The Singing (3 page)

Do you think it's a Hull?
A red flash lit Maerad's eyes at the thought: Hulls were Bards who had allied themselves with the Dark, giving their power to the Nameless One in return for endless life. They filled her with a mixture of contempt and fear.

Most likely. I hope it is, because if it isn't, it is probably something worse. I wish that you were a Bard right now.

Maerad paused, and then asked,
Should I change?

Cadvan studied her thoughtfully for a moment, and then shook his head.
No,
he said.
I think we don't need to risk calling down more trouble on our heads and attract the Winterking as well. In

any case, you're dangerous enough as you are. A
ghost of a smile fleetingly lit his face, and then he turned away from the fire and was swallowed in shadow.

For some time, nothing happened. The moments passed with agonizing slowness: the approaching menace neither grew nor lessened. Perhaps, thought Maerad, whatever approached knew that they were aware of its presence. Her hunting senses were fully alert, and she didn't move a muscle. Nearby she heard Darsor shift his weight and breathe out heavily. She wondered fleetingly how many times she and Cadvan had stood in just such suspense, waiting to be attacked: it was more often than she liked to think.

Then something infinitesimal seemed to shift, although her acute senses couldn't trace what it was. She glanced quickly at Cadvan, and saw his hand tighten on his sword. Then a blast of light seared across the clearing where they were camped, hitting a tree behind Maerad, which burst into instant flame. Darsor didn't even flinch, but Maerad crouched low to the ground, growling in her throat, the shadows from the flaming branches flickering over her coat. Cadvan didn't strike back; he swore instead, and she turned in surprise. It was a moment before she understood why. It wasn't a Hull attacking them, after all: no Hull used White Fire.

That was a Bard,
he said.

Or Bards.

No, only one, I think.
Cadvan sighed heavily, and strengthened his shield,
I would say not a particularly powerful Bard. It explains the cloaking charm. It takes a powerful Hull to cloak its presence so thoroughly; Bards find it easier to hide themselves. But even if this Bard desires to kill us, I do not desire to kill any Bards. Though what a Bard is doing around here, I cannot begin to imagine...

They probably think you're a Hull,
said Maerad.
You should stop wearing black...

At that moment, another blast of White Fire flashed above them. It followed the last almost at once; their conversation had flashed between them as swiftly as thought itself.

The White Fire had broken the Bard's cloaking charm, and now Maerad could sense exactly where their attacker was. He was a few spans from them, just outside the copse; he was definitely a man, and definitely a Bard, and alone. But there was something wrong, all the same: even Maerad's muffled Bardic instincts could tell that there was something amiss in his magery

Can he harm us?
she asked, as another bolt of White Fire flashed over their heads.

I don't believe so. Though he may be holding something in reserve.

Shield me,
said Maerad.
Perhaps I can overpower him without hurting him.

Cadvan nodded, and as he cast a shield of magery to protect her, she felt the prickle of it in her skin. Then he lifted his hand and sent a blast of White Flame over the Bard's head to distract him, as Maerad began to move noiselessly out of the trees, circling behind their attacker so she could stalk him. Before long she was behind him, readying herself to pounce: his silhouette jumped out briefly, black against another flash of White Fire. She felt her puzzlement deepen as she watched him. He reminded her of nothing so much as a boy throwing stones at a tree, and his attack was about as effective. It made no sense at all.

She mindtouched Cadvan to warn him that she was about to attack, readied herself, and then leaped upon the Bard's back, knocking him to the ground and winding him. Falling without even a cry, he was taken so completely by surprise that he could do nothing to defend himself. He lay struggling for breath beneath Maerad's weight as she pinned him to the ground.

Within moments Cadvan had joined Maerad. He froze the Bard with a charm, rendering him utterly unable to move or to work magery. Maerad lifted her paws from his shoulders and sat on her haunches nearby. Now that there was no danger, she was overwhelmed with curiosity.

Cadvan waited until the Bard had stopped gasping, and then roughly sat him up and loosened the charm so he could speak, setting a small magelight before his face for illumination. It was difficult to tell how old he was, even given the difficulty of estimating any Bard's age. He looked like a man in his late fifties, but he was skeletally thin and his face was so seamed with suffering it made any guess impossible: he might have been much younger. He had a grotesque tic, so that he seemed to be always grimacing, and his flesh shone white through the rents in his filthy clothes. Although he must have known it was no use, he struggled violently against the freezing charm.

Maerad looked once into his eyes, and then turned her head away, battling an overwhelming animal panic. He's
mad,
she said to Cadvan.

Cadvan said nothing. He seemed to be bracing himself.

"It is no use trying any magery against us," he said to the Bard. Although he spoke harshly, Maerad could hear the pity in his voice. "And I don't recommend it."

The man stopped struggling and met Cadvan's gaze. His eyes glittered with hatred.

"Kill me, then," he said, and spat.

"I do not wish to kill you," said Cadvan. "That's the last thing I want to do."

"Then, I will kill you." The Bard's face twisted. "Get your monstrous beast to tear me to pieces. I will kill you if you do not kill me. So kill me."

"I don't want to kill you," said Cadvan again. "And you can't kill me." He paused. "What is your name?"

The Bard cackled, and Maerad jumped. It was a horrible sound, an expression of such despair that she went cold.

"Name? You ask my name? I don't have any name. What's yours, you spawn of the Dark? I know that such as you have no name either, so why do you ask me?"

"I have a name," said Cadvan. "And so do you." A halo of starlight began to bloom gently about Cadvan's form, and he leaned forward and pressed his palm against the man's forehead. After a time, Cadvan sighed deeply and took away his hand, and Maerad looked again at the Bard. His face slowly relaxed as the pain and hatred ebbed from his expression.

"Now," said Cadvan calmly, "what is your name?"

There was a long silence before the Bard answered, as if he had to search through his memory before he could find the right answer. "Hilarin," he said. "Hilarin of Pellinor."

Cadvan's face went white. "Hilarin of Pellinor?" he repeated.

Do you know him?
asked Maerad.

I have heard his name,
said Cadvan.
Hilarin of Pellinor was a famous singer, once.

"My friend, what has happened to you?" Cadvan spoke with a grieving gentleness and took his hand, but Hilarin snatched it back, rubbing it with his other hand as if the touch had soiled him. "It was thought that you were dead. Where have you been?"

"I don't know. I've been—I've been hunting . . ." Hilarin's words were confused, and Maerad saw the shadows gathering in his face again. Even Cadvan's magery couldn't keep his madness at bay for long. "There was a School here once and it has been taken and hidden. But I know where to find it. It's buried beneath the earth. They took it, those Dark Ones, the Dark Ones like you, I'll kill them all, you disgust me, you traitors . . ." He trailed off into a string of obscenities, and then began to weep helplessly. Maerad looked at Cadvan in bafflement.

What does he mean?

Cadvan's face was grim and sad.
Not much, I fear. Nonsense. I guess that the sack of Pellinor drove him mad. Or perhaps something else.

Maerad stared at Hilarin. This man, she thought, had once been a proud Bard of Pellinor. This drooling, broken man. She wondered how he had survived. She suddenly wanted to be sick.

What can we do with him?
she asked at last.
We can't leave him like this.

She felt the agony of indecision in Cadvan's mind.
No,
he said.
But neither can we take him with us. Our quest is too urgent to risk it with a madman. I wonder what happened to him ...

A vivid image rose in Maerad's mind: she saw again how her mother Milana, also a proud Bard, had been broken by Enkir, the First Bard of Annar, during the sack of Pellinor. It was Enkir, a traitor to the Light, who had led the assault on Pellinor when Maerad had been a small child. What he had done to her mother was one of Maerad's most painful memories. She thought she knew what might have happened to Hilarin.

Can you heal him?
asked Maerad.

Healing this is beyond my Knowing,
said Cadvan. I"
can but offer a little relief, a little rest. And perhaps set a thought in his dreams, to lead him where he might find some respite. Lirigon would be the closest place...

He sat down next to Hilarin and began to weave a charm, murmuring words from the Speech in a low voice. The Bard at once sank into a deep sleep; but that was only the beginning of Cadvan's magery. Maerad watched him for a while, and then, realizing that he would be some time, she wandered back to the fire.

Darsor was a seasoned warrior: knowing that the skirmish was over, he had already fallen asleep again. Maerad didn't wake him. She lay with her nose to the fire, as deeply depressed

as she had ever been. She wasn't sure if she had seen anything more pitiable in her life.
Hilarin of Pellinor was a famous singer, once.
And now ...

Cadvan returned later, his face gray with weariness, and laid his hand lightly on Maerad's pelt.

You should sleep,
she said, turning to him as he sat down beside her.

Soon,
he answered.

Will Hilarin ever heal?

I don't think so,
he said.
Something is so deeply broken in him that I think it will never mend. I have done what I can; he will sleep for a long time, and I have shielded him so he will be safe. And when we are far from here, he will wake up and make his way to Lirigon, where there are healers who might be able to soothe his suffering, if nothing else.

What happened to him is like what has happened to this country,
said Maerad.

Aye,
said Cadvan.
It is. The Dark does its work thoroughly. What can we do against such wills that work these things?
Cadvan picked up a stick and stirred the embers of the fire; sparks flew up into the night.
We do what we can,
he said.
But is there any hope?

Cadvan said nothing for a while. When he spoke, his voice was harsh.
There is always hope,
he said.

MAERAD and Cadvan arrived in Innail in the late afternoon, just as the high pale blue of the winter sky was darkening toward a frosty, moonless evening. The sight of the white walls in the distance, glimmering under the stars that burned huge and still in the clear sky, made Maerad's heart beat painfully in her breast.

When she and Cadvan had left Innail, just under a year ago now, she had thought that she might never see it again. To be in a School again after all their hard journeying was for Maerad the best part of bliss, but Innail held a special place in her heart. It was here, in this center of Bardic learning and Making, that she had first found what it meant to be a Bard. And it was here that she had first encountered the meaning of human kindness.

Cadvan would not let her change from her wolf shape until they were well inside the School, and as a result he had argued at Innail's gate for some time. Cadvan would not identify himself, and the guard didn't recognize him. Aside from that, the guard was very dubious about letting in a wild animal, especially one as big and powerful-looking as Maerad. She had tried to look as docile as possible, all but rolling on her back in her efforts to show how harmless she was. Finally, on Cadvan's insistence, their friend Malgorn appeared and, after a hurried consultation with Cadvan, sternly informed the wolf in the Speech that she was welcome, but that she was not to chase or eat any of the hens or ducks or other domestic animals.

Maerad flashed an ironic glance to Cadvan as Malgorn ordered the gates open, and he winked solemnly as he led her and Darsor inside.

"By the Light, Cadvan, what are you doing with a wolf?" asked Malgorn as he hurried them through the outer streets. "Where am I going to put it? I can hardly place it in the stables; the horses would go mad, no matter how tame it is."

"The house will do fine, old friend," said Cadvan. "Surely you have a spare bedchamber?"

"For a wolf?" Malgorn boggled briefly and then, clearly deciding that Cadvan was either joking or out of his mind, dropped the subject. They went to the stables, where Cadvan saw Darsor comfortably housed and well fed, and then turned their steps toward Silvia and Malgorn's house. Maerad stuck close to Cadvan, fearing that she might, after all, be housed in the stables: what she wanted above all was a bath and a good supper. Malgorn watched her warily, but made no comment, even when she entered his front door and followed the Bards into the music room. Maerad thought he seemed reserved, even stiff. He stood in the doorway uncertainly, as if he were trying to think of what to say.

"How about one of your marvelous brews?" asked Cadvan, flinging himself on the couch. "I tell you, Malgorn, I have a well-earned thirst. And I am a mort tired."

"Of course," said Malgorn, almost with relief, and hurried to get some wine.

Something is wrong,
Maerad said. Is
it because he is nervous around wolves?

Malgorn? I think not. Remember, the lore of animals is his Knowing,
Cadvan answered.
In any case, you can change now.

Maerad sat on her haunches and grew still, seeking that deep inner place where the names fell away and she was no longer Maerad nor Elednor nor anyone else. She felt herself become clear and empty, the still point of transformation where all possibilities opened.
Be Maerad,
she told herself.
Be me.

There was an ease about her transforming that almost astonished her, as if she had been shapeshifting since she was a baby. But always before she did it there was a moment of dread, a fear that ran through her veins like cold water. To reach that point of being no one, she had to forget everything she knew about herself, and this was more frightening than she cared to admit. As she transformed, there was that flash of pure agony, as if, for the briefest moment, she had been thrown into a fire. And then she wasn't a wolf anymore.

"I don't think I'll ever get used to your doing that," said Cadvan mildly. "I have never seen anything so strange."

Maerad shook her head as if she were shaking her thick winter wolf's ruff, and stretched out her arms. There was still something wolfish about her gestures.

"That's so much better," she said, sighing. "But, you know, Cadvan, I think you're right: I have been too much wolf."

Cadvan opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment Malgorn bustled in with a carafe. He stopped in the doorway, his mouth open.

"Maerad!" he said. "Where did you come from?"

"Greetings, Malgorn," said Maerad. "I'm sorry I couldn't say so before. Cadvan didn't want anyone to know that I was here."

Malgorn plumped down next to Cadvan on the couch, holding the carafe like one in a daze. Cadvan gently removed it from his hands.

"Allow me to pour a drink, my dear friend," he said to Malgorn.

Malgorn didn't answer. He was still staring at Maerad. "Cadvan, what black magery is this?" he said at last. "What have you brought into this house?"

Malgorn was flushed with anger, and Maerad glanced nervously at Cadvan. Were they to be thrown out of Innail, after all? But Cadvan looked unperturbed.

"Malgorn, you know Maerad. Maerad of Edil-Amarandh, if you want her proper name these days. I know it's astounding that she can change her shape, but that doesn't make her a wer nor any creature of the Dark."

"Cadvan, these are perilous days . . . are you mad? Have you any idea what is happening here? And you dare to bring a creature of the Dark into my
house?"

Cadvan leaned forward and clasped Malgorn's hand.

"My friend, if ever you have trusted me, trust me in this. I know well that these are dark times. None know better than I do. But I swear to you, by the Light itself, that neither Maerad nor I have any dealings with the Dark. And I would never endanger the safety of those I love as well as you and Silvia by inviting the Dark into your home."

Malgorn held Cadvan's eyes a moment, and looked over toward Maerad. Maerad, hurt and offended, met his gaze, and Malgorn flinched and looked down at his feet.

"My tale since we last met is a strange one," said Maerad. Her voice was cold with anger. "I have faced death and seen the death of some I love. I have spoken with the Elidhu. I have found the Treesong. I have risked so much, suffered so much, as part of our struggle against the Dark. And then you say ..."

Her voice broke, and she turned away and looked out the window.

There was a heavy silence. Cadvan stood up and took some glasses from a shelf on the far side of the room, poured some laradhel into one of them, and handed it to Malgorn. He then poured out another measure and gave it to Maerad.

"Old friend," said Cadvan, filling another glass for himself and sniffing its rich smell. "If we do not trust one another, we are already defeated."

Malgorn sat up and sighed. He lifted his glass to Maerad and drank it down in one gulp.

"I am sorry," he said. "Maerad, I am sorry. These are fearful times, and fear does not make us wise."

Maerad turned to face him and tried to smile. "I know," she said. "We have all suffered ..." She studied Malgorn's face, noting for the first time how tired and strained he looked, and a terrible thought occurred to her. "Malgorn, is Silvia ... is Silvia well? Is she ..."

Silvia, Malgorn's wife, was probably the main reason Maerad had longed for Innail these past harsh months. Her kindness had opened Maerad's eyes to another world, a world very different from Gilman's Cot, the brutish slave settlement in which she had spent her childhood. Maerad could not have borne it if something had happened to Silvia.

"Aye, aye, she's well," said Malgorn hastily, seeing the look on Maerad's face. "You mustn't worry. She's busy, but I've told her that Cadvan is here, and she will come as soon as she can. She asked after you, Maerad ..."

Maerad sighed with relief, and sat down on the couch, cradling her glass. Suddenly she felt exhausted. Malgorn and Cadvan began to talk and she listened idly, with no desire to participate in the conversation.

Shortly afterward, when Silvia still did not appear, Malgorn disappeared to organize beds for the two travelers. To her delight, Maerad was given the same chamber she had slept in last time she had been in Innail. A friendly woman whom she did not know gave her clean clothes. Maerad dumped her pack on the floor and immediately repaired to the bathroom where, with a feeling of inexpressible bliss, she lowered herself into the hot water and washed off all the grime of travel.

She avoided looking at her left hand as she washed. The two fingers she had lost to frostbite made it an ugly claw, and she felt ashamed whenever she caught sight of it. She was getting used to compensating and could now do most things without too much difficulty, but she tried to keep it out of sight whenever possible. With a hand so maimed, she could no longer play music whenever she wished; and every time she glimpsed her missing fingers, she remembered her loss anew.

Finally she dressed in the clean clothes, sighing for the sheer pleasure of the soft fabrics against her skin, and made her way to the music room. It was now full night and the lamps were lit, casting a soft glow. For this brief suspended time, she pretended nothing was wrong: that she was just an ordinary Bard, that she had never heard of the Nameless One, the Dark power who now made war on all Edil-Amarandh. Tonight she would eat a delicious dinner, and tomorrow she would resume her studies ...

She curled up on a red couch and waited for Cadvan. Right now she was very content to be alone. This room was her favorite in the house. Though her bedchamber was her favorite room as well... and she loved the bathroom too, with its deep stone bath and bottles of scented oils and endless supply of hot water. Her gaze swept lazily across the pale yellow walls with their stenciled flowers, the musical instruments stacked casually against the bookshelves, the mullioned window, and returned to the fire in the grate, which burned brightly against the cold winter evening.

It felt like an age since she had last been here, although it had been less than a year. Would that shy girl who had arrived last spring, ashamed of her rags and tangled hair, ignorant of Bards and Schools and Magery, recognize the Maerad who sat here now? Perhaps she would have gazed in wonder at her as at a figure out of legend: Maerad of Edil-Amarandh, the Fire Lily, who had spoken with the Elemental Ardina, Queen of Rachida, Daughter of the Moon—the same who had traveled to the very north of the world and seen cold curtains of light danc

ing in the sky, and had escaped the clutches of Arkan, the Ice Witch, himself. Maerad the shapeshifter, who could become a wolf at will. Maerad the Chosen, the Fated, the One, whose destiny was to save Edil-Amarandh from the Dark.

Maerad the Unpredictable, she added, thinking of an old joke of Cadvan's. But I am really quite predictable. I don't want any of these fine names. I don't want these mysterious powers that frighten good people and make the Dark hunt me down. I just want to stay where I am and to sleep in a bed with clean linen sheets and a warm coverlet. And I don't want to be cold or hungry or sad ever again.

Although, for as long as she could remember, Maerad had always been sad.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of Silvia, who stopped dead in surprise when she saw Maerad and then, when Maerad stood up, came forward and embraced her hard, kissing the top of her head.

"Maerad!" she said, standing back and earnestly examining Maerad's face. "What a relief! When I was told only Cadvan had arrived, I feared the worst... but here you are!"

Maerad smiled with pure happiness. "Here I am!" she said. "And it's so good to be here. Innail is as beautiful as I remembered."

"Aye. But things have changed since last you were here." Silvia's clear brow briefly darkened, but she shook her head, putting those thoughts aside. "But—wasn't there a wolf? Malgorn said Cadvan had lost his mind and insisted on bringing a wolf into the house."

Maerad laughed. "That was me," she said. "Cadvan didn't want anyone to know that I was here."

Silvia stared at Maerad for a time without speaking, her face expressionless. "You?" she said at last.

"Yes." Maerad gazed back at Silvia with a stab of sadness, feeling again the gulf that lay between her and those she loved. "I can shapeshift. It's one of the things I have found out about myself." She wondered whether she should tell Silvia about her Elemental self, those inborn powers that made her different from other Bards—but she couldn't, for the moment, face the thought. Bards deeply distrusted the Elidhu, the Elemental entities whose ways had long been sundered from humankind, and Maerad felt she couldn't bear to see the doubt it would raise in Silvia's face. Another time. "It's part of—part of my Gift."

"I can see that there's an interesting story to tell," said Silvia. "We can do that over dinner. Malgorn's arranged it, so it's sure to be good—even in these hard times, we in Innail take pride in our table." She smiled, reaching for Maerad's hand, and went still with shock. Blushing, Maerad pulled back her hand and concealed it again in the folds of her dress, where she had kept it hidden from Silvia's eyes. Very gently, Silvia reached out and took her maimed hand, pressing it between both of her own.

"Oh, Maerad," she said, her voice hoarse with sorrow.

"It—I lost some fingers in the cold," said Maerad awkwardly. "It's all right. I can do most things."

"But you can't play your lyre with your hand like that!" said Silvia, putting her finger straight on the deepest wound. "My dear. I am so sorry... Oh, this world!" she cried with sudden passion, her eyes brimming with tears. "It is filled with such hurts!"

Maerad, her face averted, had nothing to say. But Silvia gathered her into her arms and hugged her again, and then said, her voice muffled by Maerad's hair, "And it is full of such joys, and we must not forget those. I thought of you every day, and feared I would not see you again. I am so glad that you are back." Suddenly she became brisk. "I think that both of us need something to drink. Or at least, I do. I'm pretty sure there's wine in here somewhere ..."