The Singing (26 page)

"But you had a nightmare about Hem," said Cadvan flatly.

"Yes," she whispered. "He might be dead. But I am not sure, and I still think we should look for him."

A long silence stretched out between them. Maerad stole a wary glance at Cadvan; he was staring into the fire, his face closed.

"Do you not trust me?" she said at last. "Is that it?" "Why should I trust you?" he said, turning to face her.

Maerad felt her temper rising inside her, but tried to keep it leashed; at the same time as she smarted at the injustice of what Cadvan had said to her, and the deeper hurt of his mistrust, she remembered the terrible fight they had had before the disaster in the Gwalhain Pass, when she was sure that he had been killed. She didn't wish for another such breach to open between them.

"I don't have to tell you every thought that passes through my head," she said, her voice even. "What gives you the right to demand that?"

"The right I have is the faith I have placed in you, risking my very life to follow your Knowing," Cadvan said. "Would you not agree?"

There was another long, uncomfortable silence. It was true that Cadvan had risked his life, and more. Yet Maerad felt more and more irritated; this side of Cadvan, his ability to turn, without notice, into an implacable, unforgiving judge, annoyed her beyond measure, and it was deeply wounding. What made it worse was that there was a grain of truth in what he said. But it was partial only, she thought, it was not the whole truth.

"I think you are wrong about Ardina," she said at last. She stared at Cadvan defiantly, and he met her gaze. "I have seen more of her than you have. Yes, she is an Elidhu; but just because the Elidhu are dangerous, or have their own concerns apart from ours, doesn't mean that they are evil. I need help, and I think Ardina can help me. It's not as if you can." Her last sentence sounded more spiteful than she meant, and she bit her lip.

"Perhaps you are right in this," Cadvan said, his face expressionless. "I have no way of judging one way or another." He paused, and then added, "I'm sorry for what I said before. Words said in haste or anger can be harsher than their true intent."

Maerad nodded, accepting the apology. Then she took up her pack and, her fingers trembling, she searched through it for the reed pipes Ardina had given her. She inspected them closely; it occurred to her that she did not know how to play them with her damaged hand. She thought of summoning her magery, to create fingers of light, but for reasons she could not explain, discarded the idea: they were humble pipes, and she should play them humbly. Cadvan watched her curiously, but said nothing.

"I might as well try now," she said. "Though I'm not sure what tunes I can play anymore ..."

She stood, feeling that it would be somehow disrespectful to summon Ardina while she was sitting down, and gave the pipes an experimental blow. The high, fleeting notes evoked a vivid image of a beautiful, deserted landscape: long banks of reeds perhaps, by a wide lake, where curlews called in the evening. It had been a long time since she had played any pipes, and she frowned as she missed a note. She glanced swiftly at Cadvan, as if reassuring herself that he was there; although she wouldn't have admitted it, she felt nervous about this summoning, especially after the near disaster of the previous night. She took a deep breath, and began to play a simple melody, a child's tuning, improvising around her missing fingers.

For what seemed like a long time, nothing happened. The reedy notes floated out into the darkening evening, plaintive and lonely. Maerad began to lose herself in the fascination of making music; even with her maimed hand, she could find a range of expressiveness that pleased her, and she began to experiment. Then she felt the back of her neck prickle, as if someone were watching her, and she whirled around, letting the pipes drop from her lips.

Greetings, Elednor Edil-Amarandh na,
said Ardina.

Maerad forgot, every time, the stunning impact of Ardina's beauty. The Elidhu stood on the grass a short distance away, in

her guise as the grave Queen of Rachida. She wore a simple white dress that fell shimmering about her body as if it were woven of moonlight. A moonstone suspended from a silver fillet hung on her forehead, and about her waist was a silver chain, and her long unbound hair fell like a silver waterfall down her slender back. She turned her yellow eyes, with their inhuman slotted pupils, upon Maerad, and the glance went deep. Maerad bowed breathlessly, unable to speak. Darsor and Keru, grazing nearby, whinnied in welcome; Maerad thought it sounded oddly as if they were welcoming a dear friend. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Cadvan scramble to his feet and bow; Ardina turned and acknowledged his homage with a nod.
And to you, Cadvan of Lirigon, greetings.

Greetings, Ardina,
said Maerad, stammering. The awe she felt in the face of Ardina's presence in this guise made her tongue-tied; it had been much easier to speak when they had both escaped from Arkan's palace in the guise of wolves.

You asked me to come, and so I have come,
said Ardina. Maerad noticed that she did not use the Elemental tongue, but the Speech. Maerad thought that perhaps Ardina was not unaware of Cadvan's mistrust of her.

I—I wanted to know if you could help me,
said Maerad.

I will help, if I am able,
said Ardina.
Speak your desire.

What Maerad said next surprised her.
I want to know if Hem—my brother
—is
alive.

I may not be able to tell you that,
said Ardina.
I do not have a closeness to him, as I do to you. He may be alive in my time and not in your time. And in many times he is not present. But I will try.
The Elidhu's eyes closed, and the faint light that inhabited her grew briefly stronger. Maerad waited, holding her breath.

I do not know how or where your brother is,
said Ardina, opening her eyes and looking straight at Maerad, who fought not to avert her gaze.
He has about him a smell of death, yet I do not think he is dead. He walks many possible futures and many possible pasts, and his paths are knived with pain. Your brother is almost as unlucky as you are.
Ardina smiled, but her smile held a deep sadness.

Does—does that mean I should keep looking for him?
asked Maerad, a catch in her voice.

I do not advise. In this, as in all other matters, you must follow your heart. But I think that if you seek, you will find. What you might find I cannot say.

Maerad looked at the ground, crestfallen.
I don't understand how to look,
she said.
I sometimes can feel where he might be, but it's all very vague. I thought that perhaps I could feel where he is. I know I have powers that are not the powers of a Bard, but I don't see how to use them. I hoped that perhaps you might tell me how.

Ardina laughed, and her laughter was like a cool rain, sending a pleasant shiver down Maerad's back.
Ah, Elednor Edil-Amarandh na! I am no teacher. But even if I were, I could not teach you how to use your magery. It is neither Elidhu nor Bard, although it partakes of both of them.

Like the Nameless One,
said Maerad softly.

Aye, like Sharma. Know this, my dear one: the Light and the Dark are not so different, and neither can attain its full power until it acknowledges all its nature, both the fire and the ice, the sun and the shadow. But you are also not like Sharma. I tell you, whereas you are a Lily of Eire, that grows ever toward the Light, he is the poisonous fume that eats up the air, so that nothing else might live.

How might Maerad know her full nature?
Maerad started in surprise; it was Cadvan speaking. In the bewitchment of Ardina's presence she had altogether forgotten that he was there.

Through pain and sorrow and darkness, Cadvan of Lirigon. Through hatred and despair, perhaps. Through need and desire, surely.

Did I not once tell you so, Elednor, before you were awake? Did I not say you were unlucky?

Ardina's form began to dim, and by the time she finished speaking she had vanished altogether, as if she had never been there. Her final words hung on the air with the soft, aching resonance of a bell, and faded away. Maerad blinked, bereft, and turned to Cadvan, and saw the same loss reflected in his face. She realized with a slight shock that it was now full night: the clouds had cleared, and the cold stars glittered brightly over the desolate wolds in a moonless sky. Never had the Hollow Lands seemed so aptly named.

MAERAD and Cadvan didn't speak for some time after Ardina's appearance, although their silence was companionable. Instead, they busied them-

selves with small tasks, such as finding more brushwood for the fire, or cleaning their supper dishes. Maerad didn't know whether she was comforted by Ardina's words or not: remembering her farewell, she thought that she wasn't comforted at all. On the other hand, Ardina seemed to think that Hem was still alive. Perhaps he was deathly ill or mortally wounded or in some other danger? The thought made her ache with worry and helplessness. It was a physical pain in her chest—she couldn't bear the thought that Hem might be suffering, perhaps alone, and that she was unable to help. At least Maerad felt clear on one thing. Her heart commanded her to seek Hem, and Ardina had told her to follow her heart.

Idly watching Cadvan as he polished his boots, another meaning occurred to her.
Through need and desire, surely...
What did that mean? She thought of how she had felt when the Winterking had touched her, how it had shaken her to the core of her being. 1/1
am to follow my heart,
thought Maerad,
I must first understand it.

When there was nothing further to do, the two Bards settled by the fire, and began to talk, haltingly at first, because it was hard to shake off the powerful enchantment of Ardina's presence. Cadvan said no more about distrusting Ardina, but he was puzzled and disturbed by what she had told Maerad.

"Ardina spoke in the Speech, not the Elemental tongue. She wanted you to hear what she said," said Maerad. "So that you would not think she or I were hiding anything."

There was no sign of Cadvan's former anger, and his glance was clear and open now when he looked at Maerad. "I'm sorry such Bardic mistrust took hold of me, Maerad; it was small of me. I remember now that you told me the Winterking said that the Elidhu do not lie. I think they do not; but that doesn't mean, either, that it is easy to puzzle out what they mean, or even that what I said to you in warning is not true. Ardina speaks in riddles, and while she is not dishonest, you may be misled, all the same."

"I'm sure of one thing, anyhow: that for better or worse, I have to find Hem. And—I
think
—he's still alive ..."

"Aye. That seems clear, even if nothing else does. I do not understand, all the same, what she meant when I asked her how you might know your full nature. Or at least, if I can discover a meaning, I do not like it."

Maerad heard Ardina's voice echoing in her inner ear:
Did I not say you were unlucky?

"It doesn't sound very good for me, that's for certain," said Maerad, trying to shake off the deep foreboding the Elidhu's words opened inside her. "But she must be the only person in the world who isn't afraid of me, so I'm inclined to like her, all the same." She laughed, trying to speak lightly, but her voice shook, and she didn't look at Cadvan.

Cadvan was silent for a long moment. "Maerad, I'll be frank. Well, it seems to be an evening for being frank ..." He sighed, passing his hand over his face, and Maerad saw for a moment how tired and strained he really was. "I can't help but be afraid of what exists within you. No sane person could feel otherwise. I have never seen the like, and I hope I never do again. The power that can—obliterate—a being like the Landrost is not something that can be considered lightly. Even destroying a wight or a Kulag is beyond what I believed possible, but an Elemental being, even one of the less powerful. It is terrifying, Maerad, that so much force can exist within a mortal. But that doesn't mean, all the same, that I am afraid of
you."

"But what's inside me is me," said Maerad sadly. "It's me as much as my eyes or my voice or my music or my—or my hands." She stretched out her hands in front of her, the whole and the maimed, gazing at them. She still couldn't get used to looking at them. "I am what I am, all the things that have happened to me, all the things I have ever learned, as well as all the things that were born inside me."

"Aye, so are we all," said Cadvan. "And all the choices we have ever made ..."

"I can't help thinking . . . All I've really learned in the past year is how to be a killer. How to destroy. From that first battle with the wers to the Hulls and the Kulag and the Landrost and—and even a Bard." Maerad put her hands under her cloak, where she could not see them, and stared into the fire.

"Is that all you have learned?" said Cadvan gently. "Surely you have learned other things? Have you not also learned something about love?"

Maerad felt herself blush, and was silent for a long time. "Perhaps I have. I don't know," she said at last. "I don't think I know anything about it."

"What is it, then, that draws you to Hem?"

"He's my
brother.
He's my only kin. I don't like to think of him afraid or sick or maybe alone." She looked at the ground again. "I've learned that people can be—kind," she said hesitantly. "Silvia and Malgorn and Dharin and you and so many others have been kind to me."

"I think it is more than kindness. But kindness is a word for it, I agree. Maerad, I think human evil is easy to explain. But what we call kindness, or love: that is endlessly mysterious. And I don't believe that you know nothing of love. I think you loved Dernhil, in the short time that you knew him. And I know that he loved you."

Maerad felt her blush deepen. She hadn't told Cadvan of her visit to Dernhil's chamber in Innail. It was true, Dernhil had loved her. And had she known herself better, she might have learned something of her own heart.

"There was ... no time," she mumbled. "And then he was killed." And he's gone through the Gates, she thought bitterly, and I will never speak to him again. I wish I could thank him for protecting me from the Hulls. I wish I could tell him that I have learned something of the Way of the Heart.

She looked up and saw that Cadvan was studying her gravely. "I did love Dernhil," she said in a low voice. "But I only understood later. And now he's dead, and it's too late."

"Perhaps Dernhil knew there was no time. He had foresight . . ." Cadvan sighed and looked away. "But he was ever one who looked clearly into his own heart. That is the beauty of his poems. Would that all of us were so lucid." He fell silent, following his own thoughts.

"But I've learned how to hate, too," said Maerad. "I thought I hated Gilman, back when I was little, but I only despised him. I hate Enkir. I hate the Nameless One. I hate them for everything they've destroyed. For destroying my life, and Hem's life." She looked again at her maimed hand. "I just don't know where it stops. When you think about it, are the Light and the Dark so different? Why is it right to hate sometimes and not at other times? Why is it right to destroy this creature, and not that one?"

"It is never right. Sometimes, Maerad, there is no right thing..."

"Well, I do not like the world that makes it so." Maerad clenched her hands under her cloak. "And I will never like it." She took a deep breath. "You know what Ardina meant, Cadvan, as well as I do. She was saying that I have to embrace that hatred and that darkness and that—murderousness— inside me, if I'm to understand myself, if I want to know how to use those powers. The strange thing is, I thought I
had
embraced them. But when I think about it..."

Cadvan listened alertly, his eyes dark, as if he knew what Maerad was about to say and wanted to stop her saying it.

"When I think about it, I know I've been too afraid of that hatred to really feel it. You know, after I destroyed those Hulls, the first time, I was so frightened of what I had done. But underneath that, I was so excited, I felt—well, it was something like a kind of—even like happiness, exhilaration, something like that. I think that feeling frightened me more than what I had done."

"What are you saying, Maerad?" said Cadvan tensely.

"Cadvan, you
know
what I'm saying." Maerad looked at him with despair. "Please, please, don't pretend that you don't know what I'm saying. You, of all people ..."

"I think you're saying that you want to open the darkness within you."

"Yes." Maerad held up her hand to stop Cadvan's objections. "I know what you're going to say, Cadvan. I know it. I know all the arguments."

"Maerad, that seems to me a grievous misunderstanding— you can't mean it." Cadvan was very pale. "Yes, I of all people know that exhilaration you speak of. And I of all people also know its cost. It destroyed my youth, Maerad, and killed one I loved more than life itself. And I fear that if you turn this way, you become even as the Nameless One himself. Perhaps worse. No, Maerad, I do not permit this."

"It's not a question of whether you permit me or not," said Maerad stiffly.

"Then I beg you, Maerad. I beg you by the long friendship between us. Do not go that way. If you choose this path, I can only foresee doom. For all of us, not only for yourself."

"But if I can use these powers properly, if I can enter my full strength, I might be able to find Hem," said Maerad. "And you're right, Cadvan, we don't have much chance of finding him otherwise. Maybe no chance at all."

Cadvan said nothing for a long time. He stood up and walked out into the night, and Maerad could hear him moving around in the darkness, and then talking quietly to the horses. Maerad sensed the turbulence in his mind, and it grieved her; at the same time, she felt she had no choice but to do as Ardina had suggested, and she knew that she would attempt to wake her full powers whether Cadvan approved or not. But she would greatly prefer it if she had his support. The memory of her idle experiment the night before was still fresh in her mind; she didn't want any repeat of that torment.

And most of all, despite the growing determination within her—which amounted to a certainty that she had no choice, that she had to try or fail utterly in her quest—she was desperately afraid. She didn't want to make the attempt alone. She needed Cadvan.

At last Cadvan came back to the circle of firelight, and sat cross-legged next to Maerad. "I understand that you feel you must do this thing," he said. "And I cannot say that I think it is right. But I also know that I can't stop you, and that you will do it anyway, whatever I say. So." He stared at the ground, his face dark and troubled, and Maerad held her breath. "My one request is that you wait a day. Don't attempt whatever it is you think you should do until you've slept on it. I will not abandon you, Maerad; it's too late for me to turn away. And I will do my best to help you, even though you plan to do what I think you should not, even though I fear the ruin of all our enterprise in this venture. I will do this, out of the love that I bear you. For no other reason. May I be forgiven under the justice of the Light."

Maerad was overwhelmed with relief. She hadn't understood until that moment how much she had feared that Cadvan would abandon her. Unable to speak, she reached out and took Cadvan's hand. He clasped her small white hand in both of his and looked down at it, earnestly examining the broken, dirty nails, the calluses, the small white scars that marked her skin.

"I swear, Maerad, that I have never said anything in my life that was harder to say." He looked up and smiled at her, a broken smile that made Maerad's heart contract with pain.

"Everything is difficult," she whispered. "Maybe that's something else that I've learned."

After breaking their fast the following day, Maerad and Cadvan discussed whether to move on or to stay where they were. Maerad thought it figured little where they were: for the past couple of days they had been moving east along the northern edge of the floods, without attempting to venture southward over the lands where the waters had subsided.

The floods had left a layer of silt over everything, along with a litter of broken branches tangled with dead grasses, and embedded in the mud there were the bloated bodies of animals. Over everything hung the sweet, disgusting stench of rotting flesh: for all its chilliness, Maerad was glad for the freshening wind from the eastern mountains, which stopped the odor of decay from becoming overwhelming. It also lifted the mist that had obscured their view for the past few days, and they could see far over the lowlands. Before them stretched a melancholy swamp, dotted with muddy pools that were rapidly turning stagnant. The most sturdy trees had survived, but many had been snapped off at the trunk by the violence of the waters, and the grasses that weren't covered in silt were flattened and yellowed by the water. For all her impatience, Maerad sympathized with the horses' refusal to venture into the wreckage of the flood. Cadvan said that if the weather continued clear, especially with the drying wind, it would be safe to move south within a couple of days. Darsor kept studiously silent on the subject.

They decided, in the end, to find a place that offered more shelter than the overhanging rock that had been their roof the night before. Cadvan also wanted to find a site that was defensible and that gave them a view of the surrounding area, in case Maerad's exercise of power attracted unwelcome notice. In this part of Annar there was no chance of finding a Bardhome, but they thought that perhaps they might discover, among the strange rock formations of the Hollow Lands, something like the rocky shelter that they had discovered the day before last.

It was some time before they discovered what they were looking for. On top of a low hill, a tumulus of huge stones formed a natural cave big enough to house the two Bards, and to the side there was even a kind of porch where the horses could be out of the wind. They stopped here, although it was only just after midday, and set up camp, gathering a high pile of the sagebrush that grew thickly around this area to use as fuel. It was dry and easy to light, and it made a fragrant smoke; but it burned quickly. The sky was still overcast, but the clouds were high and held no smell of rain. The wind had risen during the morning, and seemed to have grown colder; it was a relief to be out of its punishing chill. As the homely light of their fire flickered over the gray stone walls, Maerad felt almost cheerful.