"I don't know," said Hekibel shakily. She was holding the tuning fork with the tips of her fingers, looking at it as if she didn't quite believe what she had done. "It just felt—not right." She looked at the tuning fork again, and gave it back to Hem. He took it, slipped its chain back over his head, and hid it beneath his clothes.
All this had happened very fast, in the time it took Saliman and Cadvan to join them. Saliman was furious. "Hekibel," he said, his voice icy. "You must never do that to a Bard. Never. Do you understand?"
"No," said Maerad faintly. "Hekibel was quite right. It wasn't doing what it was supposed to. I think the Treesong was trying to make itself whole, but there was something missing, and it didn't work ..."
Saliman paused, taken aback, and before he could speak, Maerad smiled tiredly and reached out her hand. "I suppose we ought to say hello," she said. "It's so good to see you."
The anger died out of Saliman's face, and he smiled back, and embraced her. "And to see you, Maerad. No matter how strange the circumstances."
Unlike Hern, who now showed no sign of power, Maerad still held in her skin an afterglow of the strange, golden illumination that had blazed through her. Subtle ripples of light ran through her veins, and her eyes were still aflame. Cadvan glanced at her, his eyes dark with concern, and squatted beside her.
"What was supposed to happen?" he asked.
Maerad, her head bowed, didn't answer.
"I don't know," said Hem, at last. "I mean, we knew what to do, and then it was—well, it was as if we got stuck."
There was a silence. "Well," said Saliman. "I wish we had some way to navigate this mystery ..."
He stopped, his nostrils flaring, and was swiftly turning his head to look behind him when he froze, as still as if he were carved of stone. A freezing spell, Maerad thought, and inwardly cursed. She looked at her friends, caught out of time in mid gesture: Cadvan standing with an exclamation of fury half formed on his lips; Hem reaching toward Saliman, his brow creased with puzzlement; Hekibel halfway through wiping a stray lock of hair from her face.
Hulls, thought Maerad. In the drama of the past few moments—and it had only been a few moments, if that—the threat of Hulls had dropped out of their minds. And yet they had all known that Hulls were nearby; and now that the strange enchantment of the Treesong was not obliterating all her senses, she could feel their cold, malignant presence.
There were many of them—perhaps a dozen, perhaps more. Many more than she had guessed earlier, when she had felt their dim shadows pressing on her mind. She had then reckoned there were three, maybe four. They must have used powerful shielding; because the sorcery of Hulls disrupted the Balance, it was much more difficult for a Hull to shield its power than it was for a Bard. Somehow these Hulls had managed to cast a spell on all of them, except Maerad herself, through Cadvan's wards and walls. And Cadvan would have made powerful charms, complex spells that would not be easy to undo or bypass. That meant, thought Maerad, that among their number were powerful and subtle sorcerers.
Maerad closed her eyes, wishing that her body would stop shaking. After days of inaction, it seemed that now things would not stop happening. Then she slowly stood up and looked westward, down the slope along which she had watched Hem and Saliman and Hekibel ride only a short time earlier.
The Hulls were cloaked by sorcery, but she could perceive them as clearly as if she could see them with her eyes. The sun had now sunk, the last of its light ebbing orange over the western horizon. The evening sky arched huge and luminous over the empty land, which swept down from her feet in rich hues of purple, and the first white stars were already beginning to appear above. Maerad looked over the darkening land before her and was struck for the first time by its lonely beauty.
The Hulls were riding toward her in a line, each abreast of the other, and they seemed to Maerad not like darkness, not like light, but like an absence of both. They were an emptiness riding toward her over the innocent earth—not at all like the terrifying nothing that she had encountered when she had fought the Landrost, but a malign, conscious, deliberate sterility.
A vast contempt rose within her. The Landrost, for all his violent intent, was a power she could respect. What she perceived in the Hulls was, more than anything, a corrosive pettiness, a smallness of being that had made them shrink from the generosity of life and choose instead the emptiness of control, of mere dominance.
She counted them. There were fourteen Hulls riding with slow deliberation toward the campsite. She guessed that Cadvan's wards were slowing them down; otherwise they would already have attacked.
She stood and waited, feeling no urgency. Her body seemed to be stronger, her limbs were no longer shaking so badly. Then she glanced at her friends, and her conscience smote her. If she was not afraid, they felt no such assurance. Hekibel's eyes, the only part of her that could express anything, revealed sheer terror.
"Have no fear," Maerad said aloud, and she made a strange gesture with her hands, not even deigning to speak. At once the spell was broken, and all four of them slumped with relief at being released from their horrible suspension.
"I thank you, Maerad," said Cadvan, rubbing his neck. "That was a nasty moment. Surprised by Hulls! I could spit!"
"There are fourteen," said Maerad. "They ride slowly. I am guessing they are hampered by your magery but, all the same, they cast that spell through all your wards."
Hekibel drew a sharp breath. "Fourteen?" she said in a small voice.
"If they can break wards that Cadvan set, there must be a mighty power there." Saliman drew his sword and eyed it coldly. "They will not harm us," said Maerad. "They cannot."
Saliman stared at Maerad with amazement, and then glanced quickly at Cadvan, who gave him a slight nod. He cleared his throat. "Well, even so, I think that maybe Hekibel and Hem can perhaps get out of the way."
"I don't like Hulls," said Hem thickly. He was struggling against a creeping horror; vivid memories rose in his mind's eye of the Hulls in Edinur, the Hulls at Sjug'hakar Im. "I'm pretty useless here, to be honest."
He took Hekibel's hand, and pulled her away from the other Bards. She said nothing. At first she seemed to resist him, as if she were fixed to the spot, dazed with terror, but she allowed Hem to lead her to the rough shelter of rock where Maerad and Cadvan had made their home for the past week, and as soon as they were inside, she crouched on the ground, her arms wrapped around herself.
"Hulls are horrible," said Hem, trying to smile to reassure her. "But if Maerad says we will be all right, we are in no danger."
Hekibel looked up at him, but said nothing. The naked fear in her face made Hem kneel down next to her and take her hands in both of his. He wanted to tell her how sorry he was for the trouble he had caused her, but the words died in his mouth. Hekibel looked up and met his eyes and then she put her arms around him, and he could feel the trembling of her body. Hekibel, he remembered, had not been near Hulls before, although she had seen their work; and perhaps, not having the defenses of Bards, she was more vulnerable to the desolation they wrought in the spirit.
Maerad followed her brother's departure, and then turned back to face the Hulls, Saliman and Cadvan on either side of her.
"So, Maerad," said Saliman, with a sardonic smile. "How do you propose we defend ourselves? I confess, I cannot see anything but a fearsome battle before us."
"There are none but those we see," said Maerad absently. She was concentrating all her attention in front of her. "They cannot get another spell through the wards—I think they have been trying. And perhaps they do not know that that first spell has been broken. They do not seem anxious."
"No," said Cadvan, peering through the dusk. "My walls aren't giving them much trouble—they are breaking them as they ride. My wards are still strong, so far as I can see; they shouldn't be able to tell what is happening here. I would give much, all the same, to know how they slid that spell past my magery. It hurts my pride."
"If that is the worst hur
t you suffer this night, my friend, I will not pity you," said Saliman.
"Shhh." Maerad glanced at the Bards sternly, and turned back to the Hulls. Saliman cocked an ironic eyebrow over her head at Cadvan, who almost smiled.
Maerad was waiting for the Hulls to come close enough so that she could be sure of destroying all of them at once. Her contempt for them lay like nausea in her stomach; at this moment she felt no pity, no stirrings of conscience, no division of her will. She had no doubt that the Hulls planned to murder her brother and her friends, and to take her captive. They deserved no mercy.
Suddenly, as if they had appeared out of nowhere, the Hulls were visible to the naked eye. They must have broken through one of Cadvan's shields, which had also stripped them of the sorcery that hitherto had concealed them. At the same moment that they became visible, the Hulls sighted their prey, and they drew together and quickened their pace.
Maerad drew in her breath. They seemed much closer now that she could see them, and she felt the Bards beside her flinch at the force of the malignant wills that were now focused upon them with deadly intent. From here she could see the red light that burned in the shadows of their hoods, and the bony hands that held the reins of their horses; and she also saw that the steeds they rode were not living horses, but beasts of carrion, held together and driven by the wills of those who rode them. For the first time she felt horror creep into her heart.
The Hulls were riding now in a semicircle, and she knew that the most powerful sorcerers were in the middle, like the keystones of an arch. Clearly, when they came close enough, they planned to encircle their camp so there would be no chance to escape. They rode arrogantly, sure of their success, and Maerad's lip curled.
She closed her eyes, and sought the Hulls in the shadow world. They were easy to find: they wavered before her, insubstantial forms like fumes of poisonous smoke. They were not aware of her. Hulls could not enter the planes where she now moved.
Slowly, Maerad drew in a deep breath. It was a breath that no living human could take: she inhaled the icy mists that hung over the mountains, the wild briny gales of the sea, the mild spring breezes that wandered over the Hollow Lands, river winds and summer storms and the high still air that stood beneath the stars, drawing them into the very depth of her being. And then, pursing her lips as if she were about to play a pipe, she blew it out at the smoky forms of the Hulls.
There was a brief, panicked turbulence as the Hulls attempted to resist the force of Maerad's breath, but in this place they were powerless. In moments the wisping vapors that were their souls dissipated and vanished, and it was as if they had never been.
Maerad opened her eyes, and the Hulls were gone. In their places were fourteen small piles of bone and cloth, and then, wafting toward them on the mild breeze, a faint stench of rotting meat. She smiled.
Saliman was speechless, his mouth open with shock. Cadvan cleared his throat, attempted to speak, and stuttered into silence. He cleared his throat again.
"By the Light," he said, when he had mastered himself. "I think that beats the singing a lullaby to a stormdog for simplicity and economy, Maerad. But I wish I had known that you simply had to blow at Hulls to get rid of them. It would have saved me a few scars."
"The night is clean again." Maerad turned to the Bards, her eyes glittering. The pallor of her face was now relieved by red flushes of fever high on her cheekbones.
"That's not possible," Saliman said slowly. "I am not sure, much as I loathe Hulls, that I want to see the like again. I—" He broke off, shaking his head, and sheathed his sword. He gave Maerad a straight look. "I think, Maerad, you are the greatest peril I have ever encountered."
"Not to you," she said. "Not to anyone I love."
"A lightning strike or a tempest does not distinguish between friend and foe," said Saliman.
Maerad eyes blazed with anger. "Mistrust me if you will," she said.
"Think not that I mistrust you," said Saliman gently. "Anyone who witnesses what you have just done and claims they are not afraid of that power is either a liar or a fool. And for all my faults, I am neither of those."
Maerad met his eyes for a long moment, and her face softened. Impulsively she flung her arms around Saliman's neck and kissed his cheek, and then without saying anything more, she turned back to the camp. She wanted to talk to Hem.
That night, freed for the moment of the fear of pursuit, they made a large fire and sat long in talk as a ripening moon rose into a clear spring sky. Outside the circle of firelight it was a cold night, but none of them felt the chill. Cadvan made a stew of rabbit flavored with wild sage and thyme and, aside from the grim stories they all had to tell, it was a merry gathering.
The horses, with the exception of Darsor, had panicked and run off, but were swiftly tracked down with Darsor's help, and now were exchanging equine gossip as they casually cropped the turf nearby. Irc had returned cautiously after the confrontation with the Hulls, his feathers still stiff with alarm, and had been formally introduced to Maerad and Cadvan. He wanted to dislike Maerad—he was a jealous bird, and he regarded Hem as his own special possession—but when she greeted him respectfully and offered him some food, he allowed himself to be charmed, and even hopped onto her forearm, a special sign of trust.
Hem had been shocked when he saw Maerad's hand, and at first he tried to avoid looking at it, as the sight pained him. Maerad herself was no longer self-conscious about her missing fingers and gestured as freely as she had before her hand was maimed; and gradually Hem became more used to her injury and didn't feel a stab in his heart every time he glimpsed it out of the corner of his eye. They sat very close to each other, and joked and squabbled as if they were any brother and sister meeting again after a long parting. Except, thought Cadvan, for the magery that still flickered subtly under Maerad's skin, surrounding her form with a faint, ever-changing nimbus of golden light. She remained pale and feverish, her eyes unnaturally bright, and Cadvan noticed with concern that she ate very little, and only when pressed. She gave most of her meal to Irc.
Everyone agreed they could not stay where they were, but no one knew where they ought to go. Innail, their nearest haven, was quite likely to be under attack again from the forces gathered in Desor, and traveling in that direction would very likely bring an unwelcome encounter with the army. The closest
Schools were Desor and Ettinor, but none of them had any inclination to travel that way. Maerad remained silent, staring into the fire. Irc had crept onto her lap and was crooning as she idly stroked his neck, and Hem was beginning to nod with sleep.
"The main question," said Cadvan, "is the Treesong. If we understood what happened today, perhaps we could decide what we should do."
All eyes turned toward Maerad.
"I don't understand it, either," she said slowly. "It's difficult to explain, even to myself..."
"Can you guess what was wrong?" asked Saliman.
"Something was missing." Maerad paused, as if she were trying to listen to an inner voice, and then shook her head. "But I don't know what it was ..."
"Hekibel, you knew that it wasn't running true," said Saliman. Hekibel, who had been almost as silent as Maerad during this discussion, looked up. "I am wondering how you knew, and whether that same knowing might tell us something?"
"I know nothing of magery," said Hekibel, her voice low.
"Saliman and I are not considered beginners in the Arts," said Cadvan. "And yet we had no inkling of any trouble."
"Perhaps Hekibel felt it because she has no training, and we were hampered by what we expected, instead of looking at what was in front of our noses," said Saliman. "It is not Bardic magery, after all, and it moves in other ways. Simpler ways, perhaps."
"I suppose, for me, it was a bit like a scene in a play where somebody has forgotten the lines, or the scenery is wrong, or a player is missing, or something like that," said Hekibel. "But, well, worse. In a play, you're just pretending that people die, but I thought that if it went on
much longer, Hem and Maerad would really be killed."
Maerad looked up, startled. "Not killed," she said. "Worse, maybe . . ." There was a silence as the others waited for her to explain what she meant. She started to speak, and then stopped, biting her lip.
"It's difficult to talk about," Maerad said at last. "I don't have the right words; they don't fit, somehow. I mean, as you know, it often happens in magery that if the—if the circumstance is right, then the action follows. And so, when the lyre and the tuning fork were close together, it was as if the Treesong woke up and—became something, almost as if there were another person there." She frowned with concentration. "And the Treesong was there, it wanted to be whole, and that wanting was all there was, and it just got more and more unbearable because whatever it wanted couldn't happen. And there was nothing else in the whole world except that wanting. And if Hekibel hadn't made the Treesong sleep again, Hem and I would have been trapped in that wanting, with no way out of it." She lifted her hands in frustration. "I can't say it properly," she said.
"What does it want?" said Cadvan.
"To be whole. To be free. To be alive." She remembered, with a sudden stab of pain, the Winterking's bitterness when he had told her the meanings of the runes on her lyre in his cold throne room in Arkan-da. "Arkan said—he said the runes were dead, that Nelsor had trapped the power of the Treesong within them, like a flower in ice. He said they were a song, and I had to play them. And when I said I didn't know the music, he said"— she swallowed, recalling his icy rage, the strange mix of fear and desire that Arkan had invoked within her—"he said, Do you think anything can be alive, when it is cloven in half?"
Pellinor 04: The Singing Page 35
