The Singing

by Alison Croggon

  "Aye. I can't say I'm not sorry to lose your company, Saliman. And we could do with your help here. I do not deceive myself that we're in for a hard battle."

  "I believe so. Nadal is correct, I think—I hope—to believe that Til Amon can hold out against the Black Army; but we have both seen what he is up against, and he has not."

  Soron gazed down at the table. "I should not like to see Til Amon sacked, as Turbansk was," he said soberly. "And I fear it, Saliman, I fear it very much. So much light and beauty and love in peril, in so many places. And you two not least; I am loath to see you go, although I know you must leave, and that none of us are safe anywhere while the world turns as it does."

  Saliman did not speak, but clasped Soron's hand. Soron looked up, and Hem was startled to see tears brimming in his eyes. Hem sat silently, not knowing what to say, unable to think of anything that would comfort Soron or himself.

  "Ah," Soron said impatiently, wiping his eyes. "This is not the time for tears."

  "If this is not the time for tears, I know not what is," said Saliman, smiling crookedly. "I will miss you, my friend."

  "And I you. I swear, when all this is over, we will share a jug of wine together."

  "I hold that thought. We will find each other again, Soron."

  Shortly afterward, they made their way back to the Bardhouse through the streets of Til Amon. It was a dark night: the sky was clouding over, and the wind had a smell of rain. None of them spoke, and Hem thought their footsteps echoing back from the walls was the saddest sound he had ever heard. When they reached the door of the Bardhouse, Irc jumped onto Soron's forearm. He had never done that before, and Hem looked at him in surprise; Irc's idea of the future was a little hard to gauge, and Hem wasn't sure if Irc understood that they would be leaving Soron behind when they left Til Amon.

  Irc rubbed his head against Soron's chest. I miss you, he said.

  I'll miss you too, you rogue, said Soron fondly. I count on you to look after Hem. And I'll see you again.

  Irc gently pecked Soron's nose. He would be lost if I did not. I will care for him well.

  Hem did not weep when he farewelled Soron. He held him close for a long time, wishing he had the words for what he felt. But when he lay in the dark privacy of his chamber, he cried for a long time.

  Saliman woke him well before light the following morning. Hem was already packed, and simply had to drag on his clothes. He called Irc and stood a moment in the door of his chamber, looking back: how long would it be before he slept in a bed again?

  "I haven't thanked Nadal, or said good-bye," he said, as he and Saliman made their way downstairs. Saliman had a package slung on his back, which turned out to be a silk tent big enough to sleep two people. It was cunningly waterproofed, very light to carry, easy to put up, and should keep in a surprising amount of heat.

  "I made your courtesies for you last night," said Saliman, as they went downstairs. "I have been busy." They stopped at the Bardhouse kitchen, where a Bard Hem didn't know was poking the fire, scratching sleep-ruffled hair; he greeted Saliman cordially and gave them some food supplies. Saliman hefted the heaviest pack, and gave the other to Hem; then they waved farewell and went out into the empty streets, where white Bard lamps threw a pale light over the stone flags. Hem told Irc to fly, because he was too heavy to carry with everything else, and he flapped slowly behind them.

  The caravan was camped near the outer wall of Til Amon, and it took a while to walk there. Their supplies seemed very heavy to Hem by the time they arrived, and he was glad to put them down. The dog barked wildly, shattering the dawn silence, but quieted at once at Saliman's word and started sniffing eagerly at his feet. Irc made superior squawking noises from the safety of Hem's shoulder, where he had landed the instant Hem had put down his heavy pack.

  Karim, Marich, and Hekibel were already preparing the horses, two mares called Usha and Minna, and greeted them cheerfully. Hem began to perk up, feeling the gloom lift from his breast: his boyish love of adventure was beginning to assert itself. Under Hekibel's instructions, Saliman stowed their food supplies in the caravan, and then waited until the players were ready to move. It didn't take long; they were clearly well practiced at their routine. There was enough space at the front for two people to sit with whoever was driving, while the others either sat inside or walked, and Hekibel, who was taking the reins, suggested Hem sit with her.

  "Perhaps I could learn how to drive the horses?" said Hem eagerly, as he took his place beside her.

  "Perhaps you could," said Hekibel. "Have you driven a caravan before?"

  "No," said Hem. "The Pilanel wouldn't let me, when I last traveled this way. But I'd like to try."

  Hekibel flicked the reins, and the horses started into a shambling trot, with the dog running alongside. The caravan creaked beneath them and began to move, its wheels very loud on the road. The gates were not far, and they passed through them quickly, lifting a hand to the weary-eyed soldiers now at the end of their night watch who had opened them to let the caravan through.

  "This is more fun than walking!" Hem said.

  "Well," said Hekibel. "You get a view. But we've got a way to go yet. See how you feel at the end of the day!"

  The eastern sky was now beginning to lighten, revealing a green landscape shrouded by mist and low clouds. They journeyed northward through the Fesse of Til Amon, undulating country dotted by small woods and prosperous farms. These were mostly deserted now, their inhabitants taking refuge in the School, but this early in the morning they all looked very peaceful. A light rain began to fall, and the horses snorted and flicked their tails and pushed on. The caravan rumbled along the road, swaying slightly. Hem watched the colors of the landscape deepen and fill as the sun rose, and his heart lifted with joy.

  THE WEIGHT OF THE WORLD

  Down came the hail, a frosty flail,

  Down fell the icy rain. The torches flared with desperate light And savage lightning stabbed the night

  Which screamed like a soul in pain.

  His black brow bound with clouds around

  The Landrost raised his hand: "Be they so fair and strong and tall, I'll crush these walls and golden halls And I will rule this land!"

  Their hearts aflame, defenders came With staff and sword and bow And bravely on the walls arrayed, Where Innail's maid stood unafraid Before her stormy foe.

  "Not all your might gives you the right

  In our fair streets to tread, And you'Il not take this fearless town For Til cast down your iron crown Or die," the lady said.

  From The Ballad of the Maid of Innail, Anon.

  Chapter VII

  THE MAID OF INNAIL

  MAERAD thought the cold would never leave her. It seemed to have entered her very marrow: her bones felt as if they were made of ice. She crouched by the fire in the Watch House, a blanket around her shoulders, slowly spooning down a plate of hot stew. Cadvan watched her anxiously, as a mother watches a child who has passed the crisis of a deathly illness.

  It was midafternoon, not long since the Landrost had almost crushed her, and she still felt deeply shaken. It had been a close call, perhaps the closest she had ever had, and the aftershocks ran through her in fits of shivering.

  The attacks on Innail had halted altogether when Maerad had collapsed, and after a while even the storm outside Innail had begun to calm. The defenders could now see some distance over the walls, although the light was still dim, darkening toward an early evening beneath louring clouds. Below milled an army of perhaps two or three thousand mountain men, grouped out of bowshot. They looked cold and wet, and their only shelter was some skin huts; but there was that about them that suggested grim determination. There was no sign of the wers, although the sense of their menacing presence wasn't far away.

  When it was clear they had won a respite, Malgorn had called the captains into the Watch House for a brief council.

  "They wait for nightfall, when the wers are at their
strongest," Indik said to the exhausted Bards. "And there is no moon tonight. But we have beaten back the first onslaught.

  Chiefly thanks, I believe, to Maerad." He saluted her with his sword, and the other Bards followed suit.

  "And what do you think will happen at nightfall?" asked Malgorn.

  "I don't know," Indik said simply. "All I know is, whatever it is, we won't like it. We have not enough fighters to choose to attack them, and so we await the Landrost's pleasure; for the moment, I think, we have no choice." He looked briefly across at Maerad again, a cool glance, assessing her; shivering by the fire, she looked like a fragile child. "And we might as well rest and gather our strength while we can."

  "Such as it is," said Malgorn. "I've ordered a guard on all the walls, and as many rest as can be spared from that. There are a lot of injuries."

  "How many dead?" asked Silvia.

  "Two score, by the latest count," said Malgorn. "Of those, twelve were Bards. I just heard that Irina died of her injuries." There was a brief, blank silence.

  "Two score," said Indik at last, sighing heavily. "The Landrost can blink at losing ten times that number, but for us, each death counts. There are not enough of us. And the assault has not even begun, I fear. On the other hand, I do not believe that this is a battle that will be won on strength of arms ..."

  The Bards were silent again. There didn't, in truth, seem anything to say. Their situation was clear: they were heavily outnumbered by a formidable foe, who could summon forces that only Maerad had even a hope of understanding. Some Bards looked doubtfully at the frail figure by the fire, wondering if they had any hope at all.

  Malgorn asked Cadvan to remain in the Watch House and keep in mindtouch with the Bards posted around the walls of the School. Then all the Bards departed, saluting Maerad as they left, to take care of various urgent duties, or simply to sleep while they could. Maerad's head was bowed and she did not even see this gesture of respect until Silvia bent down and embraced her, kissing her forehead. After they had gone, the room seemed very quiet.

  Maerad was wondering what use she could possibly be to Innail now. She hadn't been frightened before; the battle had seemed no worse than other terrors she had already faced, and she had thought herself toughened, inured to them. But now she was terrified. When she thought about the moment in which the Landrost had perceived her, and what had followed, an abyss opened inside her. It was more than a fear of death, although that was part of it; what frightened her more than anything was how lost she had been, the dizzying infinity of the space that had opened within her. It was far stranger than the loss of self she felt when she transformed into a wolf; that was something deep inside her, whereas this seemed to be far outside, an immeasurable distance. She tried, stumblingly, to put it in words for Cadvan, and he nodded, his eyes dark.

  "Maerad, the universe is endless," he said, staring into the fire. "It is a thing that people find hard to even begin to comprehend. How can anything go on and on forever? How can there be no point where it all finishes? And yet it does not. . . and I suppose you are one of the few who has had, as it were, a personal experience of that..."

  Maerad shuddered. "It was all—black. And empty. I can't explain. It was so big that distance and time meant nothing, nothing at all."

  "There's an old story from Lanorial about a king who was speaking to a Bard who visited his court," said Cadvan. "And the king asked the Bard what a human life was. And the Bard said: imagine that it is night outside your hall, and a swallow swoops through the window of your court, lord, and out of the opposite window. For the briefest moment, for an eyeblink, it flies through the light; then all again is darkness. Life is that brief moment of light, no more, no less."

  Maerad sat in silence for a time, brooding. "It was kind of like that," she said. "That huge darkness. Only even a swallow's flight is not brief enough. . . . There wasn't even a memory of light. I was almost nothing at all. I don't know how I came back."

  "The important thing is that you did come back."

  "It's because you called me, isn't it?"

  Cadvan hesitated. "I think so," he said. "At least, I know I called you, and perhaps that is what you heard."

  "It was you." Maerad looked up at Cadvan, but his face was averted. "How did you know how to find me?"

  "I didn't know." He was silent again. "I thought that I had lost you."

  Maerad couldn't see the expression on Cadvan's face, but her heart gave a little leap at his words. Once she had feared that Cadvan valued her only for what she represented as the One who, so the prophecies said, was the key to the Nameless One's defeat. She knew now that he valued her for herself, as a friend; but lately he had said things that seemed to mean more. The thought confused and alarmed her, and she pushed it away. Of course she and Cadvan were dear to each other: that was all he meant.

  Neither of them mentioned Arkan, the Winterking, although the thought of him stood between them, a dark and troubling turbulence. They had seldom spoken about him since Maerad and Cadvan had reunited in Pellinor. She didn't know how to begin to speak of her feelings for Arkan. Sometimes— most of the time—they seemed completely reasonless, the foolish infatuation of a stupid girl, and she was ashamed of herself.

  And yet. . . what was it that made her heart lift at the thought of his voice? She hated the Winterking: he had murdered Dharin, and because of him she had lost her fingers. And yet...

  Maerad shook her head impatiently. She was too exhausted to think, but she had to; the Winterking's presence made everything more complicated. He knew, she thought with a strange mixture of terror, despair, and excitement, where she was. Perhaps he wasn't far from here at all. The Landrost was one thing, the Winterking quite another. And now she owed Arkan a debt: he had saved her life.

  Staring into the fire, she tried to think through her feelings. Why was she so terrified now? Everything was exactly as frightening as it had been when they had first seen the storm clouds over Innail. But now she felt that her fear was paralyzing, draining her of all her will. She remembered what Cadvan had told her once about the wers: Their worst weapon is fear. Yes, the Landrost was frightening; yes, that moment when he had nearly crushed her into nothing was terrifying. But she had survived, all the same; and she knew, in some cold, inner part of herself, that she had power enough to challenge the Landrost, if only she knew how to use it, if only she weren't so exhausted. This fear was something else.

  It must be the Winterking. She literally did not know what she felt, or what she might do if, by some strange chance, he should appear in Innail. How could he? He had told her himself of the pain of his banishment from Arkan-da, of how the Elidhu were tied to their place, how place was their being, in some crucial way she didn't understand. But on the other hand, the Winterking had been at Afinil, so he could leave the mountains if he wished. And if he were here, she had no doubt it would be for his own reasons: he would want to recapture her, to take her back to his Ice Palace. And she knew that part of her yearned to go with him. No matter that he coldly wished to use her as a pawn for his own purposes; even the knowledge of that made it no easier to turn away from his voice.

  She wished she could read the alliances and interests of the Elementals, but they were too unpredictable. They served neither Dark nor Light, but their own ends. Ardina had helped Maerad, had even saved her life; but Ardina had her own inscrutable goals, which Maerad did not understand. Even the Landrost could not be wholly the pawn of the Nameless One, however deeply he moved in his shadow. Obviously the Elidhu wanted the Treesong, and because of that, they were interested in Maerad: the runes were not enough in themselves, they somehow had to be undone. As the Winterking had scornfully told her, the Treesong was a song; it had to be played. And it had to be played by Maerad, who had no music to play it by, and who did not understand anything.

  She sighed deeply. Her ruminations always seemed to return to the same place: that she didn't know what she was doing, and that everything,
all the same, seemed to depend on her. She felt very small and stupid; she didn't know how she would not disappoint all the hopes in her. And at the same time, she felt a small stab of anger: why her?

  She finished the last of her stew and stood up shakily to put the empty plate on the table. "I'm deathly tired," she said, turning to Cadvan. "Even the medhyl doesn't help much. If the Landrost decided to strike now, I'd be as much use as a piece of wet string."

  Cadvan studied her face. "You're a slightly better color," he said. "Before, you looked as if you had no blood in you at all." He hesitated, and then asked if she felt capable of feeling out the Landrost again.

  "I do not ask you to do anything that might put you in the same danger in which you were before," he said. "But at the same time ..."

  "I know." Maerad looked up at Cadvan, pushing her hair back from her face. "I know you have to ask, Cadvan. I just can't now, but maybe in a little while."

  Night stole over Innail. The sun was so shrouded in thick clouds that the transition was imperceptible: the shadows simply deepened and deepened until the darkness seemed almost a solid thing. As the temperature dropped in the late afternoon, a heavy fog began to roll down from the mountains in slow waves. Indik watched in consternation. He did not think the weatherwards would keep the fog out: storm was one thing, mist another.

  He sent out a warning to the defenders on the far wall, who would not have seen the fog, and briefly thought of contacting Maerad, to see if she could tell whether the mist was of the Landrost's making. Then he thought better of it. The truth was that Indik had been shocked by Maerad's state earlier, and had pulled himself up short: it did not seem right, it hurt his warrior pride, to be depending so heavily on a mere slip of a girl for victory against such a fearsome foe—however astonishing her abilities might be. Such a creature, barely out of childhood, ought to be looking to Indik for protection, not the other way around ... and yet, what choice did they have?