The Singing (12 page)

"It's beautiful," said Hem, enraptured.

"Try living in it with Marich and Karim for a year," said Hekibel dryly. "It loses some of its charm."

"And you just travel around, pretending to be people in stories?"

Hekibel laughed. "Yes, I suppose that's exactly what we do." "And people pay you?"

"They give us what they can. We had a good season in Eleve, but all the flour and the lentils came from a little village. They didn't have any coins."

"I'd love to see something like that." Hem was flushed with enthusiasm. "I never have before."

"Sometimes it can be magical," said Hekibel. "And sometimes it's just plain awful. I love it and I hate it at the same time. I can't say it's an easy life. But look, we had better go back to the others, or the stew will burn." They could hear Karim's voice raised outside, and she turned sharply. "And it's been a while since Karim has had an audience. I fear he might be boring your friends."

Karim was standing silhouetted by the fire, his arms outstretched to the sky. He was declaiming a speech by a king who was dying of a mortal wound, having lost his kingdom, his children, and his life through his own folly and greed. It was, Hem thought as he listened, like a beautiful poem. Karim's voice rang out in the night air, caressing the words, and Hem, entranced, felt the king's regret and sorrow as if they were his own. Finally Karim clutched his breast, and fell to one knee, bowing his head in sorrow. There was a short silence, and then the others, including the players, started clapping. Karim's voice was as spellbinding as any Bard's.

"The great Lorica," said Karim, in a hushed voice. "It is always a privilege to speak her words."

"It is," said Hekibel. "But now, we should eat."

For most of the dinner, they avoided speaking about the Black Army or the war in the Suderain. Saliman had told Hem that they were to conceal that they were Bards; they were refugees from the south, fleeing north. Which, Hem thought privately, was not so far from the truth. The stew was delicious compared to the marching fare they had been eating since leaving Nal-Ak-Burat, and respectable even by Soron's standards; and Karim brought out some surprisingly good wine.

"Why stint oneself?" he said, as he gnawed the last morsels of meat off a bone. "We are like migratory birds, always on the wing: but should we suffer for that? It only takes a little organization. Admittedly, our stocks were getting low. It was a relief to find the road again."

"If we'd stuck to the road in the first place, we would never have got lost," said Hekibel, turning to Saliman. "Always these shortcuts."

"One never knows when one will find a lone village or isolated hamlet, eager for our art." Karim threw his bone away with another flourish.

Karim's gestures fascinated Hem: he had never seen anyone, even the stateliest courtiers in Turbansk, speak with so much decoration, and his voice was rich and full, like that of the best singers. Marich, in contrast, was plainspoken and tended to the taciturn, although soon he was deep in conversation with Soron about the pleasures of the table. Hem saw that Marich was shy, and he thought it strange that someone who performed in front of strangers would be shy. Irc approved of Marich and Hekibel at once, because they were generous with titbits.

"He's a charming pet," said Hekibel, laughing as Irc danced in front of her, begging for more food. "You've trained him very well. Where did you find him?"

Hem bit back his protest that Irc was not a pet, and told how he had rescued him from attack by some of his kin when he was a fledgling. "He's a white crow, usually," he said. "He looks a bit bedraggled at the moment because we had to dye him, and it hasn't quite come out of his feathers yet."

"Yes, I can see that he would be very handsome with white feathers," said Hekibel. Irc, conscious that he was being talked about, preened himself.

"He is very vain, I'm afraid," said Hem fondly. "But loyal and true, for all that."

Karim seemed to talk mostly about himself. Like the other two players, he was a fair-skinned Annaren, with a graying beard cropped close around his chin. He hailed originally, he told them, from northern Annar, but had traveled to Lok when he was a young man, where he had learned his craft. He had been working with Hekibel and Marich for the past year, and they had been making their way across South Annar. Now they were heading, like the Bards, for Til Amon.

"We formed the company in Lanorial, at last year's spring gathering," he said. "When I find raw talent, such as shines in these two, I like to pass on the fruit of my rich experience in this craft, and, youthful though they are, they are grateful to sip from the chalice of age. I like to think that our humble company does not disgrace our profession."

"I'm certain that you represent it well," Saliman said politely. "It is an ancient and honorable art."

"Indeed," said Karim, looking narrowly at Saliman. "I see you are a man of culture. No doubt you were once a person of importance in Turbansk. Well," he said, and sighed with an air of tragic melancholy, "we have all seen better days."

Hekibel looked embarrassed and hastily offered more wine, but Saliman refused. A full moon had risen over the plains, and Saliman and Soron wanted to move on while it was light enough to see. Even Hem felt anxious about how visible they must be, although he had enjoyed the feast and the conversation, which had lightened his heart. The Bards thanked their hosts and prepared to leave.

"If I were you, I'd move north as fast as you can," said Saliman. "And I'd light no more fires. It is unlikely that the army would overtake you, but there will be scouts and outriders along the road."

"I thank you for your advice," said Karim. "Perhaps we will meet you in Til Amon. As always, we will perform there in the Inner Circle."

"We'll keep an eye out," said Soron. "May the Light shine on your path."

Karim bowed deeply. "And on yours, my good sirs."

"Good-bye," said Hekibel, smiling. "I hope our paths cross again. I should like to use your crow in our plays; I'm sure we could find a part for him."

Irc squawked a faint farewell from Hem's shoulder. He was stuffed full of food and was half asleep.

"I hope they're all right," said Hem, when they were out of earshot. "I should hate anything to happen to them."

"Somehow I think they will be," said Soron. "Hekibel seems like a very sensible woman. In any case, we have done what we can."

THE next few days passed in a blur of tiredness. Whereas before they had been moving cautiously and steadily now they relied on heavy glimveils for concealment, and stayed as close to the road as they dared. They began before light and stopped well after dark, keeping up a punishing pace.

Irc flew back along the road to check the Black Army morning and evening. He reported that it was falling farther behind them. By the time they had reached the fork in the road that led to Til Amon, curving back southward around the Osidh Am Mountains, the Black Army was only just past the Neera Marshes. The clear winter days had given way, and now they strode on through heavy rain. It pleased Saliman—he thought it would slow the Black Army even more, and it made the Bards less visible on the road—but it was certainly miserable.

"The question now is, whether the army turns off toward Til Amon, or marches straight into South Annar," said Saliman, staring down the Til Amon Road. "I fear it makes most sense for them to take Til Amon, and make a base from which to attack South Annar through Lauchomon or Lukernil."

Soron looked grim. "It is my thought, too," he said. "And if Enkir marches also, Til Amon will be caught between the hammer and the anvil. Still, it is a hard place to take: the lake enfolds it. They will have to besiege the city." He sighed, remembering perhaps the siege of Turbansk and the slaughter and destruction that had followed, and the other two nodded in somber silence and pressed on.

It was about twenty leagues south to Til Amon from the fork in the South Road, and they covered it in three days. The mountains swept up to their left: gray, naked edges of rock, their peaks hidden in thick cloud. On the first day, they reached the Lake of Til Amon, a huge body of water stretching south before them, iron gray under the gray sky. The wind swept down the mountains and over the lake, so when it reached them, it was knifed with ice. Their nights were short and comfortless.

As Hem huddled under the inadequate shelter of a small fir or in the lee of an overhanging rock, exhausted and unable to sleep, he wondered if he had been this physically miserable even on the journey across Den Raven. That had definitely been a darker road than this: but this journey was probably more uncomfortable. The chill pierced to the very marrow of his bones and never went away. Thinking about warm beds or hot meals only made things worse, and yet he couldn't stop it. On the third day, to cap his misery completely, he developed a heavy cold, with a painful cough. Saliman, who was a famous healer, listened to his chest with deep concern and made a charm that helped slightly. Hem, who had healing skills himself, knew that the only real remedy was rest and a warm bed, both of which were impossible. They had no choice but to continue on.

They reached Til Amon well after dark that day. Its high gates seemed to loom quite suddenly out of the mist and darkness. There was a bell-chain beside the gate, for late travelers. When Soron gave it an imperious tug, they heard the bell sound deep inside the walls; they stood outside the gate, shivering in the rain, until a guard opened a slit in a small portal beside the main gate and demanded identification. After what seemed to Hem like an unreasonably long time, he let them in.

At last they were under shelter. Hem, cold, feverish, and soaked to the skin, was too tired and sick to care. Before he did anything else, Saliman swept Hem to a Bardhouse, where he was handed over to a no-nonsense healer who listened to his chest, clicked his tongue in concern, and gave Hem a draft of a black liquid that tasted so bitter it made him almost gag. Then Irc, who had been clinging to Hem's shoulder trying to hide in the hood of his cloak, was firmly removed and Hem was put into a hot bath and dressed in dry clothes. Irc, deeply suspicious of the healer, watched every move from the side of the bath; he had never understood the human predilection for wetting themselves all over. As for Hem, the pleasure of being warm all the way through was indescribable, and he collapsed blissfully into a soft, welcoming bed and slept as he had not slept for weeks.

He woke late the following morning, and then only because Irc was pulling his hair. Sleepily he fended him off, trying to crawl back into the delicious space of dream, where he was still warm and comfortable. He had forgotten that he was in Til Amon, and expected that with wakefulness would come the dripping twigs, hard wet ground, and bone-aching cold that had been his lot for the past few days. But the warmth didn't disappear, and he suddenly remembered where he was, and sat up, instantly awake.

Food,
said Irc irritably.
I'm hungry.

Me too,
said Hem. There was a yawning hole where his middle should have been. He jumped out of bed, and pulled on some of the clothes he had been given the night before.
Where's Saliman? He'll know where the food is.

With Irc on his shoulder, he padded out of his room in bare feet and made his way downstairs. There he found the healer, who was shocked that Hem was out of bed.

"But I'm fine!" Hem protested. "I've never felt better in my life! And anyway, I need to break my fast. I don't like eating in bed!"

"Last night, you were as ill as any child I've seen," the healer said sternly. "While you're in my charge, you will do as I say."

Hem had no intention of returning to bed, and was about to argue the point heatedly, when Saliman entered.

"Good morrow, Edadh," he said to the healer. "And to you, Hem. What are you doing out of bed?"

"I'm feeling fine!" Hem said. "But the healer wants me to go back to bed. I'm just really hungry. And so is Irc," he added, as the crow gave an indignant caw. "I didn't have anything to eat last night."

Saliman exchanged an ironic glance with Edadh, and then made Hem sit in a chair and examined him carefully. When he had finished, he looked up at Edadh. "I'm afraid he's right," he said. "There's nothing wrong with him; the sickness seems to have disappeared altogether. This boy is very tough—I've seen him recover like this from a serious fever before, and I didn't believe my eyes. Well, I don't think there's a lot of point in confining him to his room: it would only cause you unnecessary trouble."

Edadh looked relieved. "I am glad to hear it, Saliman," he said. "A little surprised, I confess; perhaps he looked more ill than he was last night, although then I would have to believe that my healing skills are deserting me."

"Think rather that your skills are at their highest," said Saliman, smiling. "And that your healing has led to a miraculous recovery."

Edadh turned to Hem, spreading his hands. "Go then, and my good will with you."

Hem bowed, mollified. "And mine with you, too," he said. "Thank you for your care."

"You might as well come with me," said Saliman to Hem. "Do you have your pack?"

Hem ran upstairs, where his pack lay by his bed, and joined

Saliman. Although his first priority was breakfast, he was also very curious to see Til Amon. Like most Annaren Schools, it was built as a series of concentric circles, with major roads running like spokes through the circling streets. It wasn't, thought Hem, as beautiful as Turbansk: the buildings were of gray stone, rather than the rose pink from which most buildings in Turbansk had been constructed, and here there was not even the beginning of spring green. Naked elms and lime trees spread their dripping branches against the stone, and the only greens that Hem could see were the dark leaves of ivy, fir, and yew. A gray mist of rain concealed any views of the lake or the mountains. Under the dim winter light, he privately thought that Til Amon looked a little bleak.

As they walked briskly to the dining hall, Saliman told him that he and Soron had already conferred with the First Circle of Til Amon. "We didn't find them entirely unprepared," he said. "They have their own means of gathering news, and were aware that the Black Army would likely march first on this School, if they came up from the south. It is a blow, all the same; daily they also expect news of an army marching from Norloch."

"But none yet?" said Hem.

"Not yet. They have scouts through Lauchomon, as far as the West Road. II Arunedh and Eledh gather their own news, and they keep in contact with them too, of course. Their biggest fear is, of course, armies attacking from both south and north."

Hem fell silent, thinking of the siege of Turbansk. He had a sudden vision of a line of flame creeping over Annar, from south to north, from west to east, consuming everything in its path, leaving behind it a wasteland of ash and ruin. It opened a black pit of hopelessness inside him, and he shook his head to dispel his gloom. "Where's Soron?" he asked.

"At the Bardhouse," said Saliman. "I will find you something to eat, and then we will meet him."

Hem (and Irc) breakfasted lavishly. It was a long time since Hem had enjoyed good, plain Annaren cooking: he ate yeasty bread with lashings of cool, pale butter and honeycomb, a hunk of hard yellow cheese, coddled eggs, cured ham, and several exquisite herbed meat pastries. Saliman, who had already eaten, poured himself a mug of ale and watched him eat with amusement dancing in his dark eyes.

"I can't say that your appetite has diminished since we first met, Hem," he said. "Even if much else has changed."

Hem helped himself to another slice of the crusty white loaf that Saliman had wheedled from the baker. "It's not that I don't like Suderain food," he said, with his mouth full. "It's completely delicious. But I think fresh Annaren bread is the best thing in the whole world."

"There are moments when I agree with you," said Saliman. "But still, the smell of sweet flatbread just out of the oven is the smell of home for me."

By the time Hem had finished eating, the rain had lifted and there was even an expanse of blue sky opening above them. Til Amon didn't seem so dreary on a full stomach, with the pale winter sun sparkling off the puddles, and Hem cheered up as he followed Saliman to the Bardhouse where he would be staying. It belonged, Saliman told him, to Nadal, the First Bard of Til Amon. It was a high, grand building that stood on the edge of the Inner Circle of the School, opposite the Library and the Meeting Hall. As they crossed the circle, a wide space paved with colored tiles in the very center of the School, Hem looked curiously at the people they passed: it seemed strange to see only pale Annarens. For months he had been among the people of the Suderain, black-skinned like Saliman or dark copper like Zelika, and he had become used to it.

He remembered that Karim had said he would be presenting one of his plays here, but there was no sign of the caravan. It would have been hard to miss, like a fabulous beast in the middle of the circle's austere symmetries. He supposed that the players hadn't yet arrived, and hoping that they hadn't run into any trouble, he followed Saliman through the high wooden doors that led into the Bardhouse and into Nadal's rooms.

Saliman ushered Hem into a pleasant sitting room, in which a fire at the far end flickered against the cold. Like the rooms of most Bards, it was decorated with an eye to both beauty and comfort. The walls were paneled with honey-colored wood polished to a soft glow, and covered with shelves that held the usual Bardic assortment of books, scrolls, curios, and instruments of various kinds. In the center, low couches covered in rough-woven silk dyed Thorold blue were arranged around a wide, low table. Soron was seated by the fire, talking earnestly to a tall, fair-haired Bard. They both rose when Hem and Saliman entered, and the Bard, who was of course Nadal, greeted them courteously, glancing in surprise at Hem.

"I'm surprised you're out of bed, considering how fevered you were last night," he said.

Hem bowed his head politely. "I think I'm quite tough," he said. "I feel fine this morning, anyway."

"There's nothing wrong with him, judging by his appetite," said Saliman. They sat down with the other two Bards, and his voice became brisk. "Now, Hem, I want you to show Nadal the tuning fork you took from Sharma while you were in Den Raven."

"Irc found it, really," said Hem. He felt a strange reluctance as he lifted the chain over his head; usually the tuning fork lay forgotten against his skin. He held it in his hand, feeling its weight: it was a simple object, made of brass, but he felt its veiled power as he touched it.

Nadal took the tuning fork curiously, and examined it closely. "It looks like nothing much," he said. "But that is often the way with magical objects. Those runes are very strange. I've never seen the like."

"I have," said Saliman. "As I told you. On Maerad's lyre. They clearly belong together. And the lyre is undoubtedly Dhyllic ware, made in the lost city of Afinil. I have wondered if Nelsor himself might have made these things. He was, after all, a master of scripts; those runes might be his own."

"From what Irc tells us, the Nameless One wore this about his very neck," said Soron. He was looking at the fork askance, as if it still held some trace of the Dark's presence. "And it seems very likely to me that it is something to do with the Spell of Binding that holds Sharma to this earth. Given what Hem has told us about his encounters with the Elidhu, Saliman's guess that all this is deeply to do with the magery of Elementals seems like a good one to me."

Nadal nodded, and handed the tuning fork back to Hem.

Hem quickly put it back on, hiding it beneath his clothes; he felt somehow that it was something that should not be looked at by the naked eye.

"These are deep waters indeed, and it's hard to find our way," said Nadal. "We know too little of the Elementals. For too long have our paths been sundered by mistrust. Your guesses seem good to me, but they are still only guesses."

"I agree there is too much we don't know," said Saliman. "Nevertheless, these are guesses informed by Knowing. You have not met Maerad—she has an unsettling power, Nadal, that is not Bardic."

"This boy's power is not so conventional, either." Hem caught Nadal's eye; there was an uncomfortable sharpness in his glance. "I felt it as soon as you walked in this room. You speak the Elidhu language, as your sister does?" Hem nodded. "We live in perilous times. How do we know that this power will serve us, and not some other necessity?"