Pellinor 04: The Singing

by Alison Croggon

  As she understood Arkan's meaning, Maerad forgot her anger, even forgot him. Of course the Landrost was there—she felt his presence everywhere, thickening the very atmosphere with fear, with an implacable deathliness. The nothingness was his center. She was making a mistake in focusing on his nothingness.

  An unrelated thought flashed into her mind, a scrap of something she had read during her brief studying with Dernhil, in which the Light was described as a sphere in which the center was everywhere and the circumference nowhere. Somehow the Landrost had made himself like that, but the other way around: his center was nowhere, his circumference everywhere.

  She halted, baffled. This thinking was all very well, but she still didn't know what to do. She cast around blindly for Arkan; if he claimed she could destroy the Landrost, surely he would know how she could do it. But she could feel no trace of him; the Winterking seemed to have vanished utterly. Maerad's heart sank, and the anger smoldering within her flared again. What was the Winterking doing here, after all? She had no reason to believe that he was not deceiving her; she certainly didn't think he was there to help her. It was more likely by far that he aimed to bring about her downfall, that he was in league with the Landrost for his own malign purposes, planning to capture Maerad for himself after Innail was taken. And even without the Winterking behind him, she had as much chance of destroying the Landrost as she had of demolishing a mountain with her bare hands.

  On the walls, a desperate and savage battle was being waged to prevent the Landrost from overwhelming Innail. It was not, in fact, the mountain men who were swarming the battlements, as Maerad had thought: if the men climbed the walls, they too would be victims of the emptiness that sucked the life out of Innail. They were camped below by their fires, awaiting the destruction of the defending forces; once they were dead, the invaders could enter the School at their leisure, to rape, sack, and pillage. For now, the Landrost was sending his wers to wipe out the defense.

  Cadvan had thrown a shield of magery around Maerad, to protect her while she attempted her own strike against the Landrost. In her distress after speaking to Indik, she had forgotten to do so herself.

  Their position, if serious, was not quite as bad as Maerad had feared: of all the forces around the walls, three men and women had died of the cold, their lives imperceptibly slipping away as they gazed over the battlements. Another eight had been rushed to the healers, either unconscious or on the brink of stupor. All of them, as Indik noted grimly to Cadvan, were Bards. The other soldiers, though they felt the cold and the creeping stupor, were not quite as vulnerable to it as those who wielded magery. And the necessity to fight was, perhaps, keeping the Landrost's death cold at bay, although Cadvan felt its insidious tug, as if his blood were being slowly drained from his body where he stood, and he could do nothing about it.

  Cadvan suspected that the Landrost had called the attack earlier than he had planned: perhaps Maerad had somehow prompted him to move more swiftly. He glanced over to where she stood, barely visible against the wall, the faint shimmer of magery blurring her figure. Maerad's sudden intuition had perhaps saved many people from that particular death. But, he thought, the Landrost was offering the people of Innail many ways of dying.

  He set his jaw and braced for a grim battle of swordcraft and magery, standing shoulder to shoulder with Indik as they cast White Fire against their attackers, driving them back over the battlements, or hacked them down so that piles of wer corpses began to build on the palisades. Innail stood against wave after wave of wers, more than seemed possible—black wings and long, curved claws that slashed down out of the darkness and were beaten back or struck down. But still there were more, and more again, and the lines of defense began to thin. The longer they fought, the fewer they were, and the weaker; all the warriors were pale with exhaustion, fighting not only the wers, but the Landrost.

  Just as Cadvan thought their line would break and the wers would at last take the palisades, there was a brief lull in the assault, and he and Indik stumbled back from the walls, waving other soldiers forward to take their places, and leaned on their swords, breathing hard and wiping the sweat out of their eyes.

  In the flickering torchlight, Indik's face was a savage mask of grime and blood. Once he had caught his breath, he turned to Cadvan and grinned mirthlessly. "I do not believe," he said, "that we are going to last until dawn, my friend."

  Cadvan met his eyes steadily. "If they keep up this attack, we will not last the hour," he said.

  Indik's eyes went blank for the briefest moment. "The attack is by far the most fierce here, by the gates," he said. "But it is hard to trace its pattern, all the same; elsewhere they make an assault here, or there. You cannot predict it because you can't see them massing in this fog. So we must keep guard everywhere." He straightened himself and winced. "Of course, the blow falls hardest here, and here most of all we must not fall. I am hoping with all my heart, my friend, that the Landrost has at last run out of wers."

  "That is perhaps hoping for too much," Cadvan answered.

  Even as he spoke, they both heard the wing beats that heralded another wave of wers. Their eyes met.

  "I have always hoped for too much," said Indik. "I will say at the Gates, whenever I get there, tonight or some other night in the far future, that sometimes that hope was answered. But even if Maerad manages to stop the death cold, I fear we are too weakened to hold back the Landrost now."

  Cadvan nodded, and saluted Indik with his sword. "It has always been an honor to know you, my friend," he said.

  "And you, my friend," said Indik.

  Maerad knew that time was running out. She flickered her awareness quickly to the palisades and saw with horror the savagery of the battle that was taking place there; she saw Cadvan and Indik, side by side, among the forlornly thin line of warriors defending themselves against the wers. The wards still prevented the wers from all attacking at once, but that so, the defenders were hard-pressed. Even as Maerad watched, three defenders fell, killed or wounded, and a wer screamed in triumph at the breach and swooped toward it with a dozen others. Indik, Cadvan, and two more leaped to the breach, fighting hard, White Fire arcing from their swords, and the assault was beaten back; but Maerad could see the weariness in their bodies, could see that the only thing holding them up was their wills. And even the wills of Cadvan and Indik could be broken ...

  Maerad couldn't bear to see any more, and pulled herself back into the world of the mind. As she crouched before the great nothing that was the Landrost, she felt despair rising inside her: never, not even when she had faced death in the mountains, had she felt more alone. Then, she had mourned for her own tragedy, for her death and the death of her friends. Now she knew that she alone stood between the larger world she loved—Innail and everything it meant—and its utter destruction. There was no one to help her. And she didn't know what to do.

  At last, in desperation, she decided to step out of hiding and to directly challenge the Landrost. She was useless crouching in the shadows trying to feel out his powers; and perhaps, having already felt the full impact of his force, she could withstand him this time. She took a deep breath. I, too, am Elidhu, she said to herself. I am wind and rock and water and fire. I am Elidhu and woman and Bard. He is only Elidhu. It felt like empty bravado, but she had nothing else.

  Blindly, Maerad pushed toward the obscene center, the great void that was sucking out the lifeblood of Innail, the warm breath of those she loved—the breath of warriors and children, singers and herders, artisans and farmers and cooks, blacksmiths and swordsmiths, coopers and potters. Its empty greed drew her in, as if she were being sucked inexorably into the black center of a great whirlpool, and she felt herself spinning in its force—dizzy, confused, already weaker. It would be so easy, a voice whispered inside her, just to give in, to simply relax into its deathliness. No one would blame her. And she could put down her burden, sink into darkness, know nothing ever again ...

  Beyond conscious thought, somet
hing in Maerad began to fight against the terrible compulsion. She thought of all the people who had placed such trust in her, who had no hope without her, and with an effort of will she shrank herself into the smallest possible space. At last, she stopped spinning in the force of the Landrost and was still.

  Now Maerad was as tiny as a pebble, as uncrushable as a shard of adamant. Not even the Landrost had the power to crush her. As soon as she knew this, she felt herself become stronger, and where there had been despair ignited a pure, uncontrollable rage, a fury without thought, a fury directed wholly at the Landrost. Now, beyond her conscious will, she felt herself transform and everything that she knew as Maerad, her woman's body, her Bard's mind, even her wolf-self, begin to vanish into her Elidhu being, as if the force of her anger were a consuming flame.

  Now she was a tiny star, unbearably bright, pulsing with raw, immeasurable power, a radiance beyond imagining; she was no longer tiny; she was growing, her power was growing, brighter and brighter; she was no longer herself, not even a mind. She was the power of the sun; nothing could burn her because she was fire itself, the soul of the flame that lived in the core of rock and living things, that tore open the face of the earth, that broke the feet of mountains, that split asunder their arrogance and drove through their fragments like molten breath, until rock ran like rivers of white water, stone transformed into living fire itself.

  She-who-had-been-Maerad blazed before the Landrost and at last he saw her, and she felt his pause, his sudden fear. She sensed him transforming himself, bringing his forces to bear on her, gathering all his power into a mighty fist, a hammer of stone, an avalanche that was a whole mountain. But it was too late, the star was already far beyond his power; it blasted the mineral veins of his being with unbearable fire, unbearable light. Even as he turned his mind toward her, the Landrost was collapsing inward upon his own emptiness, all the peaks and valleys and outcrops of his being wavering and crumbling, his cold mind smoldering before the great heat of the star that now seared him with an anguish beyond his imagining. Before he was even aware, before a thought could begin to form, the fire caught, and what remained of the Landrost flared up in a brilliant arc of flame and spluttered out into darkness.

  VIII

  AFTERMATH

  Elednor Edil-Amarandh .. .na

  The voice sang through the empty cosmos, a vibrating ribbon of cold light.

  Elednor, it whispered, remember your name. Heart of fire, flower of flame, remember your home...

  She-who-had-been-Maerad felt a voice forming in the center of her fury, a voice that wanted to answer, that lifted with a warmth that was not the incandescence of pure rage. Something inside her shaped a mouth. I remember, said the mouth. I remember my home.

  Come, said the voice. Come home with me.

  All at once, memory surged back, and Maerad remembered who she was. She was not a star after all, she was not fire nor fury. She was Maerad. The voice repeated her name, weaving it into a spell, into a chain, pulling her closer. She remembered the voice, and turned herself gladly toward it, her mind twirling like a twig in a gentle current. But as her memory returned, it stabbed her with a sudden anguish, waking Maerad with a shock and pulling her out of the lulling spell. She had bones and skin, and hands and feet, her heart beat in her breast, her eyes were wet with tears. She was a young woman, and she would not be used.

  My home is burned, Maerad said, her voice colder than the voice that called her. I have no home. Do not lie to me, Arkan.

  She felt the Winterking's surprise that she had so easily shaken off his command, and for a long time he said nothing.

  You have grown, Arkan said at last.

  I could destroy you as I destroyed the Landrost, said Maerad. You should fear me, O Winterking. Do not think that I am your toy. I will not come with you.

  She could see him now in the darkness before her, his strong white body globed in blue ripples of light. She studied his beauty bitterly. Their eyes met and Maerad gasped; his gaze was as keen as ice and looked into the very depths of her being.

  You did not destroy the Landrost, said the Winterking. You cannot destroy an Elidhu. And I am stronger than the Landrost. But you have undone him to the very sinews of his being, so that it is almost as if he no longer is. I do fear you, Elednor Edil-Amarandh na. I do not understand what you are. I am no threat to you. I cannot bind you.

  Maerad turned her eyes away. No, she said. You cannot. She knew it was simply a fact. The Winterking held no power over her. Somehow, strangely, it made her feel a little sad.

  I think all the same, my Fire Lily, that you have much to be afraid of, Arkan said. Maerad felt the cold mockery in his words. You have many enemies, of course. The Nameless One is not unlike what you have become; perhaps you ought to think about that. But it seems to me that, most of all, you should be terrified of yourself.

  Then the Winterking was gone, all trace of his presence instantly erased, and Maerad was alone in the formless darkness, and the tears on her cheeks felt like ice.

  When Maerad undid the Landrost, the wers, creatures woven out of the tissue of his being, shriveled like dry leaves caught in the updraft of a fire. A couple of soldiers who had been fighting furiously in mortal combat fell over as their sword strokes bit into smoke instead of flesh.

  For the space of several heartbeats, there was a complete silence. Some people stood with their mouths open in astonishment, wondering if this was yet another trick of the Landrost's.

  But every man and woman on the walls felt the life surging through their veins as the dreadful weight of the Landrost's presence lifted from their souls, and the cold ebbed away, and they stood in a still and foggy winter night that suddenly was miraculously ordinary.

  On the far wall, Silvia raised her face to the black sky, feeling hot tears coursing down her face, and threw down her sword to embrace Kelia, the short, dark Bard who stood next to her.

  "Maerad did it," whispered Silvia, through harsh, racking sobs. "By the Light, Maerad defeated the Landrost."

  As the defenders of Innail began to realize what had happened, ragged cheers rose around the walls. Many, like Silvia, simply wept. Others dropped blankly to the ground and sat staring into space, stunned by their reprieve.

  Cadvan had felt the surge of energy building within Maerad even as he battled a wer who had made it through the walls and had landed on the palisades, transforming into a brutishly powerful man. This wer was a sorcerer who countered Cadvan's White Fire with dark fire of his own, and Cadvan was hard-pressed. Even as he fought him, he sensed the fury in Maerad, and part of him feared that all of them, friend and foe, would be swept away in the conflagration of her wrath. And then, suddenly, the wer was a wraith of ash that twisted and dissipated in the fog.

  Cadvan knew at once what had happened, and dropped his sword, running to where Maerad lay, crumpled in a small, unconscious heap by the far wall. He lifted her anxiously, listening for a heartbeat; at first, there seemed to be nothing, but then he felt her pulse, faint and irregular, and breathed out with relief. His hands began to glow with the silver light of magery, and he passed them over her face, and said her Truename.

  He waited for a long time, but Maerad remained pale and still. Cadvan took a deep breath; he was deathly tired, and he had not much strength for magery. But just as he was about to try again, Maerad's eyelids fluttered open and she looked up into his eyes.

  "Cadvan," she said, and then her eyes shut again. Her voice was so faint, he could barely hear her.

  Cadvan said nothing, and just stroked her face. Maerad slowly sat up. Her eyes glittered wide and dark in the torchlight, and her wet cheeks glistened.

  "Cadvan," she said again. "I did it. I unmade him. Oh, I have never been so tired."

  "I know you did," said Cadvan. "I was about to be skewered by a monstrous thug of a wer when it just shriveled into dust before my eyes. You saved my life, again. How many times is that now?"

  Maerad smiled wanly. "Four, I think," she said.
>
  "I owe you a wine."

  Maerad smiled again. "A glass of laradhel would be lovely," she said, and then she fainted dead away. Cadvan gathered her slight body up into his arms and carried her downstairs to the healers, jealously refusing all offers of help, even though he was stumbling with weariness. When she next opened her eyes, Maerad was tucked into a proper Innail bed, between clean linen sheets, and outside her window a songbird trilled joyously in the glorious light of day.

  While Maerad slept, the people of Innail had begun the task of healing their hurts. The sun rose, burning away the fog to reveal the trampled and churned grasses outside the walls and the storm damage everywhere in Innail. Aside from the black circles where their fires had been, and the litter of splintered siege ladders and discarded objects like broken tools or water bottles, there was no sign of the mountain men. They had slipped away under the cover of darkness when they saw that the Landrost had been defeated. Without his power behind them, they had no chance of winning a fight against the Bards of Innail, or even of entering the School against the wards still placed in the walls.

  Malgorn ordered some soldiers to scour the surrounding countryside on horseback, to make sure that they were indeed gone. He suspected that without the Landrost's protection they would have problems returning over the mountains, and might cause havoc instead among the hamlets and small towns in the Fesse. The soldiers returned, having followed their trail to the foothills of the Osidh Annova without a single sighting. Perhaps the destruction of the Landrost had struck them with a mortal terror of the Bards.

  The people of Innail laid out and counted their dead. These were not as many as had seemed likely in the darkest hours of the night, but there were still many houses of grief that day: by evening, 126 men, women, and children lay cold in the Great Hall, draped in the dark red mantles that honored their deaths in defense of their homes, the tall candles of mourning burning steadily at their feet. A slow line of people passed through the hall, their heads bowed, to do them remembrance, as a Bard on the dais played the Song of Ending on a lyre. After two days of mourning they would be buried, each body taken by those who loved them and interred in the crypts by the eastern wall of Innail.