Pellinor 04: The Singing Read online

  THE SINGING

  THE FOURTH BOOK OF PELLINOR

  ALISON CROGGON

  CANDLEWICK PRESS

  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.

  Text copyright © 2008 by Alison Croggon Maps drawn by Niroot Puttapipat

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.

  First Candlewick Press edition 2009 First published by Penguin Books, Australia Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Croggon, Alison, date. The singing / Alison Croggon. —1st U.S. ed. p. cm.—(The fourth book of Pellinor) Summary: The bard Maerad and her brother Hem hold the key to the mysterious Singing, and each of them must overcome terrible obstacles before they can unite and together unlock the Tree of Song, release the music of the Elidhu, and defeat the Nameless One. ISBN 978-0-7636-3665-4 [1. Brothers and sisters—Fiction. 2. Orphans—Fiction. 3. Supernatural—Fiction. 4. Magic—Fiction. 5. Fantasy] I. Title. II. Series. PZ7.C8765Si 2009 [Fic]—dc22 2008017494

  2468 10 97531

  Printed in the United States of America

  This book was typeset in Palatino.

  Candlewick Press 99 Dover Street Somerville, Massachusetts 02144

  visit us at www.candlewick.com

  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

  I

  t is with mixed feelings that I have at last finished my task of translating the Naraudh Lar-Chane, the Riddle of the Treesong. On the one hand, I write this with the intense relief, not to say euphoria, that attends the end of any long labor; on the other, its completion will leave a large gap in my life. I will miss Maerad, Cadvan, Hem, Saliman, and their many friends; in the past seven years they have become as real to me as anyone in my life. I feel as if I have journeyed with them and shared their joys and sorrows, and now I must leave them behind and turn to the more sober demands of my academic profession, from which this has been the most pleasurable diversion imaginable.

  The past three volumes translate the first six books of this great epic of Annaren literature.

  In The Naming, we follow Maerad's adventures as she meets the Bard Cadvan of Lirigon, learns her destiny and true identity, and journeys to Norloch, the great citadel of the Light in Annar, discovering her lost brother, Hem, on the way. In Norloch, Maerad and Cadvan find the Light is corrupted and are forced to flee as civil war breaks out among the Bards of Annar.

  In the second volume, The Riddle, Maerad travels with Cadvan to the frozen wastelands of the north in search of the Treesong. After a skirmish in which she believes Cadvan is killed, she journeys to the deep north, where she is told that half of the Treesong is written on her own lyre. On her way back, she is captured by the powerful Elidhu, Arkan, the Winterking, but escapes his clutches and is reunited with Cadvan.

  The Crow shifts focus to follow Hem's story. Hem travels with the Bard Saliman to the city of Turbansk and is embroiled in the great battles in the south, when the Nameless One marches on the Suderain and lays siege to Turbansk. Hem's dark journey to the Nameless One's stronghold, Dagra, in the heart of Den Raven, is the nadir of the story.

  In The Singing, which consists of the final two books of the Naraudh Lar-Chane, the story of the quest for the Treesong reaches its end. I will leave it to the reader to discover the story; but I will say that I probably enjoyed my task most in these final books.

  In the course of the books, we encounter some of the diverse cultures of Edil-Amarandh, and we learn a lot about the place of Barding in this society, further details of which I have endeavored to provide in the appendices in the three previous books. I have always considered this story more than just a source of information about these cultures; in its own time, I have no doubt that it was treasured as much for its delights as its usefulness.

  The Naraudh Lar-Chane was, according to popular tradition, written by Maerad and Cadvan themselves, although some scholars dispute this authorship and claim it was written decades after their deaths, drawing from oral traditions. I have little interest in these arguments myself, just as I am not very concerned about the disputes regarding the authorship of Shakespeare's plays; what has always excited me most is the story itself.

  For reasons that scholars can only guess, the histories come to an abrupt and unexplained end in about N1500, around five hundred years after the events of the Naraudh Lar-Chane. The most popular theory is that the civilization of Edil-Amarandh was destroyed by a major cataclysm caused by a meteor striking the earth. Like so many aspects of Annaren lore, the truth remains a teasing mystery. All that is known for sure is that this fascinating society vanished, leaving nothing behind except the strangely enigmatic traces preserved in the Annaren Scrolls.

  I owe thanks to so many people that I do not have the space to acknowledge them all here. Firstly, as always, I want to thank my family for their patience and help over the years while I was working on this translation—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. I owe a special debt to my editor, Chris Kloet, whose sharp eye and good advice have improved on my own work beyond measure; it has been an unfailingly pleasurable collaboration. My debt to the generous and creative contributions of my colleague Professor Patrick Insole, now Regius Professor of Ancient Languages at the University of Leeds, is also beyond measure. Equally, I would like to thank my many colleagues who have so kindly helped me with suggestions and advice over what has now been many years of delightful conversations; they are too numerous to name, but I am grateful to them all—their help has been beyond priceless, and any oversights or errors that remain after such advice are all my own. Lastly, I would again like to acknowledge the unfailing 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

  M

  OST Annaren proper nouns derive from the Speech, and generally share its pronunciation. In words of three or more syllables, (e.g., invisible) the stress is usually laid on

  the second syllable: in words of two syllables, (e.g., lembel) 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. Raw 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.

  CONTENTS

  RETURN

  I

  Wolf

  3

  ii

  Innail

  17

  in

  A Farewell

  37

  IV

  Weatherlore

  58

  V

  The Caravan

  88

  VI

  Til Anion

  108

  THE WEIGHT OF THE WORLD

  VII

  The Maid of Innail

  143

  VIII

  Aftermath

  164

  IX

  The Players

  179

  X

  Rain

  194

  XI

  The White Sickness

  216

  THE HOLLOW LANDS

  XII

  Ardina

  235

  XIII

  The Summoning

  256

  XIV News of Hulls 274

  XV Desor 306

  XVI The House of Marajan 323

  THE DEAD

  XVII Dreams 343

  XVIII A Breath 359

  XIX The Dance of the Dead 375

  XX The Hutmoors 401

  XXI The Singing 419

  Epilogue 439

  APPENDIX 457

  RETURN

  I am the Lily that stands in the still waters, and the morning sun

  alights on me, amber and rose; I am delicate, as the mist is delicate that climbs with the dawn; yea, the

  smallest breath of the wind will stir me. And yet my roots run deep as the Song, and my crown is mightier

  than the sky itself, And my heart is a white flame that dances in its joy, and its light will

  never be quenched. Though the Dark One comes in all his strength, I shall not be

  daunted.

  Though he attack with his mighty armies, though he strike with iron

  and fire, with all his grievous weapons, Even should he turn his deadly eye upon me, fear will not defeat me. I will arise, and he will be shaken where he stands, and his sword

  will be shivered in the dust, For he is blind and knows nothing of love, and it will be love that

  defeats him.

  From The Song of Maerad, Itilan of Turbansk

  I

  WOLF

  A

  SHEPHERD was gathering firewood by the old Pellinor Road when a strange sight caught his attention. A horseman dressed in black, mounted on a magnificent black horse, was trotting briskly along the disused course—a clear, small figure in the pale winter sunshine.

  To see a stranger at all was noteworthy. Since the sack of the School of Pellinor ten years before and the bad times that had followed, few travelers came this way. The days when Bards and merchants had ridden easily to Pellinor, making the road bright with their fine clothes and singing, had vanished so completely they now seemed like a time of legend. But the sight of a stranger, even one so ominously cloaked, was not what made the old man clutch his bundle of fagots to his chest and step warily behind a thicket of brambles, fearfully making the sign against the evil eye. His eyes were fixed on the beast that accompanied the rider: a large, white dog. If it was a dog, that is. It was like no dog the shepherd had seen. It was taller than a calf, and seemed bigger because of its thick winter pelt, which stood out around its head like a ruff. It kept pace effortlessly with the horse, running at an easy lope that revealed the strong muscles of its shoulders and haunches. If it hadn't been with the rider, the old man would have thought it a wolf; but he had never heard that a wolf would run with a horse.

  As the strange trio came nearer, the shepherd's heart chilled and he crouched down behind the brambles, his hands trembling. His eyesight wasn't what it was, but he knew a wolf when he saw one. He began to regret having strayed so close to the road, even on so fair a day, and all the rumors he had heard of uncanny events, of evil creatures and dark sorcerers, crowded into his head at once. If anything should happen to him, his wife would never know; and she would be quite alone, as their son had left the hamlet, looking for a better life. The shepherd crouched closer to the ground, hoping he would remain unnoticed, and held his breath as the hoof beats came closer and closer. To his alarm, they slowed to a walk; and then they stopped altogether.

  "Where is he, Maerad?" A man's voice rang clear on the cold air, although he spoke in a low voice.

  Even though he was so frightened, the old man was confused: to whom was the stranger speaking? He had seen no other with him. Did he converse, as the black witches were said to do, with spirits of the air? The shepherd held his breath, clutching his bundle of fagots so tightly to his chest that his knuckles were white.

  "Over there, you think?"

  The shepherd heard the man dismount and begin to walk toward him. In his agitation, the old man dropped his firewood with a clatter that to him sounded like thunder. He turned to run, but tripped over a tussock and fell over. As he scrambled onto his hands and knees, he found himself face-to-face with the wolf, and groaned in terror. Instinctively he hid his face in his hands, so he should not see his own death.

  But he did not feel the wolf's teeth meeting in his neck, as he had expected. Instead, the stranger was speaking to him. At first the shepherd was too terrified to hear what he said.

  "I beg your forgiveness," the stranger was saying. "I swear by the Light that we mean you no harm."

  Slowly, the shepherd took his hands from his face. There was no sign of the wolf, and instead the stranger was standing before him, offering his hand. He helped the old man to his feet and gently brushed down his jerkin. Then he silently picked up the firewood and carefully heaped it in the shepherd's arms. The old man regained his breath. The stranger had a kindly look; but there was something else about him, an air of grace, that reminded the shepherd of better days. It had been a long time since his kind had been seen here.

  He thanked the stranger gravely, in the formal way he once would have thanked a Bard who did him some healing or said the spring rites over a crop. The other gave him a sharp look.

  "It's been many years since I've seen a Bard around here," said the old man. Now that his fright was over, he wanted to talk.

  "There is little reason to come," said the stranger. His eyes met the old man's, and they both looked away at the same instant, as if reading in each other's faces a sadness they didn't wish to name.

  "Does this mean that the School of Pellinor will come back? Will there be Bards again?"

  The Bard hesitated. "I don't know," he said.

  The shepherd shifted the firewood, as it was getting heavy. "I am hoping that they do," he said at last. "It's hard with them gone. The winters bad and the lambs born awry and all else gone wrong."

  "Aye," said the Bard. "Much else, and not only here. These are hard times for many people."

  The shepherd nodded, and sniffed unhappily. But the stranger reached forward and touched his brow briefly, and for a moment it was as if a soft sun bloomed in the old man's forehead, and spread its golden warmth through his whole body.

  "The Light go with you," said the Bard.

  "And with you," answered the shepherd, in the proper way. He watched as the stranger walked back to his horse, which stood patiently on the road awaiting its rider. The white wolf sat on its haunches by the horse, looking no more dangerous than a
big puppy. The Bard mounted, raised his hand in farewell, and rode away. It was only then that the old man realized that he hadn't asked his name.

  He didn't stay to watch the horseman vanish in the distance. His wife would be waiting. The warmth from the Bard's touch still ran through his veins, and he hummed an old song as he walked home. His step was light: for the first time since he could remember, hope stirred in his heart.

  "You almost made that poor old man die of fright, Maerad," said the Bard, glancing down at the wolf.

  I didn't mean to, Cadvan. The wolf answered him in the Speech. She was silent for a time, and then added, He did smell of fear. But if he planned to attack us, he would have been frightened anyway . . .

  "I suppose so. It's as well to be wary, but I think we were lucky his heart didn't give way," Cadvan said, shrugging. "No harm done in the end. I hope. Still, it worried me that he had seen through the glimmerspells and was hiding from us. He should have seen only an empty road. He knew I was a Bard, you know."

  I heard him. Did he have the Gift?

  "A little," said Cadvan. "Not the Gift of a Bard, but enough to have a little Bardsight. I imagine that he's good with beasts. Probably he runs the healthiest flock in the district. Or did once, anyway, when this was a populous and pleasant region. It oppresses my heart, Maerad, to ride through it now."

  He sighed and looked ahead, over the hills before them. It was not long after Midwinter Day and, despite the sunshine, there was little sign of spring. The wild was reclaiming the land, and leafless brambles and other weeds crept over what had once been stone-fenced fields.