The Crow (14 page)

"How many?" asked Zelika in a whisper.

"There were many ranks of them," said Saliman.

"I thought they killed everyone they took." Zelika's face was drawn with horror, and suddenly Hem realized that she feared that her own brothers or sisters might be among the child soldiers. Saliman looked at her with deep compassion, and there was a silence before he continued his tale.

"After the child armies attacked us, things began to go ill. That night a tunnel we had not sourced opened up behind us, and out of it poured at least a rank of Hulls and dogsoldiers. Although we stayed them with great losses on our part and blocked the tunnel, we began to realize that we could not hold the Wall, and it was better to retreat in good order than in a rout. But we had barely ordered ourselves for a retreat when they broke the Gate. I know not what spell forced its enchantment, but I do know no living Bard can match those who made the spells that held it. Hence I fear the more what foul sorceries will be brought against Turbansk, since I doubt not that Imank has used a bare tithe of that armory against us... So I left the battle and rode here, more swiftly than I had right to ask any horse, to bring this evil news as early as I may; and I rode on the very wings of the storm. And soon all of us will be in the teeth of it."

A silence fell. Hem looked down at his hands and noticed they were trembling.

"I-I don't know what a battle is like," he said. "I've seen fighting and Hulls and all of that, but nothing that big... it all sounds so very big..." He wanted to say that he was afraid, but he thought that if he did, Saliman would send him away, and frightened though he was, he feared being sent away more.

"I know what battle is like," said Zelika, her voice quiet, but very hard. "It is screaming, and a terrible noise, like in a metal-smith's or a quarry, but much louder than you can bear. And it smells of burning and blood and worse things. And it is faces made strange, because they are angry or frightened or dying, and the most terrible fear you ever knew, which makes you feel as if your blood runs bright silver. And everything is horribly clear and crooked; and something strange happens to time, so everything seems very fast and very slow all at the same time. And it is seeing growing things burned and cut down, and beautiful things smashed to pieces, and seeing the ones you love – seeing loved – " Her voice caught, and she bowed her head and said nothing more.

Saliman was silent a moment. "Yes, Zelika," he said gently. "That is exactly what a battle is like."

L
AMARSAN

To admire beauty without envy is love:

To lie in the darkened garden to hear the song

Of the unseen nightingale is love:

If you would hold a knife to your heart

To spare another, that is love:

To love is to give everything away for nothing,

To open your house to the dark stranger:

The world is a pit of fire and shadows,

Those who love throw themselves into it wholly:

Ah my heart, only you know best

How love is the mortal flesh burning in darkness.

— Murat of Turbansk, Library of Busk

VI

T
HE
D
EATHCROWS

Night fell over Turbansk. It was a night of velvet air, gentle and warm, and crowds of stars blazed in the moonless sky. Jasmine foamed spectrally over the walls of the city, its sweet scent falling pungent in the streets and alleys, and the starlight lent the flesh-colored stone of the buildings an eerie pallor. Turbansk seemed a lovely mirage that trembled against the darkness, its towers and domes as insubstantial as a dream.

Saliman had retired early, and Zelika had disappeared. Hem knew he was exhausted, but he could not sleep. He tossed and turned restlessly in his bed, and at last rose and threw on a tunic and slipped out of the Bardhouse, leaving Ire behind him on his usual perch, his head tucked under his wing.

Hem walked barefoot through the streets of Turbansk, listening to the night sounds: the cicadas shrilling loudly in the treetops, the occasional sleepy crooning of doves, the calling of frogs. Bats made graceful parabolas in the air, their high, tiny squeaks sounding between the trees. And there was also the strange moaning noise he had heard the day before, and had thought was the wind. It was louder than it had been, and with a stab of fear Hem realized it must be the braying trumpets of the Black Army, still distant, but closer now, closer all the time.

Although it was near midnight, Turbansk was not sleeping. Armed soldiers moved through the wider streets, some purposeful and unspeaking, others joking, and he saw runners taking messages from the Ernan to the guard towers. But as Hem walked on, he passed some houses bright with lamps, their gardens strung with paper lanterns of many colors; and from them Hem could hear conversation and laughter, and strains of music – the dulcimers and flutes and drums of Turbansk playing the long, wild songs of the ancient city. The music, so defiant in its loveliness, plucked his heart with a special poignancy, and he stopped outside one house and listened.

When Hem had first arrived in Turbansk, he had scornfully told Chyafa that Turbanskian music had no melody and made no sense, and was far inferior to the music of Annar. It was, he reflected now, perhaps the reason why Chyafa had so persecuted him; for music was Chyafa's great passion and he was the most talented dulcimer player in their class. Now, as he stood by the wall, listening to the throb and passion of the music on the other side, Hem regretted his words: Chyafa had been right to say he was ignorant.

Whoever was singing, Hem thought, was a great singer. His voice wound through the complex rhythms and melodies of the instruments, binding them together into coherent harmonies; and then it would soar into its own dance, like a bird that suddenly leaves the flock in a moment of exuberance and acrobatically twirls in the air, showing off its grace and skill, before returning to the flock again. So the music moved through its repetitions, eternally the same and eternally different. And as Hem listened, he began to make out some words:

Blessed are the roses of Turbansk, blessed the bounty of their beauty,

For their hearts are softer than skin and yet they open endlessly

And out of their hearts spill colors to delight the eye

And perfumes enough to make rich the moment of each who passes.

The roses do not choose to give to one and not to another:

The poor man and the prince alike are given their grace equally.

Blessed are the roses of Turbansk, although they wither and die

And pass into shadow as each of us must pass into shadow.

The prince and the poor man are given this darkness equally

But their moment of Light is not less beautiful for its passing

Nor is the gift of their grace any less for the shadow that follows them:

Neither the prince nor the poor man nor the rose are less

Though the sun must go down behind the hills and the hills down into dust

Though even the Ernan's glory must come at last to decay

Though the petals wither and drop from the stem to the ground.

All shall pass, all shall pass, to the night that has no morning

Yet another morning will rise and buds will open in new colors...

Hem pressed his forehead against the wall and shut his eyes, letting the song's mingled lament and celebration flow into the deepest parts of his soul. The song finished and it was like the end of a dream; he looked up, startled, and realized suddenly how tired he really was. Slowly he walked back to the Bardhouse and went to bed, and this time slept deeply and dreamlessly.

Zelika was standing by Hem's bed, shaking him, and he turned over groaning, blurred by sleep.

"Wake up!" said Zelika.

Hem sat up slowly, his hair sticking out, and Zelika regarded him with scorn.

"You'd sleep in if the world was about to end!" she said. "It's late."

Hem looked at the light coming through the casement. It
was
late. He was surprised.

"I thought you'd like to know that the Black Army is here," said Zelika.

"What great news."

"So let's go to the Red Tower and see. I don't think anyone would mind. You have to come, though; I don't think they'll let me in by myself, but everyone knows you..."

Hem was still blinking, fuddled by sleep, and impatiently Zelika shook him again. "Well, come on!"

"All right, all
rightl
But I don't have any clothes on and I can't get dressed until you get out of my room."

Just to annoy Zelika, Hem took longer dressing than he normally would. When he came out of his bedchamber, she was fizzing with irritation.

"I want breakfast first," he said, when she tried to drag him out of the Bardhouse.

"You can have breakfast
afterward."

"I'm hungry," he said stubbornly. "I'm not going anywhere until I've eaten something."

Zelika saw that he might refuse to go at all if she kept pressing him, so she gave in with the sudden surprising meekness she could display when she realized other means were useless, and followed him to the dining hall.

The Bardhouse was absolutely deserted. Hem stopped dawdling because he was as anxious as Zelika to see what was happening. He took an apple from the store and gulped down a cup of water and then they wended their way to the Red Tower.

The guard at its foot simply nodded when he saw Hem, and he and Zelika climbed the endless spiraling steps, stopping every now and then for a rest, up to the very top.

They heard the Black Army before they saw it. The faint bray of trumpets that had lain underneath the busy music of Turbansk had now ceased; instead there was a low throb of war drums, like another pulse in the blood. The hair on Hem's neck prickled.

Two Bards, Inhulca of Baladh, whom Hem knew by sight, and Soron of Til Amon, his friend at the buttery, were already there, as well as several soldiers who were keeping a lookout, peering through the curious eyeglasses that Bards used for star-watching. Soron greeted Hem somberly and nodded toward Zelika.

"They're here, then," said Zelika.

"Aye," said Soron. "What was left of the II Dara forces came fleeing through the gates in the small hours of the night. And they were not long followed by the vanguards of the Black Army."

"What was left?" repeated Hem. "Why, are there not many?"

Soron hesitated before he answered. "They said there were some ten thousand fighters at the II Dara," he said. "And of those ten thousands, I think maybe ten hundreds came through the gate. And of those who came, many are wounded. For those left behind, they say there is no hope."