“I could have as easily brought a curse upon you,” said Cadvan.
“None of us thinks that,” said Taran. “Well, Jorvil says something like that. Remember Jorvil? But no one listens to him. He was born twisted.”
But I did bring the curse, Cadvan thought. He didn’t say it aloud; it would only have distressed his friend.
“I’m thinking that this has something to do with why you left,” said Taran. “And I don’t know if you can drive away the nightmares, but I thought it worth asking. Me and the others, we’d be grateful even to understand what they are. Maybe as a Bard, you know about these things. I mean, we all have bad dreams now and again, but these…”
“Yes, they’re different,” said Cadvan. He wondered where else, across the length and breadth of Annar, the same thing was happening. He hesitated, and then asked what kinds of dreams they were.
“I don’t like to think of them,” said Taran. “None of us do. But often it’s about the dead. Our dead, I mean. They’re not good dreams, and they grieve us. Often we can’t even talk about them, so odd and horrible as they are.”
“Is there – anything else?”
“What I told you before. Everything destroyed, but this time it’s worse: the dead marching across smoking ruins, armies of them. And the Queen of the Dead before them, holding a great black sword, and her eyes burning like coals.” He paused. “I wouldn’t say, normally, but it’s all of us been dreaming the same things.”
“There’s been a lot of death here, recently,” said Cadvan slowly. “It could be that’s why the – the borders between death and life are thin in Jouan. In dreams sometimes these worlds open up to each other…”
“But this is more than that, surely,” said Taran. “I mean, we’ve all had visits from our dead. Mostly we don’t speak of it, it’s private. But this … this is a different thing. It’s bad.”
“Yes,” said Cadvan. “It’s bad.”
XXIX
AS Cadvan returned to Jonalan’s tavern, a chill night fell swiftly. The waning moon was yet to rise, and the shadows were very black. Mists rose from the ground, curling about his feet, so he had to pick his steps carefully along the path that wound between the houses. If he hadn’t known the village so well, he might easily have become lost: each building looked much the same as its fellows, shapeless lumps of darkness, their windows shuttered against the cold. His footsteps sounded loud to his ears; the wind had died down and the night seemed to stretch emptily around him, huge and ominous.
He found Nelac, Selmana and Dernhil in the snug, where they were deep in conversation with Jonalan. “You took your time,” said Dernhil. “We were about to send out a search party.”
“For which, my apologies,” said Cadvan, throwing his cloak over a settle. “I got to talking with Taran’s family, and they all like to talk. Did all your customers go home, Jonalan? I am sorry for that.”
“It’s no great matter,” said the tavern keeper. “It was a fine afternoon for those of us here. Dark comes early now and we don’t stay out after sunset these days. The whole village is as skittish as rats.”
“Taran told me why,” said Cadvan.
“Yes, some of us thought it would be easiest coming from him, as you know him best and all, and everyone knows he’s not a mooncalf,” said Jonalan. “But Nelac here asked whether we’d had any odd things happen lately, and one thing led to another.” He stood up and drained his ale. “But I’m thinking you’ll be wishing for your dinner. I’ll go and see how that ham is doing. Dana is great with pastries, but it’s me who knows how to roast a pig so it melts in your mouth.”
Cadvan slid into the settle beside Dernhil. “It seems you already know what I heard at Taran’s,” he said. “I’ll say straight out, I fear for these people. And I am wondering too if this is happening elsewhere. I can’t believe Jouan is alone.”
“You think this is part of some larger plan, perhaps?” said Dernhil, his dark eyes alert and thoughtful. “It may be simply a side effect of the Dark’s assault. After all, the Circles are knocked awry, out of their harmony, and we don’t know how this violence ripples out. Perhaps part of Likod’s aim in Lirigon was to break the Circles further, to open broader paths between the Abyss and the Shadowplains and the World… And the Empyrean, which might be worst of all. Perhaps this is what Kansabur does with her new strength.” He paused. “I wish we knew what is happening in Lirigon.”
“All the more I resent the stupidity of our having to flee,” said Nelac. “There you see clearly how the Dark uses fear to prosecute its own ends, even in the heart of the Light.”
“Jonalan was saying the dead walk at night,” said Dernhil. “That’s why nobody goes out.”
Cadvan looked surprised. “Taran didn’t mention that,” he said. “He told me the dead were returning in dreams. Hal said so too.” He fell silent, thinking of Hal, who had seen Inshi, her dead brother. She had spoken of it reluctantly, in a private moment while she was showing him how she had turned Cadvan’s old home into a healing house. “He’s so frightened, Cadvan. I don’t like to think of him like that,” she had said painfully. “I thought that at least he would be free of fear and sorrow. That’s what is said, but maybe it’s a lie. Maybe death is worse than being alive. Do you think so?”
Cadvan hadn’t known how to comfort her. “None of us understands what happens in death,” he had said at last. “But there is a darkness there now that is not part of it. It isn’t death, it’s something else…”
“Can you make it go away, Cadvan? You and your friends?”
Cadvan brought his mind back to the present and looked challengingly at the other Bards. “I’m thinking we can’t leave without at least trying to help the Jouains,” he said. “Maybe here we can stem the breach.”
“Mend the Circles?” said Selmana. “Can you do that?”
“Yes, to an extent,” said Dernhil. “At least, in a small way. It’s what the Bards did when they tried to banish Kansabur. But if the Bone Queen is hunting us, as Ceredin said, it would be a perilous thing to do. She would see us at once if we made such magery.”
“Taran’s had visions like our foredreams,” said Cadvan. “He spoke of the Queen of the Dead riding before an army. He can only mean Kansabur… And he said the whole of Jouan was having the same dreams. It’s too like what Ceredin said.” Cadvan thought again over what Taran had told him. “He did say, We’ve all had visits from our dead. But that this recent disturbance is different. Bad, he said. But I thought he was only speaking of dreams.”
“It wouldn’t be surprising, if the village is beset by nightmares, that some would think the dead call them up,” said Nelac. “But even so, they shape my own fears. Even if the dead only walk the byways of sleep now, I am afraid they will not stay there.”
“I don’t want to be part of any magery,” Selmana said with unexpected violence. “I don’t want to see the dead. And if Kansabur finds me, what will I do?” She paused, twisting her hands, and then spoke in a rush. “I’ve been so … full of dread since Ceredin spoke to me. Kansabur is hunting Bards like me, Bards with the Sight. I’d never even heard of the Sight before I met Larla, and now it’s all I’m hearing about. I wish I didn’t have it, whatever it is. I don’t even know what it is. And if she does find me, she’ll just gobble me up like a big cat, and if that’s all she needs to bind herself here, she’ll bring all her power into our world and everything will be over…”
Dernhil took her hand and pressed it. “Selmana,” he said gently. “We understand you have a special peril in this, and a particular Knowing. And we have decided nothing as yet.”
Selmana gulped and looked down, feeling abashed. “I’m not very brave,” she said shakily. “When I saw Kansabur, after I listened for the Shika – that is the worst thing that has ever happened to me. I never want to see her again. I never want her to see me. It’s disgusting and horrible. I think if she found me, all of me would fall to ash…”
“Don’t be ashamed of being frighten
ed,” said Cadvan. “We are all afraid.”
“Selmana is correct that she has the most to fear,” said Nelac. “And her Knowing isn’t to be discounted. Yet I am also thinking: the most potent weapon the Dark has at present is fear. And powerful though she is, Kansabur still isn’t in her full strength. I’m wondering whether we misjudge the peril: perhaps now is the time not to flee before her. Perhaps now we should bring the attack. If we turn and face her, we may win some time. And we need time.”
“Only if we prevail,” said Dernhil.
“Then we must prevail.”
“If it goes wrong, what will happen here?” said Dernhil.
“Which risk is greater?” said Nelac. “We weigh the unknown against the unknown. Perhaps Jouan is a gate through which the armies of the dead might lead their assault on the living.”
“And perhaps it is simply an accidental rip in the fabric of the World, too unimportant for Kansabur’s notice,” said Cadvan. “I wonder how many others there are? They might be all over Annar. I fear that we may draw attention where none would otherwise be. But remember what Ceredin said. I think the dead are gathering here. Why else would their voices be clear even to those who have no magery? We should close the breach before it’s too late.”
Jonalan brought in their dinner, roast ham and turnips and winter spinach. It was plain fare, but well cooked. Selmana’s mouth filled with water and in her hunger she almost forgot her fears: it seemed years, not a mere week, since she had eaten a hot meal around a table. Dernhil glanced at her in amusement.
“The Bone Queen may be gathering her forces, but a good roast is always a good roast,” he said. “Sometimes I wonder if we Bards think too much about our vittles.”
Selmana blushed at his teasing. “It smells so good,” she said.
“The Dark dismisses such pleasures as trivial, mere enslavements of the flesh,” said Nelac. “And yet: a meal made with care for others, that nourishes the body and the soul … how is that not the heart of the Light?”
“So the greatest minds in Annar justify their appetite,” said Cadvan gravely. “I shall serve, of course, since my plate requires special attention.”
“But courtesy demands that you serve others first,” said Dernhil.
Cadvan bowed his head mockingly. “I defer then to your greater courtesy,” he said. “You should serve. I was forced to refuse a dish of unparalleled magnificence at Taran’s, and that went hard.”
Selmana smiled, her heart suddenly lighter, and concentrated on her meal. Cadvan was telling Dernhil about his goat, Stubborn, who in his absence had become the scourge of the village. “No garden is safe, apparently,” he said. “If she is tethered, she unties the rope. They are saying she has magical powers that mean she can loose herself even from a chain. She is certainly not a magical goat, but she is a creature of rare intelligence. It seems I’m obliged to give her a stern warning.” Dernhil laughed, and served him more turnips. Anyone casually watching those two young men jesting would never guess that anything was wrong. It was one of the things Selmana liked best about them, a kind of courage.
As she ate, she wondered whether she was as afraid as she had told the others. Yes. Yes, she was. But did that mean she was right to listen only to fear? It was true – lamentably true, she thought – that a good meal made her feel stronger. And even her brief meetings made her understand something of Cadvan’s respect for the Jouains. They reminded her of her father’s people: stoic, private, stubborn and honest.
After dinner, the Bards resumed their earlier discussion. Cadvan was of the opinion that if they were to act, it ought to be that night. Dernhil demurred, suggesting they’d be stronger after a night’s rest. Selmana listened without partaking in the conversation; for the moment she was content merely to sit, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the wellbeing of a good meal among friends. It would pass soon enough.
She could hear Jonalan in the kitchen near by talking to his wife, and unconsciously sharpened her hearing to eavesdrop.
“They’re not too high and mighty to listen,” Jonalan was saying. “Perhaps they will help us.”
“Maybe they can’t help us, for all their fine manners,” said Dana. She was silent for a time, amid a clattering of dishes. “Can they really put the dead to rest, Jona?” she asked, her voice breaking. “Can anyone? I can’t bear much more of it.”
“Hey, lass. We’ll get through. We always do,” said Jonalan, his voice muffled. Selmana thought he must be embracing his wife. Suddenly uncomfortably aware that she was listening to a private conversation, she started and closed her hearing. She realized that over the past hour she had changed her mind. Cadvan was right: they couldn’t abandon these people to deal with the Bone Queen on their own. Perhaps she was braver than she thought. She was, after all, a Bard of Lirigon…
“I suppose the obvious thing,” she said, abruptly interrupting the other Bards, “is to use me as bait to trap the Bone Queen.”
The other Bards turned towards her, politely covering their surprise.
“It’s one obvious thing,” said Nelac, frowning. “But putting you at such risk isn’t necessary. What we do depends whether we seek to ambush Kansabur, in whatever form she is able to take, or whether we simply seek to close the breach in the Circles. I think we shouldn’t be too ambitious…”
Selmana lifted her chin. “Why not?” she said. Her pulse quickened at her own recklessness. “Also, the longer we wait, the stronger she’ll be.”
After a long argument about what they should do, they decided to act that night. It was near midnight when they walked away from the village, up the rise that led to the minehead, their hands linked. Selmana was in the middle, between Nelac and Dernhil. They moved like scouts, slowly and cautiously, their listening alert, questing for the centre of the rupture. There was no sign of life: the entire landscape seemed sterile of presence, as if every beast and bird had simply vanished from the face of the earth.
As the night deepened, it grew colder. There was no wind to drive away the rising mists, and they pooled and swirled about the Bards’ feet, making ghostly eddies in the pale magelights. Selmana could see no sign of the mountains, which were hidden completely in the haze. A half-moon, haloed in icy blue light, stood low on the horizon, but it cast little illumination. All around them stretched a wide silence. Even their footsteps, damped by the mist, made little sound. It was as if they waded through a vast, shallow, edgeless sea.
They were cloaked and muffled against the cold, and were heavily shielded, invisible to any casual eye. Nelac, Dernhil and Cadvan were poised on the very threshold of the Shadowplains, which meant that their vision was uncertain, a doubled pattern of light and shadow from both realities. Selmana, the only one of them able to see clearly, had to act as guide so they didn’t stumble.
Staying at the midpoint between the Circles without falling one way or the other was difficult. Dernhil, who had never journeyed to the Shadowplains before, already had drops of sweat rolling down his brow. He had no desire to enter them; even at the threshold, the Shadowplains felt malign and deadly. The double vision meant the Bards could see into both Circles, if imperfectly, and had the lesser chance of being ambushed by the Bone Queen; and it also meant that they could find the rupture that was afflicting Jouan. Walking on the edge of things, they could feel it near by, an anguish in the fabric of the World.
The others, especially Cadvan, had argued fiercely with Selmana about her proposition that she should act as a bait. But her panic had solidified into defiance; she was driven by a smouldering anger that burned out her fear. How dare this revenant rise and seek to destroy everything she loved? How dare the Bone Queen hunt her cousin through the long plains of death? How dare the Dark try to destroy the School that had given meaning to her life?
A cold voice inside her recognized that this confrontation might be in vain, that they might be courting their own destruction. It seemed worth the gamble. She was tired of being frightened. When she hadn’t been afraid in
the past weeks, she had just been exhausted. Now she felt neither exhausted nor afraid: fury ran silver through her, a bright energy that lightened her limbs. It tasted good.
They halted about half a mile out of Jouan. Selmana could see the mine winch not far away, silhouetted on the bare rise, and a lone star prickling through the haze behind it. “Here,” said Cadvan. There was a flinching in his voice, something nearer disgust than fear. Nelac and Dernhil nodded. Selmana couldn’t see how this place, a little way off the path to the mine, was different from anywhere else.
The four Bards arranged themselves in a ring, their hands still locked together, and Nelac spoke into Selmana’s mind.
We’ll start the mending, he said. Are you ready?
Selmana swallowed. She hoped she was. Yes, she said.
Whatever happens, don’t break the ring, said Nelac. You will be outside the mindmeld, but we will be aware of you. You are our watchman and our guard. The instant you sense Kansabur, do not hesitate: call us.
Selmana nodded. She still felt no sign of life as far as her senses could quest, and it made her uneasy. She thought with a shiver that perhaps, as they stepped out of the warm lamplight of the tavern, the Bone Queen had devoured every living thing for miles. Perhaps she was hidden right next to her, listening to her thoughts, and Selmana’s mind was naked before her, all their plans exposed, despite the veils of magery that sought to conceal them. For an instant, Selmana’s resolve wavered. With an effort, she pushed her fears aside.
The other Bards bent their minds to weaving, and for an endless moment Selmana forgot everything else. This was a charm unlike any she had encountered before, and she was awed by its power. Weaving magery was like making music, if music were forged out of steel and light: its melodies and notes were the fabric of reality itself, softened and made fluid in the voices of the Bards. She saw that each Bard possessed a subtly different magery from the others; Nelac glowed with a rich gold light that made her think of sunset, while Dernhil was like the rays of the spring sun through new foliage, and Cadvan was a pure silver, the quality of starlight. The mageries met and flowed together, making a complex, ever-changing harmony, like the mingled melodies of a river, but shaped with conscious purpose and form.