THE CROW
Pellinor 03
By
Alison Croggon
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2006 by Alison Croggon
Maps drawn by Niroot Puttapipat
First U.S. paperback edition 2008
First published by Penguin Books, Australia
ISBN 978-0-7636-3409-4 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-7636-4146-7 (paperback)
Printed in the United States of America
Candlewick Press
2067 Massachusetts Avenue
Cambridge, Massachusetts 02140
www.candlewick.com
TABLE OF CONTENTS
* * *
TURBANSK
I - The White Crow
II - Wounds
III - The Shadow of War
IV - Zelika
V - The Wall of IlDara
LAMARSAN
VI - The Deathcrows
VII - The Battle of the Birds
VIII - Siege
IX - The Edge of Doom
X - The West Gate
XI - The Caves of Lamarsan
NAL-AK-BURAT
XII - The Three Gates
XIII - News from Annar
XIV - The Skyless City
XV - The Tree Man
XVI - The Plains of Nazar
XVII - The Glandugir Hills
DEN RAVEN
XVIII - Disguise
XIX - Sjug'hakar Im
XX - The Blind House
XXI - Spies
XXII - Dagra
XXIII - The Iron Tower
XXIV - Ire's Story
XXV - Return
XXVI - The Song
APPENDICES
A Brief Introduction to the Suderain and Amdridh
The Elidhu
The Treesong Runes
Notes for the Appendices
About The Author
One is the singer, hidden from sunlight
Two is the seeker, fleeing from shadows
Three is the journey, taken in danger
Four are the riddles, answered in treesong:
Earth, fire, water, air Spells you OUT!
— Traditional Annaren nursery rhyme Annaren Scrolls, Library of Busk
A Note On The Text
The Crow is the third part of my translation of the eight-volume Annaren classic text, the Naraudh Lar-Chane (The Riddle of the Treesong). The enthusiastic response of readers so far confirm my initial instinct that this story could move outside the cloisters of academic study and fulfill its initial function. This we know quite clearly, from a note attributed to Cadvan of Lirigon, which is inscribed on a forepage to one of the extant versions: the purpose of the Naraudh Lar-Chane is, he says, to "delight all hearers" and to "introduce those unfamiliar with Bardic Lore to the ways and virtues of the Balance." Instruction, then, was important to those who wrote it down for their contemporaries; but its first intention was "delight."
As for "instruction": like the rest of the vast trove of parchment and reed-paper documents unearthed in Morocco in 1991 and known, misleadingly, as the Annaren Scrolls, this text repays study. It is one of the richest single sources for what we know of daily life in Edil-Amarandh, and gives us clear and vivid pictures of many of its peoples, from the complex Bardic cultures of the south to the various societies of the frozen plains of the north. It is quite likely that in its own time it served the same purpose as it does for us – that in part it was written to educate Annarens about the diversity of cultures amid which they lived. But unknown millennia later, this instruction has a special piquancy, bringing to life a civilization now long vanished from the face of the earth. The translation I present here cannot pretend to have captured in contemporary English all the subtleties and intricacies of the original text, and for this I am sorry; but I hope to have preserved at least some sense of its beauty and excitement. Those who wish to know more can find some sources of information in the appendices that I have included with each volume.
The first two volumes of Pellinor, The Naming and The Riddle, concern themselves with Maerad of Pellinor, a young Bard who discovers she is the Fated One prophesied to save her world from the rising darkness of the Nameless One. The Naming records her meeting with her mentor and friend, Cadvan of Lirigon, and their increasingly perilous journey to Norloch, the center of the Light in Annar, in order to reveal her destiny and bring her into the power of her Bardic Gift. In the course of her quest, by chance or fate, Maerad finds her brother, Cai of Pellinor, whom she had long thought dead, and also reveals the corruption that now lies at the heart of the Light in Annar. The Riddle traces her adventures with Cadvan as they flee the forces of both the Dark and the Light across the green lands of Annar and the frozen wastelands of the north, where she is captured by the Winterking, Arkan, a powerful Elemental being. The story finishes on Midwinter Day, after her escape from his northern stronghold, Arkan-da, and her discovery that the Treesong – or at least, half of it – is inscribed on the lyre that she inherited from her mother, and has owned since she was a child.
The Crow – originally books IV and VI of the Naraudh Lar-Chane – shifts focus from Maerad's story to that of her brother Cai, known as Hem. We last saw Hem when he parted from Maerad at the end of The Naming, as they fled Norloch; and now we pick up the story on his arrival with the Bard Saliman in the populous and ancient city of Turbansk. Here we see a society very different from Annar in many ways – despite the commonalities of Bardic authority – through the naive eyes of a bewildered young boy and against the darkening background of gathering war. The battle against the depredations of the Nameless One intensifies as the immortal despot of Den Raven (known more commonly in the south by his usename, Sharma) threatens to destroy all the cultures of the Light in Edil-Amarandh.
As in the previous volumes, for the purposes of this text I have treated Annaren as the equivalent of English and left untranslated some terms from other languages, in this case, most commonly, Suderain – the language spoken across both the Suderain and the Amdridh peninsula. A couple of Annaren experts have questioned this decision, arguing that in doing this I give a false sense of the centrality of Annaren and imply that it was an imperial language like global English, which, for all its wide usage, it was not. I can only note their objections here, and answer that it seemed to me to be the best solution at the time as the original text was, indeed, written in Annaren.
As I worked on the text, it was impossible to resist reflecting on how many parallels exist between our own time and that of this ancient story. Our world has darkened considerably in the early years of the twenty-first century, suggesting to this reader at least a contemporary relevance in some of the descriptions of war in the volumes that make up The Crow. The Naraudh Lar-Chane's subtextual concerns about the relationship between human beings and the natural environment seem equally timely. This is, in part, a function of the universality of all art. But I can't help reflecting sadly that it says little for the human race that we are no closer to resolving these questions than we were in the days when Bards and the Balance held sway.
I have now spent so long on this task of translation that it is almost impossible to imagine my life without it; and it is fair to say that I did not realize, when I began to translate The Naming, how much it would take over my life. The work is still a long way from completion: there are still the final, and most difficult, two volumes before me. This is not a complaint: the many hours spent debating intricacies of Annaren syntax or the finer points of Bardic ethics, the days in libraries poring over ancient scripts or microfiche, attempting to decipher some arcane detail of life in the vanished realm of Edil-Am
arandh, have been among the most rewarding in my life. And this work has made me many friends, both readers and those who have helped me in my research, who have enriched my life immeasurably.
As always, a work of this kind is created with the help of many people, most of whom I do not have the space to acknowledge here. Firstly, as always, I want to thank my family for their good-humored tolerance of this obsessive work – my husband, Daniel Keene, for his support of this project and his proofing skills, and my children, Joshua, Zoe, and Ben. I am again grateful to Richard, Jan, Nicholas, and Veryan Croggon for their generous feedback on early drafts of the translation. Chris Kloet, my editor, has my endless gratitude for her unfailing support and sharp eye, which has saved me from many a grievous error. Among my many colleagues who have kindly helped me with suggestions and advice, I particularly wish to thank: Professor Patrick Insole of the Department of Ancient Languages at the University of Leeds for again permitting me to quote generously from his monograph on the Treesong in the Appendices; Dr. Randolph Healy of Bray College, Co. Wicklow, for his advice on the mathematics of the Suderain Bards; and Professor David Lloyd of the University of Southern California, for his acute and valuable analyses of the complexities of political power in Edil-Amarandh during many pleasurable conversations. Lastly, I would like also to acknowledge the courtesy and helpfulness of the staff of the Libridha Museum at the University of Queretaro during the months I spent there researching the Naraudh Lar-Chane.
Alison Croggon Melbourne, Australia
A Note On Pronunciation
Most Annaren proper nouns derive from the Speech, and generally share its pronunciation. In words of three or more syllables, the stress is usually laid on the second syllable: in words of two syllables, (e.g., lembel, invisible) stress is always on the first. There are some exceptions in proper names; the names Pellinor and Annar, for example, are pronounced with the stress on the first syllable.
Spellings are mainly phonetic.
a – as in flat. Ar rhymes with bar.
ae – a long i sound, as in ice. Maerad is pronounced MY-rad. ae – two syllables pronounced separately, to sound eye-ee. Maninae is pronounced man-IN-eye-ee.
ai – rhymes with hay. Innail rhymes with nail. au – ow. Raur rhymes with sour.
e – as in get. Always pronounced at the end of a word: for example, remane, to walk, has three syllables. Sometimes this is indicated with e, which indicates also that the stress of the word lies on the e (for example, He, we, is sometimes pronounced almost to lose the i sound).
ea – the two vowel sounds are pronounced separately, to make the sound ay-uh. Inasfrea, to walk, thus sounds: in-ASS-fray-uh. eu – oi sound, as in boy. i – as in hit.
ia – two vowels pronounced separately, as in the name lan.
y – uh sound, as in much.
c – always a hard c, as in crust, not ice.
ch – soft, as in the German ach or loch, not church.
dh – a consonantal sound halfway between a hard d and a hard th, as in the, not thought. There is no equivalent in English; it is best approximated by hard th. Medhyl can be said METH'l.
s – always soft, as in soft, not noise.
Note: Den Raven does not derive from the Speech, but from the southern tongues. It is pronounced Don RAH-ven.
For Ben
TURBANSK
* * *
Summer crowds of apricots occlude the sky
Small perfumed suns that fall onto the grass
Birds bicker in the branches and the branches shake
And showers glaze the fruits, a dew of glass
And so they bruise and blacken to a cloying stench
A feast for flies, although this too will pass
All sweetness gleams but briefly from the shade
Such webs as weave our selvings do not last
And even our corruption is a tiny thing
A sour breath that fades into the past
— From the Inwa of Lorica of Turbansk
I
THE WHITE CROW
A drop of sweat trickled slowly down Hem's temple. He wiped it away and reached for another mango.
It was so hot. Even in the shady refuge of the mango tree, the air pressed around him like a damp blanket. There wasn't the faintest whisper of a breeze: the leaves hung utterly still. As if to make up for the wind's inaction, the cicadas were louder than Hem had ever heard them. He couldn't see any from where he was, perched halfway up the tree on a broad branch that divided to make a comfortable seat, but their shrilling was loud enough to hurt his ears.
He leaned back against the trunk and let the sweet flesh of the fruit dissolve on his tongue. These mangoes were certainly the high point of the day. Not, he thought sardonically, that it had been much of a day He should have been in the Turbansk School, chanting some idiotic Bard song or drowsing through a boring lecture on the Balance. Instead, he had had a furious argument with his mentor about something he couldn't now remember and had run away.
He had wandered about the winding alleys behind the School, hot and bored and thirsty, until he spotted a seductive glint of orange fruit behind a high wall. A vine offered him a ladder, and he climbed warily into a walled garden, a lush oasis of greenery planted with fruit trees and flowering oleanders and climbing roses and jasmine. At the far end was a cloister leading into a grand house and Hem scanned it swiftly for any occupants, before making a dash for the fountain, which fell back into a mosaic-floored pond in the center of the garden. He plunged his head under the water, soaking himself in the delicious coolness, and drank his fill.
Then, shaking his head like a dog, he surveyed the fruit trees. There were a fig, a pomegranate, and two orange trees as well as the mango, the biggest of them all. He noted with regret that the oranges were still green, and then swung himself easily into the mango tree and started plundering its fruit, cutting the tough skin with a clasp knife and throwing the large stones onto the ground below him, until his fingers were sticky with juice.
After he had eaten his fill he stared idly through the leaves at the blue of the sky, which paled almost to white at the zenith. Finally he wiped his hands carefully on his trousers, dragged something from his pocket, and smoothed it out on his leg. It was a letter, written on parchment in a shaky script. Hem couldn't decipher it, but Saliman, his guardian, had read it out to him that morning and then, seeing the look on Hem's face, had given him the letter as a keepsake.
To Hem and Saliman, greetings!
Cadvan and I arrived in Thorold safely, as you may know if the bird reached you. We are both much better than when we last saw you.
I was very seasick on my way here, and Cadvan and I had to fight an ondril, which was very big, but we got here safely. Nerili has given us haven, and you will have heard the rest of the news from the emissary.
I hope you have arrived in Turbansk with no harm, and that Hem finds the fruits are as big as the birds said they were. I think of you all the time and miss you sorely.
With all the love in my heart,
Maerad
Already they were being chased by monsters. Hem knew that an ondril was a kind of giant snake that lived in the ocean.
Cadvan was possibly even braver than Saliman, and Maerad (to Hem's twelve-year-old eyes at least) was braver still; but they were only two, and the Dark so many, and everywhere. And where was Thorold, after all? Somewhere over the sea, Saliman had told him, and showed him a shape on a chart; but Hem had never even seen the sea and had only the vaguest idea of distance on a map. It meant nothing to him.
Hem stared at the letter as if the sheer intensity of his gaze could unriddle its meanings, but all it did was to make the page swim and blur. The only word he could make out was Maerad. And what had Maerad not written down? What other dangers was she facing? The letter was already days old: was she still alive?
Very suddenly, as if it burned him, Hem crumpled up the letter and shoved it back in his pocket. Unbidden into his mind came the memory of when
he had first seen Maerad, when she had opened his tiny hiding place under the bed in the Pilanel caravan and he had looked up, terrified, expecting a knife flashing down to slash him to ribbons, and instead found himself staring into his own sister's astonished eyes. Only he hadn't known she was his sister, then. That had come later... He remembered Maerad as he had last seen her in Norloch, standing in the doorway of Nelac's house as he and Saliman rode away, her face white with sorrow and exhaustion, her black hair tossing in the wind. Hem bit his lip, almost hard enough to draw blood. He was not a boy who wept easily, but his chest felt hot with grief. He missed Maerad more than he could admit, even to himself.
Maerad was the one person in the world he felt at home with. In the short period they had been together his nightmares had stopped for the first time in his life. Even before she knew he was her brother, she had taken him in her arms and stroked his face when the bad dreams came. Even now it seemed amazing; Hem would have hit with his closed fist anyone else who took such liberties. He had trusted Maerad from the start: he sensed her gentleness, and underneath that, her loneliness and sadness. But more than anything else, Maerad accepted him just as he was, and didn't want him to be anything else. Maerad, he thought painfully, loved him.
Now Maerad was so far away that she might as well not exist at all. It was almost two months since he had last seen her, and she could be anywhere in Edil-Amarandh. And here all anybody could talk about was the war. It lay inside every conversation, like a fat evil worm. It might kill Maerad; it might kill him. They might never see each other again.