The Singing

by Alison Croggon

  "Yes, I remember." Cadvan looked at Maerad sidelong. "But not much else is the same, I think. Not least you, Maerad. Being here reminds me of the waif you were then. You barely dared to open your mouth."

  "It was terrifying. I thought they'd throw me out when they discovered I wasn't a proper Bard."

  "You're not a proper Bard," Cadvan said, smiling. "You're something altogether strange."

  "I suppose I am." Maerad picked up some straw and twirled it around her finger meditatively. "I can't help wishing I was a normal Bard, though. I can think of nothing better than staying here, learning the Three Arts properly, reading all the lore of Annar, just being ordinary ..." She couldn't keep the raw longing out of her voice, and Cadvan was silent for a time.

  "I wish all that for you, Maerad," he said at last. "You don't know how much. And I begin to think, too, that I am tired of my restless life. I wonder how many steps I've walked since my youth. I suppose I never felt that I had the right to stop anywhere for long."

  Cadvan had never said anything like that before, and Maerad glanced at him, surprised. He was staring at the floor, his face reflective and a little sad. In the dim light of the stables he seemed younger, not much older than she was.

  "You probably earned the right years ago," she said.

  "It's never a question of what others think," Cadvan answered, with an edge of harshness in his voice. "The hard thing is always to forgive oneself."

  "Then you're simply being selfish."

  "Do you think so?" A smile quirked the edge of Cadvan's mouth. "A little self-indulgent, perhaps?"

  "I think so. Definitely. If others forgive you, what right have you not to forgive yourself? It's just vanity."

  Cadvan almost looked offended, but then he started to laugh. "Ah, Maerad," he said. "I think I will keep you as my conscience. I fear that you're painfully right."

  "I've had quite a bit of time to get to know you," she said, smiling. "They're not wrong, those who accuse you of pride."

  "Or arrogance. No, they're not wrong. Maybe only you know how hard I work to keep these things at bay."

  "But you wouldn't be you without them, all the same."

  "It's a question of the Balance. As always. I wish it were not the case that our faults are so often the other side of our virtues." He stood up and stretched. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'm hungry."

  "I just broke my fast," said Maerad. "But I only had a pastry. I wouldn't mind eating again."

  "We could go to that tavern. The food looks like good Innail fare."

  Over their meal, they discussed their immediate plans. Cadvan thought they should leave Innail the following day, heading south. "I think our best bet would be to make for Til Amon," he said. "If Hem and—I hope—Saliman have fled

  Turbansk, they would, I imagine, have gone there. And—I suppose—we'll just follow your nose."

  "I hope it's working properly," Maerad said dryly. "Obviously Malgorn thinks we've taken leave of our senses."

  "Maybe we have," said Cadvan, grinning. "Perhaps not. The Way of the Heart is not, after all, so mad; and it's something the Dark does not understand. I think we follow that way now. Although I do not know where it will lead us."

  "No." Maerad turned her face away, and Cadvan, sensing her discomfort, began to talk of practical things: the food they would take, whether it would be safe to stay in inns in the valley, how dangerous the road might be.

  Early the next morning, they bid their friends farewell and trotted through the main gate of Innail. The rain had stopped, leaving in its wake a biting wind straight off the mountainside; Maerad had dressed in several layers of clothes to ward off the cold, and still felt the chill. Their leavetaking had been quick and somber: Maerad had embraced her friends, feeling as if she were about to jump into an abyss. Suddenly all sense of urgency had vanished: she just wanted to stay where it was safe and warm, amid the beauty of Innail. But she knew better, and bit down the tears that threatened, turning her face determinedly to the road.

  They set off at a leisurely pace. It was still dark, and the road glimmered faintly beneath them. Keru, Maerad's mare, was clearly wishing that she was back in a warm stable, although she said nothing; she carried Maerad as she promised she would, but there was no willingness in her step. Maerad thought of Imi, and hoped that she was happy in Murask. No doubt she was safer than she would be with Maerad, but Maerad missed her all the same.

  After a while the sky lightened to a faint gray, but the day brought no relief; the wind lifted and it began to rain. They quickened their pace: they planned to stay that night at an inn in Barcombe, a hard day's ride from Innail, and both were anxious to get there as swiftly as they could. The countryside was bare and wintry, and gave them little incentive to dawdle. Maerad's hands were freezing, even though she was wearing thick silk gloves, and her face began to turn numb. The farther they rode, the colder it became: soon it became unbearable. Maerad hunched miserably on Keru in a futile attempt to retain the little fugitive warmth in her body.

  Cadvan pulled Darsor up, and Keru drew to a halt beside him. "I like not this cold," he said. "The wind has an unnatural taste."

  Her wits slowed by the cold, Maerad stared at him, missing his meaning.

  "Weatherworking, I think," said Cadvan. He was scanning the sky anxiously. "And powerful weatherworking, too. It must be the Landrost. Maerad, I am thinking it is a bad time to be out in the open."

  Maerad turned Keru around, looked up at the sky, and swore viciously. They had been riding uphill, and the valley slanted down in front of her back toward Innail. The School itself was hidden in the murk, but Maerad could see black clouds building to the east of them in the distance beyond Innail. Even from this far it was clear that they were veined with strange lightning. There was a faint tang in the air, like the smell of burned metal, that left a sour taste in her mouth, and an oppression in her mind. She wondered why she hadn't noticed it before.

  She and Cadvan had discussed the risk of being caught on the road during one of the Landrost's attacks. All previous attacks had been at night, and near Tinagel, and they had judged they ought to be reasonably safe if they left early and traveled fast. Fighting alone in the open against the Landrost's wers was the worst possible chance: they would have very little likelihood of survival.

  "We can't stay here," she said. "Stormont is not so far— perhaps we could ride there."

  "I'm thinking that Stormont will be no shelter against an attack like this," Cadvan answered. "But that storm looks as if it is heading for Innail, Maerad. Indik said that he was expecting an attack on the School very soon. And the Landrost knows that if he can destroy Innail, the rest of the vale is his."

  For a moment they stared at each other, the same thought in both their minds. Then they pushed the horses on so sharply that Keru stumbled, and began to ride for their lives back to Innail. The road was straight before them, and Darsor stretched flat into a full gallop. Keru began to fall behind.

  Faster, Keru, Maerad cried to her mare.

  I'm—trying, Keru said. I cannot run as fast as Darsor—

  J/ we do not reach Innail very soon, we will die. Do you understand?

  Keru didn't answer: she plunged forward, her ears flat against her skull. Now they were bolting down the road; Darsor was still ahead of them, but the gap between them was not growing. Perhaps Cadvan, seeing that Maerad had fallen behind, had slowed Darsor down. Maerad leaned forward in the saddle, the wind of their speed lashing her hair into her mouth, all thought of the cold forgotten. How long had they been riding since they left Innail? An hour? Two hours? For much of that time they had ridden slowly because of the dark; they couldn't have come too far. And how hardy was Keru? Maerad didn't know how far her mare could be pushed. She urged her on, checking the sky when she could. Visibility was poor, as the rain was getting heavier and turning to hail, and she could no longer see the clouds in the east. Perhaps they would be too late, perhaps they would fi
nd themselves outside the walls of Innail when the Landrost's forces attacked, caught between the hammer and the nail.

  She concentrated on keeping Darsor and Cadvan in sight and staying on the road; the sleet drove into her eyes, but she strained to see ahead, knowing she had to guide Keru, who was running blind. Huge rolls of thunder boomed in the distance, and she could feel the mare panicking beneath her.

  It's all right, my beauty, she said to the mare. Just keep on. We're getting there ...

  I hope, Maerad added silently to herself. I hope we're getting there. It felt as if it were taking too long. Her maimed left hand had been aching with the cold all morning, but now it was really hurting her. She began to worry that they had taken a wrong turning; but they had passed no forks in the road—there was no wrong turning here. There were evil voices in the wind, she was sure: screams and howls that came from throats. It was rising all the time, with powerful gusts that sometimes threatened to push them off the road, and the mingled sleet and hail and rain stung her face. She could feel Keru tiring beneath her.

  At last Maerad saw a light burning through the veils of rain. She would have cried out with relief if she was not so breathless: Innail was in sight. Keru saw it too, and put on an extra burst of speed, catching up at last with Darsor. They were going so fast they almost slammed into the heavy oaken gates.

  The gates were shut fast, and Maerad's Bard sense told her that they were held with powerful magery as well as iron bars; the wards almost made her head buzz. Of course they were shut: after her initial shock, Maerad realized that they would hardly be open if Innail was under imminent attack.

  Cadvan stood up in his stirrups and thrust his arms high in the air, making a blinding light around him, and shouted in a great voice: "Lirean! Lirean noch Dhillarearean!"

  Maerad thought there was little chance that anyone could hear him above the storm. And even if they did, would they open the gates? She began to shout with Cadvan, fighting the panic that assailed her at the thought that they might be trapped outside the walls.

  She had almost given up hope when the gate suddenly swung inward. Behind it a cloaked figure was waving them in; whoever it was shouted too, but their words were torn away by the wind. Darsor and Keru didn't have to be told to go inside: as soon as the gap was wide enough, they pushed through. The gate slammed shut behind them, and half a dozen people heaved the heavy iron bars back into place.

  It suddenly seemed very quiet.

  Maerad swung off Keru, who stood with head down, her chest heaving, wet and trembling all over.

  Well done, Keru, she whispered in the mare's ears, patting her neck. Then she turned to thank the person who had let them in, and saw it was Silvia.

  "Thank the Light," said Silvia, clutching Maerad to her breast and then embracing Cadvan. "I told them it was you. I knew soon after you left that it had been a mistake."

  Maerad hugged her tightly, and then stood back, because she was as wet as if she had jumped into a pond. "I'd better put Keru in the stables," she said.

  "And I must see to Darsor too," said Cadvan. "Silvia, we'll take care of the horses and change our clothes. And maybe then we can work out how we can be of best use to you."

  "Malgorn is in the Watch House. Meet us there, as soon as you can. I have to hurry. There are too many things to do." Silvia drew herself up and Maerad saw with a small shock that underneath her cloak she was wearing mail. She had never thought of Silvia as a warrior. "This is the attack that we all feared was coming. I can't pretend that we don't need all the help we can get. I'm grateful you're here, Cadvan."

  Cadvan clasped Silvia's shoulder, and she nodded at both of them and left. They stood for a moment, listening to the howls of the wind.

  "Well," Cadvan said, picking up Darsor's reins. "Once more into the storm, Darsor; but at least this time there's hay at the end of it." He turned to Maerad. "Better here than outside," he said. "But still, I have a feeling it's going to be a long day."

  Chapter IV

  WEATHERLORE

  THEY rode the short distance to the stables at a gallop, fighting the wind all the way, and one of Indik's apprentices, looking pale, took the horses in hand. There they threw on some dry clothes from their packs, in one of the empty stalls: there wasn't time to run to the Bardhouse. That morning when she had dressed, Maerad had only thought of warmth: it had been foolish, she reflected, not to put on her mail coat. Now she slipped it over her head with a shiver. While she rummaged in her pack, her hand clasped the blackstone, sliding across its strange surface. She didn't like touching it, and dropped it at once. Then she picked it up, more slowly, and put it around her neck.

  Maerad peered out of the stable door into the chaos beyond: even in the short time they had spent in the stables, the storm had worsened. It was now almost as dark as night, although it couldn't have been much past midmorning, and the air was bitterly cold. Torn branches and other objects were skidding down the narrow roads between the buildings. It looked dangerous simply to step outside.

  "Shield yourself, Maerad," said Cadvan in her ear. "We're going to have to make a run for it, and you don't want to be knocked over by a flying tree."

  She paused for a moment, shielding herself with magery, and then she and Cadvan left the warm refuge of the stables and began to run to the Watch House. The shield protected Maerad from the storm, and the light of the magery made it a little easier to see, although it was disconcerting when leaves and other debris blew straight at her face and then slid past. Rain, hail, and sleet were driven so violently by the wind that they spurted horizontally from the eaves of the buildings. Maerad heard a crash behind her—a tree, probably, falling onto a house or a wall. She didn't look back. Even with her shielding, the storm was terrifying. Such a storm could only be summoned by the Landrost. This, Maerad thought, is why Bards distrust the Elidhu: this blind, amoral power, turned to utter destructiveness.

  They were almost at the Watch House, a small stone tower which rose over the gates, when a terrible shriek sounded almost in Maerad's ear and something hit her shield from behind. Even protected as she was, she was almost knocked sprawling, and she called to Cadvan as she leaped sideways, backing up against a wall and drawing her sword. She couldn't see what had hit her, but she had felt a deathly cold, of a different quality from the freezing air, push past her like a wave.

  Up, said Cadvan into her mind. Did you not see the wings?

  I didn't see anything, Maerad said. And my hearing doesn't work in this noise.

  Wers, I think, said Cadvan. And flying... they must have come over the wards. He was squinting into the sky. With this magelight, we're clear targets. I can't see anything up there, but that thing came down out of nowhere. I'd barely sensed it before it was gone...

  Maerad was surprised to find that she wasn't afraid. The Watch House isn't far, she said.

  Cadvan nodded, and they made a final dash, zigzagging down the street like rabbits dodging an eagle. Two guards stood by the door, sheltered very minimally by a porch, and let them in without comment.

  "There are winged wers out," Cadvan shouted over the wind as they entered the door. "Beware."

  One of the guards nodded to indicate he had heard, but he didn't look alarmed. He was probably too cold, Maerad thought; the skin on his face looked blue.

  The door swung shut, and the sound of the storm was suddenly muted. Maerad sighed unconsciously with relief: the screaming of the wind was almost as unbearable as the cold. They stood in a small, bare room of undressed stone lit by a single lamp, but it seemed almost homey after the chaos outside.

  "I expect Malgorn will be at the top," said Cadvan, gesturing toward a flight of stairs. Maerad nodded, and they wound their way to the top room. Like everything else in the Watch House, the room was without decoration, save for the horse emblem of Innail carved in relief on the wall above the wide hearth, where a fire burned. The storm rattled the shutters of the windows, and Maerad suddenly felt claustrophobic
. What was going on outside? In the middle of the room was a broad wooden table surrounded by chairs, and the Bards of Innail's First Circle were gathered around it, deep in discussion.

  Malgorn turned as Cadvan and Maerad came up the last steps, and waved them over. "Wise of you to come back," he said.

  "The weather took a turn for the worse," said Cadvan. "And I have some bad news. A winged wer swooped down on Maerad as we came over here."

  "A wer?" Silvia looked up, her face pale. "Malgorn, I told you the wards were not enough."

  "The warding spells worked well enough in Tinagel," said Malgorn sharply. Their conversation had the air of an old argument. "And it's all we can do. We're stretched thinly enough as it is."

  "Aye, we are." Indik looked grim. "This is a different attack from Tinagel, Malgorn; the weatherworking has an ill feel about it. This is no mere storm, though the Light knows that was bad enough at Tinagel. There's the smell of sorcery in the air. And I

  sense something approaching that I haven't felt before. I like it not."

  Maerad blinked. Indik was right: there was a presence, a sense of menace that she had only noted subliminally, that grew in intensity with every moment. It was unsettlingly familiar ...

  "I recognize that presence," said Cadvan. "I remember it all too well. It is the Landrost."

  A sudden appalled silence fell over the table. Of all the Bards, only Indik looked unmoved.

  "I thought the Elementals could not leave their place," said Kelia, a short Bard who sat to the left of Malgorn, her dark brows drawn into a fierce frown. "I thought that the Landrost was bound to his mountain."

  "They don't like to leave," said Maerad. The Bards turned to her, listening gravely. "Arkan—the Winterking—told me that it is to them like losing their being. But that doesn't mean that they can't."

  "Would he be weaker for being away from his mountain?" asked Indik dubiously, pulling at his lower lip.

  "I don't know." Maerad looked helplessly around the table. The six most powerful Bards in Innail sat before her. In battle, each of them was worth a rank of soldiers; and yet she felt her heart quailing within her. "But—there's a taste like sorcery in the air. The Elidhu are not sorcerers."