Pellinor: The Singing Part 10

Hekibel flicked the reins, and the horses started into a shambling trot, with the dog running alongside. The caravan creaked beneath them and began to move, its wheels very loud on the road. The gates were not far, and they pa.s.sed through them quickly, lifting a hand to the weary-eyed soldiers now at the end of their night watch who had opened them to let the caravan through.

"This is more fun than walking!" Hem said.

"Well," said Hekibel. "You get a view. But we've got a way to go yet. See how you feel at the end of the day!"

The eastern sky was now beginning to lighten, revealing a green landscape shrouded by mist and low clouds. They journeyed northward through the Fesse of Til Amon, undulating country dotted by small woods and prosperous farms. These were mostly deserted now, their inhabitants taking refuge in the School, but this early in the morning they all looked very peaceful. A light rain began to fall, and the horses snorted and flicked their tails and pushed on. The caravan rumbled along the road, swaying slightly. Hem watched the colors of the landscape deepen and fill as the sun rose, and his heart lifted with joy.

THE WEIGHT OF THE WORLD.

Down came the hail, a frosty flail, Down fell the icy rain. The torches flared with desperate light And savage lightning stabbed the night Which screamed like a soul in pain.

His black brow bound with clouds around The Landrost raised his hand: "Be they so fair and strong and tall, I'll crush these walls and golden halls And I will rule this land!"

Their hearts aflame, defenders came With staff and sword and bow And bravely on the walls arrayed, Where Innail's maid stood unafraid Before her stormy foe.

"Not all your might gives you the right In our fair streets to tread, And you'Il not take this fearless town For Til cast down your iron crown Or die," the lady said.

From The Ballad of the Maid of Innail, Anon.

Chapter VII.

THE MAID OF INNAIL.

MAERAD thought the cold would never leave her. It seemed to have entered her very marrow: her bones felt as if they were made of ice. She crouched by the fire in the Watch House, a blanket around her shoulders, slowly spooning down a plate of hot stew. Cadvan watched her anxiously, as a mother watches a child who has pa.s.sed the crisis of a deathly illness.

It was midafternoon, not long since the Landrost had almost crushed her, and she still felt deeply shaken. It had been a close call, perhaps the closest she had ever had, and the aftershocks ran through her in fits of shivering.

The attacks on Innail had halted altogether when Maerad had collapsed, and after a while even the storm outside Innail had begun to calm. The defenders could now see some distance over the walls, although the light was still dim, darkening toward an early evening beneath louring clouds. Below milled an army of perhaps two or three thousand mountain men, grouped out of bowshot. They looked cold and wet, and their only shelter was some skin huts; but there was that about them that suggested grim determination. There was no sign of the wers, although the sense of their menacing presence wasn't far away.

When it was clear they had won a respite, Malgorn had called the captains into the Watch House for a brief council.

"They wait for nightfall, when the wers are at their strongest," Indik said to the exhausted Bards. "And there is no moon tonight. But we have beaten back the first onslaught.

Chiefly thanks, I believe, to Maerad." He saluted her with his sword, and the other Bards followed suit.

"And what do you think will happen at nightfall?" asked Malgorn.

"I don't know," Indik said simply. "All I know is, whatever it is, we won't like it. We have not enough fighters to choose to attack them, and so we await the Landrost's pleasure; for the moment, I think, we have no choice." He looked briefly across at Maerad again, a cool glance, a.s.sessing her; shivering by the fire, she looked like a fragile child. "And we might as well rest and gather our strength while we can."

"Such as it is," said Malgorn. "I've ordered a guard on all the walls, and as many rest as can be spared from that. There are a lot of injuries."

"How many dead?" asked Silvia.

"Two score, by the latest count," said Malgorn. "Of those, twelve were Bards. I just heard that Irina died of her injuries." There was a brief, blank silence.

"Two score," said Indik at last, sighing heavily. "The Landrost can blink at losing ten times that number, but for us, each death counts. There are not enough of us. And the a.s.sault has not even begun, I fear. On the other hand, I do not believe that this is a battle that will be won on strength of arms ..."

The Bards were silent again. There didn't, in truth, seem anything to say. Their situation was clear: they were heavily outnumbered by a formidable foe, who could summon forces that only Maerad had even a hope of understanding. Some Bards looked doubtfully at the frail figure by the fire, wondering if they had any hope at all.

Malgorn asked Cadvan to remain in the Watch House and keep in mindtouch with the Bards posted around the walls of the School. Then all the Bards departed, saluting Maerad as they left, to take care of various urgent duties, or simply to sleep while they could. Maerad's head was bowed and she did not even see this gesture of respect until Silvia bent down and embraced her, kissing her forehead. After they had gone, the room seemed very quiet.

Maerad was wondering what use she could possibly be to Innail now. She hadn't been frightened before; the battle had seemed no worse than other terrors she had already faced, and she had thought herself toughened, inured to them. But now she was terrified. When she thought about the moment in which the Landrost had perceived her, and what had followed, an abyss opened inside her. It was more than a fear of death, although that was part of it; what frightened her more than anything was how lost she had been, the dizzying infinity of the s.p.a.ce that had opened within her. It was far stranger than the loss of self she felt when she transformed into a wolf; that was something deep inside her, whereas this seemed to be far outside, an immeasurable distance. She tried, stumblingly, to put it in words for Cadvan, and he nodded, his eyes dark.

"Maerad, the universe is endless," he said, staring into the fire. "It is a thing that people find hard to even begin to comprehend. How can anything go on and on forever? How can there be no point where it all finishes? And yet it does not. . . and I suppose you are one of the few who has had, as it were, a personal experience of that..."

Maerad shuddered. "It was alla"black. And empty. I can't explain. It was so big that distance and time meant nothing, nothing at all."

"There's an old story from Lanorial about a king who was speaking to a Bard who visited his court," said Cadvan. "And the king asked the Bard what a human life was. And the Bard said: imagine that it is night outside your hall, and a swallow swoops through the window of your court, lord, and out of the opposite window. For the briefest moment, for an eyeblink, it flies through the light; then all again is darkness. Life is that brief moment of light, no more, no less."

Maerad sat in silence for a time, brooding. "It was kind of like that," she said. "That huge darkness. Only even a swallow's flight is not brief enough. . . . There wasn't even a memory of light. I was almost nothing at all. I don't know how I came back."

"The important thing is that you did come back."

"It's because you called me, isn't it?"

Cadvan hesitated. "I think so," he said. "At least, I know I called you, and perhaps that is what you heard."

"It was you." Maerad looked up at Cadvan, but his face was averted. "How did you know how to find me?"

"I didn't know." He was silent again. "I thought that I had lost you."

Maerad couldn't see the expression on Cadvan's face, but her heart gave a little leap at his words. Once she had feared that Cadvan valued her only for what she represented as the One who, so the prophecies said, was the key to the Nameless One's defeat. She knew now that he valued her for herself, as a friend; but lately he had said things that seemed to mean more. The thought confused and alarmed her, and she pushed it away. Of course she and Cadvan were dear to each other: that was all he meant.

Neither of them mentioned Arkan, the Winterking, although the thought of him stood between them, a dark and troubling turbulence. They had seldom spoken about him since Maerad and Cadvan had reunited in Pellinor. She didn't know how to begin to speak of her feelings for Arkan. Sometimesa" most of the timea"they seemed completely reasonless, the foolish infatuation of a stupid girl, and she was ashamed of herself.

And yet. . . what was it that made her heart lift at the thought of his voice? She hated the Winterking: he had murdered Dharin, and because of him she had lost her fingers. And yet...

Maerad shook her head impatiently. She was too exhausted to think, but she had to; the Winterking's presence made everything more complicated. He knew, she thought with a strange mixture of terror, despair, and excitement, where she was. Perhaps he wasn't far from here at all. The Landrost was one thing, the Winterking quite another. And now she owed Arkan a debt: he had saved her life.

Staring into the fire, she tried to think through her feelings. Why was she so terrified now? Everything was exactly as frightening as it had been when they had first seen the storm clouds over Innail. But now she felt that her fear was paralyzing, draining her of all her will. She remembered what Cadvan had told her once about the wers: Their worst weapon is fear. Yes, the Landrost was frightening; yes, that moment when he had nearly crushed her into nothing was terrifying. But she had survived, all the same; and she knew, in some cold, inner part of herself, that she had power enough to challenge the Landrost, if only she knew how to use it, if only she weren't so exhausted. This fear was something else.

It must be the Winterking. She literally did not know what she felt, or what she might do if, by some strange chance, he should appear in Innail. How could he? He had told her himself of the pain of his banishment from Arkan-da, of how the Elidhu were tied to their place, how place was their being, in some crucial way she didn't understand. But on the other hand, the Winterking had been at Afinil, so he could leave the mountains if he wished. And if he were here, she had no doubt it would be for his own reasons: he would want to recapture her, to take her back to his Ice Palace. And she knew that part of her yearned to go with him. No matter that he coldly wished to use her as a p.a.w.n for his own purposes; even the knowledge of that made it no easier to turn away from his voice.

She wished she could read the alliances and interests of the Elementals, but they were too unpredictable. They served neither Dark nor Light, but their own ends. Ardina had helped Maerad, had even saved her life; but Ardina had her own inscrutable goals, which Maerad did not understand. Even the Landrost could not be wholly the p.a.w.n of the Nameless One, however deeply he moved in his shadow. Obviously the Elidhu wanted the Treesong, and because of that, they were interested in Maerad: the runes were not enough in themselves, they somehow had to be undone. As the Winterking had scornfully told her, the Treesong was a song; it had to be played. And it had to be played by Maerad, who had no music to play it by, and who did not understand anything.

She sighed deeply. Her ruminations always seemed to return to the same place: that she didn't know what she was doing, and that everything, all the same, seemed to depend on her. She felt very small and stupid; she didn't know how she would not disappoint all the hopes in her. And at the same time, she felt a small stab of anger: why her?

She finished the last of her stew and stood up shakily to put the empty plate on the table. "I'm deathly tired," she said, turning to Cadvan. "Even the medhyl doesn't help much. If the Landrost decided to strike now, I'd be as much use as a piece of wet string."

Cadvan studied her face. "You're a slightly better color," he said. "Before, you looked as if you had no blood in you at all." He hesitated, and then asked if she felt capable of feeling out the Landrost again.

"I do not ask you to do anything that might put you in the same danger in which you were before," he said. "But at the same time ..."

"I know." Maerad looked up at Cadvan, pushing her hair back from her face. "I know you have to ask, Cadvan. I just can't now, but maybe in a little while."

Night stole over Innail. The sun was so shrouded in thick clouds that the transition was imperceptible: the shadows simply deepened and deepened until the darkness seemed almost a solid thing. As the temperature dropped in the late afternoon, a heavy fog began to roll down from the mountains in slow waves. Indik watched in consternation. He did not think the weatherwards would keep the fog out: storm was one thing, mist another.

He sent out a warning to the defenders on the far wall, who would not have seen the fog, and briefly thought of contacting Maerad, to see if she could tell whether the mist was of the Landrost's making. Then he thought better of it. The truth was that Indik had been shocked by Maerad's state earlier, and had pulled himself up short: it did not seem right, it hurt his warrior pride, to be depending so heavily on a mere slip of a girl for victory against such a fearsome foea"however astonishing her abilities might be. Such a creature, barely out of childhood, ought to be looking to Indik for protection, not the other way around ... and yet, what choice did they have?

As Indik stolidly kept watch, the fog rolled over the foothills of the mountain and began to spread toward Innail. The air was very still, magnifying a sense of growing tension. On either side of the wall, every sound had an unnatural clarity: Indik could hear the soldiers nearby talking softly or stamping their feet in the cold, the movement of the men outside Innail as they lit fires and made camp, a dog barking in the distance, the irregular clink of metal, footsteps ringing on the stone roads. Then, with a surprising swiftness, the fog reached Innail, covering everything like a white sea. All sound was instantly m.u.f.fled and distorted and he could no longer tell its direction.

Indik cursed softly; it was impossible to see ten spans in front of his nose. Below him, the fires lit by the mountain men had become rosy blurs in the darkness. He turned around and stared down across the streets of Innail; vague shapes of buildings loomed through the murk, marked by pale blooms of light where Bardic lamps illuminated the streets, but otherwise he could see nothing. Indik's warrior senses p.r.i.c.kled: he did not trust this quiet. He sharpened his hearing, and mindtouched Cadvan.

Yes? said Cadvan at once.

How is Maerad?

Indik could feel the doubt in Cadvan's mind, and waited. She is somewhat better than before, Cadvan said at last. Could you ask her if she can tell if this mist is of the Landrost's making?

There was another pause as Cadvan turned his mind toward Maerad, shutting Indik out. Indik continued to stare out into the blackness, his every sense alert. Not a star, not a moon, he thought. Tonight will be the blackest of black nights.

Cadvan's voice cut in on his musing. She says it is hard to tell, said Cadvan. She thinks that it is likely of his summoning. I do not think it is natural weather myself. And she thinks the Landrost is very close, by the gates.

Indik thought some more, and then asked for Cadvan's frank opinion: would Maerad be capable of helping in the battle against the Landrost, or had she already done too much?

She believes she can help, said Cadvan. Although she can't promise anything. She will do her best.

Indik thanked Cadvan, and returned to his brooding. He did not doubt that Maerad would do her best. He would have given much to know, however, what that best was.

The night wore on, hour after slow hour, and still nothing happened, except that it grew colder. The fog had covered everything in a freezing dew, and the captains keeping their interminable watch on the walls rotated their guards, to relieve them of the damp, numbing cold, the endless staring into thick darkness. The tension over Innail increased until it began to be an intolerable force in itself.

In the Watch House, there was constant coming and going as Bards returned from the walls to warm themselves before the fire. Maerad stopped shivering, and began to feel warmth stealing through her body at last. Malgorn returned from the western wall, where he had been checking the defenses and bringing some of them to the gates, where the mountain men were mostly gathered.

"It's hard to know how many is enough," he said, pouring himself some wine. "I suspect that when the attack comes, the wers might be used where we are weakest. At least this fog covers our own movements as well as the Landrost's." He drank the wine in one draft, and sighed. "Anyway, so far as I can judge, which isn't far at all, we are as poised as we can be against attack. The wards are holding strongly, and aside from the bitter cold, all is presently well. I just wish we knew what to expect."

"Yes, it's the not knowing that's worst," said Maerad.

"Well, Maerad, you know that any help you can offer in that direction will be most gratefully received," said Malgorn. "Don't look at me like that, Cadvan, you know it's the truth. Maerad is as endangered as any of us here. And she's not looking quite as white as she did."

Cadvan looked across to Maerad, and she met his gaze. "Of course Malgorn's right," she said. "And no, I don't feel quite so bad." Not, she thought privately, that she felt especially good either.

Cadvan made no comment, and he and Malgorn began to chat idly, talking of things that had nothing to do with the present crisis, jesting to break the tension. Maerad found herself laughing with them. Maybe she felt all right, after all.

Even so, when Cadvan turned to her and relayed Indik's question about the fog, she wanted to refuse. It would be easy to claim that she needed more time . . . She quailed before the thought of attempting to feel out the Landrost: she feared especially how it would expose her to the Winterking, who could trace her presence with an alarming precision. She longed to remain as she was, shielded inside her own skull, untouched by the larger forces that now bent their malignant consciousness on Innail.

Instead, she sat up, casting off the blanket she had been clutching around her shoulders. She shut her eyes, questing through her own inner darkness toward the strange, intangible world of feeling where her magery held its power. She moved warily: she did not want to be seen. It was possible that the Landrost thought he had succeeded in destroying her, and would not expect her to return, but it was equally possible that he would be especially vigilant.

The Landrost, she felt at once, was closea"very close. His presence clotted her whole being with dread, and she almost retreated altogether. She stilled herself, making herself as small as possible. Then, with infinite caution, she sent out some tendrils of awareness. There was no reaction, and she extended them further, ready to snap back at any moment if she needed to.

She couldn't read the Landrost's intent at all. She only sensed a huge heaviness, a gathering sense of awful gravity, but nothing seemed to be actually moving. Puzzled, she brought herself back to the Watch House, where Cadvan was waiting gravely.

"He's there," she said. "By the gate, I think. I don't know what he's doing. He could have called the fog, but then again, it might have just happened by itself."

Cadvan nodded and relayed the message to Indik. Maerad stood up and found her legs were no longer shaking. Good, she thought. I'm all right. She walked to the table and poured herself a small gla.s.s of medhyl. Its herbed tang in her mouth was like the shock of very cold water, and she felt its virtue spread through her body, lifting the worst of her weariness. She poured another, and wiped her mouth.

"I'd feel clearer outside," she said.

"It's very cold out there," said Malgorn. "A strange sort of cold, too. It's a damp cold, and there's no ice. But it feels much colder than that, as if everything ought to be frozen, a kind of dead cold. It doesn't make a lot of sense."

"A dead cold?" said Maerad. A sudden intuition made her feel sick with foreboding.

"Just a turn of phrase." said Malgorn. Then he saw the look on Maerad's face. "What are you thinking?"

"I don't know . . ." Maerad hunted for words. "The Landrost is doing nothing. He's just . . . gathering . . . something . . . but what is he gathering? I mean, even as we wait, perhaps . . . perhaps for what he's doing now, he doesn't have to do anything..."

"Maerad, you're making no sense at all," said Cadvan.

"I know..." Maerad said despairingly. "Can we go outside?"

"Shall I come with you?"

"Please come with me. Hurry."

Cadvan grabbed the blanket that Maerad had thrown to the floor and put it around her shoulders, and they left the Watch House almost at a run, heading for the palisade by the gates.

When they left the shelter of the Watch House, the cold hit like a physical blow; Maerad felt her face turn numb almost at once, and her foreboding increased to a sense of panic. She wrapped the blanket around her head like a shawl as she ran. The presence of the Landrost was so heavy it made her feel nauseated; he was in the very air, thick, cold, implacable ...

It feels as if it's well below freezing, said Cadvan into her mind. But there's no ice.

No, said Maerad. I don't think it's that sort of cold.

When they reached the palisade, Maerad glanced around at the soldiers. Here they were mostly Bards, some standing still, gazing out into the formless darkness, others stamping their feet or walking up and down to keep the blood moving through their bodies. A brazier was lit, but it gave off no heat. Those who were still made Maerad's heart miss a beat.

"Everyone move!" she shouted. Her voice didn't carry far, m.u.f.fled by the fog, and a few Bards turned to look at her curiously. "Everyone movel Cadvan, make everyone move! Tell Indik to order everyonea""

"Move where?" asked Cadvan.

"Not anywhere, just get them to move!" Maerad ran up to a Bard who was leaning against the wall, looking through an embrasure, and touched her shoulder. She made no response, and in a fury of impatience, Maerad shook her arm, shouting at her. To her horror, the Bard slipped heavily against the wall and then toppled stiff as a log down to the ground, her armor clattering against the stone. Maerad knelt next to her, shaking her, slapping the woman's face, which was deathly pale in the flickering torchlight, her open eyes glittering like frost.

Indik spoke over Maerad's shoulder, making her jump. "She's dead, I think," he said. "Frozen where she stood. I'll call a healer."

Maerad groaned, feeling chill tears running down her cheeks, and shook the woman again. She had a vision of soldiers lining the walls of Innail, all standing at guard, all dead. Too late, too late ...

Indik took her hand and pulled her up, looking intently into her face. His lips were blue, the skin on his face chapped and raw, and fear clutched at Maerad's heart: how close was Indik himself to death?

"Maerad," he said. "I'll attend to this. I don't know how you knew this, but I count on you to find out more. This is no ordinary cold."

"No," said Maerad. "It's the cold of death. He draws the life out of usa"the air is sucking it away. I'm too latea"" She was shaking again, close to panic, and Indik took both her hands in his.

"Maerad," he said again. His voice was gentle, but it held an iron edge. "While there is still breath in us, it is not too late. And I need your help. Now."