The Crow (16 page)

"So nothing has really happened yet?" asked Hem.

"Not yet. The Black Army now fills the Fesse of Turbansk, but they make no move. But that is not what I came to say. I am not happy that you stay in this house, and I want you to move to the Ernan, where you will be closer to where I spend most of my time. I want you to pack swiftly and come with me."

"But I want to fight!" said Zelika sulkily. "I don't want to be caged up in a palace so you know where I am, like a child."

"We are at war now, Zelika," said Saliman, in a tone that brooked no argument. "If you wish to be a fighter, you need to obey commands, as any fighter does."

Zelika met Saliman's gaze, but did not question him. "I don't even have a proper sword," she said, after a pause.

"That is more easily remedied in the armory of the Ernan than here," answered Saliman. "No one now is to venture into the street unarmored, in case the deathcrows come again; and I have in fact given thought to proper gear for you. Hem, are you all right? You look very pale."

Hem had been feeling dizzy since their arrival in the Bardhouse. The feeling had been getting steadily worse, particularly since he had been sick, but he thought it was just the aftershock of the morning's attack.

"I'm all right," he said. "I'll just get my things." He turned to run to his room, and found that his legs simply crumpled, as if they didn't belong to him. To his surprise, he found himself on the floor. Saliman leaped forward and caught him up, and then noticed the small wound on his neck where he had been struck by one of the deathcrows.

"Hem, what is this wound?"

"It's nothing, just a peck," said Hem, weakly trying to push Saliman away. He couldn't focus his eyes; he was seeing two of everything. "It doesn't hurt."

"He was hit by one of the crows, when we were running away," said Zelika. "Hem didn't tell you: we were caught in the street when they attacked, but Soron saved us."

Saliman cursed and lifted Hem onto a couch, looking anxiously into his face and feeling for his pulse. "Zelika, can you put Hem's belongings in a pack? There's not much, just what's in the chest in his chamber. We must hurry. I'll have to carry him to the Ernan. Just pray that the Light gives us safe passage..."

Zelika was out of the room before he finished speaking, and Saliman put his hand on Hem's brow. It was cold and clammy with sweat.

VII

T
HE
B
ATTLE
O
F
T
HE
B
IRDS

The afternoon passed slowly, fading into night. Still more ranks of the Black Army poured into the Fesse of Turbansk, marching down the East Road, and where they marched were lines of moving torches, and where they camped were points of fire, and already they had dug long trenches, which had been filled with dull red flames. Inside the city walls all windows were shuttered and curtained: the city seemed like a dark island in a sea of fire. Tonight no houses were lit with lamps, and no musicians played in the perfumed gardens. The moonless sky stretched high above, a black expanse scattered with feverish stars.

Hem had no sense of where he was. Saliman had carried him to the Ernan that afternoon and laid him in a chamber near its western wall. Like every room in the Ernan, it was exquisitely decorated. Its cool blue walls were frescoed with dancing figures that moved through a vision of plenty – vines laden with grapes curled around their feet, and orange trees bowed low and offered the revelers their burdens of fruit. But by the time he was placed in his bed, Hem was oblivious to its beauty: he was already unconscious with a raging fever. His body was racked with savage tremors, and beads of sweat rolled off his face onto the bed sheets. A gentle breeze wandered through the window grille and caressed his forehead, and Hem shuddered as if he had been touched with ice.

Ire, who refused to leave Hem, perched on the back of a chair by the bed, but forewent his usual chatter. Zelika was frightened: Hem's illness had come over him so suddenly. It looked as if he were burning up from the inside. And she realized, for the first time, that Hem was her friend, her only friend, and she did not want him to die.

Saliman, who was a noted healer, had waved away the palace Bard, his brow heavy with worry.

"Will he live?" whispered Zelika, who had been allowed to stay when she had begged to help nurse him.

"I don't know," said Saliman. Zelika's heart shriveled with sudden dread. "I fear that many more will be like Hem by dawn. And this is an illness I do not recognize. But I swear to you, young Zelika: if I can save him, I will. He is precious to me, as well as to you." He smiled then, and Zelika began to understand why Hem loved Saliman. But it stirred other painful emotions. She pushed away the tears that threatened, brushed back her hair, and prepared to do whatever was required of her in the sickroom.

Saliman then took Hem's hand in his. Zelika watched with amazement – in Baladh she had not had much to do with Bards – as he began to glimmer with the light of magery, at first as gentle as starlight. The light slowly grew, until Zelika had to shade her eyes and Saliman seemed to be a figure of molten silver and all else beside him seemed dim and colorless. Saliman shut his eyes and said some words in the Speech. He called Hem's name, and then again; and the second time it sounded as if he spoke from a great distance. Then the light grew brighter still, and Saliman bowed his head, as if he were making some great effort. Zelika, unable to look away, felt tears of dazzlement run down her cheek. And then, as slowly as it had blossomed, the light began to fade.

Saliman looked up, and Zelika saw that his face was the color of wet ash. She dared not ask any questions, although they trembled on her lips. He met her eyes and smiled tiredly.

"It is a foul illness," he said. "But I have driven it from his blood, and called him back from the dark reaches." He drew a deep breath. "Ai! I can taste it on my teeth. Zelika, I am going now: there are other tasks that demand my care. Watch Hem, and tell me if he wakes, or does anything except sleep peacefully."

Zelika nodded fiercely, her eyes fixed on Hem. He did seem a better color than he had been before, when he had been the shade of bleached parchment. Saliman left, and Zelika sat by the bed, gnawing her lip, and held Hem's hand as the afternoon darkened to twilight and then to night.

Just before twilight, there was another attack of the deathcrows. It was not so frightening, as this time she was inside, and she watched the shadows of the birds plummeting outside with a cool curiosity. Why did they not care if they killed themselves? It was very strange. Some tried to force themselves through the metal grille over the window, but the holes were too small. One or two got their heads stuck and broke their necks. When the attack passed, Zelika got up and pushed the corpses out of the grille with a stick. Then she sat down next to Hem again.

By now it was night. It was very quiet in the palace, and there was no birdsong in the gardens. She hummed to herself, to pass the time and to dispel the silence: snatches of the long Suderain epics, childish rhymes, folk songs. After a while Ire came up to her and pulled her hair, cawing, and she guessed that he wanted something to eat.

"I have nothing to give you," she said impatiently. "Go and find Saliman!"

Ire peered at her, his head cocked sideways, and gently pecked her hand.

"Oh, you stupid creature! I don't have anything!"

Although Ire could not follow her words, he did understand her tone. He cawed sharply and pecked her quite hard – for revenge, she thought – and then flapped slowly out of the room. Zelika was left to herself. She was getting sore from sitting so still, and wriggled and stretched to relieve the stiffness, and then she yawned. She was more tired than she had thought. Finally, when she couldn't stop her eyelids from dropping, she crawled onto the huge cushioned bed, curled up next to Hem, and went to sleep. Ire swept back into the chamber a little later, landed on the pillow next to Hem, and gently pecked his face. When the boy did not wake, Ire took up his perch on the chair, tucked his head under his wing, and slept also.

Outside in the darkness, drums pulsed like a fever in the blood, and the archers on the city walls changed watch, and the guards in the Red Tower stared through their starglasses at the dark lines that separated sea and sky, searching always for ominous black sails, and fires leapt and spread in the shadowed Fesse of Turbansk. But the two children slept as deeply as if they had never heard of war.

Hem dreamed of birds.

He was one of the deathcrows, and he had three wings, one that grew out of his breast, and as he flew, black feathers dropped from his skin.
If I lose any more I won't be able to fly and I'll fall out of the sky,
he thought, but without fear. It seemed to him it would be a grace to lie on the ground, wrapped in darkness and silence. Then suddenly he was Hem again, but he sat on a white branch on a high tree, with Ire on his shoulder. Every branch of the tree was crowded with hundreds and hundreds of birds of all kinds – predators and prey next to each other, eagle next to finch, buzzard by bee-eater, kestrel by wren. Falcons, warblers, bulbuls, herons, crows, vultures, larks, robins, meenahs, ibises, ducks, egrets, and long lines of yet more birds, of yet more kinds, were flying toward the tree through a blue summer sky, out of the heart of a white brilliant sun.

A great happiness rose in Hem's heart. Now he knew what to do...

He opened his eyes to the first light of dawn. He sat up in bed, looking around with wonder at the magnificent room: he did not remember coming there. The last thing he remembered was falling down in Saliman's Bardhouse.

Ire was perched on a chair nearby, fixing him with a hungry stare. Zelika was fast asleep, her hands clasped together underneath her cheek, her hair tumbling over her face. He had never seen her sleeping before; it made her seem much younger. He slipped out of bed quietly, careful not to wake her, and only then noticed he was dressed in a nightshirt and didn't know where his clothes were. And he was starving.

I'm hungry,
said Ire. He flapped to Hem's shoulder, but the boy pushed him off because Ire's claws scratched his skin.

I don't know where they keep food here,
Hem said. He was almost hopping with impatience.
I've had an idea, Ire. Where's Saliman?

Even as he spoke, Saliman entered the room. He pulled up short when he saw Hem.

"What are you doing out of bed?" he said.

"I'm starving," Hem answered. "And where are my clothes? And Saliman, I've had this idea – about the deathcrows."

"Hem, last sunset I was afraid you would not survive the night. I doubt you should be out of bed."

Hem looked surprised. "I feel as well as I've ever felt!" he protested. "No, listen, Saliman, this is important – I had this dream, and then I woke up, and I thought, where are the birds of Turbansk? Can't they help us fight the deathcrows?"