentration, taking careful note of everything he saw. To his surprise, there were no more sorties into the forest. No one came looking for him and nothing moved on the road. He thought this was encouraging; if they had discovered some­thing important, they would surely have sent a message to Den Raven.

  He watched the little figures training all day, from the moment the pale sun emerged in the morning to last light, and noted what they were doing. He decided that his initial estimate of around three ranks of children – just under one thousand – was fairly accurate. Then he sent Ire back to Hared with his latest observations, and said he was staying where he was.

  Ire returned a little flustered, with direct orders that Hem return to Hared. Hem nodded, smiling grimly, and began to prepare his disguising spell. Ire watched him in silent alarm for a time, and then asked him what he was doing.

  I'm going into the camp, he said. You'll have to tell Hared. />
  You're as braintwisted as the girl, hissed Ire, in sudden anger. You'll never get out. Not even birds fly over that place.

  Hem paused, and studied Ire. I need your help, Ire, he said. I need you to tell Hared what I'm doing, and then to stay close to the camp, so I can get messages to you. I'll work out how – there'll be a way. It will have to be mindtouching.

  On my own? You want me to stay on my own? Ire flapped his wings in sudden alarm.

  I'll be on my own, too. But I have to find Zelika, and get her out.

  You're mad.

  Maybe. But I have to. I can't leave her here. Hem looked at Ire; the crow had turned his head so he could fix Hem with one unblink­ing yellow eye. He could feel Ire's anxiety. I'm sorry, Ire. I want to go back more than anything, but I have to do this first. Help me.

  Ire turned his back on Hem, and preened his feathers.

  Please, Ire.

  The crow looked up, and then moved close. Hem stroked Ire's crisp, cool feathers, regretting the loss of his whiteness: the motley dye was practical, but it marred Ire's usual smooth beauty.

  I'll help, Ire said. I understand that you do not want to leave your friend. And I do not want to leave you.

  Sudden tears pricked Hem's eyes. Thank you, he said. He picked Ire up, put him on his lap and gently scratched his neck.

  I'm going to go in tomorrow. I've worked out how to get in, but after that I'll have to see what happens. Stay as close as you can, so I can reach you if I need to.

  Ire was silent for some time, his eyes half-closed with plea­sure as Hem tickled his neck.

  What if they make you dead? he asked at last.

  Then you go back to Hared, said Hem. But they won't make me dead.

  He returned to his disguising spell. He had been correct: it wasn't so hard to manage a partial change. He made himself gaunt and starveling. He would look like a Suderain version of himself; it would last five days. With any luck he would not have to renew it. The magery left him utterly drained.

  Ire examined him sharply. You are not Hem anymore, he said at last. Who are you?

  With a dropping of his heart, Hem realized that although he had thought of everything else, he hadn't given himself a new name. I'm Bared, he said, after a pause. I am a simple boy from a village, and I can't speak too good. My village burned down, and I ran away and lived in the plains by myself. I'm hungry.

  Ire made the throaty sound that meant he was laughing.

  Hem examined his strangely dark hands as he ate his mid­day meal. He was very afraid of what he had decided to do, but at the same time, he knew his decision was irrevocable.

  After he finished eating he carefully went through his pack, putting aside most of its contents. He drank the remaining medhyl and put the flask on the ground. His mail and battered leather armor went with it, and the remains of his food, which he wrapped carefully against damp. He debated for some time whether to take his shortsword; he was fond of it and it weighed well in his hand, but its hilt was plated with gold and enameled with Turbanskian blue. It was too grand a weapon for a ragged boy fleeing war. In the end, he put it aside. He unpinned the sun-shaped brooch, the token that showed he was a Turbanskian Bard, and put it with his sword. Lastly, with a wrench, he took the Pellinor medallion from around his neck. He tipped it out of its cloth bag, and stroked it with his fingers before he put it with the rest. It was still his most precious pos­session, and he did not like to leave it. He kept a spare jerkin, and his water bag. His pack was now very empty.

  He dug a shallow hole and put all his possessions inside it. He stamped down the red soil and covered it with brush and a glimveil, wondering as he did so whether he would ever return to dig them up. Ire watched his preparations curiously, without saying anything.

  Then Hem took a deep breath. Strangely, despite his fear, he felt very calm and sure.

  Right, he said. I'm going now. Tell Hared what I'm doing, and then come back as soon as you can.

  It's a long way, the crow complained. And I just flew there yes­terday and there are nasty things in the air.

  I know. But you are a King's messenger, Ire, the bravest of birds. You can do it.

  Ire puffed up his chest feathers. His vanity, thought Hem with sudden fondness, was always reliable.

  Go well, Ire, he said. I will try to touch you when I can, but do not panic if it takes a while.

  The crow brushed Hem's face with his beak, and launched himself into the air. Hem watched until he couldn't see him anymore.

  He waited until sunset, but before it was completely dark. Then he shielded himself, locking fast his inner self. He was Bared now, not Hem. He straightened his shoulders, and walked slowly down the hill, toward the camp.

  After days of shadowmazing and creeping from tree to tree, he felt horribly visible. As he drew closer, he saw with a shudder that dogsoldiers were keeping watch from the high wooden platforms that rose above the fences. For a moment panic clutched him, and he almost turned and ran. He thought of Zelika, and forced himself to continue, his pulse fluttering in his throat.

  He walked with a stumbling gait, like someone tired and half-starved. His hair was matted from days of traveling rough, and he stank of old sweat. He had rubbed his clothes in the dust to make them more ragged and filthy. His sandals were scuffed and worn, and although they were well-made, of good leather, he had not discarded them, reckoning they looked poor enough to pass muster; he had no desire to go barefoot. As he approached the camp, he triple-checked his shielding. He did not have to counterfeit his nervousness.

  Even with his Bard senses hidden, he felt the shock of vigi­lances silently triggering alarms in the darkening air. He braced himself and shambled steadily on, expecting any moment to feel an arrow in his breast. Nothing stirred.

  When he reached the gate he stopped, momentarily baffled. He had expected to be challenged by now. He examined it closely, wondering what to do. Its planks were lashed together with rough iron bands, and the wood was so recently hewn it was still raw. It was broad enough to permit a dozen people to walk through, but fitted inside it was a smaller, iron-bound door. Hem tried banging his fists on the door, feeling foolish, but the solid wood absorbed the sound. He stood back and recklessly waved at the nearest dogsoldier. It didn't move or respond in any way.

  In the end, he sat down on the churned dirt of the road, lean­ing his back on the gate, and simply waited. He couldn't think of anything else to do, aside from walking away. It was now almost full night. Why didn't someone come and get him? A faint hunting howl echoed in the distance and he looked fear­fully out into the night: he didn't know what beasts roamed out there, nor how close they might come to the stockade. It occurred to him that the walls were intended to keep things out, as well as in. Without any magery to protect him, he would rather be inside.

  He had almost given up hope of being noticed and was weighing his alternatives when the small door in the gate rattled and opened. He scrambled up nervously. Inside stood a tall woman dressed in a robe of rough, undyed wool, who dragged him inside and bolted the door behind her. She was not a Hull, as he had half expected.

  "What are you doing outside?" she hissed. "It's the Blind House for you, at least. Which block are you?"

  Hem stared at her in incomprehension. "I'm – I'm hungry," he stammered. "I've walked a long long way, and there's beast­ies out there, and I ran – "

  The woman halted and examined his face; her lips pursed. "You're not one of the curs," she said sharply. "Who are you? Where are you from?"

  Hem was standing with his mouth open, trying to look as imbecilic and frightened as possible. The woman slapped him across the face, and he stumbled and almost fell. "Answer me!" she snapped. "Don't waste my time."

  Hem clutched his stinging cheek, beginning to whimper. "My name is Bared," he said. "I'm hungry. I got lost."

  "Hmmm." The woman paused, looking at him sideways with her eyes screwed almost shut. "Well, then, Bared. You must come to our welcoming chamber, and we
will see. Follow me."

  "Eat?" asked Hem pathetically.

  "Yes, yes, you'll be given something to eat. Now shut up."

  Hem followed her, surreptitiously looking around him as they went. On either side of him were rows of low windowless buildings, arranged around a huge square of beaten earth. The woman led him across the square to one of the few places with lighted windows. They entered a small, mean room off a hall­way. It was, at least, warm. Along one wall was a bench, but otherwise it was empty and featureless. The woman pointed.

  "Wait here," she said peremptorily, and disappeared through a door into another room.

  Hem sat down heavily on the bench, grateful to be out of the cold. Now came the part that had made him most apprehen­sive: there was sure to be some kind of examination. And, his heart hammering, he wondered if they might connect his appearance with Zelika's, if they might suspect that he was a spy. He wasn't sure how well his disguise would hold up under close scrutiny. How deeply could he shield himself? Would he be scried? Scrying was his only real fear: not even Bards could protect themselves against that cruel examination.

  He had thought long on this question and he knew he was gambling his luck. He was hoping that to scry him would be too much trouble. Bards were very reluctant to use scrying, in part because it was a deep intrusion into another's mind, but also because it was an extremely difficult and exhausting process. Hem was sure it would be the same for Hulls who were, after all, a kind of Bard; perhaps it would be worse for them, because they scried without assent, and would have to battle past the other's resistance. Surely Hulls were subject to mortal tiredness, even if they did not die in the usual way? Would a hungry, exhausted child be worth scrying? He gnawed his fingernails viciously, fighting to keep his anxiety under control.