The Singing (47 page)

The stranger told the boy to hold his tongue, and then examined him more closely. What he saw interested him, and he asked his name. Cadvan answered sullenly, concentrating on mending the broken strap and not liking to be questioned. Finally, the stranger asked him if he had the Speech. Cadvan looked up swiftly, and took a long time to answer. At last he nodded.

"Why are you not at the School?" asked the stranger.

"My father will not let me," said the boy.

The stranger heard the resentment in the boy's voice, and smiled to himself. He picked up a pebble from the ground and tossed it in his hand. "How might I make this pebble fly, boy?" he said.

Cadvan shrugged. "Throw it," he said.

"Aye. Or give it wings." And as Cadvan watched, the pebble turned into a butterfly and flew away.

Cadvan had heard of Bardic magic, but had never seen it; he felt the more his deprivation of learning. He refused to appear impressed, however, and merely shrugged. "It's a trick," he said proudly. "I am too old for silly games."

The stranger laughed. "My name is Likud," he said. "I will be back." Then he mounted his horse and rode away.

Cadvan stood in the road and watched him until he was out of sight. The meeting had disturbed him. He didn't like the man, and he liked even less the way he treated his horse; yet there was a strange fascination about him, too. For the next few weeks he waited for the stranger to return, but he did not; and after a while Cadvan decided that he hadn't meant what he had said. He was curious about the man's abilities, though, and began to experiment, teaching himself the simpler enchantments, glimmerspells, and other mageries of illusion.

Time passed, and Cadvan grew into an awkward boy, tall and gangly. Every spring the Bards of Lirigon would ride to speak with his father and every year his father spurned their offers. It seemed to Nartan that if he gave in, it would mean admitting that he was wrong in the first place: and he was a proud and stubborn man, like his son. And every year the boy grew wilder.

Now, it was around this time that the Bards of Lirigon began to be concerned about some disturbing, if small, incidents; and one of these happened to Cadvan. There were stories that wers had been seen in the wildlands near the Osidh Elanor, and other creatures that the Lirhanese had not names for, but which became rumors of fear. And also at this time the raids of the Jussack people pushed the Pilanel people out of their traditional summer grazing lands in the Arkiadera, and the chief of the southern clans came south over the Osidh Annova and asked the Lirhan Bards and Thane for permission to graze their herds in the Rilnik Plains.

Cadvan was heedless of these things; although of course he heard gossip. Sometimes he would sit with his father at the inn and listen restlessly while the graybeards spoke darkly of bad portents. At such times, he would yearn to be at the School of Lirigon, because then, so he thought, he would be taught great mageries, and would fight these evil things. But he knew better than to mention his wish to his father. Sometimes he thought of running away to Lirigon, but despite his fierce desire, he could not abandon his father. And so he learned the trade of cobbling, and frittered away his spare time, thinking up new pranks to amuse himself and his companions. And all the time, a black bitterness was nursing itself in his heart.

One day the stranger did return. Cadvan was working outside the house—it was a sunny day—and he saw him riding through the middle of the village, looking neither right nor left. When Cadvan saw him, his heart leaped into his mouth. He stood up and watched the rider. The man glanced sideways at Cadvan as he passed the house, and pulled up his horse.

"Still here, then, boy?" he said, with a touch of scorn.

Cadvan stared back and said nothing.

The stranger dismounted and stared at Cadvan. "You'll be a man soon," he said. "And yet you still let your father tie you to his house? The world is big, my boy. You don't belong here."

He said no more than what Cadvan already knew, but the boy's face darkened at the man's mockery, and a loyalty toward his father flamed in his breast. "I am with my own people," he said angrily. "Who are you, to speak thus to me?"

"You know my name," said the man.

Cadvan wanted to deny it, but he did know his name. "Likud," he said.

Likud looked pleased. "So you have some wit. Or some memory," he said. "You have the Gift: from here I can see it is in you in no small measure. Why aren't the Bards of Lirigon here, taking you to where you should be? They betray their duty. Your training is no business of your father's."

Cadvan said nothing, because he had sometimes wondered the same thing. But Bards will not take children with the Gift if their parents do not permit it.

"Come with me," said Likud. "I have something to show you. Your father is away from home; he will not know."

At first, Cadvan made no answer, wondering how Likud knew his father was not at home. Then he said, "I have to finish mending this boot. You can come back later, if you want."

Likud shrugged, and made to move away. But Cadvan felt a deep stubbornness wake in him, and would not go anywhere until he had finished his task. He bent his head down and concentrated on his work. When he looked up, Likud was still waiting for him.

Then Cadvan carefully put away his tools, and stood up to follow Likud.

Likud led him out of the village and a short distance into a beechwood. It was high summer, and the light shone bravely on the leaves, but where Likud walked it seemed that the birdsong sank down and a shadow followed him. Cadvan felt fear settle inside him like a bird of shadow, and he began to feel sorry that he had come. He thought about the dark things that had been talked about in the village, and wondered whether he should just turn around and go home—for everyone said that evil was gathering in the north, and he did not think that Likud was a good man. But despite his doubts, he followed him.

At last Likud stopped in a small clearing. He turned and smiled at Cadvan. "Now," he said. "I will show you something you have never seen before."

He lifted his arms and between them there began to gather a darkness, as if he were making a hole in the air. Cadvan was now very afraid and wanted to cry out, but his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth and he could make no sound, and he found his feet were rooted to the ground. He was no longer aware of the woods or the sunshine around him; he could watch only the darkness between Likud's arms.

The darkness thickened and roiled, and there began to be a sound like rushing wind or water. And then, to his astonishment, Cadvan saw a picture form in the shadow; and the picture moved as if it were alive. It was of a glittering city, with graceful walls and towers, which stood by a great mere so still that stars were reflected on its surfaces. The city was built of white stone so that it seemed to be carved of moonlight. And it seemed to Cadvan as if he entered the city and walked around inside it like a ghost, and that he peered through casements and saw men and women in fine robes speaking together, or making fine things; but none of them saw him.

The vision passed, and Cadvan came to, as if out of a swoon. Likud let down his arms, and the darkness disappeared. Cadvan stared at Likud with amazement.

"What is that place?" he asked.

"It is a place that is no longer," said Likud. "By my art, you glimpsed the ancient citadel of Afinil, and it has been gone for many lives of men. Is it not wonderful?"

"Aye," said Cadvan, caught in enchantment. He hungered to see more. "What else can you show me?"

Now Likud was a powerful Hull, and its aims were not benevolent. It was pleased that it had enraptured the boy so, because it did not want him to be fearful. It had perceived that Cadvan had a rare and untrained talent, and it wished to bind him to itself, so the boy would be its slave.

Now that Cadvan was no longer wary, the Hull lifted its arms again and put forth its power. But this time the spell was different, and Cadvan did not like it so much. He felt that chains of smoke were winding around his thoughts, and he felt the voice of Likud inside his own head, as if Likud's thoughts were his own; and he thought that he would die from the black pressure in his mind.

And now Cadvan showed his native power, because he looked Likud in the eye, and, untrained as he was, forced down the spell that would have made him a minion of Likud. And when the Hull felt its own powers useless, it was afraid of the strength of the boy; and it tried then to capture him by force, and abduct him on its horse. But even though he was a boy, Cadvan was stronger than Likud, and he punched the Hull in the face and knocked it over, and then found in himself such magery to strike Likud senseless. And then he stole the Hull's horse and galloped away as fast as he could.

He did not ride home, but to the School of Lirigon, which was three leagues off, and he did not stop until he clattered into the courtyard and almost fell off the horse. It is said that Nelac of Lirigon himself came running out to see what the disturbance was, and took the sobbing boy into his house and calmed him down. And Nelac then rode to Cadvan's village and spoke a long time to Nartan; and after that, Cadvan entered the School, and no more was said of cobbling.

But that was not the last that Cadvan saw of Likud, nor it of Cadvan.

From
The Flowers of the Bards

The Flowers of the Bards
is a collection of short poems that is preserved almost in its entirety, and that gives us the most complete picture yet discovered of the richness of Annaren poetry, which otherwise exists mainly in fragments in other texts. Among them is the only complete poem we have by Elednor of Edil-Amarandh, or Maerad herself. The poem has been the source of some controversy: noting its startling similarity to a famous poem by the classical Greek poet Sappho, who lived on the Isle of Lesbos (roughly between 630 and 570 BC), some scholars have argued that Sappho must have been aware of Maerad's poem, and consequently was familiar with Annaren culture. Others have suggested that this poem is evidence that Edil-Amarandh was, in fact, the origin of the legend of Atlantis. The untitled poem was written in cyrilenics, an extremely intricate verse form impossible to reproduce in English, and was greatly admired for the grace and skill the poet demonstrated in working this difficult form. Sadly, my own translation, which follows, can only suggest a little of its power in its original language.

Some say an army of horsemen some an army on foot others say ships laden for war are the fairest things on earth.

But I say the fairest sight

on this dark earth

is the face of the one you love.

Nor is it hard to understand: love has humbled the hearts of the proudest queens.

And I would rather see you now stepping over my threshold than any soldier greaved in gold or any iron-beaked ship.