The Singing (5 page)

"Well then, we can mix business with pleasure today, and ask Indik about both mount and sword," said Cadvan, standing up to gather their plates.

"I wish I had Imi." Maerad thought sadly of the mare who had carried her the length of Annar, and who had been her dear and gentle friend.

"She's with the Pilanel. They are good with beasts, especially good with horses, so you must not worry for her. It would be some detour to go north over the mountains to get her back."

Maerad knew that was only sense, but still regretted the loss of her horse. For months it had been the four of them, Cadvan and Maerad, Darsor and Imi. It would be strange to have another mount.

Cadvan still wanted Maerad's presence in Innail to be known as little as possible, and he insisted that she leave the Bardhouse heavily hooded. Maerad didn't protest: although it was sunny outside, the air was still and cold.

Their first stop was to visit Indik, swordmaster and horse-master of Innail. On her last visit, Maerad had almost hated him. He had taught her the rudiments of swordskills with scant patience. Even as she had cursed him, she had given Indik her grudging respect; if he was harsh, it was not without reason. Later she had seen another, warmer side of him, and now thought of him fondly.

Indik's house was at the outer rim of the School, and for Maerad it was sheer pleasure to walk through the paved stone streets, greeting the buildings that now seemed so familiar to her, although in truth she had lived here only briefly. The gardens were wintry, the trees not yet coming into leaf, but Innail was still beautiful. She felt as if she were breathing the beauty in, as if she had been starving for it.

"It's strange," she mused to Cadvan. "In the north, I saw so many things that I will never forget. I saw the Hramask snow-lands under the winter sun, and the seas of the north with their bergs of ice, which are like the most outlandish castles you ever saw, and their islands of ice and fire. I saw the heavenly dancers in the sky. But this"—she gestured at a house they were now passing, with wide, shallow stone steps leading up to a door carven with leaves—"this is different."

Cadvan glanced across at her. "There is a beauty that humans make that answers to our need," he said. "A need for home, maybe."

Home.
Maerad rolled the word on her tongue. Yes, coming back to Innail was like coming home. "I don't have a home," she said. "Pellinor was my home, and that was lost to me a long time ago."

"These are still your people," said Cadvan. "Innail is not so far from Pellinor. And it is the place where you first came into your own, Maerad. It is not surprising that you should love it." He looked around him, his face alight. "One day you must come to Lirigon, my birth home," he said. "There the houses are built of dark stone and have red clay tiles. The marketplace of Lirigon is famous for its pottery. There is good clay near the Lir River."

Maerad did not answer. At first her heart lifted at the thought of visiting Lirigon with Cadvan, but its mention also raised a dark memory. On the road to Lirigon, as she and Cadvan had made their way northward—a lifetime ago it seemed—Maerad had killed a Bard, liar of Desor, who was traveling with a Lirigon Bard, Namaridh. She and Cadvan had become bitterly estranged afterward, and that had led to disaster.

"I do not think I can ever go to Lirigon," said Maerad at last. "There is a black crime on my soul."

Cadvan looked at her in surprise. They had not spoken of the murder since they had reunited such a short time ago; it had been too painful to essay. "There is, Maerad," he said. "You will have to answer to it, if you have not already."

"How could I have answered already?" asked Maerad, with an edge of bitterness.

Cadvan reached for her gloved left hand, but she flinched. "You have suffered much since then," he said. "And I think that suffering has made you wiser. It doesn't always do that, you know. Suffering can destroy the soul; it can make people mean where once they were generous, small where once they were great. It can turn people mad. Remember that half-mad woman we saw in Edinur?"

"Her name was Ikabil," she said softly, remembering the woman's broken face.

"That was done to her. And things at least as bad have been done to you, Maerad. But you have not broken. You entered your suffering, and it has made you better understand the suffering of others."

Maerad listened in silence, her face averted. "I cannot undo it," she said. "And I wish I could."

"No, you cannot undo it. When all this is over, when peace returns to Edil-Amarandh, we will address this question. Only then can you answer to liar's people, and hear justice. For the moment it must be put aside. But Maerad"—and now Cadvan's voice was urgent—"remember this. It is only through understanding the darkness in yourself that you can understand the good, for the stars do not distinguish between good and bad as people do. There is much light in you. It shines more brightly

than it ever did. And by the laws of the Balance, the light in you must be weighed in the scales, as much as your crimes."

They walked on for a while in silence, and Cadvan added, "I do not mean that there will be nothing to answer."

"I know that," said Maerad. Her voice was so low he could barely hear it. "I do not seek to escape what justice is owed me."

"If our labors bear fruit, it will be just," Cadvan answered. "If the Dark succeeds, there will be no justice anywhere."

Maerad nodded again. "I know that too," she said.

She was thinking of how she had felt when she had killed other beings—those of the Dark, the wer and the Kulag, or the Hulls. She had always felt that the act had marked her. She could justify it: they were evil, she had to save her own life. And yet, all the same, it seemed to her that killing the murderous creatures of the Dark had led, subtly but inevitably, to her killing of liar. Whether she liked it or not, whether she thought her assailants were evil or not, she was dealing out death, and she couldn't still the voice inside her that said that it was wrong. She reflected, not for the first time, that it wasn't so easy to know whether or not your actions were right.
Sometimes,
Cadvan had said to her once,
there is no choice before you except between bad and worse.

THEY tracked down Indik in the saddlery, where he was overseeing some young Bards and apprentices who were polishing the saddles, bridles, and other equipment. The room was filled with a quiet hum of industrious activity and a delicious smell of linseed oil and leather. Maerad sniffed appreciatively.

Indik glanced up when they entered and, despite himself, smiled broadly. He was a stern-looking, stocky man, the severity of his face exaggerated by a savage scar that drew the skin around his eyes into a squint.

"I'll be leaving you scoundrels for a while," he said to his students. "If I find that any of you have been lazy while I'm away, a price will be exacted. Don't think that I won't notice. I will. That includes you, Rundal," he said, turning his fierce gaze onto a young man whose undisciplined hair framed his face with a mass of curls.

This imp-faced lad of about fifteen looked up and nodded seriously. As Indik turned away, he winked slyly at his friend next to him. Maerad was quite certain that Indik saw this, but he gave no sign as he greeted them.

"So you're still alive," he said gruffly to Maerad, unable to entirely conceal his pleasure. "Amazing. I think that deserves a wine, don't you?"

Bards,
Maerad reflected as she and Cadvan followed Indik to a nearby tavern called, predictably enough, the Horse's Mane,
thought every occasion deserved a drink.
Even if there wasn't an occasion, they would invent one. So different from the thugs at Gilman's Cot, where she had been a slave; there they would gulp down the voka, an eye-stinging spirit distilled from turnips, until they vomited or fell senseless to the ground. Maerad had very seldom seen a drunken Bard, and had never seen Bards drinking themselves into a stupor. For them, drinking was all about pleasure: winemaking was considered one of the higher arts, and skilled winemakers were greatly revered.

Once they had their wine, and were seated by a fire at a low table looking out through a mullioned window on a day that was rapidly clouding over, Indik began to talk about the recent events in Annar. Unlike Silvia or Malgorn, he seemed enlivened; a cold light burned in his eyes as he spoke of the battles that had taken place.

"I've felt it coming," he said. "Like you, Cadvan, I knew something was happening these past years—a gathering. And now the storm breaks, no?"

"Only its outriders, I fear," Cadvan answered. "The storm itself is yet to hit."

"Yes, well. I heard about Turbansk." Indik was briefly gloomy, staring ahead, pulling at his lower lip. "That is bad, certainly. Very bad. And all this scheming from Enkir. That's bad too. If Norloch has gone to the Dark without a sword being raised, we are in desperate times indeed."

Maerad glanced swiftly at the shrewd old warrior. No one else, even in Innail, had spoken of Norloch as being in alliance with the Dark; it was thought that Enkir was acting on his own black counsel.

"Enkir is with the Dark," she said. "I have no doubt of it. Though many others do, obviously. I suppose no one wants to believe that of the First Bard of Annar." She tried to keep the scorn from her voice, but it was difficult; she felt a particular hatred for Enkir. It was Enkir who had set fire to Pellinor, who had betrayed and killed her parents, who had destroyed her childhood.

"Difficult to get people to believe you, huh," Indik snorted. "It's obvious enough to me. I never trusted that dried-up old fish. People like Enkir need power to cover up their weakness; they are afraid of who they will see if they are left without its trappings. Some puny thing, I imagine, all covered in sores. Those people have worms for souls. Hulls in almost every respect..."

The contempt was thick in his voice, and he nearly spat. Cadvan smiled grimly. "How right you are, old friend," he said. "And how do you read things here?"

"The attacks on us are all from the mountains, mainly at the east end of Innail Fesse. Westward so far is basically untouched. But they are directed with a chill intelligence, and we have suffered some bad losses. You heard, of course, about Oron The only walled towns in Innail are Innail School and Tinagel; most people live in villages. But many villagers are now behind walls in Tinagel or here. Some stay and fight. One thing, those who say the valley dwellers are soft have it sadly wrong. . . . Most attacks have been murderous raids on the villages, aside from the big assault on Tinagel itself. We fought them back that time. But there is a will, Cadvan, a will; something leads these wers."

"Not Hulls?" said Cadvan.

"No. Wers, hundreds of them. Foul, evil creatures. And men, too, fighting for spoils. Mountain dwellers. Rough warriors, decent weaponry, cunningly led—they kill any male, of any age, and the women and girls ..." He screwed up his face. "You don't want to lose those battles."

"The Landrost, I suppose," said Maerad. The Landrost was a powerful Elidhu allied to the Dark, who had once held Cadvan captive.

"Innail is still far from the Landrost's home, on the other side of the mountains," Cadvan said musingly. "All the same, it seems possible to me. He is most certainly in the thrall of the Nameless One, and does his bidding here."

"I fear it may be so," said Indik. "Though few people agree with me. There is a strange sorcery in some of these attacks that is not one we know of from the Dark. And weathercraft. Unless it is just chance that attacks only happen in thunderstorms." He pulled at his lip again, his scarred face dark with thought. "I guess you are not staying, Cadvan. We could do with one of your abilities here."

"Maerad and I have other tasks," said Cadvan. "Much as we would stay to help defend this place we love."

"Yes." Indik looked between the two. "I won't ask," he said. "I will find out, I expect, and I have enough to worry over. Still, I am sorry you can't fight here. If it is the Landrost we face—and that is our best guess—then we have a formidable foe. We won't get any help from Annar, that's for sure. But Innail has always stood on her own." He grinned, his scarred face becoming a savage mask, and Maerad thought what a terrifying warrior Indik would be: there was something in him that loved battle for its very peril, a kind of finely judged recklessness, an utter ruthlessness.
He
would have no qualms about killing Hulls ...

"I've a favor to ask," said Cadvan. "We will have to leave Innail soon, and Maerad needs a horse and a sword. Do you have any that would suit?"

Indik looked sternly at Maerad. "It goes hard to lose a horse," he said. "Imi was a good mount."

"She didn't die," said Maerad, with a shade of indignation. "She's with the Pilanel in Murask, and we can't get her back right now."

Indik's eyebrows rose. "You have wandered far in your travels," he said. "And the sword?"

"Arkan took Irigan when he captured me. I don't know what happened to it." Maerad thought of her sword regretfully; it had been one of her few possessions, and it was precious to her.

"Arkan? The Winterking?" Indik glanced over to Cadvan for confirmation, plainly flabbergasted, although he covered it quickly. "Well, then. To lose arms when you are captured is only to be expected."

"Don't be such a dry old stick, Indik," said Maerad teasingly. "I wouldn't just leave my sword in an inn, would I? But I do need a new one. I can't be a wolf
all
the time."

"Now you are talking in riddles," said Indik, rubbing his chin and directing a piercing look at Maerad. Suddenly she was conscious that she had been gesturing with her left hand, and that he must have noticed her missing fingers. He had said nothing: Indik was no stranger, after all, to wounds and scars. It was, Maerad realized, the first time she hadn't felt ashamed of it.

"I am chiefly wondering," said Indik, "what happened to that shy, charming Bard I met last spring. What did you do with her, Cadvan? Who is this bold young warrior?"

"I'm not sure. I ask myself the same question," said Cadvan, smiling.

"I'm the same person," Maerad said, lifting her chin. "Maerad of Pellinor, at your service."

"You're still too thin," said Indik. "But I somehow think that you don't drop your sword anymore."

With Darsor's freely given advice thrown in, Maerad chose a new horse shortly afterward. Indik had three of the same hardy crossbreed as Imi, two mares and a stallion. As far as Darsor was concerned, the fine-looking bay stallion was out of the question (although Maerad rather regretfully turned her eyes from him). There was also a black mare, and a strawberry roan with a broad blaze down her nose. Maerad examined both of them carefully, under Indik's deceptively casual gaze, and picked the roan. She knew she had chosen well by Indik's barely perceptible nod of approval.

"That's Keru," said Indik, patting the mare's neck. "She'll carry you far. A little flightier than Imi, but just as tough."

The mare reached her nose forward and sniffed Maerad's hand.

Will you carry me?
asked Maerad in the Speech.

You smell good,
said Keru.
And you're very small. You're a friend of Darsor's?

Yes,
said Maerad.
But we will be traveling hard and far and fast.

Good. I'm bored here. I will bear you.
The mare turned away to snatch some straw from a manger, and Maerad missed Imi all over again. She saw at once that Keru was a good, strong horse, and she had been polite, but the companionship Maerad had with Imi would be hard to replace.

Well,
she thought.
I suppose we can't befriends all at once.

Indik gave her a sword that he had forged himself. "It was supposed to be for a young woman in Tinagel," he said. "She will have to wait a few days longer; she has not your urgency. It is well made: I laid charms in every tempering. Make sure you are less careless with this one." He drew it from its light leather scabbard and handed the hilt to Maerad; she tested the balance, feeling it light and apt to her hand.

"Thank you, Indik. I'll take good care of it, I promise."

"What will you name it?" asked Cadvan.

Maerad examined the sword. It was beautiful, with a straight, short blade of blue steel and a silver hilt shaped like a leaf and cunningly enameled with green.
"Eled,
I think," she said after a while. "Lily. It is a lily, like me."

"Eled is a good name. It was meant for you, I think, although I did not know that when I made it." Maerad looked up and met Indik's eyes, and saw there the well-guarded gentleness that burned like a quiet flame inside him. "May you bear it to good fortune."

Maerad felt the blessing in his words. Indik said things sometimes that resonated through her being; if he wasn't a Truthteller like Cadvan, he was very nearly one. She realized afresh how much she liked this ugly, harsh, honest man.

"I hope so," she said fervently. "For all our sakes."

After they left Indik, Cadvan went off on some business of his own and Maerad made her way to the center of the School, bending her steps to the Library. She wanted to visit Dernhil's rooms. Dernhil of Gent was a Bard—a great poet, Cadvan had said—who had taught her how to read and write, opening up the world of books to her astonished pleasure and delight. She was still very slow at both—-she had not had much time to practice in the past year—and the hunger to learn more ached inside her; but Dernhil's promise that he would teach her all the lore of Annar and the Seven Kingdoms would never now be kept. He had died last spring, when Hulls had secretly entered Innail in search of Maerad. The small illuminated book of poems Dernhil had given her was one of her most treasured possessions; she kept it in her pack, wrapped in oilskin.

She remembered the way through the maze of corridors without difficulty, nodding to the Bards she passed, and halted outside the familiar door, suddenly feeling a little foolish. What if someone was in there? She hadn't asked anyone's permission to come, and it wasn't as if it were Dernhil's room any longer. She knocked hesitantly and, when no one answered, slowly pushed open the door.

She had expected to find the room changed, filled perhaps with the belongings of another Bard. And it was different, but not for that reason. What had once been a cheerful room, full of clutter and work and warm light, was now empty and forlorn and cold. The air smelled musty and stale, as if the room had not been opened for a long time. Dernhil's furniture—a huge wooden desk and two chairs covered in azure silk—was still there, but the books that had filled the shelves were gone, leaving behind a litter of dusty oddments. A chill winter sun shone through the casement, casting a silver light over the dusty desk and chairs. Clearly no one used the room now.

Maerad entered the chamber and shut the door behind her, filled with a sudden and overwhelming sense of bereavement. It was as if she hadn't really believed Dernhil was dead until this moment. Some secret part of her had still thought that he was really waiting here at work in his room, that she would knock on the door and he would glance up to greet her with that quick, ironic smile and clear a space for her on the chair beside his.

He died in this room, Maerad thought. That's probably why no one took it over. She wandered around the room, looking at the shelves, and found a broken pen she remembered Dernhil using, lying forgotten against the wall. She picked it up and closed her fist around it; she would keep it with Dernhil's book, and the beautiful pen he had given her for her own use, as a memento. Then she walked over to the desk and sat down. The desk that she remembered as scarcely visible under a clutter of books, writing materials, parchments, and scrolls was completely bare, covered in a thin layer of dust. Into her mind, unbidden, came the chant Cadvan had sung for Dernhil, after they had heard the news of his death: