Hem's heart leaped at the thought of Maerad; but at the same time he realized, with a wrenching feeling of desolation, that searching for Maerad would mean finally abandoning any hope of finding Zelika. With that thought, he was overwhelmed by a sense of crushing failure.
"But I'll have to leave Zelika," he said, in a low voice. "And I'll never know what happened to her."
Saliman looked up sharply. He paused for a time, and then came over to Hem and put his arm around his shoulder.
"Hem," he said, very gently. "Zelika is dead."
Hem went white, and bit his lip very hard. "No," he said. "How do you know? She might have escaped. I never found her in the camp – "
"She's dead, Hem. I found her body yesterday, when I was searching through the trees around the camp. It was definitely Zelika. I don't think she even made it into Sjug'hakar Im."
Hem was silent. He stared ahead, his jaw set.
"You know what she was like," Saliman continued softly. "She was afraid of nothing. She must have tried to escape when they captured her, and was killed then. She was in a grave covered with branches, on the other side of Sjug'hakar Im, and with her were the bodies of two other children. They had taken her sword, but she still wore her armor. I gave her a proper burial, not far from here."
Hem's jaw began to wobble, and he bent his head to his chest. "Do you – do you think that she suffered?" he whispered.
"No." Hem looked straight into Saliman's eyes to be sure that he was telling the truth. "No, Hem, she didn't suffer. I'm sure she died quickly."
"So I did all that for nothing." Hem swore savagely and smashed his knuckled fist into the ground. "For nothing. For nothing. For nothing." Each time he spoke he hit the ground again, his knuckles bleeding, but he did not feel any pain.
"No, not for nothing, Hem, my dear Hem." Saliman took Hem's bleeding hand between his, and then embraced him tightly. "But you could not save Zelika, nor any of those children. You were so brave, even to try."
A pain beyond anything he had ever felt seemed to be burning Hem from the inside. He couldn't believe that Zelika was dead, although he knew it was true. He had known, underneath, that she must be dead ever since he had found Nisrah in Dagra, but he hadn't been able to face it. And everything he had risked, all that he had suffered, had changed nothing: not for Zelika, not for Nisrah, not for the half-mad children in the Blind House, not for any of the snouts enslaved in Sjug'hakar Im. Their lives were all destroyed forever, and nothing could make it any better. He didn't want to live in a world where things like that happened.
Hem began to cry helplessly against Saliman's chest, and Saliman just held his shuddering body, stroking his wet face, and said nothing.
A long time later, Hem stood up and walked blindly away from the fire. Saliman watched him go without trying to stop him. For a while Hem didn't know where he was walking. He felt completely empty, as if he would never feel anything ever again.
He wandered first to the place where he had buried his things, before he had entered Sjug'hakar Im. He undid the ward, and dug them out. Very little of the food was worth salvaging. With a shudder he threw away the sword he had used as a snout, and strapped the Turbansk scabbard around his waist. He picked up his spare clothes and his leather armor; he would take off the Sjug'hakar Im clothes later and throw them away. He wanted to wear nothing that connected him to the snouts.
He took up the cloth bag that contained his silver medallion, the lily token of Pellinor that was his only link to his heritage, to his lost family. He tipped it out of the bag and fingered it; it was his oldest possession, and was precious to him. Then he put it back in the bag and hung it around his neck, with the brass tuning fork. Lastly he picked up his Turbansk brooch. He sat back on his heels, studying it closely.
It was unstained by its burial, and its gold rays sparkled in the sun. Slowly and deliberately, he pinned it to his cloak. Now he was a Bard again.
Saliman had told him where he had placed Zelika, and after a while Hem started to make his way toward her grave. She was buried at the foot of an almond tree, on a low hill that looked over the Nazar Plains, and Saliman had put a large boulder to mark the place. Hem sat down by the grave and thought about the wild girl he had known and loved for so brief a time. She was too vivid, too alive, to be there under the soil. He thought, too, of Nisrah, whom he had last seen clutched by the bony hand of a Hull in the midst of ruin, screaming at him with his face distorted by hatred.
In many ways, Zelika's death had been merciful. But Hem would never be reconciled to the unjustness of it.
The sun was beginning to go down when Ire came looking for him. He landed on Hem's shoulder, and wiped his beak on his hair, but he didn't make any of his usual clever remarks. Hem scratched Ire's neck, grateful for the crow's silent sympathy. Then he sighed heavily and stood up, taking one last look at the grave.
"Good-bye, Zelika," he said out loud. "I was going to marry you, you know, when we grew up. It won't happen now. Maybe it wouldn't have happened anyway. But I want you to know that." He stood silent for a time with his head bowed, and then whispered, "May the Light keep you."
He turned and walked steadily toward Saliman's camp, without looking back.
Saliman had damped the fire down during the day, and when Hem returned they both busied themselves with giving it fuel and preparing the evening meal. Neither of them spoke much at first, but after dinner they began to discuss their plans. They were to leave the following morning, to meet Hared and Soron, who were awaiting them at The Pit. Saliman and Soron had returned from their mission in Den Raven a few days earlier, and Saliman had insisted on coming to Sjug'hakar instead of Hared.
"If you did return," he said, with a twisted smile, "I thought that perhaps it would be better that I met you, rather than Hared. He is still furious that you disobeyed him, and I thought that if you had survived, you would be better met with love than anger."
Hem looked up gratefully, remembering belatedly that Saliman had been on a mission of his own. "What were you doing in Den Raven?" he asked. "We might have passed each other."
Saliman's face suddenly lit up with mischief. "We might, indeed. We could have waved." Then he added, more soberly, "You saw some of the results of what Soron and I were doing with your own eyes. We met some contacts, and we sent some messages. One of our aims was to force Imank to declare open rebellion against the Nameless One."
When Hem thought about it, it was obvious; he remembered Ire speculating that the Light was involved in the turmoils that racked Den Raven. "But mightn't that have happened anyway?"
"I think so, certainly. But only when Imank's position was secured. We thought it better if it happened now, before Imank's campaign against the Suderain was completed, and while the Nameless One was pondering how to march on Annar. We have bought ourselves a little time: Sharma has suffered his worst blow so far, and it was from his own. But there was another task..."
Saliman trailed into silence, staring into the fire, and Hem looked up inquiringly.
"It is strange," said Saliman at last. "Even to speak of this pains me. You remember, Hem, that I suspected that in Turbansk there was a spy? After that last terrible night, when it seemed that the Black Fleet was prepared for us, I was quite sure there was. You can be sure that we were very careful – no one but Har-Ytan, myself, and Juriken knew of the plan to call the earthquake, and I believe that desperate tactic worked as we wished, but it is impossible to organize a large assault without many people knowing about it. And I had no doubt that word was passed on; and so many died, who might otherwise not."
Saliman's voice hardened as he spoke, and Hem nodded slowly, remembering his suspicions about Alimbar, the consul of Turbansk.
"So, Soron and I desired to find out the truth of that. And, Hem, although I should not say so, I wished for revenge. Alimbar disappeared from Turbansk the night before the last assault; we could not find him anywhere. It made me almost certain that our suspicions were corr
ect. And I had reason to believe that he was heading for Den Raven, there to gain his reward. I also thought I knew what name he might be using. You saw the houses of the Grin there; you may understand how the prospect of unlimited wealth might tempt him, especially if all he could foresee was the utter defeat of Turbansk, though the Light knows he was wealthy enough. I do not understand how he could want more." Saliman shook his head. "A man cannot eat more than three meals a day, or live in more than one house at a time. If you have what you need, and more than you need, what is the use of adding to it?"
"It's not about use," said Hem. "It's about something else." Saliman, he thought, was like most Bards; he could not comprehend the empty desire for riches. Even Hulls did not understand it, scorning material wealth for the pure desire for power and domination.
"Did you find him?" asked Hem, when Saliman again fell silent.
"Aye," said Saliman. He grimaced with distaste. "Aye, we did. And when pressed, he revealed a few useful facts, which are good to know, about how much the Dark knows of our doings, and we have the names of those who have been betraying our havens to the Dark."
Hem wondered what Saliman and Soron had done to make Alimbar talk. Perhaps, he thought with a shudder, they had scried him. "Did you kill him?" he asked, in a small voice. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer.
Saliman paused before answering. "I did not. I heeded the Balance... These things have their own justice, which it is not for us to judge, and mercy is always the higher wisdom. But he threw his lot in with Imank, and I think that it will go hard for him, now that Sharma is crushing that rebellion, and he dare not tell anyone what he has revealed to us, since that would make him seem doubly treacherous. He now writhes in a vice of his own making. And, the larger mercies aside, I feel no pity for him."
Hem felt relieved. Somehow the thought of Saliman murdering a man in cold blood distressed him, however just that killing might be.
"I think you were right not to kill him," he said soberly. "There is too much death, everywhere."
"Aye, Hem," said Saliman gently. "Far too much. And what is the use of fighting the Dark, if we forget the Balance and sink to its level? What then are we defending?"
Hem smiled, but there was no joy behind it. He met Saliman's eye, but didn't answer. He was thinking of the moment when he had become like a snout, overcome by the frenzy of slaughter, how soiled the memory made him feel. They sat unspeaking for some time, listening to the sounds of the night. In the distance, Hem could hear the strange cries of creatures hunting in the Glandugir Hills, and he shivered and drew nearer to the fire. Its small, comforting light flickered bravely against the great darkness that surrounded them.
That night, Hem dreamed he was walking through a green meadow full of wildflowers, with grass almost as high as his knees. He reached a high hedge, and unlatched a gate and passed into an orchard of apple trees. It was early spring, and all of them held a heavy burden of pink-and-white blossoms. Blossom littered the ground like snow, and among the whitestarred grasses nodded daffodils and bluebells and crocuses of many colors.
He wandered through the orchard into a garden just now greening from its winter slumber, and continued over a path of raked white gravel toward a beautiful house. Hem knew it was his home, although he had never seen such a place before. It was a long, double-storied building of yellow stone, with wide windows that shone in the sunshine.
Hem turned, and began to wander among the apple trees. The blossom made soft drifts on the ground, and its scent rose into the crisp air as he crushed the petals under his bare feet. At the far end of the orchard was a wooden shed, and he made his way slowly toward it, ducking the low branches that swept their damp burdens of blossom into his face. He unlatched the door and entered, breathing in with deep pleasure: inside it smelled sweet and earthy. Stacked along the walls on wooden racks were rows of apples, stored from last season. Taking his time to choose the best, Hem picked one up, stroking its silky, golden skin. A single dried leaf clung to its stem. He wandered back out into the orchard, biting into its white, juicy flesh.
And then he heard someone calling out his name. He looked up and saw Maerad coming down the gravel path toward him. He waved and started running, his face radiant with joy.
She was calling him home.
XXVI
THE SONG
Before they left Sjug'hakar Im the following morning, Hem looked somberly around the camp. The unsettlingly clear weather of the past few days still held, and a pale winter light fell on the lion-colored grasslands of Nazar, lending them a delicate hue that reminded him, with a sudden poignance, of the unstained landscape he had seen when Nyanar had taken him to an earlier time. He turned around and contemplated the dark mass of the Glandugir Hills. The sense of illness beat out of them, like heat from a fevered body; he could feel it on his face. And yet in their depths he had watched the fragile dance of a butterfly in a sunbeam, a long time ago.
He didn't visit Zelika's grave again. He had already said his farewells; her death now lived inside him, a weight he would carry until the end of his days. He hoped that she would not be lonely here, buried in this sad land, which, like Zelika, had once been so beautiful. He thought of what Nyanar had told him about time: that all times coexisted. Nothing is truly gone... It isn't so for me, thought Hem. Nor for any human being. We can only go forward, unless we are guests in some enchantment that is not ours. We are condemned to an endless present, and we can never go back – the source of all our joy, and all our sorrow.
He sighed heavily, and hefted his pack onto his shoulders. Saliman, who had been clearing any traces of their camp, burying the ashes of their fire, and unpicking the glimveils, came up behind him.
"Ready, Hem?" he said.
Hem turned and met his eyes. Saliman's face was full of a discreet compassion; he guessed what Hem was feeling, but clearly didn't wish to intrude. Hem nodded slowly, and summoned Ire. Then they turned northward and began the trek back to The Pit.
It was back to the old rhythm of concealment and caution, shadowmazing and glimveils. Hem realized that these mageries seemed much simpler and less tiring than they had before; they even seemed a relief after the past few weeks, when he had been maintaining a difficult disguising spell as well as everything else.
He realized, too, that he didn't feel as nauseous as he had. Perhaps his body had adjusted; or maybe it was just that it had been so bad in the Glandugir Hills that the sickness he felt now was comparatively easy to bear. Or maybe, he thought idly, Nyanar had given him some kind of strength against it. He wondered if he would encounter the Elidhu again. When they had last spoken, Nyanar had said he would see him when he returned from Den Raven, but there had been no sign of him.
Hem and Saliman made their way as quickly as caution would allow, eating their midday meal without stopping to rest. Saliman wanted, if possible, to get back to The Pit within two days. They stayed away from the forest edges, but kept the road in sight. It looked as if the clear weather was going to break; darkening clouds were gathering overhead, and a sharp, thin wind nipped Hem's hands and face. It would be at least one miserable night out in the open, under the rain.
Neither Saliman nor Hem spoke much. Hem was very grateful for Saliman's silent fellowship that day; his steady presence was a great comfort, after so long without human company. But the thought gave Hem a stab of guilt; he felt as if he were being disloyal to Ire, who had been the best of friends, and had saved his life and, probably, his sanity. No human friend could have done more.
But all the same, he had missed Saliman so fiercely, and had feared he would never see him again. Just to have Saliman nearby, to hear the faint rhythms of his breathing and his footsteps, seemed a chance beyond hope. Maerad was now, he thought painfully, much more alone than he was. If Maerad was alive.
But even as his fear for Maerad quickened, he thought of his dream of the night before. The feeling of it was still with him: it was similar to what he had felt in th
e presence of the Elidhu, but warmer, more intimate. More mine, Hem thought. That's what my home looks like. Maerad was alive; some inner knowing in Hem pulsed with certainty. Maerad was alive, and he would find her, though all the wastelands of the Suderain and Annar lay between them. Perhaps she, too, dreamed of him.
These thoughts ran underneath Hem's consciousness all morning. He kept his listening alert, and constantly scanned the land around them for signs of sorcery or vigilances. There were old traces of sorcery, but nothing serious; the landscape felt abandoned and empty. He wondered what was happening in the wider world.
As the day wore on, he stopped thinking at all. He was still deeply tired after his ordeal in Den Raven, and he felt it more and more in his legs, which began to feel heavier and heavier, as if he pushed them through thigh-deep water. Despite the exercise, he felt cold to his very bones. A dullness settled on him, though he forced it aside, willing himself to keep alert. It would be too much, after everything he had survived, to be betrayed by some small mistake now.
Even so, he was startled when Saliman grasped his arm and halted him. Hem looked at the Bard in surprise and saw that Saliman was staring at something ahead of them, and drawing his sword. At first, he couldn't see what Saliman was looking at. Before them, the ground sloped downward to a thicket of low trees that grew in one of the many shallow dips that littered this area. Then, as Hem stared, he saw something big and dark moving in the shadows of the thicket. Ire, standing on Hem's shoulders, tightened his claws and trembled.
It was a huge stag, with a shaggy winter coat ruffing out to a huge yellow mane around its shoulders. Its seven-tined antlers swept high above its brow, so that Hem wondered how he had possibly missed it; but what compelled his gaze, even at this distance, was the stag's yellow eyes, which were staring straight at Hem.
They were Nyanar's eyes. Then Hem heard it: the music, the achingly beautiful, ungraspable phrases that haunted his waking memory.
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