"We know how dangerous it is for you," said Anhil, turning to face him. "And for us, if it is known that we are helping you. Only the First Circle knows where Gahal is, and why. Gahal sent a semblance of himself to Damaroch; it is actually Rhyd. Gahal rode here by circuitous means, and in disguise himself, as I have done. I doubt that either of us has been followed, though I fear Ossin is watched. It is as well you arrived under cover of night."
Cadvan nodded, and Maerad felt her fear, which had retreated for a few precious hours, returning.
"I have put a ward about Ossin," said Gahal. "We are all safe enough, for the meantime; no one can observe us here. But this is ill news, Anhil. I will not contemplate sending men at arms to Norloch. And it means that perhaps the fears of invasion in Busk are not ill-founded, if Enkir is gathering forces." He knitted his brows. "My fears about you and Maerad traveling through Annar also increase fourfold."
"I agree," said Cadvan. "Nevertheless, I fear that three stormdogs at sea would be a certain death sentence. One came close to killing us. Even with armies pursuing us, Annar is the lesser risk."
"I should tell you that two horses, Darsor and Imi, arrived at Gent a week ago," said Anhil. "Darsor said you told them to meet you there."
Maerad gave an exclamation of pleasure. Their horses had taken Saliman and Hem to Turbansk, and she missed her mare Imi almost as much as she missed Hem.
They stayed in Ossin another two days. Maerad spent most of her time with Lyla, with whom she struck up an easy friendship.
In Lyla's company, she could forget that she was the Fire Lily of Edil-Amarandh, the Fated One pursued by both Light and Dark, or that she was a Bard at all. She could pretend that she was just a young girl of sixteen, with not much more to worry about than the day's lessons or tasks or gossip.
Although Lyla was not a Bard, her father had taught her many Barding skills: she was formidably well read—especially when compared to Maerad, who had hardly read any books at all—and knew most of the great lays by heart. She could play several instruments and even knew some basics of the Speech, although on her tongue it had no power. She was going to be, she told Maerad, a healer.
"I can't do the Bard healing," she said ruefully. "I wish I was a Bard. But I can help women in childbirth and cure many things, even without that, as long as I have the Knowing, and Papa says the more healers the better. And I like it." She glanced at Maerad, as if daring her to disagree, but Maerad was privately too impressed to say anything; the fact was, Lyla was much better educated than she was.
"I've never thought about what I might do," she answered reflectively. "It's not as if I've ever had much choice. First I was a slave, and then Cadvan got me out of there, and now I'm a Bard and I have to—well, I have things to do. And that's not a choice, either."
Lyla looked at her with sympathy. "I wouldn't like that much," she said. "Mama always says I am far too willful, and she wishes I had been a boy, because they are much more biddable and do what they're told. Whereas girls, she says, are stubborn as mules and as hard to train as magpies."
Maerad laughed, a little enviously. The kind of freedom Lyla was talking of was completely alien to her; and her comments made Maerad acutely aware of her lack of family. She barely remembered her father at all, and her mother little better, and those memories were themselves riven by horror and grief. It made her wonder what she would do with her life, if she survived the quest that she and Cadvan had now begun; she realized she had no idea at all.
Maerad didn't see much of Gahal, except at mealtimes, but although he was always friendly, she thought she detected a slight wariness in his manner. Once the Bard had taken her to see his tame blue wrens, which lived uncaged in a gnarled apple tree in the gardens. Maerad was enchanted by the tiny birds that flashed amid the green leaves like live jewels, and Gahal called one to come and sit on her finger, where it chirped and ate some seed from Gahal's hand.
"Featherheads, they are," said Gahal fondly as the bird fixed him with a bright eye and asked for more seed, and then flicked back into the tree. "There is not much space for brains in those little skulls. But I love them."
"I can see why," said Maerad. "They're so beautiful."
"Beautiful and fragile. Like much that is threatened by the Dark," said Gahal, suddenly sober. Maerad glanced at him inquiringly, and to her surprise saw that he seemed to be embarrassed. They watched the tiny birds in silence for a little while, and then Gahal cleared his throat. "Maerad," he said, and then stopped.
"What is it?" she asked.
Gahal scratched his head and stared at the apple tree. "I wanted to say that much hangs on this quest of yours," he said at last. "And I wish to warn you, also. But I find that words fail me."
"Warn me of what?"
Gahal looked her in the eye with a strange earnestness. "That is what I have no words for, young Bard. There is something in you that I do not understand, and I fear it."
Maerad stared back, unable to think of any response because of a strange dread that rose inside her. Gahal sighed, and then laughed and patted her arm. "It is hard to say, beware of yourself! But I do say it. Take care, my young girl. I think of Lyla, and I think of you, no older than she is, and I would not countenance my daughter facing the perils you must survive."
They walked back to the house, and Gahal seemed then his normal voluble self, but the conversation had troubled Maerad. She felt that she both did and did not understand what he meant. Was he speaking of the Elemental part of her? She knew that Bards distrusted the Elidhu.
Afterward she had felt disturbed, and she wandered down to the river to spend some time in the undemanding company of Owan. She had scarcely seen Owan since that first night; he had been busy at the river harbor. He had drawn the White Owl out of the water and painstakingly examined her, mending the broken rail, which was the main hurt she had sustained in their battle with the stormdog, and checking each plank for cracks or weaknesses.
Owan left for Thorold shortly afterward, and their parting had been warm and full of sadness. In their time together, Maerad had learned to perceive the deep feeling that lay beneath his taciturn nature and to respect his solidity, which held true and strong even in the most perilous circumstances, and she counted him among her closest friends. She wondered if she would ever see him again.
Darsor and Imi arrived that afternoon. A young Bard from Gent had ridden Darsor, leading Imi; she was about Hem's age and clearly delighted to be given such an errand. She was really guided by Darsor, rather than the other way round. Darsor was a magnificent black animal of about seventeen hands, with a proudly arched neck and a form made for both endurance and speed. He was out of the line of Lanorgrim, the heroic mount of Maninae, whose ancestors were said to have had winged fetlocks, and his mettle was such that no one could ride him if he did not permit it. Maerad's steel-gray mare, Imi, was smaller than Darsor, but brave and hardy.
Maerad, who was outside with Lyla when the horses arrived, rushed up to greet them. The young Bard slid off Darsor, shyly handing the reins to Maerad with a nod, and ran inside to look for Gahal. Maerad took the liberty of kissing Darsor on the nose and flung her arms around Imi's neck.
How are you, my friend? asked Imi, nuzzling her hair.
All the better for seeing you, Maerad answered in the Speech. It has been a long road for you!
Oh, yes, said Imi. But it was fun. I liked Turbansk. They have golden mangers.
Darsor snorted. Brass mangers, he said. But good oats. Where is my friend?
Inside, said Maerad.
At that moment, Cadvan flung open the door and came out, greeting Imi affectionately and embracing Darsor.
Always you are here at need, he said. Now for our next journey.
Darsor put up his head and neighed. The chickens scratching by his hooves squawked and fluttered away in alarm, and Maerad covered her ears. It sounded like a war cry.
That night, their last in Ossin, Maerad had another foredream. Like her previous dreams, it possessed an unreal, almost
bitter clarity. It seemed she was lifted to a great height above the mists and fumes of a landscape scarred with battle; she saw towns thrown down in smoking ruins, fire set in forest and village, fields littered with bodies crumpled in odd poses and ominously still. The grass of the gentle meadows beneath her was drenched in a red dew.
She hung poised above it, as if she were an eagle, looking over destruction in every direction as far as the eye could see. All about her was an absolute silence. A great lake stood in the far distance, glinting red, with rivers running toward it like crimson threads, and behind her stood a range of mountains. Although she could not have said how, she realized, with a great heaviness in her heart, that she was looking at the Suderain, the rich, fertile region between the Osidh Am and the Lamarsan Sea.
Without warning, it seemed she was suddenly rushed at great speed to the east, toward the great lake of the Lamarsan. Beneath her she saw the white line of a Bard Road, and more devastated villages and fields. As she neared the shore, she could see a high red tower topped with a golden dome that caught the dying rays of the sun. It was higher than any tower she had seen, save the Machelinor in Norloch, and it stood in the middle of a great city enclosed by high walls. She knew it must be the city of Turbansk, and her heart rose into her mouth. A black, evil-smelling smoke rose from it, and even at a distance she could see that in places its high walls were breached and scarred by fire.
Then suddenly, without transition, Maerad was within the city, looking down from a height just higher than the walls. Some terrible force had been at work there: some of the buildings were collapsed into utter ruin, with not a single wall left standing. Surely even war, she thought, could not cause such utter devastation.
Only the red tower and the buildings around it, which she guessed belonged to the School of Turbansk, remained whole, and they were teeming with the dogsoldiers Maerad had seen from a distance in her previous foredream. Seen close up, they made her gorge rise with fear: she saw long brutal snouts fanged with steel, eyes illuminated by dull red flames, limbs that were edged with weapons of metal or that expelled jets of fire, all animated by a malign intelligence.
Maerad realized the dogsoldiers were working in teams, sniffing through the ruins of Turbansk for survivors: she saw some hundred prisoners, bound and gagged, lined up by a wall, their heads bowed. She strained desperately to see, but she couldn't tell if Hem or Saliman were among them.
A scream gathered in her throat, but she could make no sound.
She woke drenched in sweat, the cry still on her lips, the dread and grief of her dream filling her mind to the exclusion of all else. Gradually she became aware of the outlines of her chamber, limned in a pale predawn light, and her possessions, carefully placed about the room. She counted them over slowly to bring herself back to the present, as she always did when dreams afflicted her. Was Turbansk doomed to be a charnel house? Did Hem even now lie cold in the ruins, while crows flapped down to pluck out his eyes? Maerad covered her face with her hands, struggling to drive out her dreadful visions. I could not bear it if Hem died, she thought. I would go mad.
Desperately, as she began to calm down, Maerad tried to recall what Cadvan had told her about foredreams. Foredreams are perilous riddles to unravel, he had said. There are many stories of those who seek to avoid their prophecies, only to bring about what they most fear. Perhaps I have seen only what might happen, she thought. If all goes wrong. If our quest fails. If we do not find the Treesong . . . But she knew already of the forces ranged against Turbansk, and her arguments seemed futile, the empty words given to calm a child's terror, when the speaker knows there is no hope against the darkness drawing in around them.
Chapter X
THE WHITE SICKNESS
IT was a morning of hard frost, presaging an early autumn, when they rode out of Ossin. The horses snorted misty plumes from their nostrils and skittered over the hard ground, their newly shod hooves shattering the frozen puddles and churning them into mud. Maerad had put on some extra layers of clothes that morning, and, for the first time in weeks, drew on the mailcoat she had been given in Innail. It was a marvelous thing, each tempered steel link forged so finely that it was as light and flexible as a heavy cloak, but it was like putting on a skin of ice, and she felt its weight with a shiver of dread. Over all she wore her blue woolen cloak, the hood drawn almost over her eyes. Cadvan was in black, his cloak bearing only the smallest insignia of silver. She reflected, not for the first time, that from a distance Cadvan could easily be mistaken for a Hull.
Like Cadvan, Maerad wore her pack, with all her personal belongings and traveling food, on her back. The horses were burdened with other supplies: mainly oats, to see the animals through the pass where there would be no grazing, and rolled-up sheepskin coats and jerkins for the colder weather Cadvan and Maerad would encounter in the mountains and Zmarkan. They were traveling as lightly as they could, but it still made a heavy load. Darsor, who was strong as a warhorse, looked unbothered by his burdens, but Maerad worried for Imi. She was of a sturdy mountain breed renowned for its endurance, but she was not as strong as Darsor. And if they were going to be as swift as Cadvan planned, it would be a punishing journey for her.
Gahal and his household stood by the door, huddled against the cold, to farewell them. All Gahal's bonhomie was quenched as he soberly said goodbye.
"I cannot see far along your path," he said, "but we all know you are flying from shadow into shadow, and that no matter where you tread, perils will pursue you. All our blessings and grace go with you."
"Nevertheless, we will be safer moving than staying still," said Maerad.
"You are right, of course." Gahal gave her an unsettling look, and she remembered their conversation in the garden. "You have yet to know your heart, young Bard. Be vigilant! There are perils that have nothing to do with arms and weapons."
Maerad blushed slightly and turned away.
"Peace be on your house, and all who live there," said Cadvan, and they both embraced each member of Gahal's family.
"And may the Light bring your journey to a safe end," said Rena. The customary farewell had an added weight. Maerad hugged Lyla hard without saying anything, kissing her on both cheeks. Lyla burst into tears and ran back into the house.
Somberly they mounted their horses and trotted out of Ossin, heading away from the river on the white-graveled track. Maerad didn't look back, although she knew with another sense that Gahal stood looking after them until they turned the corner and were out of sight.
Around them the fields and trees were white with frost, only now beginning its slow melt under the pale heat of the early sun. All the dells and lowlands were thick with fog, wisping in curlicues as it drew up into the sky and disappeared. They followed the path as it ran into the birch woods, the shadows falling chill over them. The horses quickened their pace into a canter, and the air hit Maerad's cheeks like a cold river, tingling them into life as the blood began to move through her body and the cold receded from her bones.
Cadvan and Maerad had talked through their plans with Gahal the previous evening. Both of them felt that time was pressing, a sense that grew more urgent with every passing day.
"You are outlawed now," said Gahal. "I have contacted Carfedis, and you will be helped there, but you will need to enter that School in other guise in case you are sighted. You can expect no assistance from anyone, no farm nor inn nor School, once you leave Ileadh: anyone could betray you, to the Light or the Dark. And I do not doubt the Dark will be seeking you— Hulls sent by Enkir and perhaps the Nameless One himself— since the Dark, it seems, now has free movement through Annar."
"No road is without risk," said Cadvan grimly. "And I have taken thought of those you speak of. We can have hope in the fact that Enkir does not know where we are going, or why, and will not expect us to reenter Annar, even if he has tracked us as far as Gent. He will expect us to be fleeing him, and I think he will believe that we are seeking refuge in the Seven Kingdoms, perhaps that
we would go next to Culain, or even south to Lanorial or Amdridh."
Gahal nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps we could take some precautions to draw the pursuit off your trail. I will give thought to making some semblances. Perhaps they could head south to Lanorial."
Cadvan looked up quickly, shaking his head. "I do not want to think of Bards of Gent risking their lives for us. Are there any among you who could face a stormdog?"
"Nay, I wasn't thinking of sending any Bard," said Gahal. "I have magery enough to trick the sight of any who watch, and to send a ghost ship south. It would work from a distance, perhaps long enough to muddy the scent."
"Well, if there is no risk," said Maerad. She didn't like the thought of more Bards dying to protect her, either. Dernhil's death still weighed on her heavily.
"I still think this is our best gamble," said Cadvan. "We have no choice but to brave the Dark; even if we hid in a burrow, it would find us. At the same time, we need swiftness; it is already almost autumn, and the north will grow daily less hospitable to travelers. We will have to use the Bard Roads, at least until we cross the River Lir. There will be few on the road at this time of year."
Gahal shook his head, but argued no further. He spread maps out on the table, holding down the curling parchment with his hands, and the three Bards pored over them. Cadvan wanted to ride as quickly as possible to the Gwalhain Pass, which pierced the Osidh Elanor, the great range that bounded the north of Annar, and would bring them out in Zmarkan. After that, he planned to go to the Pilanel settlement of Murask, a little north of the Pass, to gather news and to seek advice and help.
"It's three hundred leagues and more before we even get to the Pass," said Maerad, brushing the hair out of her eyes as she looked over the route. "It will be a hard journey."
"Aye, and we will have to go like the very wind," Cadvan answered. "It will try us. But I do not think we have a choice."