Selmana’s unexpected assault broke the ensorcellment: Nelac and Dernhil burst out of their bonds, letting fly a sheet of magefire that billowed from their arms and hit the Hulls and then the wall behind them, setting the hangings there in flames. Kansabur scrambled to her feet, screaming defiance, and threw out her left arm. An invisible force lifted six Pellinor Bards, including Dorn, and threw them with a sickening thump against the wall. Likod rose shakily to his feet, stunned. He stared at the Bards, his mouth open, all his arrogance shattered. Malgorn picked up his sword from the ground and ran towards him, murder in his eyes. Likod staggered aside as Malgorn swept down his weapon, and in his fury the Bard missed him. He leaped around to deal another stroke and halted in bafflement. Likod had vanished, stepping out of the Singing Hall as swiftly as he had stepped into it.
Cadvan ran to where the black blade of Thuruk had fallen and hefted it up. It was so heavy that he could scarcely lift it, but he brought it up high, his shoulders shaking with the effort, and back down like a club on Kansabur’s unhelmed head, and split her skull.
There was no blood: instead, a transparent ichor spilled smoking across the flagstones. Impossibly, as Cadvan struggled to lift Thuruk again, Kansabur stood up, swaying. One of her eyes was knocked out of her skull and hung down over her cheekbone, and her mouth was torn and dribbling the clear fluid, but she screamed in the Black Speech, a bubbling shriek of rage. Cadvan slashed the heavy sword around again, using it like a scythe against her legs, and knocked her to the floor. Then, with the last of his strength, he swung it down on her neck. There was a loud crack, like the breaking of stone, and her head rolled away from her body. The scream was cut off, but its echo rang horribly about the Hall as if it had its own life, before it trailed into silence.
Cadvan leaned on the black sword, his face wet with sweat and the foul ichor of the Bone Queen, panting. “So you wished for a body,” he said. “And this is what your body is. A shape for your death.” He wiped his face and spat on the corpse and then flinched back in sudden alarm. It seemed to him that the headless ruin changed shape, and for a moment he feared that he had not killed Kansabur after all, that she would rise again in some new and terrible form. And then he saw that the Bone Queen’s body, its ensorcellment of immortality broken by her own black blade, was crumbling into dust.
XXXVI
AFTER the defeat of the Bone Queen, Selmana’s memories were a whirl of fragments. She remembered the wreckage of the Singing Hall, curls of smoke drifting in the air, tables broken and charred, a burning tapestry, and someone hauling open the door to let in the good daylight. She remembered the rain trickling down her neck as she walked to the guesthouse, her knees trembling so badly she had to be supported, although she couldn’t remember who led her. She remembered people talking and shouting, a confusion of activity. She didn’t remember lying down on her bed, although she woke later, undressed and warm between clean sheets, and cried all alone in her chamber for the mercy of a safe, comfortable bed.
Kansabur was dead. She could never be recalled: the spells she had woven into what remained of her human body, the sorcery of the Nameless One that granted her the deathlessness of a Hull, or the less ponderable power of the Shika, had been shattered. Nothing could call her back. A day later, or perhaps it was the day after that, Selmana ate privately with Nelac and Cadvan and Dernhil, and they spoke of what had happened. The first snows were falling over Pellinor, and Selmana looked out of the window and watched the flakes spiralling down, covering the hurts of the School with a silent, white blanket.
Few had escaped unscathed. Cadvan’s face was burned where the Bone Queen’s ichor had splattered onto his skin, and Nelac looked ill and old. Dernhil had a wound above his eye, where a flying piece of glass from a broken window had cut him. She knew she should be glad, for they had survived. Two Bards had died in the Singing Hall, their necks broken when Kansabur had flung them against the wall; Dorn was abed with a sickness that Milana thought was driven into his blood by the unknown spell that had brought Likod past the strongest wards into the Singing Hall and protected him against the white fire of the Bards of Pellinor. In the Fesse, five people had been killed by wers, and three Bards, fighting their assault on the walls of Pellinor, had suffered grievous wounds.
Yet it could have been so much worse. The other Bards praised Selmana for her courage and wondered what had made her immune to the dark spell that had defeated all the other Bards. Dernhil joked that she must be some new kind of mage. Nelac told her that when they returned to Lirigon, she would no longer be a Minor Bard, that she would be instated into her Name. Selmana smiled, but she felt nothing beyond relief that at last the ordeal was over. They were gentle with her, seeing her shock. Dernhil insisted that she eat, and she took some morsels to please him, and tried to smile.
More than anything, she wanted to be alone. The weather didn’t permit her to walk about the streets of Pellinor, and so she retreated to her bedchamber and sat by her window, looking out on to the courtyard. The snow swirled down outside, growing heavier as the day darkened; she could barely see the almond tree as it stretched up its bare arms. She felt heavy with sadness. Why had Anghar not come in her need? Never had she been in such need. There had been a promise, and the promise was broken. The other Bards were right: she was mistaken to love an Elidhu. They were not to be trusted.
Yet she had believed, in the first moment that she had seen the wild girl, that she could trust her. She had felt this in every part of her being. How could she have been so wrong? She had thought that Anghar would help her, that she would save them all from the devouring eyes of Kansabur. But when Selmana had called, there had been no answer. Anghar had left her to face the might of Kansabur on her own. And yet, despite the bitterness of that betrayal, Selmana still longed to see her. She hated herself for her weakness.
Foolish. Did I not say I was with you?
Selmana jumped. The voice was as clear as if someone spoke by her shoulder, but there was no one in the room. It was Anghar. Her heart leaped with sudden unreasoning gladness.
“Is it you?” she said.
You should remember what I tell you, said the wild girl.
“Where are you?” Selmana looked about wildly. “Stay, please…”
I was with you, as I said.
A light bloomed in the almond tree, shining through the dim veils of snow as if the moon rested in its branches: and suddenly Selmana saw her, slim and supple among the naked branches, swinging her foot like a girl playing in midsummer. Snowflakes lodged in her hair like blossoms. Selmana gazed into Anghar’s eyes and thought she understood at last why the Hull’s spell hadn’t touched her. She leaned her forehead against the cold glass.
“Did you save me after all?” she asked.
No, said the girl. You saved yourself. You could have chosen otherwise and hidden in the desolate plains. That was always up to you. You chose to stay with those you love.
“But I love you,” said Selmana, her heart constricting painfully.
You chose those you love, said Anghar. I salute your courage, dear one. I come to say farewell.
“Don’t leave me!” said Selmana. “Take me with you!”
You have a life that you must live, said the girl. Your time will come. Be joyful! This ill is broken, although others will rise. But they are not your task.
Anghar smiled and stretched out her hands, and then the wind lifted a flurry of snow that hid the tree, and when it had passed, the wild girl was gone. And Selmana hid her face in her hands and wept again, but now there was no bitterness in her sorrow.
The night after he killed the Bone Queen, Cadvan sat with Dernhil in his chamber in the guesthouse, as Dernhil insisted on tending his wounds. The ichor that had splashed on his face burned like acid, but otherwise he had taken no major hurt. The spell that had bound them to Likod’s will had left them with a shivering sickness, a nausea that Nelac assured them would pass. Medhyl stayed it a little, and laradhel helped even more.
&nb
sp; “What will you do, Cadvan?” asked Dernhil, as he carefully dabbed a salve over the marks on Cadvan’s face. “Surely now no one will argue for your exile.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Cadvan, screwing up his face against the sting of the ointment. “There were some who were glad to see me banished, whether I was guilty or no.”
“Yet I expect Milana’s judgement will prevail, even in Lirigon.” Dernhil sat back. “I think that will do,” he said, examining his handiwork. “I doubt you’ll scar.”
“Handsome as ever, then.” Cadvan grinned. “I’m not sure what I will do. My heart longs for home. But…”
“But what?”
“Things will not be as they were. They can’t be. And even if Kansabur is utterly vanquished, the wrongs that she caused are not undone. I have much to atone. I am not sure I have a home any more.”
Dernhil frowned and looked away. “I don’t know how you can say that,” he said. “Beware of punishing yourself, Cadvan. It does no good, and may do harm.”
“I’m past punishing myself. I think that is just the truth.” He glanced at Dernhil. “What will you do?”
“I am homesick. I miss Gent. I miss my chambers and my books. I can feel poetry whispering in me again. It’s been a long time, and it reproaches me for my neglect.” He smiled, and took Cadvan’s hand. “I hope you will come and stay in Gent. You have never been there, no? Of all the Schools in Annar, even Pellinor, I think it is the most beautiful. Though I admit I am partial.”
“I will,” said Cadvan, smiling. “But for now, I feel a weariness heavy as any I have felt, and I am going to sleep until the sun is high in the sky. Or maybe longer than that. Rest well, my friend.”
After Dernhil left, Cadvan prepared for bed. Despite his crushing exhaustion, he still felt wakeful. He dimmed the Bard lamp and lay on his back, studying the birds painted on the ceiling. It wasn’t merely that the artist had been accurate in every detail, he thought; each bird had in its form a sense of motion, so they seemed vividly alive, as if they might at any moment fly off the ceiling and perch on his bedstead. He must ask Milana the name of the Maker who had painted the murals in the guesthouse. All of them were extraordinary…
He had almost dropped off to sleep when he heard someone say his name. He sat up, blinking; he had heard no one step into his room, and yet it sounded close.
Cadvan. His heart lurched: it was Ceredin. She stood by the bed, looking down on him, and in that instant it seemed that she was alive again, warm and solid beside him.
“Ceredin,” he said. He reached out his arms to embrace her, but she stepped back. And then he saw that she was not quite substantial, that he could see the other side of the room dimly through her form.
Nay, my love, you cannot touch me. Her form blurred, and Cadvan thought she would vanish, but it was tears filling his eyes. All the things he had wished he could say to Ceredin rushed into his mind at once, tangled together, and silenced him. He didn’t know what to say.
I miss you so much, he said at last. Every hour of every day I wish…
Ceredin looked at him gravely. You need say nothing, she said. There is nothing you have thought or said that I do not know. At last I can find the Gates, and I can leave. The World is mended. Do not be sad, my love. I am not sad.
Cadvan stared at her, all his yearning naked in his face. I avenged your death, he said. I’ll spend my life trying to mend what I did. But I would give everything if only I could have you back.
I will never come back, she said softly. The river flows only one way, and I am almost at the sea. Farewell, my love. Remember me without bitterness. Remember how we loved. Be all the things that I could never be.
Her form began to fade. Cadvan cried out Ceredin’s name, bidding her stay, but even as he spoke she vanished. His chamber was empty, and he was alone with all the choices that had formed his life. And he saw, with an anguish that he couldn’t contain, everything that would never happen: the futures that had died with Ceredin, the children they would never hold, the laughter and sorrow they would never share. And his love burned inside him, a pain beyond bearing, a living thing.
The four Bards stayed in Pellinor the whole winter, helping to heal the hurts in the School and the Fesse. Selmana slowly began to enter the life of Pellinor. She felt that she would never be whole again, but when she looked back, she remembered that winter as a time of great joy. There were long nights in the Singing Hall, which she loved for their laughter and fellowship, even though she had no ear for music, and there were new friends. She began her studies with Milana, and Nelac, who said that he was taking a well-earned holiday, helped her ransack the Pellinor library.
She knew she had changed over that dark autumn. She never spoke of Anghar to anyone, but she remembered her promise: Your time will come. She rediscovered her passion for Making, and put all her longing and desire into the things she created. Then the seasons turned, and the valley was loud with meltwater, and the orchards showed their fresh green.
All winter there had been embassies between Lirigon and Pellinor. Despite some opposition in Lirigon, Cadvan’s exile was lifted, in recognition of his part in the struggle against the Bone Queen. Dernhil and Nelac were no longer outlawed; the Bards of Lirigon now seemed, if anything, embarrassed by their hasty judgement. And as the days lengthened, Dernhil, Cadvan and Nelac left Pellinor at last. Selmana stayed on, as she was midway through some studies. She would travel back to Lirigon in the summer for her Instatement. She missed her mother sorely, but she knew now that her home was Pellinor.
This time they took the Bard roads, and their travelling was easier. They were welcomed back to Lirigon as heroes, even Cadvan, although some Bards muttered against the lifting of the ban, and some would distrust him all his life. Dernhil stayed a few days and then rode on to Gent, extracting a promise from Cadvan that he would travel there before the year was over. Nelac returned to his chambers and pulled out the book he had been writing before Dernhil had arrived in Lirigon the previous spring. He had almost forgotten what it was about, and now he read it again, he thought he would be better to begin another book.
Despite the revocation of his exile, Cadvan found he was no longer at ease in Lirigon. He went to visit his father and found that he was ill, refusing all treatment. Nartan still looked askance at Cadvan, although he was now treated as a hero in the village.
“I don’t think he will ever forgive me,” Cadvan said to Juna, after a particularly difficult conversation.
She smiled sadly. “He is a proud man, and his pride in you was broken,” she said. “And he is old, and set in his ways. I think he will never forgive you for being a Bard.”
“There’s nothing I can do about that,” said Cadvan. He tended his father through his illness, despite his silences and rough ingratitude. Even on his deathbed, Nartan had no kind words for Cadvan. After Nartan’s death, on Midsummer’s Day, Cadvan took on the mantle of a Bard and said the rites, as his brothers and sisters had asked. When the funeral was over, the five siblings stood together on the edge of his grave in silence.
“He was a difficult father,” said Ilios. He had come home with Ardur when he heard that Nartan was ill. “And not only to you, Cadvan.”
“I know.” Cadvan smiled at Ilios, the quick, brilliant smile that illuminated his face. “And I was a difficult son.”
“And brother,” said Ardur.
“Perhaps we’re past all that now,” said Tera. Her smile was like Cadvan’s. “I can’t but mourn him. He was a good man despite it all. But perhaps we can bury our bitterness with him.”
Cadvan looked at the fresh grave, with the mild summer breeze blowing the flowers back and forth, and wondered if that was true. He felt that a black wind was howling across a desert inside him. He had longed for his father to forgive him, and now he never would. But he was grateful for the company of his siblings.
The next day he rode out of the Fesse, heading north. Two weeks later he came to Jouan. It was a windy day, with w
hite clouds chasing each other across a pale blue sky, and the hawthorn flowers dropping their white petals to the ground. He passed a wagon trundling out of the village, loaded with shining black coal, and waved at the Jouains who recognized him as he rode between their houses. He took lodgement with Jonalan, stabling his horse, and walked on to the edge of the village.
When he reached Hal’s house, she was pegging out her washing. He halted and watched as the sheets billowed out in the heavy gusts, waiting for her to finish her task. She stood back, propping the empty basket on her hip, and nodded to herself, as at a job well done. And then she turned around and saw him, and she dropped her basket and ran towards him, her face shining. Cadvan stretched out his arms, and she threw herself at him. He staggered back against her embrace.
He kissed her tangled hair and then held her at arm’s length, studying her. “You’ve grown again,” he said.
“You didn’t die!” she said. “I’m so happy!”
Cadvan looked at the neatly scrubbed house with its beds of flowering herbs, the linen sheets dancing in the keen wind, the carved sign above the door that announced the presence of a healer. Hal had been busy since last he had been in Jouan. A dragonfly was darting among the flowers, its iridescent wings catching the light, and he caught his breath, struck by how beautiful Hal’s home was, with the pale sunshine glowing on its roof.
No, he thought, I didn’t die. Not yet. He realized, with surprise, that he was happy. Happiness wasn’t what he had thought it was: it was like the dragonfly, a fragile, winged thing that arrived, unsought and unexpected, and graced the work of living. You couldn’t hunt it down, you couldn’t hold it. But sometimes, in a blessed moment, it was there.
It was good to be alive.