The Crow (39 page)

Hem found that shadow hunting was surprisingly nerve-racking. He would stand in the dark, rigid with alertness, hearing perhaps the smallest breath here, sensing a shift of air there, catching maybe the whiff of Hared's sweat or Zelika's musky smell. He had not realized that he knew their scents until he played this game. He learned how to stand absolutely still, how to control his breathing to make it soundless, how to step slowly and surely in the dark, using all the muscles in his feet to feel out the floor, how to minimize the air's movement around him. He would creep in the dark for what seemed like ages, sure that he had pinpointed a body a step or so away, only to find that somehow he had imagined its presence. And whenever, as happened most often, Hared slipped his cold hands around his neck, Hem leaped out of his skin with fright.

The first time he managed to catch Hared, he could see the Bard was grimly pleased. After that, he began to find it easier; he became aware that he had an intuitive feeling for bodily presence, which he could hone into a sense almost as good as sight. He was much better than Zelika at this game, and once, after Hem caught her three times in a row, she accused him of cheating. Hem was outraged, and only Hared's sharp reprimand stopped them from coming to blows.

There were also lessons that Hem had alone, which he found himself enjoying most of all, not least because he was free of Zelika's relentless competitiveness. In these sessions, Hared taught him the major charms of concealment and disguise: the glimveil that glances aside a watching eye; the art of shadowmazing that confuses tracks and makes them difficult to follow; various kinds of mageshields, to hide the telltale glow of Bardic magery from Hulls; and the skill of semblance making, the creation of likenesses that can be used to fool an enemy. Hem was quick and adept at these spells, and actually surprised Hared when he demonstrated the difficult disguising spell that Saliman had taught him, long ago, in Turbansk; it was the one time Hem saw Hared genuinely impressed.

But what Hem was really waiting for was the chance to go above ground. He had begun to hunger for sunlight and wind with a passion; at night before he went to sleep, he tried to remember what it was like to walk beneath an open sky. It felt like years since he had seen stars. But Hared continued to train them in the underground city, with no word of leaving. They worked long, boring, monotonous hours, repeating the same exercises over and over again until they began to feel entirely meaningless. Remembering Saliman's stricture that if Hared's report was less than excellent they would not work for him, they bit back any complaints. Ire was even more bored than the children, but he continued his unusually good behavior, although this required a lot of bribery on Hem's part. All of them had had their fill of darkness.

Hem didn't speak to anyone about the tree man for some days. Partly it was because their training took up most of their time: Hared was devoting all his attention to the children. He clearly thought the work they were doing was important, as important as his many other duties – for Hared was busy, and Bards from Nal-Ak-Burat were always leaving and reappearing. Also, as the days passed and the memory of his encounter with the tree man receded behind his daily activities, Hem became less sure that he hadn't had some kind of fit and, overcome by the strange atmosphere in the cavern, imagined the whole incident. In any case, he wasn't sure how to put the experience into words. So much of it, especially when the tree man had breathed in his ear, escaped his language. Sometimes he woke in an anguish of loss from dreams in which he was again in the breath of that music, tossed in that infinite, intolerably beautiful harmony; but he had no words for that, either.

He didn't attempt to speak of it to Zelika, who simply assumed that Hem had fainted and had been raving when he came to. He was too afraid that she would laugh. The only person he could trust enough to talk to was Saliman, and it was difficult to find time alone with him without Zelika becoming curious. But he found himself constantly dwelling on the tree man; there were, he noticed now, paintings of him all over Nal-Ak-Burat. When he had the chance, he examined them curiously. Who was he? What was his name? Was he some kind of Elemental, an Elidhu? Had the people of Nal-Ak-Burat perhaps worshipped him, as Zelika had said some people in the south worshipped the Light?

Maerad had told Hem that they had Elemental blood; she said she had even spoken to Ardina, a wood Elidhu, although Maerad's description of that Elidhu did not sound anything like the creature Hem had seen. Nelac had seemed to think that the Treesong, which Maerad had gone north with Cadvan to find, was something to do with the Elidhu. It was difficult not to think that the Treesong might have something to do with the tree man. And, after all, Saliman had said that Hem had some part in Maerad's quest; that was why he had kept him in Turbansk for the siege, instead of sending him away with the other students. Perhaps this was what Saliman had meant?
One for the singing and one for the music.
But then Hem would wonder again if he had imagined the whole thing; it seemed too like a dream.

Hem's chance came when Hared gave the children a rare day off. Nimikera asked Zelika for some help with the children, as she had sickened again from her wound. Zelika disappeared to the children's room, and Hem helped Saliman prepare the herbs to treat Nimikera's fever. Nimikera gave Hem a surprised glance when he entered her bed chamber with Saliman, but she did not object to his presence. She drew back her robe from her breast, and Hem and Saliman (accompanied by interested peeps from Ire) gravely examined her wound; it was a red slash running down from her throat almost to her stomach. But although it looked nasty, Hem saw straight away that it was a flesh wound, which miraculously had not pierced any vital organs. Another scar ran across her stomach, a white line, long healed, and Hem wondered about Nimikera's history.

"It looks as though the blade was poisoned," he said to her. "We had many such at Turbansk. The edges of the wound fester, and there is fever. But this must be a slow poison, I think; otherwise you would already be dead."

"It comes and goes," said Nimikera. "I curse it; each time I think I am recovering, I find myself abed again. This was done to me nigh on three months ago, and still it will not heal."

"You have no ill effects from that previous wound?" asked Hem. He had fallen easily into the role of healer again; here he felt at home, sure of where to place his hands, of how to speak, of what his instincts told him. Nimikera again gave him a curious glance – Hem was still a boy, and to the long-lived Bards he was considered very young indeed. Yet he was speaking like one of the wise, an equal to Saliman.

"I was left for dead after the sack of Terr-Niken," she said. "Which might be counted as an ill effect – both the sack and the sword."

"I meant, now," Hem said gently, meeting her eyes.
Jerr-Niken?
he thought, remembering that, like Pellinor, that School had been razed to the ground and its Bards massacred by the Dark some years before. That no doubt explained Nimikera's grimness. "Sometimes wounds like this one can inflame old injuries." There was a short pause.

"No. No ill effects."

"You have a living sickness in your blood, I think." He turned to Saliman inquiringly. "What do you think, Saliman? If it comes and goes, it is not a simple poison."

"Aye, it seems so to me. To cleanse it thoroughly will take some magery. Hem, I can deal with this one; you look tired."

Hem nodded; he
was
tired. He left the tiny bed chamber and went back to the meal room, which was empty. While he waited for Saliman, he prepared some mint tea and sipped it morosely, thinking of Oslar. This was the first time Hem had been called on to do any healing since he had left Turbansk; it made him reflect on the training he was doing with Hared. It was difficult to imagine anyone more different from Oslar than Hared. Where Oslar emanated the kind of gentleness that comes from great strength, Hared had not a trace of gentleness. All the same, Hem thought, Hared was not weak; the past days of training had made him respect Hared's sternness, which he applied as unsparingly to himself as to others. But perhaps it was a kind of blindness. For the first time since he had decided to work for Hared, he wondered if he was really doing the right thing.

Saliman entered, interrupting Hem's musings. His face was gray with exhaustion.

"I'll have some of that," he said, pointing to the mint tea. Hem poured some into a little tin cup and handed it to him as Saliman sat down, sighing.

"She sleeps," he said. "But that was a hard one. You were right, Hem, it was not an ordinary poison. That's why the healings hadn't worked on her earlier. They don't have any real healers here; it is the one thing they lack."

"Irisanu isn't bad," said Hem.

"Aye. But she is a healer in the way that most Bards are; it is not her especial gift. There are some things she cannot do."

They sat in companionable silence for a time, pursuing their own thoughts. Then Hem roused himself.

"Saliman, something happened, that first day of training," he said.

"Hmm?" Saliman looked up. "I've been meaning to ask how you're finding Hared's tuition. He seems quite pleased with your progress, even though he won't say so."

"Well, this wasn't really anything to do with the training. And, you know, I'm not quite sure what happened. Maybe I had some kind of – I don't know, some kind of fit..." Hem hesitated, and then started to tell what had happened in the cavern. When he mentioned the tree man, Saliman sat up and began to pay real attention.

"... and then he leaned over to me, and he
breathed.
Into my ear. And there was this music..." Hem stumbled to a halt, and Saliman waited patiently for him to find the words. "I don't know how to describe it – it was like I was
in
the music, and I
was
the music at the same time. It was so beautiful I couldn't bear it, but I never wanted it to stop. It was like... everything. Like the whole sky, all the stars, the whole earth, rock and tree and river, were all music. And something happened to me, Saliman, I don't know, it's like the music changed me. It went into me and now I'm different, it's part of me somehow. The music is always there now, not just when I dream it. Like that poison in Nimikera's blood, only it's not harmful."

Silence fell between them, and Saliman thoughtfully finished his tea.

"I am quite sure it was not a fit," he said slowly. "I don't understand what happened, Hem. I can't pretend I do. But I think you are right that it was an Elidhu who spoke with you. Once the Elementals were very present in the Suderain. I wonder which Elidhu it was."

He pondered deeply for a time, and Hem watched his face. Saliman, he thought suddenly, is a very beautiful man. Why have I never thought this before? He carries a light inside him, even when he is somber and sad; it is like a joyous melody that is always there, that shines all the more brightly and poignantly for the darker chords that play around it. Sometimes it is laughter, because he loves making people laugh, but that is only its outer garment. People begin to glow when he is around.
I
glow.

He shook himself. He wasn't used to thoughts like that.

"And the tree man said,
a sister and brother?"
said Saliman at last. "Well, Hem, my Knowing told me that there is a part you must play in this story. A Bard's Knowing is a difficult thing; it will not always present itself in words, and sometimes it seems to run against the grain of common sense. But it seems that the Dark was not so misled as we thought, in kidnapping you. Yes, they were arrogant and ignorant in their dismissal of Maerad; but it seems that this riddle has two halves."

He gave Hem a penetrating glance, and then studied his hands. "I cannot be sure, but I think this Elemental is a being who was called Nyanar. He is mentioned in the chronicles, and he is linked with this area; but like most Elidhu, he withdrew during the Great Silence, and there has been no report of his kind for hundreds of years. And now there is so much that is lost and impossible to understand."

"So he was on our side?" said Hem.

"The Elidhu are not on any side, Hem. Our affairs are meaningless to them, and theirs to us: except, perhaps, in this one question of the Treesong – I wish I knew what it meant. But you must remember that the Elementals are beyond our Knowing and our bidding, and are perilous, as fire is perilous. But, somehow, they need you; and that is interesting. There is some old grudge against the Nameless One. The Elidhu are held by many Bards to be in league with Sharma, and so are feared and distrusted. And it is certainly true some came under his dominance: the Landrost, whom Maerad spoke of, is one. But I for one have never believed they were all his slaves."

Hem nodded slowly. What Saliman was saying made him feel edgy.

"If the Treesong is to be played, it needs music, no?" added Saliman, looking up and smiling. "Don't look so glum, Hem. You and Maerad, you must travel dark paths, but few can avoid such paths now. And it seems that we are not alone in our struggle against the Dark. There is a great hope in that."

"Yes, but hope for what?" said Hem.

"For an end to this present darkness," Saliman answered. "That something of the Light will survive our time, even if it is but the tiniest seed lodged in the deepest crevice. Sometimes, Hem, hope is a very small thing."

The two fell into silence again. Then Saliman laughed. "Remember this?" he said, and, to Hem's surprise, began to chant in a singsong voice:

"One is the singer, hidden from sunlight

Two is the seeker, fleeing from shadows

Three is the journey, taken in danger

Four are the riddles, answered in Treesong..."

Despite himself, Hem smiled: he hadn't heard that chant since he was about six years old. "It's only an old rhyme," he said. "We used it in games."

"Many forgotten wisdoms are preserved in those old rhymes. Which are you, I wonder? Singer or seeker? Seeker, perhaps?"