Crucible (26 page)

He stood and looked around. The doorway was a slightly lighter dark than that of the interior, with a twisted lump in front of it.

Arvil walked slowly over to the lump, straining to make out what it was. Suddenly it resolved into Graya, lying on her side—with a huge serpent attached to her hind end!

It was devouring her, was big enough to be devouring her. Arvil shouted a wordless cry of anger and drew his sword.

For all its size, the snake couldn't easily spit out something it'd begun to eat, and Arvil hacked at the thing, cursing and calling to Graya to wake up. It thrashed with its tail, trying to smack him away, but its movements were awkward. Arvil dodged most of the blows, and the rest were nothing compared with what he'd just relived. Within minutes, he'd hacked the thing's head off. He dropped his sword, kneeling to carefully extract Graya's legs from its mouth.

She had some gashes from the thing's teeth, but nothing too deep. Snakes didn't chew up their prey, thank the Lady.

But even once free, Graya didn't wake.

She had to be caught in her own memory trap. The villagers, the ones who made it this far, must have been caught too, and devoured. He felt a twinge of sorrow for them, but his focus was on Graya.

Before he could even begin to think of what he could do to free her, a voice like a breath of wind called from deep within the tower.

“Well done, boy. You are worthy to join me. Together, we shall conquer.”

Arvil jumped to his feet, grabbing his sword once more, but there was no one there.

“Where are you? Who are you?”

“Come and meet me, boy,”
said the wind.
“Up.”

Arvil glanced at Graya, then turned away and went deeper into the tower. The whole place smelled of dust and rot and bird droppings.

A gap in the back wall led to a spiral stairway leading up. Arvil shuddered, but he climbed, carefully.

He passed two landings, something urging him higher. On the fourth floor, the stair ended, and the room opened out into a wide space with crumbling walls and no ceiling. Splintered and rotted beams lay jumbled on the floor, like a child's game of cast-sticks. Dirt and stones and more bird droppings layered everything.

By the dim light of the crescent moon, a man-shaped mist floated in the center of the space.
“Come here, boy,”
the wind whispered.

Arvil approached slowly and stopped a few paces away.

“Who are you?”

“I am Tal,”
said the wind.
“The greatest Mage of this age, now that Ma'ar is gone.”

“You've heard of Ma'ar?” Even after the swirling chaos of the Mage Storms and the defeat just a few months earlier of Falconsbane, or Ma'ar, or whatever he'd called himself at the end, few people had heard of him in any of his guises.

“I knew him of old. We were allies, but I knew he would turn on me, crush me when he no longer had need of me.”
The mist shape shivered, expanded, contracted.

“I cast a spell to bring allies of my own. Some came, none lasted. I am patient. I waited. Ma'ar's power grew, changed. I withdrew. But he is gone now. I returned. You are here, and we will rule.”

Arvil stared, scowling. “You think I'll help you?”

“You will.”

Arvil paced closer, gripping his sword even though he knew it would do him little good against a spirit. “We defeated Ma'ar. You feared him. You should fear us.”

“You? Who are
you
?”
demanded the wind. The mist trembled and shifted into a mass of waving tendrils, threatening.

“The people of this land and of this time. We defeated Ma'ar for good, and we'll defeat you as well if you try to conquer us.”

“I will rule! I have waited too long!”
The tendrils of mist lunged out at Arvil, faster than he'd ever imagined mist could go, and then they were on him, twining around him, penetrating him.

It was . . . cold. He shivered and tried to twist free, but the mist stayed with him, oozing through him in a way that made his flesh try to creep away wherever it touched.

But that was all.

The wind raged and cackled, crying,
“I will destroy you! I could have given you a place at my feet, but you are a fool!”
It swirled around him, but it didn't seem to be doing anything except make him wish he had a heavier cloak.

Did the spirit, Tal, even know he was dead?

He'd lurked there in the tower for how long? Ages—over two thousand years, if he'd lived in Ma'ar's time. That was long enough to drive anyone mad.

Ignoring the foggy ghost, Arvil stepped carefully over to where the spirit had first appeared. There was a heap of wood, and poking through it, he found enough pieces to see that it was a throne.

What was it about would-be rulers and thrones?

Underneath the seat, he found a skull rattling around in a muck-caked crown. The wind howled around him, screaming boasts and threats alike, but Arvil ignored it. He set the skull onto the stone floor and brought the pommel of his sword down on it as hard as he could.

The ancient bone shattered into brittle pieces, and with a last shriek, the spirit vanished.

Arvil listened, heard nothing but the rustling of leaves, the calling of night birds, and the song of crickets.

Then through the night air came a whinny.

“Graya! Coming!” He scrambled back across the debris-strewn floor and started down the stairs. From the position of the moon, he guessed dawn would come soon.

They'd return to the villagers bearing bad news, but confirmation of deaths was better than never knowing. At least they could mourn and have some peace.

And their memories. Everyone had their memories.

Shandara Tem let the last chord ring from her harp, the notes filling Master Bard Tangeli's office with triumphant sound.

The crackling fire on the hearth was the only sound in the room besides the final notes. Master Tangeli sat in his armchair, fingers steepled beneath his neatly trimmed gray beard. He did not smile, did not move from his pensive pose.

As the last vibrations faded from the harp, Shandara's smile faded from her face, too. “Did you . . . like my new composition?”

She had hoped for more. A nod of approval from her instructor at least, if not warm applause. Anything but this studied silence.

“Valor” was one of her best compositions. She knew it was—an homage to the bards of yore and their service to Valdemar. Surely it was good enough to convince the Bardic Council to elevate her from Trainee to full Bard. Already several of her friends had donned their Scarlets and left Haven, leaving her increasingly impatient to do the same.

A flurry of snowflakes danced past the windows, and the golden glow of the lamps warmed the intricately patterned carpet beneath Shandara's feet. The weight of the
harp was comforting against her right shoulder as she waited. And waited.

At last, Master Tangeli spoke. “The melodic line is lovely. Very well suited to your soprano voice—and the interweaving chords lend a strong backdrop to your lyrics. Especially the minor to major substitutions. But . . . something is missing. As I'm sure you are aware.”

Failure settled coldly in the pit of her stomach, as though she'd swallowed a lump of ice.

“I'm trying, Master,” she said. “Surely you felt some excitement as you listened?”

“I felt moved by your talent, certainly.” He shook his head. “But not by your Gift.”

Shandara took a deep breath, swallowing the discouraged lump in her throat. It wasn't professional to cry in front of one's instructor, and she refused to do so.

But it also wasn't fair. She had done
everything
in her power to evoke the emotions of her song; she'd tried her utmost to activate her Bardic Gift and let it carry that sense of honor and triumph to her audience.

“I'd hoped this would be the piece,” she said softly, running her right hand up and down the smooth pine of her harp's soundbox.

“It is a strong composition,” Master Tangeli said. “Very complex. And though I know you are disappointed, promise me you'll perform at the Midwinter Recital next week.”

She dropped her gaze to the carpet. Could she bear to debut her new song before the Collegium and have it meet with failure?

“Perhaps the energy of playing before a large audience will unlock your sporadic Gift more fully,” her instructor added.

That was the maddening part. Shandara
had
the Bardic Gift, but it was so elusive! Before she'd come to the Collegium, she had made her younger siblings dance and laugh or weep bitterly, depending on the song she played.
She'd been so certain that her prodigious talents would earn her full Bard status and her Scarlets at a remarkably early age.

Instead, she'd seen most of her yearmates depart for positions in noble houses, while she remained behind. Still a Trainee.

She'd always been a talented musician—one of the best harpers he'd ever seen, Master Tangeli had told her. But the harder she worked, the less reliable her Gift became.

“Very well,” she said. “I'll perform at the recital.” It was not as though she could refuse her instructor's request.

“Good.” He nodded. “Tomorrow, we'll go over the transition into the chorus. It is the only thing I heard that needs work—the rest of your piece is excellent. Well done, Shandara.”

“Thank you,” she said, hearing his unspoken words.

Well done . . . but not quite well enough.

Glumly, she wrapped her harp back in its thick cloth case and bid Master Tangeli good evening. She would go back to her room and work on the music until her fingers bled, if that was what it took to reach her Bardic potential.

Someone in a nearby practice room was playing a difficult run of notes on the gittern, over and over. To Shandara's ear, there was no improvement from one try to the next. Much like her attempts to master her Gift.

As she trudged up the stairs to the third floor dormitory, the dinner bell rang. Not that she was hungry—but if she didn't make at least a token appearance, her friend Ryk would worry. He fretted entirely too much about her, and now that most of their yearmates were gone, he fussed at her even more.

Her chest tightened with the knowledge that he would likely receive his Scarlets soon. Maybe even after the Midwinter Recital. And then she would be completely alone.

Oh, stop it
, she told herself. Self-pity was no use to
anyone, and she didn't begrudge Ryk his inevitable success. It was just that she was going to miss him when he went.

Her room smelled of beeswax candles and the dried herbs strewn inside her mattress. The familiar scent soothed her, taking the edge off her unhappiness.

Dinner would help, too—and perhaps there would be pocket pies. She could do with a little sweetness in her day. Shandara tucked her harp into its corner beside her bed, then turned and went back down to brave the cold courtyard.

She waited inside the Bardic Collegium's entryway for a moment or two to see if Ryk would come, but there was no sign of him. Likely he'd already headed over to the dining hall. Their schedules did not often mesh, but she knew he would save a seat for her.

The cold air stung her face and stole her breath the moment she stepped out into the deepening twilight. A few snowflakes drifted past her, but the afternoon flurries seemed to have passed.

Across the stone-paved yard, the larger Herald's Collegium was a comforting bulk, its many windows glowing golden. Shandara hunched her shoulders against the bitter wind and increased her pace, her fingers already chilled.

. . . Shandara . . .

It was a whisper on the wind, accompanied by a sleet-filled gust. Shandara whirled, then lost her footing on a treacherous patch of ice. Snow blinded her, and she cried out, arms windmilling in a vain attempt to regain her balance.

“No!”

She pulled in a panicked breath, the cold air invading her lungs. Her feet slid out from under her, and down she went on the unyielding paving stones.

She landed hard on her right side. Bright pain blossomed through her arm and shoulder, and she lay there
a moment, stunned. Snowflakes gathered on her lashes, pricked her cheeks.

“Shandara!” One of the third-year Trainees rushed over. “Are you all right?”

“I think . . . I need a Healer,” Shandara blinked back the tears of pain blurring her vision.

In what seemed like moments, she was surrounded by a circle of concerned faces. Some were lit by the glow of the Collegiums' windows, others were shadowed. The chill of the paving stones seeped into her body, but her shoulder hurt so badly she was not certain she could sit up.

“Should we move her?”

“Wait for Healer Adrun.”

“Let me through!” That was Ryk. He knelt beside her, his brown eyes wide. “Shan, what happened? Where did you land? Did you break anything?”

His breath sent a frosty plume into the darkening air. Shandara managed a weak smile, then regretted it as her arm pulsed with pain.

“I tripped,” she said. “Fell on my right side. Maybe broken.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

It was a musician's worst fear: injuring a hand or arm and being unable to play. While it was true the Healers at the Collegium were some of the best in the land, they could not mend every injury. At least, not instantly.

“Here.” Ryk pulled off his cloak and folded it into quarters. “Can you lift your head?”

“You'll be cold,” she said.

“You're the one lying on the stones. Hush now.” He slipped the makeshift pillow under her cheek. The wool was rough against her skin and smelled faintly of wood smoke.

“Make way.” Master Tangeli pushed through the crowd, his lips pressed together with concern. “Give her some space.”

“Indeed,” a deep voice said. “Everyone, move over.”

The crowd surrounding Shandara shifted as Master
Healer Adrun strode to her. His emerald green clothing was a bright contrast to the rust and scarlet hues of the Bards. He knelt on the icy stones, then held his hand over her body and closed his eyes in concentration.

“Well, young lady,” he said after a moment, opening his eyes. “You've torn your shoulder and fractured your forearm. That was quite a fall. Glad you didn't hit your head—those are always difficult injuries to heal. Let's get you inside where it's warm. Then a round of Healing. Sit up—carefully. There you go.”

Ryk moved to her left side and supported her as she unsteadily rose to her feet. At least the snow had lessened somewhat, the flakes now swirling gently around her, as if in apology.

Master Tangeli nodded at her. “I'll be in to check on you soon, Shandara. I hope your injury is not too grievous.” He raised his voice. “Everyone, thank you for stopping—but the cooks won't be happy if we are all late to dinner.”

The crowd dissipated, leaving Shandara, Ryk, and Master Adrun to head back to the Bard's dormitory. Slowly, with much wincing on her part, they managed the journey up to the third floor.

“Sit on the edge of the bed,” Master Adrun said. “Easy, now. That's it.”

Shandara breathed shallowly and stared at her colorful quilt, trying to calm herself so that Master Adrun could work with her body's natural energy flow. Still, her mind would not stop leaping from pain to fear to worry, then circling back again.

“Will I be well enough to perform at the Midwinter Recital?” she asked as the Healer held his hands above her shoulder. “I play the harp,” she added, in case he did not know.

Master Adrun shot a glance at the instrument in the corner. “Harp? That takes a much larger range of motion than, say, a flute.” He frowned. “You've torn a tendon, I'm
afraid. Even with Healing, I have to advise two weeks of rehabilitation. It's unlikely you'll be able to play much of anything before then.”

“But I have to—”

“If you attempt to use your shoulder too soon, you could permanently weaken the joint, making you vulnerable to future injuries.” He shook his head. “Not a risk a Bard should take.”

He was right, though she hated to admit it.

“But you can still sing,” Ryk said with an encouraging smile. “You can accompany yourself with your left hand, and just let your right arm rest in your lap. Think of it as a challenge. You can show the Bardic Council that you can overcome obstacles and still perform.”

“I suppose. But my composition depends on the interplay of left and right hand, as well as my voice. There's no way I can perform ‘Valor.'”

“It's your piece,” Ryk said. “I'm certain you can come up with a new arrangement.”

His faith warmed her and steadied her conviction. She could do it, rework the song. The vocal part would have to carry the piece, but she had an excellent voice. And it would prove to the Council that she was a flexible musician, able to adapt to the unexpected; surely a most desirable quality in a Bard.

“Take a deep breath and hold it,” Master Adrun said.

Shandara bit her lip at the flash of pain in her right shoulder.

“I've done what I can for now,” the Healer continued. “For the next two days, keep your shoulder as immobilized as possible. I'll send a sling over, and will be back to check your progress tomorrow. For now, rest. And don't forget to eat. You'll find yourself quite tired from the Healing.”

“I'll bring you a tray,” Ryk said.

“Thank you.” She gave her friend a grateful smile.
Already, as Master Adrun had predicted, weariness washed over her.

As soon as they left, Shandara lay back on her bed. Her shoulder throbbed, but it was not the same searing pain as when she'd fallen on the courtyard stones. She closed her eyes for a moment, and it seemed that between one breath and the next, Ryk was there.

He helped her sit, and held the tray for her while she awkwardly spooned up her stew with her left hand. As soon as she finished, she yawned, her eyes lidded with lead.

“Good night,” Ryk said with a smile, standing and taking up the tray. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Night.”

His sympathetic smile never leaving his face, he closed the door quietly behind him. Stifling another yawn, Shandara pulled the quilt over herself with her left hand. Undressing just then would be too difficult. Tomorrow, Genna could help her. But now sleep sang its sweet, compelling song to her. She followed that melody down into the warm dark.

• • •

“I can't believe it.” The words came out in a croak. Shandara blew her nose for the hundredth time, and regarded Ryk glumly over the curve of her harp.

The candles on her dresser flickered gaily, in sharp contrast to her mood, and already she wished she could crawl under the covers and stay there until morning. She did not know how she could possibly get through the Midwinter Recital.

“Don't even try to speak,” Ryk said. “You sound dreadful, like a swamp frog. I'll go tell Master Tangeli you won't be performing tonight.”

“I have to,” she whispered. “A Bard doesn't go back on her promises.”

She'd given her instructor her word. Not once, but
twice, reassuring him after her injury that she was still going to play at the recital.

Ryk shook his head, his shaggy brown hair falling into his eyes. “Everyone will understand. Not only are you playing one-handed, but now you've lost your voice!”

“It's my last chance.”

She couldn't bear to watch Ryk don his Scarlets and leave. It wasn't absolutely certain that he would, of course. But Master Tangeli had strongly hinted that all the senior Trainees who performed at the Midwinter Recital had an excellent chance of earning their full Bard status. Shandara suspected it was why he'd extracted her promise to perform.