The Crow (19 page)

It was strange, Hem thought, how quickly one could get used to things. After only a day, being besieged by the Black Army became almost routine. After two days, it was part of the texture of everyday life. People ate and joked and made music and went to defend their city. Most returned, but some did not. There was no longer any such thing as a casual farewell; each parting, no matter how minor, could always be the last; anyone could be unlucky, and at any time. This lent life a new, vivid urgency. Although no one spoke of it, Turbansk felt like a doomed city, and against the darkness of its fate, its beauty seemed to glow with a poignant intensity.

Only in the evenings – when by common consent minstrels and Bards all over Turbansk would bring out their instruments and sing the beautiful Suderain epics to those who were not guarding the walls – would anyone permit this knowledge to rise to the surface; otherwise it was too hard to face. Hem, although he was not a native of Turbansk, felt this strange mixture of dread and love seeping into the marrow of his bones.

Imank's army could not as yet break through the city walls; their siege towers were driven off by magery and missiles, and the rams that aimed for the western gate had not yet pierced its defenses. But, as it had at the II Dara Wall, the enemy continued to assault the walls of Turbansk in constant waves, all day and all night. These were driven off, at greater cost to the Black Army than to the defenders; but the Turbansk forces were so greatly outnumbered that every loss to them told ten times more than any of the enemy losses. Turbansk was slowly being worn down, and time was all on the other side. The enemy fleet still stood off from the harbor in the Lamarsan Sea, making minor attacks like the one Hem had seen, but no larger moves. For the moment the battle stood at a stalemate.

It gave the Turbanskians a chance to deal with the problems caused by the deathcrows. The streets had been cleared of the dead crows by people with cloths steeped in medicinal potions covering their mouths and noses, to keep out the stench and infection, and the corpses had either been burned or put into catapults and flung back over the walls onto the Black Army. It was an inexpressible relief to see the streets clean again, and to be able to walk under the sky, and the atmosphere in the city lightened perceptibly. It was true, as the soldier on the tower had said, that the deathcrows had been an assault beyond the actual harm they had caused.

The birds of Turbansk had completely destroyed the flocks of the deathcrows in two more forays. Ara-kin had come to Hem at the Ernan the evening of the next day to deliver the news, perching on the sill of his chamber window. Hem was still surprised by how big the bird was, how wild and fierce and alive it seemed against the confines of the room.

That is news beyond hope,
Hem said.
How can we thank you?

Destroy the wrongness,
said the pelican.
That will be enough.

Hem hesitated before he answered, thinking of the great army at the walls. What hope did they have?
That is all our desire,
he answered.

Ara-kin bowed his head, and then leaped into the air with a great beating of wings, and was gone.

Zelika and Saliman, who had come to share the evening meal, watched the boy and the pelican from inside the room. When Hem turned, his slim figure silhouetted against the golden light streaming through the window, he saw their eyes were fixed on him. He rejoined them at the cushions around the low table, suddenly feeling very self-conscious.

"That was well done, Hem," said Saliman quietly.

"It was just from a dream," Hem said awkwardly. He still found it difficult to accept praise with grace.

"But you had the idea. Anyone else would have dismissed it as mad. And it worked." Saliman reached for a fig, tore it open, and smiled, studying its rich color. "I heard a singer this afternoon, already making the Battle of the Birds into a song. Everyone now sings the praises of the White Crow."

"The birds did everything themselves," mumbled Hem. He wanted to change the subject.

"Nay, Hem, take praise where it is due," said Saliman. "I must tell you now, you and Zelika are summoned to the Ernani at the ninth bell. She will want to hear from your own lips how the deathcrows were defeated. Perhaps that was why the song was being composed."

Hem flushed, and bowed his head to hide his confusion. He would be expected to speak to the Ernani, he thought distractedly; he hoped his mouth would not be as dry as it was the last time.

After their meal, Saliman guided Hem and Zelika through the palace, leaving an indignant Ire behind. By the time they had passed through a dozen rooms, Hem was already hopelessly lost. This time they did not go to the throne room but to a smaller, if no less beautiful, chamber in Har-Ytan's living quarters. To Hem's astonishment, when Saliman knocked, the Ernani herself opened the door of her chamber, and welcomed them in.

Hem blinked. Har-Ytan seemed like a different being from the regal woman he had seen in the throne room; she was of more human dimensions, but even so she was very impressive. Her braided hair was tied back from her face, and she wore a thin tunic of plain golden damask over a white shirt and trousers. Her feet were bare, but she stood taller than Saliman. She smelled of musk and jasmine. Behind her Hem saw three or four people rising to greet them from low couches arranged around an ebony table set with a silver jug and cups.

"Welcome," said Har-Ytan, looking at Hem. "Forgive this informality; this is the only spare time I have."

Hem stared at Har-Ytan, and found to his dismay that his jaw seemed to be wired shut. Zelika glanced sideways at him with what he thought was scorn.

"We are sensible of the honor you pay us, my lady," said Saliman. "You have already met Cai of Pellinor." Hem bowed his head, his face scarlet with humiliation. "This is Zelika of the House of II Aran, from Baladh."

"The House of II Aran?" Har-Ytan turned her direct gaze on Zelika, who met it levelly.

"I am all that remains of that House, Fountain of the Light," she said. "My sword is yours, until I die." She knelt gracefully, and Har-Ytan lightly touched the top of her head.

"Rise, Zelika of the House of II Aran, and forget your sorrows for this brief moment," she said. "I see that, however young you might be, you are by no means the least of your noble house. Come, there are fruits and sweetmeats here, and sweet wines."

Hem looked curiously at Zelika as they moved toward the couches. From the assurance of her movements, he could see that, unlike him, she knew how to behave in these circumstances. He felt as stiff and awkward as a puppet.

Leaning on one of the couches was a very handsome man considerably younger than the Ernani, who turned out to be Har-Ytan's consort, Mundar. Hem recognized also the captain of the Sun Guard, II Hanedr, and Juriken, the First Bard of Turbansk. To his confusion, he also recognized Alimbar el Nad, Har-Ytan's consul, whose garden he had plundered weeks ago, in another lifetime. Alimbar gave him a narrow, suspicious look, as he nodded a greeting. Besides the wines and sweetmeats, Hem saw that maps and reports were spread out on the broad table; they had clearly been discussing the siege.

"So, children are to show us the way forward?" said Juriken, coming forward to clasp Hem's hand. "I argued with Saliman, I confess, when he said that he had decided you were to stay in Turbansk. But he has already had the better of us!" He exchanged a friendly smile with Saliman, and looked down again at Hem.

Juriken's hair was white and cropped close to his dark head, and his face was lined with age, but the eyes that regarded Hem were full of a young laughter, wholly without malice. Hem swallowed, and involuntarily glanced across to Alimbar. The man had a sour look on his face, as if he were forced to be civil to a piece of dung. This made Hem feel momentarily outraged, which had the effect of unlocking his tongue.

"It wasn't me who did it," he said. "It was the birds of Turbansk. They defeated the deathcrows, not me."

"They say the greatest heroes are the most modest," said Mundar languidly from the couch. "This lad must be the greatest of them all. He can barely say his deeds." He stared at Hem mockingly.

Before Hem could react, Har-Ytan spoke. "It is not so strange. Most of the human race is more modest than you are, Mundar," she said. Mundar did not miss the edge in her voice and, despite himself, he flushed. He gave Hem a spiteful glance and turned his head pointedly away. "Now, Cai of Pellinor," she continued. "In the city they name you
Lios Hlaf,
the White Crow, after your pet. Is that what you prefer to be called?"

"My lady," said Hem. "My real name is Hem. And Ire is not my pet; he is my friend."

Har-Ytan smiled, and Hem's innards, which had suddenly clenched in panic at his rudeness in correcting the Ernani, relaxed. "Hem," she said. "That is a strange name. It is not Annaren, I think?" She handed him one of the silver cups, filled with a golden liquid. Hem took a nervous sip and felt the liquor shudder down his body to his toes, but to his eternal gratitude he did not splutter.

"No, my lady," he said. "It is a Pilanel name. It's what I've been called all my life."

"You are a Bard," she said. "But you do not prefer your Bardic name. Is that not strange? Have you yet been given your Truename?"

"No, my lady."

"And do you desire to have a Truename?"

"I do not know, my lady." Her questions, and the thoughtful gaze she turned on him, made him feel uncomfortable.

"Only a few Bards relinquish their Truenames," she said. "The best and the worst."

Hem did not know what the Ernani meant. The only Bard he knew of who had cast out his name was the Nameless One. Was she saying he was evil, somehow? He felt completely at sea with these people. He took another gulp from the silver cup, and looked pleadingly to Saliman.

"My lady, you forget the power of your presence," said Saliman, with the ghost of a smile quirking the edges of his mouth. "Hem is still very young."

"Yet he has solved a problem that baffled even II Hanedr, the greatest captain of this city," said Har-Ytan.

At this comment, II Hanedr grinned at Hem.

"We had not the arrows nor Bards enough to down them all out of the sky," he said. "And the truth is, we could not have coped with any more attacks: cleaning up the bodies that were already there took all the resources we could spare, and the disease they spread cost us many fighters. Yet no one thought of summoning creatures, although creatures were used against us."

"The birds of Turbansk said the deathcrows were not creatures," said Hem. "They did not know the Speech. Ire said they were mad." He shuddered, thinking of the two-headed corpse he had seen in Saliman's rooms, the way the feathers would fall out of the deathcrows' skin, as if they were not properly attached. "In a way, it was as if they just wanted to die."

"It would appeal to the Nameless One, to create beasts that long only for death," said Juriken thoughtfully. "For life is what animals can teach us: how the present moment is all, and past and future are illusion."

"Perhaps that was the wrongness the pelican king spoke of," said Zelika, looking over to Hem to prompt him; but again, he found himself floundering, and merely nodded. There was a short pause.

"I am curious how you thought of this, and why you have such authority among the birds of Turbansk," said Har-Ytan. "I am used to the ways of Bards, but still, it seems marvelous to me."

"I've always talked to birds. And I dreamed about the deathcrows," said Hem. "When I had the fever, I dreamed of the birds. And when I woke up, I knew what to do."

Har-Ytan kept her dark gaze on his face, and he looked down, discomfited by a sharpness of perception of which he had been unaware; Har-Ytan was not merely powerful, but subtle in ways he could not begin to guess. "A dreamer," said Har-Ytan at last. "Your sister, too, is a dreamer. Perhaps it is the dreams of our young that will lead the way through the shadows that beset us. I am glad to meet you, Hem. And I thank you for what you have done."

"I am honored, my lady," said Hem thickly. He suddenly wished fiercely that Maerad were there, beside him; she would not be so overawed; she would look Har-Ytan in the face and answer her with her special straightness. His shoulders slumped.

Although people were being very kind to him, Hem didn't like being the focus of so much attention. Mundar was pointedly ignoring him, Alimbar still looked as if he were trying to conceal the fact that he had swallowed a fly, and otherwise Hem felt he was just making a fool of himself in front of the most important people in Turbansk. But Har-Ytan, aware of his discomfiture, began to chat to Saliman, and the conversation became more general. Hem breathed out in relief, like a small child, while he thought nobody was looking at him. He did not notice, as Zelika did, that Saliman glanced toward him and smiled to himself, as if he were well pleased. Zelika, who was sitting next to Hem, took his hand and squeezed it. Hem looked up at her in surprise. Her eyes were sparkling with what he suspected was suppressed laughter.

"Your face goes bright red," she whispered. "It is very strange, to have pale skin."

Hem smiled sheepishly, but said nothing. Normally he would have taken umbrage, but now Zelika's teasing made him feel a little better.

Before long, a minstrel bearing a dulcimer entered the room, and bowed.

"Welcome, Ikarun," said Har-Ytan. "Now," she said, turning to the others, "we shall hear something to lift our hearts."

The minstrel bowed. "By your leave, O Fountain of Light, and my lords and ladies," he said, "I wish to play for you a new song, for your pleasure." He inclined his head courteously to Hem, struck a chord, and began to sing in a rich, beautiful voice.

Hem thought of what Saliman had said earlier, about hearing a song being written about the Battle of the Birds, and his face grew hot. He felt Zelika beside him, and knew without looking that she was trying not to giggle.

"I sing of a boy who came from the north With a bird on his shoulder,
Lios Hlaf,
Balm in his hands and Speech on his tongue,