Cadvan would not let her change from her wolf shape until they were well inside the School, and as a result he had argued at Innail's gate for some time. Cadvan would not identify himself, and the guard didn't recognize him. Aside from that, the guard was very dubious about letting in a wild animal, especially one as big and powerful-looking as Maerad. She had tried to look as docile as possible, all but rolling on her back in her efforts to show how harmless she was. Finally, on Cadvan's insistence, their friend Malgorn appeared and, after a hurried consultation with Cadvan, sternly informed the wolf in the Speech that she was welcome, but that she was not to chase or eat any of the hens or ducks or other domestic animals.
Maerad flashed an ironic glance to Cadvan as Malgorn ordered the gates open, and he winked solemnly as he led her and Darsor inside.
"By the Light, Cadvan, what are you doing with a wolf?" asked Malgorn as he hurried them through the outer streets. "Where am I going to put it? I can hardly place it in the stables; the horses would go mad, no matter how tame it is."
"The house will do fine, old friend," said Cadvan. "Surely you have a spare bedchamber?"
"For a wolf?" Malgorn boggled briefly and then, clearly deciding that Cadvan was either joking or out of his mind, dropped the subject. They went to the stables, where Cadvan saw Darsor comfortably housed and well fed, and then turned their steps toward Silvia and Malgorn's house. Maerad stuck close to Cadvan, fearing that she might, after all, be housed in the stables: what she wanted above all was a bath and a good supper. Malgorn watched her warily, but made no comment, even when she entered his front door and followed the Bards into the music room. Maerad thought he seemed reserved, even stiff. He stood in the doorway uncertainly, as if he were trying to think of what to say.
"How about one of your marvelous brews?" asked Cadvan, flinging himself on the couch. "I tell you, Malgorn, I have a well-earned thirst. And I am a mort tired."
"Of course," said Malgorn, almost with relief, and hurried to get some wine.
Something is wrong, Maerad said. Is it because he is nervous around wolves?
Malgorn? I think not. Remember, the lore of animals is his Knowing, Cadvan answered. In any case, you can change now.
Maerad sat on her haunches and grew still, seeking that deep inner place where the names fell away and she was no longer Maerad nor Elednor nor anyone else. She felt herself become clear and empty, the still point of transformation where all possibilities opened. Be Maerad, she told herself. Be me.
There was an ease about her transforming that almost astonished her, as if she had been shapeshifting since she was a baby. But always before she did it there was a moment of dread, a fear that ran through her veins like cold water. To reach that point of being no one, she had to forget everything she knew about herself, and this was more frightening than she cared to admit. As she transformed, there was that flash of pure agony, as if, for the briefest moment, she had been thrown into a fire. And then she wasn't a wolf anymore.
"I don't think I'll ever get used to your doing that," said Cadvan mildly. "I have never seen anything so strange."
Maerad shook her head as if she were shaking her thick winter wolf's ruff, and stretched out her arms. There was still something wolfish about her gestures.
"That's so much better," she said, sighing. "But, you know, Cadvan, I think you're right: I have been too much wolf."
Cadvan opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment Malgorn bustled in with a carafe. He stopped in the doorway, his mouth open.
"Maerad!" he said. "Where did you come from?"
"Greetings, Malgorn," said Maerad. "I'm sorry I couldn't say so before. Cadvan didn't want anyone to know that I was here."
Malgorn plumped down next to Cadvan on the couch, holding the carafe like one in a daze. Cadvan gently removed it from his hands.
"Allow me to pour a drink, my dear friend," he said to Malgorn.
Malgorn didn't answer. He was still staring at Maerad. "Cadvan, what black magery is this?" he said at last. "What have you brought into this house?"
Malgorn was flushed with anger, and Maerad glanced nervously at Cadvan. Were they to be thrown out of Innail, after all? But Cadvan looked unperturbed.
"Malgorn, you know Maerad. Maerad of Edil-Amarandh, if you want her proper name these days. I know it's astounding that she can change her shape, but that doesn't make her a wer nor any creature of the Dark."
"Cadvan, these are perilous days . . . are you mad? Have you any idea what is happening here? And you dare to bring a creature of the Dark into my house?"
Cadvan leaned forward and clasped Malgorn's hand.
"My friend, if ever you have trusted me, trust me in this. I know well that these are dark times. None know better than I do. But I swear to you, by the Light itself, that neither Maerad nor I have any dealings with the Dark. And I would never endanger the safety of those I love as well as you and Silvia by inviting the Dark into your home."
Malgorn held Cadvan's eyes a moment, and looked over toward Maerad. Maerad, hurt and offended, met his gaze, and Malgorn flinched and looked down at his feet.
"My tale since we last met is a strange one," said Maerad. Her voice was cold with anger. "I have faced death and seen the death of some I love. I have spoken with the Elidhu. I have found the Treesong. I have risked so much, suffered so much, as part of our struggle against the Dark. And then you say ..."
Her voice broke, and she turned away and looked out the window.
There was a heavy silence. Cadvan stood up and took some glasses from a shelf on the far side of the room, poured some laradhel into one of them, and handed it to Malgorn. He then poured out another measure and gave it to Maerad.
"Old friend," said Cadvan, filling another glass for himself and sniffing its rich smell. "If we do not trust one another, we are already defeated."
Malgorn sat up and sighed. He lifted his glass to Maerad and drank it down in one gulp.
"I am sorry," he said. "Maerad, I am sorry. These are fearful times, and fear does not make us wise."
Maerad turned to face him and tried to smile. "I know," she said. "We have all suffered ..." She studied Malgorn's face, noting for the first time how tired and strained he looked, and a terrible thought occurred to her. "Malgorn, is Silvia ... is Silvia well? Is she ..."
Silvia, Malgorn's wife, was probably the main reason Maerad had longed for Innail these past harsh months. Her kindness had opened Maerad's eyes to another world, a world very different from Gilman's Cot, the brutish slave settlement in which she had spent her childhood. Maerad could not have borne it if something had happened to Silvia.
"Aye, aye, she's well," said Malgorn hastily, seeing the look on Maerad's face. "You mustn't worry. She's busy, but I've told her that Cadvan is here, and she will come as soon as she can. She asked after you, Maerad ..."
Maerad sighed with relief, and sat down on the couch, cradling her glass. Suddenly she felt exhausted. Malgorn and Cadvan began to talk and she listened idly, with no desire to participate in the conversation.
Shortly afterward, when Silvia still did not appear, Malgorn disappeared to organize beds for the two travelers. To her delight, Maerad was given the same chamber she had slept in last time she had been in Innail. A friendly woman whom she did not know gave her clean clothes. Maerad dumped her pack on the floor and immediately repaired to the bathroom where, with a feeling of inexpressible bliss, she lowered herself into the hot water and washed off all the grime of travel.
She avoided looking at her left hand as she washed. The two fingers she had lost to frostbite made it an ugly claw, and she felt ashamed whenever she caught sight of it. She was getting used to compensating and could now do most things without too much difficulty, but she tried to keep it out of sight whenever possible. With a hand so maimed, she could no longer play music whenever she wished; and every time she glimpsed her missing fingers, she remembered her loss anew.
Finally she dressed in the clean clothes, sighing for the sheer pl
easure of the soft fabrics against her skin, and made her way to the music room. It was now full night and the lamps were lit, casting a soft glow. For this brief suspended time, she pretended nothing was wrong: that she was just an ordinary Bard, that she had never heard of the Nameless One, the Dark power who now made war on all Edil-Amarandh. Tonight she would eat a delicious dinner, and tomorrow she would resume her studies ...
She curled up on a red couch and waited for Cadvan. Right now she was very content to be alone. This room was her favorite in the house. Though her bedchamber was her favorite room as well... and she loved the bathroom too, with its deep stone bath and bottles of scented oils and endless supply of hot water. Her gaze swept lazily across the pale yellow walls with their stenciled flowers, the musical instruments stacked casually against the bookshelves, the mullioned window, and returned to the fire in the grate, which burned brightly against the cold winter evening.
It felt like an age since she had last been here, although it had been less than a year. Would that shy girl who had arrived last spring, ashamed of her rags and tangled hair, ignorant of Bards and Schools and Magery, recognize the Maerad who sat here now? Perhaps she would have gazed in wonder at her as at a figure out of legend: Maerad of Edil-Amarandh, the Fire Lily, who had spoken with the Elemental Ardina, Queen of Rachida, Daughter of the Moon—the same who had traveled to the very north of the world and seen cold curtains of light danc
ing in the sky, and had escaped the clutches of Arkan, the Ice Witch, himself. Maerad the shapeshifter, who could become a wolf at will. Maerad the Chosen, the Fated, the One, whose destiny was to save Edil-Amarandh from the Dark.
Maerad the Unpredictable, she added, thinking of an old joke of Cadvan's. But I am really quite predictable. I don't want any of these fine names. I don't want these mysterious powers that frighten good people and make the Dark hunt me down. I just want to stay where I am and to sleep in a bed with clean linen sheets and a warm coverlet. And I don't want to be cold or hungry or sad ever again.
Although, for as long as she could remember, Maerad had always been sad.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of Silvia, who stopped dead in surprise when she saw Maerad and then, when Maerad stood up, came forward and embraced her hard, kissing the top of her head.
"Maerad!" she said, standing back and earnestly examining Maerad's face. "What a relief! When I was told only Cadvan had arrived, I feared the worst... but here you are!"
Maerad smiled with pure happiness. "Here I am!" she said. "And it's so good to be here. Innail is as beautiful as I remembered."
"Aye. But things have changed since last you were here." Silvia's clear brow briefly darkened, but she shook her head, putting those thoughts aside. "But—wasn't there a wolf? Malgorn said Cadvan had lost his mind and insisted on bringing a wolf into the house."
Maerad laughed. "That was me," she said. "Cadvan didn't want anyone to know that I was here."
Silvia stared at Maerad for a time without speaking, her face expressionless. "You?" she said at last.
"Yes." Maerad gazed back at Silvia with a stab of sadness, feeling again the gulf that lay between her and those she loved. "I can shapeshift. It's one of the things I have found out about myself." She wondered whether she should tell Silvia about her Elemental self, those inborn powers that made her different from other Bards—but she couldn't, for the moment, face the thought. Bards deeply distrusted the Elidhu, the Elemental entities whose ways had long been sundered from humankind, and Maerad felt she couldn't bear to see the doubt it would raise in Silvia's face. Another time. "It's part of—part of my Gift."
"I can see that there's an interesting story to tell," said Silvia. "We can do that over dinner. Malgorn's arranged it, so it's sure to be good—even in these hard times, we in Innail take pride in our table." She smiled, reaching for Maerad's hand, and went still with shock. Blushing, Maerad pulled back her hand and concealed it again in the folds of her dress, where she had kept it hidden from Silvia's eyes. Very gently, Silvia reached out and took her maimed hand, pressing it between both of her own.
"Oh, Maerad," she said, her voice hoarse with sorrow.
"It—I lost some fingers in the cold," said Maerad awkwardly. "It's all right. I can do most things."
"But you can't play your lyre with your hand like that!" said Silvia, putting her finger straight on the deepest wound. "My dear. I am so sorry... Oh, this world!" she cried with sudden passion, her eyes brimming with tears. "It is filled with such hurts!"
Maerad, her face averted, had nothing to say. But Silvia gathered her into her arms and hugged her again, and then said, her voice muffled by Maerad's hair, "And it is full of such joys, and we must not forget those. I thought of you every day, and feared I would not see you again. I am so glad that you are back." Suddenly she became brisk. "I think that both of us need something to drink. Or at least, I do. I'm pretty sure there's wine in here somewhere ..."
She went over to a table by the window, where a carafe stood next to some glasses, and poured two drinks. She handed a glass to Maerad, lifted hers in salute, and took a long draft.
"It has been a hard year, Maerad," she said. "And we have had our own losses. But I doubt that my year has been as hard as yours."
"It has been hard," Maerad answered, thinking back. "But I'd rather hear about what has happened here."
Silvia sighed, and looked down at her wine, swirling it thoughtfully in her glass. "We lost Oron," she said, naming the First Bard of Innail.
Maerad drew in her breath, remembering Oron's stern, iron-gray head, her straight back, her kind authority. "How?"
"A battle near Tinagel. Innail has been much afflicted by bands of marauders down this side of the mountain, men mainly, but also some wers. They mounted a big assault on Tinagel, attacking the townspeople at night. They weren't entirely unprepared, but it was a hard battle. Oron went to help the defense, with many other Bards. They destroyed the attackers. But Oron did not return." There was a slight catch in Silvia's voice, and she sighed. "She is sorely missed. Malgorn is First Bard now, which doesn't sit easily on him. He worries overmuch. Not that there isn't much to worry about." She smiled crookedly. "Alas, I am trying to think of good things to tell, but none will come to me."
Looking at Silvia closely, Maerad saw that her face had lines of care that hadn't been there last spring. She hunted for something to say that might be comforting. "We're still here!" she said at last.
"Yes, despite all. Though we have not reached the worst, I think." Silvia shook her head again, like a dog shaking off rain. "Maerad, I have almost forgotten lightness. Is that the worst thing?" Suddenly she smiled, with a spark of her normal mischief. "Of course, you are right. We are here, and the fire is bright and this room—well, this room is as beautiful as it has ever been. And we are about to eat, I am quite sure, a delicious dinner. That should be enough for any of us."
Dinner was as tasty as Silvia had promised: roasted wild duck basted with almond oil and butter and stuffed with fresh herbs and nuts, carrots flavored with honey and rosemary, and fried cabbage with butter melting into its green and white and purple folds. That was followed by a rich latticed pie made out of the last of the winter apples. Maerad resisted the urge to gobble it all down, and savored every mouthful. She couldn't remember when she had last eaten such food: it must have been when she was in Norloch.
By unspoken consent, all the Bards spoke about distant or pleasant things—memories of Cadvan's and Malgorn's youth, or funny stories that Silvia remembered from her childhood in a village nearby, or arguments about the relative merits of favorite songs—until they had finished eating. They returned to the music room, holding glasses of Malgorn's concoction of an apricot liqueur—like amber jewels in their hands—and settled by the fire on the comfortable red couches.
Malgorn could not conceal his gloom, although he tried his best to be a cheerful host. At first, they did not speak about Maerad's and Cadvan's travels over the past year; Cadvan, hu
ngry for information, wanted to know what had happened in Annar over the past few months. There was, it seemed, no good news anywhere. Bands of soldiers from Norloch, claiming to be under the orders of Enkir, the First Bard of Annar, were, it
was rumored, roaming the land, press-ganging farmers and tradesmen and acting like brigands.
"Enkir grows in his strength," Malgorn said. "Still many Schools support him, and none dare oppose him openly. Yet. People are more afraid of the Dark than they are of what Enkir is doing. I fear both of them, equally. As ever, the greatest resistance is in the Seven Kingdoms."
"Enkir demands clear and unambiguous fealty from every School," said Silvia. "As if a First Bard has ever demanded such a thing! Only the kings have dared to do this, and we know what that led to—war and ruin in Annar. But we all fear that he plans to march on Til Amon, which lies most open to him. They have not, as yet, returned their pledge. As we have not. And others."
"It's hard to keep in touch," added Malgorn, frowning. "Roads are no longer as safe as they were, and no one dares to trust letters, lest they fall into the wrong hands. And so we sift gossip and rumors, trying to discern what is true and what is not, what is likely and what is impossible ..." He fell silent and stared at the table.
"We hear news, all the same," said Silvia. "And Bards have not completely given up traveling. The worst, of course, is the Fall of Turbansk..."
Maerad looked up sharply. Silvia could not know that Maerad's brother, Hem, was in Turbansk, with their friend Saliman.
"Turbansk has fallen?" Cadvan said, glancing anxiously at Maerad. "What news of that?"
"Little, and bad," said Malgorn heavily. "We hear that the Black Army, led by the sorcerer Imank, marched on Baladh, sacked and burned the city, and then went on to Turbansk, where it laid siege; at last the city fell to the Dark forces. Now there are rumors that Imank marches north, while others say that he is moving westward to Car Amdridh. Many have fled northward to Til Amon, seeking refuge. I heard that Juriken, the First Bard there, is dead. But from this distance, it is impossible to know the truth of the matter: we have birdnews at best, and that is always sketchy."
Pellinor 04: The Singing Page 3
