The Crow Read online

  "But that doesn't make any sense. How can you worship the Light? It's not there to be worshipped."

  "They did, all the same. Just because it doesn't make any sense to you doesn't mean that it didn't make any sense to them. Bards don't know everything."

  "They don't say they do," said Hem hotly. "No one does."

  "Well, then."

  Ire nibbled Hem's ear to calm him down. Zelika was getting annoyed, and Ire still had vivid memories of what happened when Zelika became angry. So they dropped the subject by mutual consent, and walked from one end of the huge hall to another, Hem's magelight seeming small and fragile in the echoing darkness. It took them a long time. The stone flags of the floor were covered with a fine layer of sandy dust, which their feet kicked into the air, so their mouths became dry and gritty. The place possessed a melancholy grandeur that became more oppressive the farther they went.

  "I wonder who the people were who lived here?" said Zelika, as they stared at the dais. They had thought of climbing up, but there were no steps; and they both felt that they were somehow intruding, and were eager to leave.

  "I don't know," said Hem. "But they're all dead now. I won­der if the place misses them?"

  Zelika didn't answer. Thoughtfully they retraced their steps, and went back to the palace, where it was a relief to see homely firelight and to hear the hubbub of ordinary conversation.

  Away from the square they found smaller buildings that had clearly once been homes. These were of much humbler dimen­sions, often built one on top of the other and linked by precarious stairways cut into the rock. Many of them lacked roofs – not because they had fallen in, but because they had never been there in the first place. This seemed strange, until they remembered that it never rained in Nal-Ak-Burat. The eating and sleeping rooms were small and all were roofed, Hem supposed, to keep the warmth in. They found hearths still black with ashes that had been cold for countless years, and in these places they found other signs that human beings had lived there – crumbling bones; the remains of some long-since-eaten meal; clay pots decorated with patterns pressed in by a stick; or iron pots so pitted with rust they fell to pieces as soon as they were touched. In one house they discovered a wooden chest, painted with strange designs; and when they opened it, they saw that it contained cloths of embroidered crimson silk. Zelika gasped with wonder: but even as they stared, the silks, preserved in the airless chest, lost color and crumbled, leaving behind only dust that exhaled an elusive perfume, the remains, perhaps, of frankincense or nard that had once impregnated the cloth.

  The more they saw of the city, the more mysterious it became. Its riddles multiplied under their fascinated eyes: the stories told by the murals, which they could only guess at, or the strange objects they sometimes found, the uses of which had vanished with the people who made them. But perhaps what made it most mysterious were the intimate belongings they sometimes found in the houses: an intricately carved ivory hair comb, pitted with age, worn perhaps by some beauty of the city; or a little horse on wheels carved of hardwood, which must have been the toy of a child. Here they had lain in darkness, lost perhaps in the final abandonment of Nal-Ak-Burat – maybe a child had cried for her toy, maybe a woman had frowned when she found her favorite comb was missing. Why had they left? Were they driven out by some plague? Or did the city's people tire of never feeling the wind on their cheeks and, hungering for sunshine, turn their backs on their marvelous city of stone and climb out, blinking, into the light?

  That night (the Bards still divided the time between day and night, despite the unchanging darkness, using a water clock to measure the hours) they gathered as usual in the palace for the evening meal. The Bards took turns cooking, and tonight Soron, with Hem's help, prepared the meal. He grumbled as he kneaded dough for the flat bread, which would be cooked in the bottom of the oven.

  "I could do with some greens, my boy," he said. "But it seems supplies of fresh foodstuffs are rather depleted at the moment."

  Hem, who was always grateful to get anything to eat – his days of hunger were, after all, not far behind him, and his future was anything but certain – looked up in surprise.

  "But it all smells delicious," he said. "Anyway, I'm amazed they can bring any food in at all. But I suppose the other way in doesn't have a Gate of Water."

  Soron glanced at him humorously. "I'll wager it doesn't. And thank the Light for that, else I'd have to stay here forever. But I tell you, someone has prepared well here for thin times – back in the storerooms there are more grains and dried fruits and pickled foods than I have ever seen in one place, and stacks of dried and salted fish, and even sides of cured deer. All packed into barrels or hung, neat and dry, so it won't spoil. And as wide a range of spices as in the Ernan's kitchens, and a cellar of wines to rival those of the Bards of Turbansk – typical Bards! Well, this is the perfect place to store things, I'll say: dry and cool and dark, like a giant cellar. I'm not ungrateful; but I do hunger for fresh meat and vegetables, all the same."

  Hem suddenly thought of a delicious salad of herbs he had eaten once in Turbansk, and for a moment he stopped slicing the dried fish that Soron was preparing for a stew. His mouth filled with water; he could almost taste it.

  "Greens would be good," he said. "But more than that, I'd like to see the sun."

  "Aye," Soron answered. "But who knows what is happening up there, Hem, while we skulk down here?"

  Hem fell silent. He knew Bards here had ways of gathering news. Hared was much better informed about what was happening in Annar than the Bards had been in Turbansk where, as he had said, even bird messengers had trouble getting past the besieging army. But he remembered that Soron did not know what had happened to Jelika, the woman he loved, who was supposed to be with them, but had been torn away by war. Perhaps, Hem thought, he would never know; such things happened. Soron never mentioned Jelika, and most of the time seemed the same kind and patient man he had been in Turbansk; but sometimes, as now, Hem perceived the deep sadness that lived inside him.

  It was, Hem thought, a bit like how he missed Maerad. He, too, had no way of knowing that she was still alive; and per­haps he would never see her again. She might have died on her quest, and he would never know. The thought hurt, so he pushed it aside and concentrated on cutting the dried fish, which was tricky, even with a sharp knife.

  At dinner there was a new face – a grim-faced Bard called Til-Naga. He spoke with the same accent as Orona, one that was unfamiliar to Hem – his ear was now becoming good enough to pick up variations in the Suderain language – and for some of the meal Til-Naga sat next to Orona speaking to her in a language that Hem did not know. They spoke quickly and intimately; Hem glanced over toward them curiously, since Orona was usually very taciturn, and he had never seen her so animated. It seemed to Hem that Orona was asking after mutual friends, and that not all she heard was good. Once she gasped, and sat looking down at her bowl without moving, an expression on her face of terrible sadness, and Til-Naga took her hand and held it tightly without speaking.

  Nobody asked Til-Naga any questions until after the meal, when mint tea was served, with some of Soron's seedcake.

  "That was a famous meal, Soron," said Narbila, sighing. "I had forgotten your skills with food – it's been a long time since I sat at the tables of Turbansk. I swear, you could make a feast out of old boot leather."

  "I thank you for your faith," said Soron, bowing his head. "But boot leather might defeat even my skills. A cook is only as good as his ingredients; and I must say, despite the shortage of fresh meat, that the quality of food here is high indeed. I salute you for your foresight!" He lifted his cup in a toast.

  Narbila laughed. "We have had long to prepare, and some of us foresaw how bad things were going to be. But it is, indeed, our pleasure." She solemnly returned his toast.

  Hared was frowning; not with irritation, Hem thought, but with concentration. "So, Til-Naga," he said. "It is good to see you back, though you are later than we expected.
"

  "There were problems," the Bard answered, "as you have no doubt worked out for yourself. I thought I would not get back at all: I was followed by dogsoldiers past Jerr-Niken, and had to ride all the way to the Malinau Forests to throw them off my trail. Tared" – here he named a region north of Den Raven – "has been cleared of all its trees, so it is blank as a table; not a mouse may stir but Sharma, the Nameless One, will know of it. I dared not set foot there, and so I had to go through the Glandugir Hills, which are full of monstrous beasts that do not hear the Speech, and trees that eat men. But at last I made it to Den Raven."

  At the mention of Den Raven, Zelika sat up and began to pay attention.

  "Did you manage to meet with Ranik?" asked Narbila, lean­ing forward over the table.

  "Who's Ranik?" asked Zelika.

  Saliman glanced at her briefly. "Ranik is not his real name. But the man Til-Naga speaks of is a Bard of Den Raven, of more courage than any of us here," he said briefly. "He works in Dagra."

  Zelika's eyes opened wide with shock. "A Hull, you mean?" she said.

  "Not a Hull," said Hared. "Though most people believe that he is."

  Zelika's face darkened. "Then how can we trust him?" she muttered quietly to the table, but only Hem heard her.

  "I did meet Ranik." Til-Naga was silent for some time, but the other Bards waited patiently for him to speak again, for­bearing to prompt him. "He came to the meeting place at great risk to himself. The Eyes in Den Raven are more numerous now, and the slightest transgression is punishable by imprisonment, at the very least. And they are, as always, very eager to deal out death. Even Ranik now feels that he is watched."

  Hem remembered that the Eyes were Hulls employed by the Nameless One to oversee the people of Den Raven.

  "Nevertheless, he came. He told me he cannot come again; he was very afraid. It seems that certain rivalries are breaking out between those forces loyal to Imank, and others who pledge their allegiance to Sharma, the Nameless One, and this makes it doubly perilous to travel through Den Raven."

  "Those rivalries have always been there," growled Hared.

  "Aye. Sharma owes Imank much, and I doubt that Imank would be slow to remind him of it. It is possible that Sharma fears Imank more than he fears any captain of Annar."

  Hared chuckled sourly, but Til-Naga stared soberly at the table. "Be not quick to construe any advantage to us, in such a conflict," he said. "I can see little: if they war between each other, you can be sure that whoever wins will be the stronger for it. But that is not the chief of what Ranik told me. He said that the siege of Turbansk has stretched Sharma's forces more than we guessed: Imank did not expect the resistance found there, and the enemy's supply lines are now very thin indeed. It seems that he expected it would fall before the sword as Baladh did, and that the Black Army would then move swiftly to Car Amdridh."

  Saliman thumped the table, smiling savagely, and Hem jumped. "I knew it!" Saliman said. "I knew that if we could only hold out – "

  "It worked," said Til-Naga softly. "I salute you, Saliman, and all those who defended your city so bravely. And Juriken, too. I hear that he is dead. I wish I could have met him; he sounds like a very great Bard. Ranik said that maybe ten ranks of the Black Army were killed in the earthquake of Turbansk, and many more injured. For the moment, Sharma cannot con­template letting Imank open another front in his war, and nor will he take the Black Army into Annar."

  Soron breathed out with relief. "Til Amon is safe, then, for the meantime."

  "Unless it's attacked by its own, my friend," said Saliman. "But I think that is not all Til-Naga's news."

  "There was something else. You will have heard of the child armies?"

  The other Bards nodded.

  "Ranik believes that Sharma plans to use these armies more. He has rounded up ranks of children from the Nazar and Savitir regions, as well as every child over ten in Den Raven, and Ranik has heard that they are being trained in special camps. It is hard to find out more; it seems this is one of Sharma's own pet projects."

  Beside Hem, Zelika gasped quietly. He knew she was think­ing of her brothers and sisters, who may not have been killed, after all.

  "Trained?" said Saliman. "For what?"

  "It seems they were very useful on the Wall of II Dara," Til-Naga said expressionlessly. "Utterly without mercy. This awoke Sharma's interest. He is collecting his child armies near Dagra, and seeks yet more children to swell their ranks. Ranik judges, and perhaps he is right, that maybe Sharma is toying with the idea of sending child armies into Annar, so that he does not have to deplete his other forces. No one knows for certain. It is cer­tainly possible. But finding out anything about these children is especially difficult."

  There was a short silence, while the other Bards digested the news.

  "Til-Naga, this is grim news, but nevertheless it gives me hope," said Saliman.

  "Aye." Til-Naga's face hardened, as if he struggled to con­ceal emotion. "But I cannot feel glad of it. My dearest friend was killed at Turbansk, Saliman; he could not escape the Eyes. He was a good man who tried to act with honor in the very worst of circumstances. I feared for him, when I heard he was part of those forces; and I mourn him now."

  "I don't feel sorry for him," said Zelika suddenly, her voice hard and taut. "What kind of friend would he be, who would be part of the Black Army? Or do you come from Den Raven?"

  There was an embarrassed silence, which was broken by Orona.

  "I am a Bard of Den Raven, and yes, so is Til-Naga," she said quietly. "There are such things."

  Zelika stared at Orona, her lips set in a tight line. Hem put a warning hand on her arm, but she shook it off.

  "Then we have spies in our midst? Just openly, like that?"

  "Zelika, do not speak of things you do not understand." Though he spoke quietly, Saliman's eyes blazed with anger. "You dare to insult these Bards? They have done more to help us than you ever have. You apologize, now."

  Til-Naga waved his hand, indicating an apology was not necessary, but Zelika stood up, trembling with rage. Hem tried to pull her down onto the cushion, but she would not heed him. She looked crazed again; her eyes glittered dangerously, and her mouth trembled at the edges. He had not seen that expression since Turbansk fell. He stood up also, and tried to drag her from the room, but she would not be moved.

  "Apologize? To this scum?" Zelika spat. "I suppose I should apologize for having my baby brother murdered in front of my eyes. I should apologize for Baladh being in ruins. I should – "

  Hared moved so swiftly that Hem had no time to react. The Bard stood up and slapped Zelika across the face with his open hand, knocking her over. She lay on the floor, her hair tumbling over her face, while Hem stared down at her, appalled.

  "That was not necessary," said Orona coldly. "She is only a child."

  "If Saliman insists on bringing children to this table," said Hared, breathing heavily, "then he should also insist that they behave with some decorum." He returned to his place, as Hem knelt by Zelika, gently stroking the hair back from her face. A dark bruise was spreading on her cheek.

  "Zelika," he whispered. "Get up, now."

  Painfully, she sat up. The crazed look had left her face, but she glared at Hared with hatred.

  "Zelika," said Saliman gently. "These Bards are from Den Raven, yes; that does not mean that they are your enemy. You must remember that the Nameless One has made his own people suffer first, and they too have reason to work for his downfall. Now, you have gravely embarrassed me by insulting those I consider my dear friends, and I would have you apolo­gize to them."

  Zelika stared at Orona and Til-Naga, who steadily returned her gaze. Her face was unreadable.

  "I'm sorry I insulted you," she said at last, bowing her head gracefully. "It is true, I did not understand. Sometimes I get so angry I feel I could kill someone, but I see that was wrong of me." They nodded, accepting her apology.

  "But I think Hared should also apologize to me," Zel
ika added, staring at the Bard with her chin in the air. Hem noticed that she did not deign to touch the bruise on her face, although it must have been hurting badly. Hared met her eyes, and grinned wolfishly.

  "I apologize, then," he said. "But I hope you will refrain from entertaining us in such ways in future."

  Zelika nodded with chilly dignity.

  "More mint tea?" said Soron, breaking the uncomfortable pause that followed Hared's comment. "I think that will have a calming effect." And he hurried out into the galley to put a pot of water on the fire.

  Just before he woke the next morning, Hem had a brief, vivid dream of Maerad. Unlike the last time he had dreamed of her, this had no taint of nightmare. They were in Saliman's garden, in bright sunshine, and Ire was perched on Hem's shoulder. Maerad sat cross-legged on the grass, looking up at her brother, creasing her eyes against the sunlight. Hem leaned against a tree, and he was eating a mango, cutting it with his clasp knife. Maerad looked paler than when he had last seen her, and the skin beneath her eyes was bruised blue; but both of them were laughing, although Hem couldn't remember why.

  He woke with a lightness in his soul that he had not felt for a long time. Maerad was all right, he thought; she was alive, and she was thinking of him. He got out of bed and went to the meal room for breakfast. Zelika was already there, spooning dohl into her mouth.

  "You're right, Hem," she said, as Hem settled onto the cush­ion next to her. "We must do something. And there are things that we might do better than the others here."

  Only the two children were at the table: everyone else had eaten earlier. Hem looked up swiftly from his dohl, which he had begun to devour with single-minded attention.

  "Good," he said. "I didn't want to do it by myself."

  "I spoke to Hared already," said Zelika. "He said he could train us. But he also said that he would not, unless Saliman gave his permission."

  "Oh." Hem gloomily contemplated his bowl, absently wav­ing Ire, who was trying to steal some of his breakfast, away. He thought that it was very unlikely that Saliman would allow them to work for Hared. Hem had not pressed the point, although Saliman knew how he felt.