"So we'd better find some shelter, on high ground," Hem said, looking despairingly around him. This was grazing ground, close-cropped turf dotted with clumps of bare-branched ash or small oak trees. Farther along, knots of sheep or goats clustered around the trees, huddled against the piercing wind that blew over the top of the ridge. He had hoped to see a farmhouse, even a shepherd's hut, but nothing was in sight. They would probably have to set up the tent. It might not be too bad, he thought, in the shelter of the trees.
"Do you think you could reach the top of the next hill?" he asked.
"I'll try," said Saliman. "I won't lie to you, Hem; this is hard going for me. It's as if someone has poured molten lead into my joints. And my legs feel as if they're made of stone."
"If it gets too hard, you should get into the wheelbarrow."
Saliman was silent for a time. "I remember when I was a child, I saw an old woman pushing a pig in a wheelbarrow," he said. "The pig was sitting up and looking around as if it were a fine lady in a sedan. It was one of the funniest things I had ever seen. I didn't stop laughing for hours."
"You don't look like a pig," said Hem, trying to smile.
"Nay, not like a pig. But I confess, the thought of being pushed in a wheelbarrow stings my pride."
"There's no one to see," said Hem.
"It's not a question of anyone seeing." Saliman sighed. "Well, let's get moving. That lake at the bottom of the hill is not going to get any smaller while we stay here talking."
Going downhill was easier, even though they were now walking into the wind. When they reached the swirling water at the bottom, Hem examined it uneasily. The water was brown with mud and he couldn't see the bottom, and he had no way of telling how deep it was. If it was too deep, he would have trouble with the barrow, and both of them would end up wet through. He found a long stick and prodded the water in front of him, but the current tore it out of his hands. He found a branch, stripped off the twigs to turn it into a pole, and stubbornly tried again.
It wasn't deep, probably just over their knees, but the current was very strong. And he could see the water level rising in front of his eyes.
"A fastening charm would probably do the trick," said Saliman from behind him. "But we'll have to feel our way. I'm sorry, Hem, I can't help with the charm."
"I'll have to touch you to make it work," said Hem.
"Don't worry about me; I'll hold onto the barrow," Saliman said. "I don't want you touching me, Hem."
Hem didn't insist. He would argue later; he couldn't heal Saliman if he were not able to touch him. He made a strong fastening charm, took a deep breath, and pushed the barrow into the water where it seemed most shallow, praying that it wouldn't rise over the sides. Slowly and painfully they made their way across. Hem just hoped they wouldn't fall into a sudden hole; he didn't know how he would get the barrow out if they did. The water swirled around his knees and even with the charm he could feel its power. It took all of Saliman's strength to walk against the current, and once he stumbled and almost fell over. But they made it across without mishap.
Now they were both wet to their thighs, and the wind was freezing. They stopped briefly and changed their clothes; it would do neither of them good to get even colder. Hem smelled the wind anxiously; there was rain in it, and it was coming their way. He turned and saw heavy clouds low in the south, sweeping over the green hills.
They pushed slowly up the next hill. By now Hem's arms felt as if they were on fire, but he gritted his teeth and pushed on. He didn't think he could go much farther. Saliman was trudging beside him, always two spans away, saying nothing. His silence told Hem more than anything else how much their trek was costing him, and he scanned their surroundings desperately, hoping for a sign of something, anything—a byre or a hut, even the open shelters farmers made for their livestock—that would keep the coming weather off their heads. If he didn't see something soon, he would have to put the tent up, but he was hoping for something warmer and bigger, where he could light a fire.
At last they reached the top of the hill and stood with the wind at their back, looking over a strange, watery landscape: the floods spread as far as they could see. For a brief moment he wondered if the caravan had escaped the floods. And then, just over the ridge, in the lees of a rocky outcrop that protected it from the wind, Hem found what he was looking for: a stone hut roofed with turf so that he almost missed it. His arms burning with the effort, he pushed the barrow to the low door, and cautiously bent down to inspect the interior. There was nothing inside except a smell of damp, and the roof wasn't leaking, so the hard earth floor was dry. He beckoned to Saliman, who staggered inside and collapsed against the far wall, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. With a feeling of inexpressible relief, Hem began to unpack the barrow, carrying their belongings inside. As he did so, Irc spiraled down from the sky and landed on the roof of the hut, cocking his head to watch.
It's not as nice as the last place.
It's a lot better than nothing, Hem said crossly. And nothing was what we almost had. He was in no mood for Irc's criticisms.
Irc, sensing Hem's state of extremity, kept quiet. It didn't take long to empty the barrow, and Hem leaned it up against the wall outside and entered the hut himself. It was dark inside, so he made a magelight and lit a small fire by the door. The hut would fill with smoke, but he would rather battle smoke than the cold. The rain finally reached them as he laid the tinder, and Irc flapped inside, shaking out his feathers.
They were out of the wind here, and once the fire took hold the hut warmed up quickly. Hem cut up some turnips and beans he had salvaged from the tavern, throwing them into their cooking pot—he planned to make a stew for dinner. And then, finally, he turned to look at Saliman.
Saliman was visibly more ill than he had been that morning. He was shaking with violent tremors, even though the hut was now comfortably warm, and his face was drawn with exhaustion. He was watching Hem alertly and when Hem turned to look at him, he cleared his throat, as if he had been waiting to speak.
"Hem, listen," he said, and struggled to sit up straighter. His voice was hoarse, and it was clearly an effort to talk, and now he used the Speech, not the Annaren they had spoken for the past few weeks. "I believe that you are mistaken in taking care of me like this and risking your life, although I love you for it, and I have not the will to oppose you, although I should. And I am afraid that tonight I may lose my mind, although I am hoping that will not happen yet. This sickness gnaws my flesh, my mind, my very bones, and although I fight it with all my will, all my magery, still I cannot stop it. I fear that you cannot escape the contagion if we sleep in this small space."
"I know how bad it is," Hem said, his voice breaking. "But Saliman, I know I haven't done the wrong thing. Even if I fail, even if I get sick myself, I will not regret it."
Saliman smiled with such sadness that Hem almost wept.
"It is said that when the Great Silence ruled over Annar, deeds were done that were never marked by song or story, but that this made them no less deeds of valor. That is why, Hem, in the middle of the Song of the Dark there is a long moment of silence, to remember those whose actions we cannot know, but who deserve our respect and remembrance nonetheless."
Hem nodded. He had learned of this in the School of Turbansk. That time seemed so far away now that he could scarcely remember it; all the sights and colors and smells of Turbansk were like a vivid but distant dream.
"I think that silence remembers deeds like this you are doing now, Hem. If I cannot salute you afterward, I salute you now." Saliman coughed and turned his face away.
Hem's eyes filled with tears. "It's only because I love you," he said gruffly.
"Aye," said Saliman gently. "Such deeds are borne out of love."
Saliman shut his eyes. A long silence fell between them, and Hem mixed the stew, seasoning it with salt and dried herbs, and put it over the fire. He was so upset that he scarcely knew what he was doing, and the
pot almost fell off the tripod and into the fire.
Irc, who had perched himself on Hem's bag, squawked with alarm. That's our dinner! he said.
Did you not find anything to eat today? asked Hem.
No. Well, not much. Will Saliman be all right? He is very quiet.
I don't know, Hem answered. I am going to try to make him better.
You must make him better, said Irc. Or I will be very sad.
Hem said nothing, and stared at the stew, which blurred in front of his eyes.
Saliman would not eat anything, and only drank thirstily from his water bottle. Hem shared the stew with Irc, who ate his fill and then perched himself on Hem's pack and went to sleep. Hem sat and fed the fire, staring into its depths. His body ached all over, and he was very tired. He wondered if he had the strength to do any healing tonight; but if he did not, it might be too late. If it wasn't too late already.
Saliman stirred, and Hem looked over toward him.
"Hem, one more thing.'' He sat up and leaned toward Hem, licking his lips. Hem saw that there was already a cluster of sores at the corner of his mouth. "If you are certain that you are going to try to heal me, then you must know what this sickness is. It is difficult to heal because it twists through the body like smoke, rippling and changing, so that you cannot find its form. It is always changing. And it is always deeper than you realize. You think you have chased it from the body, only to discover that it has withdrawn itself and emerged somewhere you didn't expect."
"Have you ever tended someone with the White Sickness yourself?" asked Hem.
Saliman shook his head. "It has not been seen in the Suderain," he said. "This is just what I know from what I've read or been told." He paused, as if he were trying to gather energy to speak again. "But I can feel the truth of what has been said in my own body. Ever it evades my own magery. Patience, Hem, and strength. You should sleep before you even attempt it."
"But if I sleep, it might be too late!"
"Hem, I'll be frank. I do not think that it is possible for you to drive this sickness out of me. I believe, with all my heart, that you should not try this."
"I know," said Hem. "But I'm going to anyway."
"Well, if that is so, I suggest that you rest first. And if you wake and understand that you cannot do this, know that I think you should leave me. Know that." Saliman said the last two words with such ferocity that Hem jumped.
"I do know that," he whispered. "I know what I know, too."
Saliman was silent again for a long time, and then he said: "Hem. My Truename is Arundulan."
"Arundulan," Hem repeated, overwhelmed. To tell one's Name to another was the deepest sign of trust a Bard could show. Arundulan meant ember in the Speech, the glowing coals that might at any moment leap into flame. "Arundulan."
"You might need it," said Saliman. "And I do not wish to die without having told you my Name."
Hem cleared his throat. "I wish I knew my own Name, so I could tell you mine," he said.
"The Light willing, you will know it one day." Saliman closed his eyes, and silence fell over them.
Hem stared into the fire, weighing the risks of what he planned to do. Saliman, he knew, was telling him the truth, and the sensible thing to do would be to leave him, as Marich and Karim and Hekibel had done. Hem was incapable of making so cold a choice. He had followed Zelika into the heart of Den Raven for the same reason that he now stayed with Saliman— and look how that turned out, said a mocking voice in the back of his mind. He knew he could not live with himself if he left Saliman to a horrible certain death without even trying to heal him. The problem was, the attempt to heal him might result in his own death.
Well then, thought Hem. That's how it is.
He thought over carefully what he knew of healing. He was all too conscious of his lack of experience. In the Healing Houses of Turbansk he had learned much: Oslar had been a great and patient teacher, and had given Hem, in the end, as much responsibility as he gave his best healers. Yet he knew in his bones that if Oslar were here now, he would counsel him against the attempt. He was too young, he knew too little, he had no medicines to assist his magery ...
He would have to depend on his wits. Perhaps his earth sense, the strange gift that had been breathed into him by the Elidhu Nyanar in Nal-Ak-Burat, might help him where Bardic magery faltered. It was, he thought dolefully, the only thing he had that other Bards lacked. So far, all the earth sense had granted him was a crippling nausea when he walked across ground damaged by the Nameless One. But if the White Sickness was, as some Bards darkly speculated, a disease loosed on Annar by Sharma himself, then perhaps this earth sense might be a way of finding where the sickness embedded itself in the body. And it wasn't as if Hem were incapable as a mage—he had managed to unpick the vigilance set by a powerful Hull outside the Blind House in Sjug'hakar Im, and that had been no easy task.
He threw some more wood from his dwindling pile onto the fire. Saliman had fallen asleep, and his light, uneven breathing and restless movements seemed loud over the crackle of the flames. Hem realized that he was tired, very tired indeed. Saliman was speaking sense when he said that he ought to rest before he attempted anything so difficult as battling the White Sickness. He would sleep now—a few hours, not too long—to gather his strength. He had the knack, after weeks of watch-keeping, of waking himself when he desired. If he slept until midnight, the fever might not have wound itself too deeply into Saliman's body, and he would be better prepared to try to heal him.
He understood then that, for all his protestations, he had not been sure until that moment that he would attempt to heal Saliman. If he was honest with himself, he was as afraid as the players; he was terrified of becoming like the poor wretch he had seen in Hiert, without even the mercy of a quick death. Yet now he knew that his decision was irrevocable, come what may. He sagged with a sudden, strange sense of relief, and damped down the fire. Irc was already asleep, one leg tucked into his breast and his head under his wing. Hem stared at Irc for a long moment, his eyes soft with tenderness. Then he drew the blankets around himself, attempting to get comfortable on the hard floor, and quickly fell asleep.
Hem woke at the darkest hour of the night. He sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. The hut was warm, lit by the faint glow of the fire. Saliman was curled up against the opposite wall, fast asleep and still, except for his light, erratic breathing. Hem reached for his water bottle and took a long draft; then he paused and fumbled through his pack. There was a flask of medhyl somewhere in the bottom that he had brought from Til Amon, and that he had forgotten until now. He took a long draft of that as well. He felt the thrill of the medhyl go through him and wake him up.
Well, he thought. Now is as good a time as any.
Without any further thought, he crawled over to Saliman and sat cross-legged next to him, studying his face. In sleep, he looked vulnerable, somehow much younger; Hem thought he knew what Saliman must have looked like when he was a child. He decided not to wake him; if he did, Saliman would argue, and Hem didn't want to argue. He took a deep breath, emptied his mind, and took Saliman's hands in his own.
Saliman's skin was dry and rough like paper, and very hot. Hem could feel the beat of his blood, a light, hectic pulse that had no regular rhythm. Swiftly Hem scanned his body, sending a White Fire running along Saliman's veins. It was a first test of what he would be facing when he began the healing. At once he felt the truth of what Saliman had said to him earlier; the sickness was like a foul, oily smoke winding in infinitely complex patterns through Saliman's being. It withdrew from the edges of the White Fire, retreating before Hem's advances, seeming almost to disappear, although a deeper sense told him that it was there, undiminished, at the periphery of his vision.
A sudden nausea flowered in Hem's belly. It was the same nausea he had felt in the forests of the Glandugir Hills, and with it came a visceral sense of revulsion and horror, as if he were about to lower himself into a pit that crawled with
spiders and scorpions. He withdrew his mind and sat for a moment, gasping and sweating with the shock of it, trying to gather his wits together.
He had barely touched Saliman, and it was already that bad. For a moment Hem considered leaving the hut, taking his pack, and fleeing as far as he could from the horror that was the White Sickness. Saliman stirred, and then kicked out wildly, mumbling something incoherent in his sleep, and Hem jumped. He looked a long moment at his friend's face. If he abandoned Saliman, that beauty would be destroyed forever. He would never again see Saliman's smile, never hear his voice raised in song, nor his long, improbably absurd stories, told for the pleasure of delighting his friends.
"No," he said aloud, pushing away the cold voice inside him that mocked his weakness. "I said I would heal him. I said that even if I caught the sickness, I would not regret it. I will not regret it."
He took a deep breath, picked up Saliman's hands again, and began the task of healing.
Afterward, the only memory Hem had of that night was of a confused and endless torment, a long, exhausting struggle with a sickness that embraced him until it wound through into his own vitals, skewering him with an anguish he had never known before. He hunted down flickering snakes of fire and extinguished them, only to see them spring three-headed out of the clean darkness; he wrestled with demons of smoke and oil that smothered him; he chased the sickness down the infinitely tiny byways of Saliman's body, only to see it creep back, stronger, more insidious than before; he ran down dark, empty roads, and before him glided a shadow haloed by light that he knew was Saliman, but ever more distant, ever more faint.
Alison Croggon - [Pellinor 04] Page 23
