The Crow (40 page)

"But I'm not looking for anything," said Hem. "Maerad is, though; she's looking for the Treesong."

"True, though one can seek without knowing it. Well, I'm glad you told me of this, Hem. It does give me hope. But you're right: I'm not quite sure what the hope is for."

Hem remembered the Elidhu's wildness, its inhuman slitted eyes. It was difficult to believe that such a creature could want the same things he did. But any hope was better than none.

"Hem, before I forget," said Saliman suddenly, reaching inside his robes. "There's something I have to give you." He brought out a sealed letter.

"A letter?" Hem stared at Saliman in disbelief. "For me?"

"A Pilanel messenger brought it this morning," said Saliman. "It comes from the north, from the Pilanel. They have a very efficient network that stretches to the Suderain, and the resistance keeps in touch with them as much as possible; they are staunch allies."

Hem was still staring at the letter, his mouth open.

"Go on," said Saliman. "Open it. It has the highest mark of urgency on it." He pointed to a strange rune, inked in red, by the seal.

His hands trembling, Hem broke the seal and unfolded it. "It's from Maerad," he said.

"Can you read it, Hem?" asked Saliman. "Or do you want me to read it to you?"

"No, I can read it." He looked at the letters, which made some sense to him now, and began, slowly, to read it out loud, stumbling over some of the more difficult words:

My dear brother,

I am writing this letter in Murask, a Pilanel settlement in Zmarkan. I hope this finds you well, and that Saliman (greetings, Saliman!) has taught you enough script for you to be able to read this on your own. I am full of sad news: Cadvan, our dear friend, perished in the Gwalhain Pass on our journey here, with Darsor and Imi.

Saliman gasped, and covered his face with his hands.

"I'm – I'm sorry..." Hem stammered, looking up.

Saliman said nothing for a long time, and Hem watched him awkwardly, wanting to comfort him, and not knowing how.

"Ah, Hem." Saliman looked up at last, his eyes shining with tears. "Loss after loss after loss. Is there no end to sorrow? Cadvan! My friend! First Dernhil, and then Cadvan. Am I the only one left? We will be mourning forever."

He breathed in sharply, like one in deep pain, and then said more steadily, "Indeed, there will be time for such a grief. But that time, Hem, is not now. Tell me, what else does Maerad say?"

Taken aback, Hem looked down at the letter, which had been lying forgotten in his hand. It took a little time for the words to swim into focus, but he read on slowly.

There are no words to express my sorrow. I reached Murask on my own and am now about to travel farther north with a Pilanel guide to find a people called the Wise Kindred, who may be able to tell me something about the Treesong. I hope I am right, and that this is not a mistake. I may not return, and there are some things that I want you to know, in case I am not able to tell you of them myself. I have found our father's family here.

Hem stopped and looked up. Saliman was regarding him steadily. "I can't read the next bit," he said, offering the letter to Saliman. "There are some words I don't understand."

Saliman took the letter, and read that Maerad had met their Pilanel cousin, and the twin sister of their father, who was also a Bard.

If the School of Turbansk does not suit you, perhaps you might find a place among them. Whether you find yourself being a Turbansk Bard or no, I believe that you must one day journey to Murask and speak to your kin here.

I write this with terrible sadness. I miss you more than I can say and every day I wish that we were together, and not separated by so many leagues. I have heard of war marching on Turbansk, and I fear for you. We are born into such dark times. But I also write this with hope and love, until one day I embrace you again, my dear brother.

Your sister,

Maerad

"Thank you, Saliman," said Hem. His voice was muffled.

Hem couldn't say anything else for a while; his head was whirling with conflicting emotions. He was stunned by the news of Cadvan's death; it didn't seem possible. And yet he was so happy to have some word of his sister, and the news that he had kin in the north filled him with a surprised delight. But Maerad's letter sharpened his fears for her to a new and bitter edge. Was Maerad dead too? For a moment he was certain that she must be, by now – she was on a desperate quest, and Cadvan was no longer there to guide her.

"How are we to find Maerad now?" asked Hem despairingly.

"The simple answer is that I do not know," answered Saliman. "We don't know when she wrote this letter; it could be weeks old now, and she could have already returned from the north. The Pilanel can travel swiftly if need presses them. We don't even know when she and Cadvan left Busk." His voice cracked as he said his friend's name.

Hem sighed. "Perhaps she is in Annar." He didn't say the rest of his sentence, though they both thought it:
if she is alive.

"We go north and seek her, I guess," said Saliman, after a pause. "We might be able to trace news of her. We will think about that when the time comes. First, there are tasks for both of us." He sounded very tired.

"I'm so sorry, about Cadvan," said Hem, and shyly he reached out for Saliman's hand. Saliman clenched it hard, and Hem could feel the profound emotion shaking within him.

"Hem, if you will excuse me, I wish to be alone for a time," he said at last. "There's something I must do."

Saliman stood up and walked out of the chamber. Hem watched him leave, wanting to follow him, but knowing he could not. He guessed that he went to make a lament for Cadvan, in the way of Bards. Hem knew that such sorrow could only be endured alone.

XVI

T
HE
P
LAINS
O
F
N
AZAR

It was unbearably bright. Although it was dusk and Hem and Zelika stood in the filtered light of trees, Hem's vision blurred and swam. He was so overwhelmed he almost retreated into the cave.

He felt as if he were drinking sweet, delicious water after a time of great thirst. During his long sojourn in the shadows, he had forgotten the opulence of color. It hit him in a great wave of sensation: he had never realized there were so many shades of green, from delicate, luminous lime to the dark, almost black needles of conifers. Waxy crimson flowers, fading to a faint rose in the center, dotted the forest floor like little red suns, where a few caught the dying light; and elsewhere late orchids speared through the undergrowth, the deep blue of an evening sky in summer; and jasmine vines, their blossoms long withered, wound over rotting logs, themselves adorned with emerald mosses. Nearby a tree burdened with long, dry seed cases rattled in the faint breeze. Through the tracery of leaves Hem could see the faint gray of cloud, but even this seemed rich and strange, and all the green breathed dampness, as if it had recently rained and would soon rain again.

After the colors, what struck him were the smells: the rich scents of loam and rotting vegetation; fresh droppings left by some animal; the perfumes of the flowers. At first they made him feel dizzy, as if he had drunk a goblet of wine. Ire gave an ecstatic caw and flapped up into the branches that hung low above them, and began to pull seedpods off the branches and throw them down onto the children.

Ire looked a little strange: he was now in disguise, as his white plumage was far too noticeable. The Bards had given him, over his loud protests, a bath in tannin made from oak galls. It hadn't given him the glossy blue-black of a crow; rather, his feathers had taken the dye in a kind of mottle, so he was now a dusty gray-black. For the same reasons, Hem and Zelika were wearing the mail coat and gauntlets that went beneath their Turbansk armor, but had left the blue ceramic armor behind; instead they wore tunics of tough leather and dark-dyed cloth and, over all, dark cloaks of greasy wool. It was nearing winter, and the Suderain nights were cold.

Hem glanced over at Zelika's enraptured face, and knew she felt the same delight at being out of the caves at last. It was like being born again, he thought: everything seemed fresh and newly alive, as if it had just been created, for their eyes alone, a moment before. Saliman, standing behind Zelika with Soron, gave Hem one of his sunny smiles, as if he knew what Hem was feeling. As always, Saliman's smile made Hem's heart lift; it gave him the feeling that all was right with the world, and they were doing nothing more alarming than sauntering to meet friends for a feast, to a warm house where the air would be thick with merry talk and laughter.

Hared, who had crept noiselessly through the vegetation ahead of them to scout out the area, suddenly reappeared, jerking his head for the others to follow. Cautiously the small party crept through the undergrowth, placing their feet exactly where Hared put his. Once Hem trod on a stick, and its snap as it broke seemed as loud as a whiplash. Hared glanced back, frowning, and Hem blushed. He put aside his joy at being in the free air and began to concentrate. They were now in the territory of the Black Army, and any mistake could mean death.

* * * *

They had left only that morning, winding again through endless tunnels, Hem with a glum and silent Ire clutching his shoulder. Ire had mostly overcome his detestation of being underground, but he still hated caves. The northern entrance to Nal-Ak-Burat was protected by one enchanted barrier, similar to the Gate of Dreams they had passed through on their way there, but otherwise its main defense was the labyrinth of caves, which were much more bewildering than those they had been through earlier.

"One wrong turn, and you would be lost forever," Hared had said, as he stooped, scowling, to read a cluster of runes at a place where five caves forked from one.

"How do you remember where to go, then?" asked Hem nervously. He had lost all sense of direction hours before.

"It's like learning a long piece of music," said Hared. "Difficult music, with only a few notes. Left, right, straight ahead... But there is a pattern to it. It changes every now and then. Whenever you see these runes, they act as reminders that it changes, but you have to know then what the next pattern is. There's a pattern to the patterns, also."

Zelika looked confused.

"Like a change in tone?" Hem asked.

"Kind of like that." Hared had been almost chatty; he seemed to become less grim the farther they were from Nal-Ak-Burat. "Only much more complicated. I have been walking these paths nigh on one hundred years, but I would never venture into them carelessly."

Zelika gasped. "One hundred years?" she said.

Hared gave her an amused glance. "Aye, my little fox," he said. "I have wandered these caves since your grandfather was a child. And yet it is a short time in the annals of the world."