The Crow (61 page)

When Ire had finished his tale, Hem drew out the chain from under his tunic and looked at the trinket thoughtfully. It was fashioned out of brass, a strange forked thing that didn't seem to have any obvious use. Did it belong to Sharma? But why would the Nameless One carry such a humble object around his neck? Perhaps it was a memento, something he kept to remind himself of his vanished humanity? It seemed most unlikely.

He looked at the trinket more closely, and realized it was inscribed all over with tiny runes that he couldn't read. A prickle of wariness made him hide it back underneath his clothes. It looked ordinary, but deeper senses told him that he could not treat it lightly. He would think about it later, when they had escaped.

XXV

R
ETURN

Alone, Hem and Ire could move much more swiftly than a thousand snouts, but both of them were very weary. And Hem had to steal all his supplies. Mostly he raided any cultivated fields they passed on the way, but once he managed to break into a storehouse, from which he took some hard, round breads and smoked meats. He filled up his pack, and after that was not so hungry.

They traveled through Den Raven with extreme caution, sleeping by day and journeying by night. The days were very short now, and this suited them; the skies kept clear, but the nights were hard with frost. Hem concealed himself with heavy shadowmazing and glimveils and avoided roads and any villages and towns. He was relieved that he no longer had to remake the disguising spell. It had been one of the most exhausting aspects of being a snout; but now he was himself again and could wear his own face.

Ire made scouting trips and guided Hem through the safest routes. He reported signs of turmoil and confusion all through Den Raven: but in a couple of days, order seemed to be returning. In one town Ire had seen a mass hanging; in another, many prisoners paraded through the streets in shackles, watched by a sullen populace.

Somebody must have won,
said Hem.
Do you think it was Imank?
Ire didn't know. Hem puzzled over the question for days, frustrated that he could not go and find out for himself. Ire could understand the Speech, which was spoken by Hulls; but Hem refused to permit him to go near any Hulls. He dared not take anymore untoward risks: they had already chanced too much, and had barely escaped with their lives.

One morning, Ire returned from one of his scouting forays carrying a parchment that had been nailed to the gate of a Grin's house in a village; he had seen a man reading it out loud, and many people standing nearby, listening.

It might be important,
he said, as he dropped it into Hem's hands.

Hem examined the parchment closely, but he couldn't read it. At first it looked like Bardic script, and he thought he could make out a couple of words, but there was something odd about the letters. In the end, he shrugged, folded it carefully and put it in his pack.

He did not think about what might have happened to Zelika or to Nisrah. He didn't permit himself to think, either, about Saliman or Soron or Maerad. Aside from the necessities of his journey, he tried not to think at all; he simply trudged on numbly, letting Ire decide their course. He felt as if he had suffered some terrible wound, which would not begin to hurt as long as he did not look at it. He had to get back to Sjug'hakar Im in six days to meet Hared: that was all that mattered.

They reached the Glandugir Hills after five nights of hard travel, watching the moon dwindle. Despite his fear of the trees, Ire said he would accompany Hem through the forest, to make sure, he said, that he didn't get into any trouble. They decided to march straight through; in that way, they might avoid being attacked. It had taken the snouts three days to get through the hills, but they had not been able to move very fast on the narrow track, and had halted at night; perhaps Hem and Ire could do it in a day. Hem also thought of the Elidhu; they were back in Nyanar's place, and perhaps he might protect them from the horrors of the trees. He feared also that Hared would not wait for them if they were late. To miss their tryst would be too much ill fortune.

It was the dark of the moon, and the nights were long and cold. Hem preferred to go through the hills at night, although he wished for more light. He reckoned that although the snouts had always been attacked at night, it had always been when they stopped, and if he and Ire kept moving they might escape notice. He was now functioning on sheer will; he was long past his limits, and yet still he went on. And now the nausea was rising again, the grinding sense of ill that rose through his feet from the diseased land.

Even after a sleep, Hem was too tired to be afraid. He sat down, ate as good a meal as he could put together, checked his glimveils and started into the hills, Ire either clinging to his shoulder or swooping ahead a short distance down the path. It was so dark that, despite his fear that it would attract notice, Hem was forced to make a small magelight, so he would not lose his way and wander off the track into the pathless forest, or unwarily step on one of the trapvines that would drag him helplessly into the trees.

Afterward Hem could barely remember that journey: it seemed that he had entered a dark, endless tunnel. He didn't know how they made it through. As they had planned, they did not halt, and they were not attacked, although they heard many strange and fearsome noises through the darkness. But the day before Midwinter, more dead than alive, Hem stumbled out of the trees and stood at last on the scrubby slopes that led down to the abandoned camp of Sjug'hakar Im.

Now that he was here, Hem wondered how he was to find Hared. He would be charmhidden, just as Hem was, and he did not know where Hared would make his camp. He looked about him dully; a pale sun threw a gentle light over the Nazar Plains, and made dazzling jewels of the frost as it melted on the grass. For a moment, it almost looked like Nyanar's country... Ire lifted from his shoulder, swooped down the hillside, and disappeared. Hem resisted the overwhelming urge to stop and plodded stubbornly forward, down toward Sjug'hakar Im.

It had the forlorn look of all abandoned habitations: its gates swung back and forth in the wind, making a melancholy groan, and already grass was growing back on the training ground. Hem walked through the gate and looked around: there was nothing here. Soon this place would be reclaimed by the wild: creepers would climb the fences and pull them down, the huts would sag and rot. There would be no sign of all the suffering that had happened here.

Hem turned and left the camp. He walked along the road a little way, and then began to climb the slopes, toward the place where he had camped with Zelika, when they were watching Sjug'hakar Im. Somehow, despite his exhaustion, he could not stop walking; it was as if his legs had forgotten how to stop. He was almost at his destination when someone called his name.

It took him a moment to realize that it was not said aloud, that he heard it with his inner ear. Someone very close by was summoning him. Before he answered he looked around distractedly, searching for Hared.

Hem. Answer me.

He made the mindtouch, and realized with a shock who it was. The will that had been holding him together for days suddenly shattered completely; his knees buckled, and the ground rose dizzily to meet him.

I'm here,
he whispered, as a black tide rose inside him.
Saliman, I'm here.

* * * *

A cool hand was on his brow, and his breast was a golden flower opening in petal after petal of light. He floated on water that dazzled with slow ripples beneath a blue, flawless sky.

Hem's eyelids fluttered open. Saliman, shining silver with magery was staring gravely down at him.
Sleep now,
he said into his mind.

Sleep. How long since he had really slept? He couldn't remember. Hem shut his eyes and slid gratefully into soft, healing darkness.

Hem was woken by the smell of cooking. He lay with his eyes shut, as his mouth flooded with water; it seemed years since he had eaten anything that tasted good, that was not chewed joylessly simply to keep him alive. He raised himself onto his elbow. He was inside a bower of living leaves, woven together and bent to the ground to make a shelter, and a few paces away Saliman sat cross-legged, tending a pan of stew over a fire.

Saliman looked up when Hem stirred, and their eyes met in a long glance of greeting. Saliman did not smile, and neither did Hem: their joy seemed too deep for that. A lump rose in Hem's throat, and he swallowed: he had thought he would never see Saliman again, and yet there he was, cooking dinner. His sheer ordinariness seemed wholly miraculous: his braids were tied in a rough knot on the top of his head, his clothes were travelstained, and he looked very tired. Hem was filled with a somber, inexpressible delight: despite everything, they had both survived.

There was a flutter of wings and a small thump, and they turned to see Ire landing clumsily by the fire.

"Hello, Ire," said Saliman. "Did you smell the food?"

Ire gave an interrogative caw, and Saliman laughed.

"It smells delicious," said Hem, and came over to join Saliman. "It woke me up."

"Well, it's about time you stirred those legs. The sun came up hours ago."

"The sun?" Hem was taken aback; he had thought it was evening.

"You've slept an entire day and night," said Saliman. He gave Hem a sharp look, as if sizing him up. "How do you feel?"

"I've felt better," Hem said. His muscles still groaned with stiffness and he felt as if he had been beaten all over. "But, I admit, lately I've been feeling a lot worse." He looked at the pan, where some meat was simmering in a sauce of herbs. "Will that take long?"

"Not long," said Saliman, giving him a wide smile. "I thought we could risk a hot meal to celebrate your return. You're looking a bit scrawny."

"But mightn't somebody see a fire?" Hem asked, with a clutch of fear. He had become so used to hiding that even sitting in the open seemed reckless.

"It's unlikely, Hem. I've been here three days, looking around, and my judgment is that we're pretty safe today. The Black Army is nowhere to be seen in the Nazar Plains; the Dark, it seems, is preoccupied elsewhere. We can take advantage of a lull in the storm, and pretend we are camping in the Osidh Am. A little cold, I grant you, but it's pleasant enough. After all, it is Midwinter Day."

Hem drew his knees up to his chin and watched Saliman taste the stew and add some salt from his pack. Ire drew near, demanding a scratch, and Hem absently rubbed the crow's neck until he crouched crooning on the ground. Hem was very hungry; but he was in no hurry. He was content merely to sit with his friends, watching the fire and listening to the gentle simmer of the stewing meat. He realized now that he had forgotten the balm of these easy pleasures, how deeply they reached into his soul and nourished him.

After a while they broke their fast, eating straight out of the pan, with Ire bobbing up and down by their knees demanding scraps. Saliman's simple herbed dish seemed to Hem like a feast, restoring much more than his body. When he had finished his meal, Hem sighed contentedly; he was warm and full, and felt much more substantial. Ire flew off on a private errand, and Hem and Saliman sat in silence for some time and stared at the fire's pale daylit flickering.