But the silence was not the end. For as the music died, it seemed to Maerad that she was beginning to unravel with it, that her longing for the Elidhu undid her, as if she were a spool that was spinning around and around and the thread of herself were being pulled away. She dropped her lyre and clutched herself with her arms, as if she could hold herself together, but she was spinning faster and faster, and all of herself was spinning away, and it was the greatest pain she had ever known. She heard, as if from very far away, a great scream, and she recognized Sharma's voice and knew the same thing was happening to him. She understood then that Sharma was undone, and that the spell of binding at last was broken, and that he and all his power were being ripped from the world. And as he was undone, so was she; and she realized with bitter anguish that Sharma had been right when he had told her that she would lose everything.
She felt no triumph, no sense of justice done or restitution made. All she could feel was the inconsolable agony of her loss, and she realized that the scream she heard was also her own voice, an endless scream as her mind was ripped and torn, as her flesh was stripped from her bones and her bones shredded into splinters, as everything she had ever known herself to be was torn apart and rushed away from her into a great, burning emptiness, and a blackness whistled through her like a merciless wind, until there was nothing left, nothing at all, of what she was, of what she could be, of what she would ever be.
And then she knew she was still there, after all. She lay on the hard ground, and she was very cold, and a stone had cut her cheek so that the blood tickled as it ran down her face. And Hem's arms were flung around her, and he was sobbing with passionate grief because he thought that she was dead. She stirred and sat up, and put her arms around him to comfort him. And then Hem smiled through his tears, and they held each other close, as if they had found each other again after a long and bitter parting. And they did not hear the plaintive whistle of the wind through the reeds nor the calling of their friends as they ran up to help them, because now, in this moment, there was only each other.
And the Song never stopped: released at last into its own music, it played on through all the depths and heights and breadths of the wide and vivid world, following its own desires beyond the reaches of the human heart, forever wild, forever whole, forever free.
EPILOGUE
G
AMPHIS of Innail was on guard by the gate, enjoying the first really warm day of spring, when a ragged band of five travelers rode up on four gaunt horses and demanded entrance. He stared through the grille and harshly demanded their business. Aside from the grim mountain men who had besieged the walls of Innail a month before, he thought that he had never seen such a disreputable-looking lot. And besides, he was under strict instructions not to admit anyone who did not satisfactorily identify themselves. Although the Fesse had been peaceful since the Landrost had been defeated by the Maid of Innail, tales came their way of massive armies marching through Annar, of war and civil strife, and they still lived under daily fear of attack. It was a time of fear and suspicion and dark rumor.
"Didn't they send news ahead of us?" came a sharp, impatient voice, before anyone else could answer. "It's me, Camphis. Maerad of Pellinor. And I'm tired and I'm hungry and I want a bath and I'll never forgive you if you don't open those gates at once."
Camphis started, and looked again more closely. He blushed to the roots of his hair when he realized that he had been about to refuse admittance to Maerad of Pellinor, the Maid of Innail herself, and Cadvan of Lirigon. He could be forgiven for his mistake: a dark beard curled on Cadvan's chin, which had always been clean-shaven, and Maerad herself was so thin he barely recognized her even now. And the glossy horses that had stepped proudly out of Innail were now hollow-flanked, and their coats stared with lack of condition. Hastily he unbarred the gate, and the travelers rode inside and dismounted. Maerad smiled at the young Bard, and his blush deepened.
"I'm sorry, Mistress Maerad," he stammered. "I—"
To his surprise, Maerad laughed. "Greetings, Camphis," she said. "Of course I forgive you. It's good to see you again."
Cadvan turned to Camphis, smiling tiredly. "If you love me, friend, call some of Indik's apprentices to take these horses and give them some of the loving attention they so richly deserve. And tell Malgorn we're here, five of us: Maerad and me, and Saliman of Turbansk, and Hem of Turbansk, who is Maerad's brother, and Hekibel, daughter of Hirean. Oh, and Irc of—Irc the Savior of Lirigon. And we're all hungry."
He clapped Camphis on the shoulder, and Camphis blinked and whistled for a messenger and relayed the names that Cadvan had told him, and the boy looked his astonishment and then took off as if wers were at his heels. And before long the horses were knee-deep in hay, their coats cleaned of every trace of sweat and dirt after a long rubdown, munching peacefully at a hot mash of oats and bran; and the travelers were walking slowly up to Malgorn and Silvia's Bardhouse, listening in a daze of wonder to the birdsong that rose in the bright spring sunshine. Their legs felt as if they were made of stone, for they were very weary. It was no wonder that they had outstripped any messengers. They had ridden through the Let of Innail, the narrow opening between the two mountain spurs that embraced the valley, only the day before, and despite being bade to stay and rest by the soldiers who camped there, they had ridden on as fast as they could, so impatient were they to see their friends.
As they neared the Bardhouse, the doors were flung open and Silvia rushed out, her arms held wide. She had clearly been in the kitchen: her hair was tied up in a scarf and her arms were covered in flour up to her elbows. She ran up to Maerad and Cadvan, her face shining with joy, and she threw her arms around both of them and kissed them over and over again; and then she recognized Saliman, and kissed him; and then Hem and Hekibel had to be introduced and embraced in turn; and by the end of it all everyone, even Irc, was covered in white handprints.
Silvia then brought them all inside and insisted that they eat before anything else—she was deeply shocked by Maerad's thinness. And shortly after a substantial meal of fresh bread and stew, Maerad—reluctantly taking leave of Cadvan, who winked at her behind Silvia's back as she hustled them down the hallway—was sitting on her bed in her chamber. It looked exactly the same as when she had left, as if it had been waiting for her; but Maerad felt as if she were an entirely different person. She dumped her pack on the floor and looked out the open window. The branches that waved in the gentle winds outside were heavy with pink blossom, and bees buzzed idly over them, and she could hear someone practicing a flute somewhere inside the Bardhouse. A blue dress was laid out on her bed, and beside it was a cake of soap that smelled of oranges and jasmine. Maerad picked up the soap and prepared to take the longest and most luxurious bath she had ever had.
All the travelers bathed, even Hem, and then they slept all afternoon. As evening began to fall gently over Innail, brushing the sky with strokes of amber and lemon and rose pink, they each awoke and touched the soft blankets and crisp linen sheets with wonder, and they took a deep pleasure in dressing in the clean and beautiful clothes that Silvia had given them to wear. After the past weeks of lying on hard ground, cold and wet and dirty, such simple pleasures seemed like miracles.
Silvia was preparing a dinner for them, and she had told them to gather in the music room when they were ready; and one by one they made their way downstairs and sat on the warm red couches by the fire that had been lit against the cold of the evening, and waited for their hosts.
Maerad came down to find her friends already gathered. She paused in the doorway, watching them before they noticed her. Cadvan, now clean-shaven, sat nearest the fire, his long legs stretched out before him, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief as he told some story to Saliman, who listened attentively and then burst out laughing. Hem, with Irc perched on his shoulder, was sitting a little aside, steadily eating through the hazelnuts and almonds that lay in a blue bowl on the table. Hekibel, with her glorious hair tumbling down her back, w
ore a rich red dress that fell to the floor and showed off her sumptuous figure. She caught Saliman's eye and they both smiled.
Maerad's chest tightened with love, making her suddenly breathless: these people had risked everything to help her, they had suffered and struggled and wept with her, and they might have died. She knew that she would love them all her life, that even if they didn't see each other for years, she would run to greet them, and that it would always be as if they had only parted the day before. They were her dearest friends.
And Cadvan was dearest of all. The memory of how he had caught her up from the ground at Afinil and showered her face with kisses, all his reserve vanishing in his relief that she was alive, still made her body hum with happiness, as if she were a hive full of bees. She had thrown her arms around his neck and kissed him back without shame, and nothing had needed to be said, although they had said much as they rode together on Darsor back to Innail. She studied him possessively from the doorway. Hekibel was right: he was very handsome.
Then Cadvan, feeling her gaze, glanced up toward her. For a moment, he looked stunned. It was a long time since he had seen her in a beautiful dress, her hair washed and shining, her skin glowing from a long bath; and it was as if he were seeing her for the first time. Their eyes held for a long moment, and then he smiled slowly and lifted his glass, and she came into the lamplight to join them.
They were just sitting down to eat with Silvia and Malgorn when two more Bards arrived. First came Indik, his scarred, grim face lighting up when he saw Maerad, whom he picked up and swung around in a circle, kissing her almost as often as Silvia had. He didn't even try to hide how delighted he was to see her again.
"I always said you were my best pupil," he said, when he finally agreed to put her down.
"Oh!" said Maerad breathlessly. "You did not! You said I was the worst swordswoman you had ever had the misfortune to trip over, and that it would be a miracle if I didn't chop my own head off!"
Indik grinned unrepentantly. "I may have said something like that at some point," he said. "But I knew you'd do me proud. And you have, girl. You have."
The next guest, who followed hard on Indik's heels, made Cadvan and Saliman drop their mouths open in astonishment, and then scramble out of their chairs and rush to embrace him. It was their old mentor, Nelac.
"Nelac!" said Cadvan, releasing him from a bear hug that had nearly swept him off his feet. "My friend, of all people, you were the last I expected to see! Now my cup is full!"
"Not nearly as full as mine," said Nelac, smiling. "Mine runs over." He glanced over to Maerad, and a thrill ran down her spine: he looked at her as he might at an equal. "Greetings, Maerad and Hem of Pellinor. I am right glad to see you both here, whole and well. We felt the darkness pass from this world a fortnight since, and we knew you had completed your task. But none of us expected to see you again, and so we are the more glad."
Hem blushed deep red, and muttered some thanks to the table, but Maerad met Nelac's gaze, and her chin was lifted proudly.
"I am glad to be here, Nelac of Lirigon," she said. "And I'm very pleased we're not all dead, too. That makes it best of all."
"Indeed it does," said Nelac, looking around the room and nodding to the others there as Silvia introduced Irc and Hekibel. "I am looking forward to hearing your tales. But first things first: Silvia and Malgorn have made us a fine feast, and I think courtesy demands that we pay it some attention!"
He sat down at the head of table, next to Malgorn, and Maerad saw that he had aged since she last had seen him; the lines on his face had deepened, and there were marks of weariness and struggle and sadness on his face. He seemed much older, although she sensed no diminution of his strength. It seemed rather as if he had become more essential, as if the longer he lived, the more the magery within him became visible to the naked eye. And indeed, there was a faint shimmer of starlight about the old mage. Perhaps, she thought, when an old mage like Nelac dies, he simply becomes a beam of starlight— but she didn't like to think of Nelac's death, and turned her thoughts to the meal.
It was indeed a sumptuous feast—roast kid with fresh spring peas and carrots and roasted turnips, dressed with a sauce of gooseberries. And it was followed by a classic Innail apple pie, the melting flesh of the apple crisscrossed with a lattice of golden pastry. Malgorn kept his eye on the glasses and made sure they were always filled with a wine as pale as straw and fragrant as spring itself.
Maerad sat between Silvia and Cadvan, and breathed in
Silvia's beauty. She had dressed formally, in a long moss-green dress that Maerad remembered from her first visit to Innail, and her auburn hair shone in the candlelight like spun copper. Silvia told her that the death of the Nameless One had been sensed by all the Bards in Innail, and no doubt across all Annar.
"The change happened, oh, two weeks ago, at the full moon. Grigar of Desor arrived here a week before then, to warn us of our peril, and he gave us news of you, Hem. We were much afraid, and we sent forces to the Innail Let to defend it as best we could, although we didn't know how we could hold out against such an army. And then a few days later we had news that the Black Army was marching on Lirigon, and I did not know whether to be relieved or to weep. But it seemed to me that the tides would overwhelm us, no matter what we did, and I despaired. Those days seemed the blackest of all..."
She sighed, remembering. "And then, one night, it came over me that I must walk out into the garden to look at the moon. It was as if something called me. And I thought I heard a beautiful music, although I didn't know where it was coming from, and then an immense sadness and joy mingled within me, and I knew it was done, whatever it was. I felt that a great weight, a great burden, had lifted from my heart." She leaned forward and cupped Maerad's face with her hand. "But I was also sure, Maerad, that you must be dead. I was never so glad as when I saw you this noontide."
Maerad lifted her glass. "I'm a little battered, maybe, but it's nothing that a week won't cure. But," she added, a catch in her voice, "I think I am not a Bard anymore. I think I lost it all in the Singing. I don't mind; I am happy just to be alive."
Silvia studied her gravely. "No, Maerad, you still have the Gift, as we all do," she said at last. "It is very clear in you, although it is also clear that you have spent yourself beyond your strength, and that you are deeply tired. And you're far too thin. That tiredness can happen to anyone. Cadvan would have told you, if you had asked him. Yes, you have lost something of your Gift. I think, my dearest one, that you will no longer be able to speak with the Elementals in their own tongue, or work the terrible powers that once you did. And to be perfectly honest, I think that is no bad thing."
Maerad stared at Silvia, and relief rose inside her like a warm tide. Since the Singing, she had been sure that she would never be a Bard again. And for all the happiness she felt in her love for Cadvan, the loss of her powers was a hard thing to bear, and she had tried not to think about it on the long ride back to Innail.
As they ate, they told all their stories, piecing together everything that had happened since Cadvan had found Maerad in a cow byre, on the Springturn almost exactly one year ago. It was a long and disorderly telling.
Nelac had been imprisoned as a rebel by Enkir not long after Maerad and Cadvan had left Thorold for the north. "He did not dare to kill me," said Nelac. "Although I think it was a close thing. But as Enkir revealed his hand, so was he the less able to convince the honest Bards that his allegiance was to the Light. There was much disquiet when he started his campaign against Ileadh and Lanorial, and he lost much support then; and his only answer was to imprison any Bard who dared to question him. By then, I think Enkir was going mad. I think he is quite mad now."
Nelac wiped his brow with a napkin. "I am not ashamed to admit that there were times when I despaired, locked up in Enkir's dungeon, though the sparrows and mice kept me good company. It was hard to see any glimmer of hope in the clouds that darkened Norloch. And then Enkir did set out my death warrant,
and someone—I still don't know who it was, because
I suspect it was someone close to him—rebelled. And I was smuggled out of Norloch and given a horse. I couldn't go to Lanorial or Ileadh, because they were besieged by Enkir's forces, so I made my journey through byways and across wastes all the way to Innail, which was the only School that I could trust. And I arrived a month or so ago, only to find that I had just missed the battle here, and that Cadvan and Maerad were lately gone. Mine is the dullest story of all, really, and I would far rather hear yours."
Irc, whose belly was bulging as he perched on the back of Hem's chair, gave a sharp caw, so that everyone turned to look at him. He wanted to tell his story too. Cadvan laughed, and Hem rolled his eyes. "I told you he'd be impossible," he said.
Cadvan lifted his glass to Irc. "To me, Irc is a hero," he said. "He saved Lirigon from certain doom, and he can boast as much as he likes."
Irc danced up and down. I am a hero, he said. The Savior of Lirigon. Cadvan said so, so it must be true. And I am the King's messenger, and I am a very clever crow. I flew so far and so fast that my wings hurt and I told the Bard about the army, and he said that I was a brave and intelligent bird, and that they would make a song about me and I should have a necklace of gold. But then I had to fly all the way back to find my friend because I missed him so much and my wings hurt even more. He cocked his head and looked at Nelac, his eyes a little blurry, and Hem realized that Irc was actually a bit drunk: he must have been sipping from Hem's glass when he wasn't looking.
Pellinor 04: The Singing Page 42
