The Singing (4 page)

She went over to a table by the window, where a carafe stood next to some glasses, and poured two drinks. She handed a glass to Maerad, lifted hers in salute, and took a long draft.

"It has been a hard year, Maerad," she said. "And we have had our own losses. But I doubt that my year has been as hard as yours."

"It has been hard," Maerad answered, thinking back. "But I'd rather hear about what has happened here."

Silvia sighed, and looked down at her wine, swirling it thoughtfully in her glass. "We lost Oron," she said, naming the First Bard of Innail.

Maerad drew in her breath, remembering Oron's stern, iron-gray head, her straight back, her kind authority. "How?"

"A battle near Tinagel. Innail has been much afflicted by bands of marauders down this side of the mountain, men mainly, but also some wers. They mounted a big assault on Tinagel, attacking the townspeople at night. They weren't entirely unprepared, but it was a hard battle. Oron went to help the defense, with many other Bards. They destroyed the attackers. But Oron did not return." There was a slight catch in Silvia's voice, and she sighed. "She is sorely missed. Malgorn is First Bard now, which doesn't sit easily on him. He worries overmuch. Not that there isn't much to worry about." She smiled crookedly. "Alas, I am trying to think of good things to tell, but none will come to me."

Looking at Silvia closely, Maerad saw that her face had lines of care that hadn't been there last spring. She hunted for something to say that might be comforting. "We're still here!" she said at last.

"Yes, despite all. Though we have not reached the worst, I think." Silvia shook her head again, like a dog shaking off rain. "Maerad, I have almost forgotten lightness. Is that the worst thing?" Suddenly she smiled, with a spark of her normal mischief. "Of course, you are right. We are here, and the fire is bright and this room—well, this room is as beautiful as it has ever been. And we are about to eat, I am quite sure, a delicious dinner. That should be enough for any of us."

Dinner was as tasty as Silvia had promised: roasted wild duck basted with almond oil and butter and stuffed with fresh herbs and nuts, carrots flavored with honey and rosemary, and fried cabbage with butter melting into its green and white and purple folds. That was followed by a rich latticed pie made out of the last of the winter apples. Maerad resisted the urge to gobble it all down, and savored every mouthful. She couldn't remember when she had last eaten such food: it must have been when she was in Norloch.

By unspoken consent, all the Bards spoke about distant or pleasant things—memories of Cadvan's and Malgorn's youth, or funny stories that Silvia remembered from her childhood in a village nearby, or arguments about the relative merits of favorite songs—until they had finished eating. They returned to the music room, holding glasses of Malgorn's concoction of an apricot liqueur—like amber jewels in their hands—and settled by the fire on the comfortable red couches.

Malgorn could not conceal his gloom, although he tried his best to be a cheerful host. At first, they did not speak about Maerad's and Cadvan's travels over the past year; Cadvan, hungry for information, wanted to know what had happened in Annar over the past few months. There was, it seemed, no good news anywhere. Bands of soldiers from Norloch, claiming to be under the orders of Enkir, the First Bard of Annar, were, it

was rumored, roaming the land, press-ganging farmers and tradesmen and acting like brigands.

"Enkir grows in his strength," Malgorn said. "Still many Schools support him, and none dare oppose him openly. Yet. People are more afraid of the Dark than they are of what Enkir is doing. I fear both of them, equally. As ever, the greatest resistance is in the Seven Kingdoms."

"Enkir demands clear and unambiguous fealty from every School," said Silvia. "As if a First Bard has ever demanded such a thing! Only the kings have dared to do this, and we know what that led to—war and ruin in Annar. But we all fear that he plans to march on Til Amon, which lies most open to him. They have not, as yet, returned their pledge. As we have not. And others."

"It's hard to keep in touch," added Malgorn, frowning. "Roads are no longer as safe as they were, and no one dares to trust letters, lest they fall into the wrong hands. And so we sift gossip and rumors, trying to discern what is true and what is not, what is likely and what is impossible ..." He fell silent and stared at the table.

"We hear news, all the same," said Silvia. "And Bards have not completely given up traveling. The worst, of course, is the Fall of Turbansk..."

Maerad looked up sharply. Silvia could not know that Maerad's brother, Hem, was in Turbansk, with their friend Saliman.

"Turbansk has fallen?" Cadvan said, glancing anxiously at Maerad. "What news of that?"

"Little, and bad," said Malgorn heavily. "We hear that the Black Army, led by the sorcerer Imank, marched on Baladh, sacked and burned the city, and then went on to Turbansk, where it laid siege; at last the city fell to the Dark forces. Now there are rumors that Imank marches north, while others say that he is moving westward to Car Amdridh. Many have fled northward to Til Amon, seeking refuge. I heard that Juriken, the First Bard there, is dead. But from this distance, it is impossible to know the truth of the matter: we have birdnews at best, and that is always sketchy."

"But some got away," said Maerad quickly. "Surely some people escaped."

"Always some escape," Silvia answered. She had noticed Maerad's anxiety, and attempted to comfort her. "Saliman is a resourceful Bard, and a powerful one, and no mean warrior. I am sure he would have as good a chance as anyone."

That was cold comfort indeed. For a time, the only sound was the sleepy popping of the fire.

"When did you hear this news?" asked Cadvan.

"Only a fortnight ago," said Silvia. "It is a heavy blow. We can look for no help from the south, and can only hope that Amdridh holds against the Black Army."

"Turbansk has never fallen before," said Cadvan. "Not even through all the long years of the Great Silence. It must be a vast army."

"I saw it," said Maerad suddenly. The Bards gravely turned to look at her. "I saw the army in a dream. A huge army, stretching farther than the eye could see, with monstrous soldiers made of iron. And I saw Turbansk laid waste and all its towers and walls crumbled." She suddenly wanted to weep. "My brother is there."

Now Silvia was astonished. "Your brother?"

"My brother, Hem. Well, Cai is his proper name, but he only calls himself Hem. We found him, Cadvan and I, in the middle of the Valverras. The Hulls kidnapped him; I think that's why they sacked Pellinor, because Enkir and the Hulls wanted to find him. They thought he was the One, not me. We

took him to Norloch. And then, when Norloch was burning, Saliman took him to Turbansk, to join the School there. And now ..." She felt tears gathering like a hot ball in her throat, but she didn't want to cry. "Now, I don't know where he is."

"Silvia is right, Maerad," said Cadvan gently. "If anyone could make sure that Hem is safe, it is Saliman."

"Yes," said Maerad harshly. "But we don't know if Saliman is alive. Do we?"

There was a long silence. Malgorn, looking at Maerad sympathetically, wordlessly filled everyone's glasses. It did seem strange, Maerad thought suddenly, to be speaking of war and death in such a comfortable and beautiful room, drinking out of delicately blown glasses. Nothing seemed to be quite real.

At last she broke the silence. "I think I would know if Hem was dead," she said. "It's as if there's a—a kind of thread that binds me to him. I don't think I imagine it."

"Sometimes," said Silvia gravely, "it is like that between people. I do not doubt you, Maerad."

Maerad looked up into Silvia's gentle, dark eyes, now filled with a deep sadness and love. She looked away swiftly, because kindness would really make her weep, and she did not wish to weep here, among people who had also suffered deeply. "If Hem is still alive," she said, "then so are other people. Saliman too."

"I hope you are right," said Malgorn.

"I have to find him." Maerad already felt light-headed, but drained her glass anyway. "I have to find him very soon."

Malgorn almost smiled. "In all of Annar and the Suderain, you seek your brother?"

"It's a Knowing I have." She stared fiercely at Malgorn. "I know it's important. Beyond wanting him and loving him—of course I want to find him because of that. But it's more important even than that. I don't know why."

Such was the passion and certainty in Maerad's voice no one in the room disbelieved her. Malgorn nodded gravely. "Well, then, you must seek him," he said, with a special gentleness that she had not heard in his voice before. "But first, I think you must sleep."

Maerad woke late to another clear winter day. The pale sun spilt through the casement, and she lay idly, listening, as she had almost a year ago, to the noises of the School: musical instruments tuning up; a dog barking; pigeons cooing outside her window. Her room was warm, and it was no punishment to leave her cozy bed and wash herself and dress.

She wandered downstairs to see what she could get for breakfast. She met Cadvan in the corridor, on the same errand.

'We're up a bit late," he said. "But there will be something. I'm ravenous!"

"Something" turned out to be meat pastries, warmed up for them by the Bardhouse cook, and fresh rye bread, white cheese, and fruit. They took their bounty to the small dining room where they had eaten the night before, and set to with pleasure, talking over their plans for the day. Maerad wanted to wander around in the sunshine and visit her favorite places in Innail, and perhaps to see the swordmaster Indik and others she had met on her last stay here. Cadvan, his brow creased, was already planning further ahead.

"What shall we do, Maerad?" he asked, pushing back his plate with a contented sigh. "I believe you utterly when you say that we have to find Hem. But how do we go about that? He could be anywhere in Edil-Amarandh. And traveling, as Malgorn said last night, has become perilous: Annar is already at war. It would be good to have some idea of where to start, at least."

Maerad studied Cadvan gravely. Unlike Silvia and Malgorn,he was little changed from when she had first met him, aside from a thin white scar that curled around his cheekbone and around his left eye, the mark of a Hull's whiplash. He had always had a certain grimness about him. Perhaps, thought Maerad, he was a little more careworn; yet she often had the sense that his grimness was a veil, and that underneath it welled a brilliant fountain of joy. Her thoughts made her feel strangely shy.

This was the first time he had asked her what they ought to do next. Always it had been Cadvan who made the decisions, who led the way. It made her realize again how she had changed in the past months. And perhaps Cadvan had changed as well. He was prepared to go with her, unquestioningly, on a dangerous quest, which most people would dismiss as mad and futile.

"I think we have to go south." Maerad frowned, pondering her ignorance of Annar. All she knew was that the Suderain was south of Annar, and that Turbansk was—had been—in the Suderain. And that, if they were lucky, Hem would be heading north. If he had survived. "I mean, Hem would likely be coming north—maybe."

"What do you
feel,
though?" Cadvan stared at her intently. "Maerad, I trust that you are correct, that your Knowing speaks true in you. I remember when we first found Hem, how your Knowing guided you then, against my better judgment." Cadvan unconsciously rubbed the scar on his cheekbone— meeting Hem had led to the battle with the Hulls that had nearly killed him and that had marred his face. "I think perhaps we can use that sense to guide us. But you must be certain: you must not let the Knowing be muddied by your hope."

Maerad paused awhile before she answered, searching inside herself for her truest feeling. She knew exactly what Cadvan meant. In Gilman's Cot, when she had been a slave, there had been a saying: "Hope shines in the dying man." The more desperate you were, she thought, the more danger there was of being misled by your hopefulness.

She missed Hem with every fiber of her being. He was the only family she had left: her mother and father were dead, killed by the Dark. Her brother's thin, mischievous face rose up in her mind's eye. She thought with a pang that he probably looked different now. When she had last seen him, he had seemed to her, for all his toughness, to be mostly a little boy. But boys his age, in the awkward space between childhood and manhood, changed so fast.

She sighed, and tried to focus her thoughts. Or, more precisely, tried not to think at all, so that whatever was in her mind would rise up and speak. She waited, with a relaxed attention, for what she knew to reveal itself.

"I think it is south," she said at last. "Some kind of—tug— that way. I don't know anything else."

"South it is, then," Cadvan said. "As soon as we can. But for now, I would dearly love to rest in Innail. It has been a difficult winter, and I doubt that spring will be any easier."

Maerad felt a huge relief, as if she had passed some test she had not been aware she was taking. Cadvan's implicit trust moved her deeply: she doubted herself so fiercely. A sudden tenderness washed over her, and she almost reached out to brush back the lock of hair that dropped over his forehead as he leaned across the table toward her; but she checked herself, and again looked down at the table, a slight flush rising in her cheeks. She and Cadvan had been close companions for many months, but their intimacy was hedged with many unspoken barriers.

"I need a new sword," she said, changing the subject. "Arkan took Irigan when he captured me."

"And a horse. Unless you want to run south wolfwise," said Cadvan.

"I think I have been too much a wolf lately." Maerad loved the strength that went with her wolf-self, the sense of freedom, the vivid and exciting sensual world of smell and taste and instinct, but even before Cadvan had raised the possibility, she had begun to be secretly afraid that she might forget how to turn back into herself.