The Singing (28 page)

A thrill went through her, and she forgot her hatred; now she basked in the pure pleasure of power. She had felt something like this when she had first become a wolf, delighting in her physical strength; it had felt something like this when she had killed the Kulag, although she had dreaded that joy. But now she saw clearly the dark coils woven into the bright currents that coursed through her being. She could do anything. She could kill; she could destroy; she could reach out her hand and shrivel the root of all living things; or lean forward to kiss the dead into life. And the thought did not shock her.

She looked around her and saw the stars, bright and huge as she had never seen them, aligned in patterns that were made legible by the other sense that had so puzzled her earlier. It was a sense that could trace fields and vortices of energy; she felt how the stars moved each in its orbit, how the earth rolled beneath her, how the tides undulated to the moon; she heard the slow pulse of rock, the quick heartbeat of birds. She was suddenly aware of Cadvan's stubborn, intent presence, his thoughts bent solely on her, and she knew that he had been watching her for hours, and that the sun had long set. It was now deep night, under a clear and moonless sky thick with an infinity of stars.

She widened her field of perception and her being filled with awareness. She heard voices echoing, many voices, cries and whispers and howls, and she could sense dim presences, outlined with a vagrant luminosity. She knew without thinking that these were the dead in the Hollow Lands, the faint murmur of their voices arcing across uncounted years, the warmth of their hands vibrating still in the stones they had raised, in the tombs they had dug beneath the stones. She cast wider still, curious and exhilarated by this new sense, and felt the dark presence of Hulls, not far away, not close, and she knew that their heads were raised, questing, and their nostrils flared as they caught the scent of the power that briefly touched their minds. For the first time she did not fear them; contempt curled in the depths of her being. They were nothing, no more than wisps of smoke on the wind.

She hunted further still, learning as she went, refining and directing this new sense. She knew by the alignment of her inner stars that she was questing south, over the drenched lowlands. She heard the voices of those who had drowned, the grief of the homeless, the panicked lowing of cattle, the sharp fear of goats and sheep, the feathered terror of birds, the slow agony of trees. She paused, dizzied and confused by the chaotic babble of presences. She was no longer certain what the present meant;

the voices came from the present, but she could hear also into the recent past, and behind that, fainter voices rose through the years, through decades and centuries, stretching back to a time that she could barely comprehend.

In all this cacophony, she sought one particular light, one particular smell, one particular voice, one particular time:
now. A
word formed in her mind, a word of the Speech, and it hung before her like silver fire, one utterly clear thing in this world of shifting shadows and light, and all her desire flowed into it, and it intensified to an unbearable brilliance.
Riik. Crow.
The silver flame poured through her and became a voice, and she sought through the lowlands, through all the voices, all the dead, all the living, and found the one person whose Truename it was, the one person who would hear his Name coursing through his blood like fiery bells, like the voice of starlight.
Riik,
she said,
Riik, my brother. Come to me.

Leagues away, in a shepherd's hut on a dark hill, in the nameless depths of sleep, Hem started awake and scrambled to his feet, looking around him with wild eyes. "Maerad!" he said, and stumbled out of the hut's low door. "Maerad?" And then his earth sense rose inside him, a hunger that pulled him with a force so powerful that he almost doubled over with the pain of it.

Come to me,
said Maerad.

Hem realized, with a disappointment that hit him almost as painfully as his earth sense, that Maerad was not there. But the force of her summoning had been so strong that he could almost see the way toward her, like a shimmering pathway of silver through the darkness. It was as if Maerad were the moon rising over a calm sea, and the path toward her was a road of white ripples that swept northward from Hem's feet.

I will come to you,
he cried, but the summoning had released him, and he didn't know if she heard his answer.
Maerad, I'm coming.

HEM sat down on the dew-damp grass, weak with the shock of what had just happened, and stared northward over the shadowy hills that humped darkly under the star-strewn sky, and which now seemed emptier than ever.

Maerad. He had been so sure that she was just outside the hut, calling him; he could have sworn that he could smell her, a faint, sweet musk on the night air. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and ordered his distracted thoughts. The blazing pathway he had seen had now faded, but he felt its pull vividly; he knew, at last, exactly where to go. His first impulse was to go back into the hut and wake Saliman and leave at once, but he thought again and decided to wait until morning.

He looked up at the stars, seeking Ilion, the dawn star: it was already low on the western horizon. It would not be long before the sky began to pale toward morning. He shivered. There wasn't much point in going back to sleep. He returned to the hut and began to blow on the embers of the damped-down fire, coaxing a small flame onto dry wood with shaking hands. Irc stirred sleepily on his perch on Hem's pack and gave a small protesting caw at being woken, and then instantly fell asleep again.

Hem tended the fire until his hands stopped trembling. It was certainly Maerad who had called him, but he had never felt such a powerful summoning. And she had called him by his Truename.
Riik. Crow.
He glanced across at Irc, and almost laughed aloud. Of
course
that was his Name; that was what everyone called him, after all.
Lios Hlaf,
the White Crow, had been his nickname in Turbansk. But how did Maerad know? He hadn't been instated as a Bard yet; he didn't have a Truename. Maybe, somehow, Maerad had instated him? Or maybe he could have a Bardic Truename without being properly instated, after all? He would have to ask Saliman.

Saliman was sleeping against the far wall of the hut, wrapped in his cloak and blanket. Hem could hear his easy breathing underneath the crackle of the fire. Saliman was clear of the White Sickness, but Hem was shocked by how weakened he was. And he had healed him in the early stages of the illness; Hem knew now that had he been any more sick, their chances would have been slim indeed. When he looked back at the risk he had run, Hem went cold. Saliman was correct; he had been mad to try it. And even so, it had taken everything he had, and more that he didn't know he had.

After that last terrible moment when he had called Saliman's Name and collapsed over his body, he had lain in a swoon until late the following day. He had opened his eyes to the soft red light of the sinking sun, which shone straight into the doorway of the hut. At first, he hadn't known where he was. He was overwhelmingly thirsty, and his body ached from the top of his head to the tips of his toes: it was as if he been beaten all over, he groaned, clutching his head, and sat up.

Saliman was sitting next to him, stirring a stew that smelled very good. When he heard Hem move, he turned around. "I am sorry for the smoke in here," he said. "But I do not have the energy to light a new fire outside the door. Eating and warmth seem more important at the moment."

Hem stared at Saliman as memory trickled back. "You're alive," he said. His voice croaked with dryness, and Saliman wordlessly passed him a water bottle. Hem took a long drink, and wiped his lips. Never had plain water tasted so sweet.

"Aye," said Saliman. "I have pinched all my arms and legs, and even my nose, and I am not dreaming. Beyond hope, I am still alive. A little the worse for wear, but I am not complaining. I can't but feel glad that you so wickedly disobeyed me. I owe you my life."

"I thought you were going to die," said Hem. He wanted to shout, to sing, to rush around the hills dancing for joy, but he seemed unable to do anything at all except say obvious, foolish things. He was so tired, he could barely hold himself upright.

"Don't speak," said Saliman. "There is no need. And this stew will be ready soon."

The stew, too, tasted excellent. Even the fuggy, smoky air in that tiny hut seemed as fragrant as a rose garden in the palaces of Turbansk.

"I suppose that everything tastes so good because I thought I wasn't going to taste anything ever again," said Hem, scooping up the last spoonfuls of stew from his plate. Saliman smiled, but said nothing.

Irc had come in, with unerring timing, just as Saliman was dishing out their meal, and was crooning contentedly in Hem's lap. Hem put down his plate and tickled Irc's neck. The crow had been unusually quiet; he sensed how close he had come to losing his friends, although Hem hadn't told him how desperate their situation was. And he had been more frightened of the floods than he cared to admit. The water had risen until the ridges where they had taken refuge had become a series of islands, and Irc said some of the islands were crowded with damp, miserable animals.

I saw chickens and foxes together in the mud,
he told Hem, wiping his beak on Hem's trousers.
And the chickens were not running, and the foxes were not chasing them. Neither wanted to speak to me. It was very strange.

They were frightened,
Hem said.

Well, I suppose it won't be long before everyone is hunting again.

Irc demanded a scratch and then perched on Hem's pack and went to sleep. Hem and Saliman chatted for a short time about trivial things, like Irc's observations, or the sorry state of Hem's boots; neither of them felt able to speak about anything serious, such as how close they had both been to death, or what they should do next. Hem was trying to conceal his concern at how much thinner Saliman had become in the last couple of days: already lean from hard traveling, he was almost skeletal, and his face was haggard. He scarcely looked less drawn now, despite the fact that both of them had spent much of their time sleeping, only waking for meals.

And now that he had been summoned, Hem knew they had to move on. He looked at Saliman's sleeping form and wondered how he would fare. He couldn't leave without him; but the urgency of Maerad's call burned inside his body like a blazing hunger.

For the moment Hem put aside these worries. He realized that the exhaustion that had weighed him down the past couple of days had vanished. He felt no tiredness at all; as his shock dissipated, a rare joy began to sing through his veins. Ever since they had left Til Amon, he had been pursued by a nagging doubt: perhaps his conviction that he ought to find Maerad was mistaken; perhaps he was misled by his hope and love, as he had been when he had so desperately sought his friend Zelika through the cursed realm of Den Raven. Now he knew that Maerad was alive, that she sought him just as he sought her, and the knowledge filled him with relief. At last he knew what to do.

As the sky lightened, Irc woke up and stepped over to Hem, asking for food. Hem gave him some scraps left over from the night before, and Irc nibbled his hand in thanks, gulped the food down, and then flew off. Hem walked outside and watched Irc soaring into the air. The sky was cloudless, letting down a clear, pale sunlight, and there was a brisk, cold wind. A good day for walking.

Idly watching Irc, Hem wondered what the crow did on his private missions. Sometimes he would be gone for most of the day, impelled most probably by his insatiable curiosity, but he always returned for meals and often just for a chat. He was a fully adult bird now, and on the ground was large and almost clumsy, a quality belied by his aerial grace. His feathers had lost most of the dye that Hem had used to darken him in Nal-Ak-Burat, in preparation for their mission in Den Raven, and were now almost a glossy white. Hem thought sometimes that perhaps Irc might want to leave his strange, unbirdlike life, and become an ordinary crow, although with his white feathers he would always be ostracized by his fellows. He never asked him, and Irc followed Hem without question, although they were now very far away from where he had hatched, in the warm lands of the south.

Wrapping his cloak close around him against the sharp early wind, Hem walked to the top of the ridge and looked northward over the country they would have to travel. Before him there stretched several long ridges like those they had climbed to find the hut, each lower than the former, like a series of waves sinking down to the plains. They had taken refuge on the only high ground in the area.

The rocky spines of the ridges had escaped the water, but the valleys between them and the plains beyond were a bleak sight, covered with rubbish and silt. If the ground was swampy, it would be a hard trek to the higher ground he saw rising through the haze far in the distance. Hem studied the terrain for a time, then climbed back over the top of the ridge and across to the next southern ridge to look at what had happened to Hiert. The ground he had covered with such painful labor, pushing the wheelbarrow against the rain, now took him little time to cross.

He surveyed Hiert from the top of the ridge. Before him the flood line was clear; above it, the turf was green, while beneath it, flattened, yellow grass scattered with rubbish ran down to the houses, which looked forlorn and deserted in the morning light. Most had withstood the flooding, but Hem could see that some buildings had crumbled under the force of the water. The river was now flowing between its banks, still brown and swollen, and the sun shone blindingly on the puddles and pools that it had left behind. Stray animals—chickens, pigs, goats, a few cattle—were wandering the deserted roads, looking for food. Hem could see how deep the flooding had been by the watermarks on the trees; in places it had been almost three spans deep, high enough to flood most of the buildings of Hiert to their roofs.

He could smell the sweet stench of decay rising from the wrack of the village, and wrinkled his nose. Somewhere in Hiert was the body of the nameless man who had given Saliman the White Sickness. Hem thought of him with pity; he doubted that he would ever know who he was, but now he knew a little of the torment that poor man had undergone. He understood why the village had been empty, why everyone had fled before that illness; he could feel the terror of it in his body even now, and he hoped fervently he would never encounter it again.

He sighed, and was about to turn on his heel and make the trek back to their hut, when something caught his eye. A cloaked horseman, leading another horse on a rein, was trotting slowly down the West Road, into Hiert. Hem's skin prickled with dread. Perhaps it was someone passing through, or a townsperson of Hiert who had survived the floods by fleeing to higher land, as he and Saliman had, and was now returning to find out what was left of his home. Or maybe it was the Hull that Saliman had thought might be tracking them through Annar.

Hem dropped down by a large sage bush, squatting to make himself less visible, and prepared to hide himself with magery if it became necessary. He watched cautiously as the lone horseman slowly moved along the Bard Road. Behind him, there trailed what looked like a large dog. Something about the horseman's intentness told Hem that he was searching for something, or someone, and a shiver ran down his spine.

As the horseman moved behind the higher buildings of the tavern, Hem lost sight of him. He waited impatiently to see if he would reemerge, but he didn't. Perhaps he had gone inside to salvage some belongings, or to loot what goods remained in the wreckage; or perhaps he was looking for signs that he and Saliman had stayed there. It seemed a long time before he came out, this time without the horses, but still followed by the dog, walking slowly. He wandered along the West Road, looking from side to side. Hem crouched lower, to keep himself off the skyline. The walker then turned aside, up the same path that Hem and Saliman had used to climb up the ridge days before, which led to where Hem was crouching. There wasn't much of a path left; it had briefly become a river in the rains, and now was a deep, slippery runnel in the hill, which made it hard to climb. The figure steadily worked his way up the hill and Hem became more and more anxious.

As it drew closer, he thought that it wasn't a man after all, but almost certainly a woman. A refugee from the floods, most likely, as he had thought. Why she was toiling up this steep hill was a mystery, especially as she was clearly exhausted: her head was bent low, and she often stumbled. He could sense no sorcery about her, although if it was a Hull, and was hunting him and Saliman, it would most likely shield its sorcery. Soundlessly, Hem moved behind the bush, keeping the woman in constant view. She stopped and rested for a time, and the dog sat on its haunches and waited for her. Then she stood up and stubbornly began walking uphill again. As she drew closer, Hem became more curious about what she was doing. She slipped, and Hem heard her curse under her breath, then she stood up straight, looking up the hill, shading her eyes with her hands. Hem at last saw her face.

It was Hekibel; and of course the dog was Fenek. Hem cried out in surprise, and stood up, waving, and began to run toward her. Fenek growled and Hekibel swung around, and Hem saw that in that brief moment she was terrified.

"Hekibel!" he cried. "What are you doing here?"

Fenek recognized Hem and jumped up and tried to lick his face, but subsided when Hekibel told him to stay down, and just stood beside them, his tail wagging furiously.

"Hem?" As he reached her, Hekibel took his arms. "Hem? Is it really you?"

"Yes, it's me." Hem studied Hekibel's face: she looked haggard and drawn as if she hadn't slept for a long time, and the skin around her eyes was puffy and red. She was dressed in men's clothes, and she was filthy, smeared with mud. "What's happened? You look exhausted."

"I am," said Hekibel, her voice breaking. "I am so tired .. . Oh, Hem, I so hoped to find you, but I thought—I thought I didn't have a chance. But tell me, how is Saliman?"

"Saliman is healed," said Hem.

Hekibel was silent for a moment, clearly amazed, and Hem saw something like awe in her eyes. "Did
you
heal him, Hem?" she asked at last.