The Singing (6 page)

Where has he gone? His chamber is empty And bright are the tears in the high halls of Oron

Where once he stepped lightly, singing deep secrets Out of the heart-vault and into the open ...

I didn't know him long enough,
Maerad thought,
to feel this sad.
But even as she thought this, she knew it to be nonsense, a denial of a deeper knowing.
I know he loved you,
Cadvan had told her, long ago it seemed now, in another life.
He was one of those who can see clearly into another's soul, and his feelings were true. Such things have little to do with brevity of meeting.

All too brief, all the same.
When we parted, there was promise of so many things, of deep friendship, of learning; and now all that promise is frozen in the past, like those strange animals I saw deep in the glacier.
... Is
that what I am really mourning? All the conversations we never had, the books you will never read to me, the lovers we will never be. If you kissed me now, would I hit you?

In her mind's eye, Maerad could see Dernhil as vividly as if he stood before her. He was tall and slender, his brown hair falling carelessly over his forehead, his expression intelligent, mobile, amused. He was, she realized, very handsome. She hadn't really noticed that when they had met.
No,
she thought, I
would not hit him now.

What would you say to me if we met now? Would you say, like Indik,
What happened to the shy, charming Bard I met last spring?
Would you still want to kiss me? I have changed so much. But I am still Maerad ...

"I
wanted to tell you—" she said, and jumped, because she had spoken aloud. But who would hear her? She dug her nails into her palms to stop herself from crying. It was important that she say at last what she wanted to say, even if there was no one there to hear it.

"I wanted to tell you that your poem saved me when I was captured by the Winterking and held in his palace," she said. I read your poem, and it reminded me of everyone I love.

Including you. It reminded me of why we are fighting so hard. It reminded me how much beauty there is . . ." Maerad stared down at her hands lying on the desk, one whole, the other maimed, and bit her lip. "How much beauty there is in the world, and why it matters. It reminded me that even if we die, it doesn't mean that everything we do is useless. That even though you are dead, you are still speaking to me. I hear your voice every time I read your poems."

She paused, taking in a long breath. "But it made me feel sadder than ever, Dernhil. Reading your poems is not the same as talking to you. My cousin Dharin will never come back. I'll never see my mother or my father again, no matter how much I want to. Maybe all of us will die in this battle. And I know I'm just talking to empty space; I know you are not here. I think that perhaps, somewhere, in some other place where time is different, you might hear what I say and smile, and that comforts me a little. I know that's a stupid thought, but I think it all the same. Maybe it's not so stupid. I don't know ... I just wish, with all my heart, that you were here and that I could talk to you and tell you these things."

Maerad fell silent and sat for a long time at the desk, with her head in her hands. Finally she stood up and went to the door, turning for a last look at Dernhil's empty room. "Farewell, my friend," she whispered, and closed the door behind her.

When she returned to her room, Maerad emptied her pack and laid out all her possessions on her bed. As a slave, she hadn't owned anything beyond the clothes she wore and her lyre, and she still felt a faint disbelief at her comparative riches, even if they could all be put into one bag. The objects laid out on her bed were like a tangible diary of her life.

Most precious of all was her lyre, lying snugly inside the leather case that Cadvan had given her. She put Dernhil's book next to it, and then her new sword, Eled. There were oddments like her kit for the horses, and a water bottle, and a flask of medhyl, the herbed drink that Bards used to ward off weariness when traveling. There were her spare clothes, now newly washed and folded. Some of her possessions were gifts that she wore: the white stone that hung from a slender chain around her neck, a present from Silvia; the exquisite golden ring that the Elidhu Queen Ardina had given her, which she wore on her right hand; also from Ardina a rustic reed flute; a small fish carved of ivory, a gift from the Wise Kindred, whom she had visited far in the north, seeking knowledge of the Treesong from their wise man, Inka-Reb. She put next to that the blackstone she had taken from a Hull in Thorold. The blackstone was a strange object made of albarac, a mineral valued among Bards because it could deflect or absorb magery. She stroked the stone's surface with her fingertip: it was more like the absence of something than an object, neither cold nor warm, rough nor smooth. It was attached to a silver chain, but she felt there was something uncanny about it, and she never wore it. She wondered if she would ever use it.

There were things that were missing, because she had given them away: a little wooden cat that she had given to Mirka, the old woman who had cared for her in the mountains when she had nearly died; and the silver brooch with the arum lilies, the sign of the School of Pellinor, that she had given to Nim, a young man who had been one of her Jussack captors, and who had been kind to her. That had been a princely gift: the brooch had been given to her by Oron herself. But, somehow, Maerad was sure that Oron would have understood: Innail was a School that set great, unspoken store on kindness.

She studied her possessions for a while, and then, one by one, put them back in her pack with the pen she had taken from Dernhil's chamber, wondering if she would ever have a room of her own in which to keep them. Innail was the first place, in almost a year of traveling, to which she had returned. Cadvan and she would be off any day now, and perhaps she would never see it again. She felt as if she had been traveling forever. Perhaps, when all this was finished, if she survived it, she could begin to make a home ...

She pushed that thought away. If she followed it, she would end up wallowing in self-pity. Tonight, she knew, Malgorn and Silvia had invited some other Bards from the First Circle for a meal, and she should bathe first. Maerad's habit was to have a bath whenever it was possible; sometimes in Innail she bathed twice a day, to make up for the months of scrappy washes in cold streams when she was traveling. Sighing, she stood and made her way to the bathroom.

That evening, it was a merry night in the Bardhouse. No one spoke of the troubles in Innail, putting them aside for the moment. Maerad noticed that the Bards, perhaps warned by Silvia that Maerad could no longer play her lyre, had not taken out their instruments after the meal, as was their custom.

"I can play my lyre," she said firmly. "If you don't mind me glowing."

Indik glanced at her with something like approval, as she drew her lyre out of its case. She paused to gather her power, and as her magery began softly to illuminate the room, she looked down and saw her hand was whole, a hand of tight. Silvia smiled with joyous surprise, and took down her own lyre from the wall, and the other Bards disappeared briefly to get their instruments. They began with an instrumental piece in a minor key, beautiful and melancholy, and then Cadvan and Maerad sang the duet of Andomian and Beruldh, which they had sung when they had first met. The other Bards listened in absorbed silence and burst into applause when they both finished.

The Bards made music together long into the night, and Maerad felt something in her fill up, as if she had been starving.
Music,
she thought,
is like meat and drink for the soul, a necessity.
For these few enchanted hours, she felt entirely happy.

Music,
Cadvan had once said to her, is
my home.

Waking late the next day, Maerad felt stronger than she had in a long time. Her life might be hard and full of sadness, but she counted herself lucky; it had also granted her moments that she would not have missed for the world. She lounged lazily, feeling no hurry to rise. Life would be tough again soon enough, so why not enjoy a comfortable bed while she could?

Eventually, after her ritual bath, she made her way downstairs to break her fast. She grabbed a pastry from the kitchen and ate in the corner, where she was out of the way. Normally, Silvia would have been in the kitchen at that time, but she was out again; she was kept busy looking after the flood of people who were seeking refuge in Innail from the attacks in the valley. Then, at a loose end, Maerad began to look for Cadvan. Although nothing had been said between them, she knew that they would be leaving soon—perhaps the next day. Against her desire to stay in Innail was an even stronger sense of urgency; somehow she knew that time was running short.

Although he had said little, Malgorn had clearly thought Maerad was mad when she announced that she was looking for Hem, who could be anywhere in Edil-Amarandh, if he was alive at all. And Maerad couldn't pretend that she didn't have her own doubts. On the other hand, she had journeyed across the frozen wastes of the north in her quest for the Treesong, with little more than hints to guide her; she felt more confident now of her own intuition. Cadvan's trust in her Knowing was comforting.

It was raining, with a hint of sleet: winter was back with a vengeance. Maerad wrapped her cloak tightly around her and hurried head-down through the rain-lashed streets to the stables, where she guessed Cadvan was most likely to be. She guessed right: he was sitting on a feed bin, deep in conversation with Darsor. He looked up as Maerad entered and smiled.

"Darsor was just letting me know that he rather likes the idea of a warm stable on a day like this," he said. "Good weather, all the same, for those who wish to travel unnoticed."

"It was raining last time we left." Maerad sat down next to Cadvan, and let Darsor nuzzle her neck in greeting before he attended to a mash of oats Cadvan had made for him. The great black horse looked none the worse for his recent travels, his muscles rippling beneath his rough winter coat.

"Yes, I remember." Cadvan looked at Maerad sidelong. "But not much else is the same, I think. Not least you, Maerad. Being here reminds me of the waif you were then. You barely dared to open your mouth."

"It was terrifying. I thought they'd throw me out when they discovered I wasn't a proper Bard."

"You're not a proper Bard," Cadvan said, smiling. "You're something altogether strange."

"I suppose I am." Maerad picked up some straw and twirled it around her finger meditatively. "I can't help wishing I was a normal Bard, though. I can think of nothing better than staying here, learning the Three Arts properly, reading all the lore of Annar, just being ordinary ..." She couldn't keep the raw longing out of her voice, and Cadvan was silent for a time.

"I wish all that for you, Maerad," he said at last. "You don't know how much. And I begin to think, too, that I am tired of my restless life. I wonder how many steps I've walked since my youth. I suppose I never felt that I had the right to stop anywhere for long."

Cadvan had never said anything like that before, and Maerad glanced at him, surprised. He was staring at the floor, his face reflective and a little sad. In the dim light of the stables he seemed younger, not much older than she was.

"You probably earned the right years ago," she said.

"It's never a question of what others think," Cadvan answered, with an edge of harshness in his voice. "The hard thing is always to forgive oneself."

"Then you're simply being selfish."

"Do you think so?" A smile quirked the edge of Cadvan's mouth. "A little self-indulgent, perhaps?"

"I think so. Definitely. If others forgive you, what right have you not to forgive yourself? It's just vanity."

Cadvan almost looked offended, but then he started to laugh. "Ah, Maerad," he said. "I think I will keep you as my conscience. I fear that you're painfully right."

"I've had quite a bit of time to get to know you," she said, smiling. "They're not wrong, those who accuse you of pride."

"Or arrogance. No, they're not wrong. Maybe only you know how hard I work to keep these things at bay."

"But you wouldn't be you without them, all the same."

"It's a question of the Balance. As always. I wish it were not the case that our faults are so often the other side of our virtues." He stood up and stretched. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'm hungry."

"I just broke my fast," said Maerad. "But I only had a pastry. I wouldn't mind eating again."

"We could go to that tavern. The food looks like good Innail fare."

Over their meal, they discussed their immediate plans. Cadvan thought they should leave Innail the following day, heading south. "I think our best bet would be to make for Til Amon," he said. "If Hem and—I hope—Saliman have fled

Turbansk, they would, I imagine, have gone there. And—I suppose—we'll just follow your nose."

"I hope it's working properly," Maerad said dryly. "Obviously Malgorn thinks we've taken leave of our senses."

"Maybe we have," said Cadvan, grinning. "Perhaps not. The Way of the Heart is not, after all, so mad; and it's something the Dark does not understand. I think we follow that way now. Although I do not know where it will lead us."

"No." Maerad turned her face away, and Cadvan, sensing her discomfort, began to talk of practical things: the food they would take, whether it would be safe to stay in inns in the valley, how dangerous the road might be.

Early the next morning, they bid their friends farewell and trotted through the main gate of Innail. The rain had stopped, leaving in its wake a biting wind straight off the mountainside; Maerad had dressed in several layers of clothes to ward off the cold, and still felt the chill. Their leavetaking had been quick and somber: Maerad had embraced her friends, feeling as if she were about to jump into an abyss. Suddenly all sense of urgency had vanished: she just wanted to stay where it was safe and warm, amid the beauty of Innail. But she knew better, and bit down the tears that threatened, turning her face determinedly to the road.