Pellinor 04: The Singing Page 8

  Just as she perceived this, she felt the Landrost jolt into awareness of her probing. He struck back blindly, a black bolt of energy that sent her reeling. But she had the pattern now. She looked around, blinking, and found she was still held in the meld of the Bards, who were now paying close attention.

  I found it, she told them. Now, I will need you to follow me.. .if you can. I'm not sure I'm strong enough by myself, though I'll try. I don't know how to shape the charm around Innail. I will need you to do that. And the Landrost knows I'm there, so be careful.

  She felt a shock reverberate through the Bards at the mention of the Landrost, and realized that they hadn't known what they were dealing with. No wonder their magery had been useless. But she didn't have time to explain. She reentered the patterning, cautious now, but more confident, avoiding the maelstrom at its center. It was a question of finding a shape and

  then, patiently, reshaping it, slowing and stilling the outer edges. Almost immediately she felt a difference; but it was so tiring. The Landrost felt her there and was seeking her. The black spiral grew twisting arms that snaked out to catch her, and she felt the chill malevolent presence she remembered from so long ago, like a dank breath on her skin, and she shuddered with disgust.

  She bit her lip, willing herself on. For all his strength, the Landrost was nowhere near as powerful as the Winterking. She realized she was not afraid of him breaking her. But the Landrost had the endurance of rock, and she was only a woman; she already felt the weariness in her mind, like the ache that steadily grows in muscles that are overtaxed.

  And then there was someone else there with her. Cadvan. Tears of relief started into her eyes; suddenly the burden was not quite so heavy. Soon, other minds joined hers, keeping up the repetitions and freeing Maerad to find new variations, new shapes. The whole thing was so immensely complex, so very big.... Shortly afterward, she became aware of the Bardic charm being woven into the new pattern she was making.

  She could feel the blind anger of the Landrost boiling around her. The more she undid his making, the more savage his responses became. But although he could feel what was happening, he couldn't trace her; Maerad was slipping like a tiny fish in and out of the currents of his wrath, untouched by them. It was like trying to set a trap; he did not know what they were trying to do, and she wanted him to remain ignorant until the last piece was in place and the whole structure could snap shut.

  She had lost all sense of time, and even of urgency, and was utterly absorbed in the delicacy and intricacy of what she was doing. Bit by bit, with infinite care and patience, she and the Bards worked together. They could not afford one mistake. They would probably get only one chance.

  At last she felt a pressure of assent from Cadvan: the charm was prepared, and the Bards awaited her signal. She poised herself like a fisherman standing with a spear above a river, waiting for a fish to glint beneath the surface: things shifted all the time, wavering and changing, and it had to be just right.

  Now! she said, and she heard the words of command explode in her skull, and a blaze of White Fire seemed to pour up into the clouds and boil against them, although Maerad didn't know if she really saw it, or if it was something that happened only in the strange world inside her head. The charm, meticulously shaped to the walls of Innail, snapped into place.

  And suddenly, it was quiet.

  Maerad was so exhausted that she would have pitched forward onto her face had Cadvan not put his arm around her shoulders. She realized that she was cold to her very marrow, and that she was shaking all over.

  "Well done," Cadvan whispered into her ear. "Oh, that was well done. Maerad, ever you repay my faith in you ..." His words were echoed by cheering from the soldiers on the walls.

  The eight other Bards looked almost as weary as Maerad. The man who had been angry with her—a tall, heavyset, fair-haired Bard—smiled awkwardly and offered his hand.

  "My gratitude, whoever you are," he said. "Am I right in guessing that you are Maerad of Pellinor?" Maerad nodded. "I am Isam of Innail. I had heard rumors, of course, but I had no idea ..." He shook his head. "The Landrost himself attacks us, eh? Well, at least we've put a spoke in his wheel."

  "One spoke in one wheel," said Cadvan. "Sadly, he has many more. Maerad, can you make any guess how far he is from our walls?"

  Maerad pondered. She could sense the baffled anger of the Landrost, but it was difficult to locate it. "Not really," she said at last. "He is not quite here. But he is very close."

  The relief of no longer being battered by the wind was indescribable, and that numbing, bitter cold was also gone. Maerad looked up at the sky, blinking at the pale winter daylight that now poured through the gap in the clouds. What the Bards had done was effectively to place Innail in the eye of the storm. Within the walls, there was an eerie stillness; a strange pressure of the air made Maerad's ears pop. Outside, the tempest still raged.

  "I expect the Landrost will still the storm, once he understands it disadvantages him," said Cadvan.

  "If he can," said Maerad. "He may not be able to command it anymore."

  Cadvan glanced at her in surprise. "Do you think so?" Maerad shrugged. "Well, it would help us beyond measure if it were so. In any case"—he looked around at the weary Bards— "perhaps we should see Malgorn and Indik, and find out how we can best be of use."

  Isam sighed heavily. "Right now, the thought of doing anything other than sleeping for uncounted hours is almost unendurable," he said. "And I know this is only the beginning." He stretched his arms wearily. "But you're right."

  They wound past lines of Bards and fighters who were busily drying themselves and their equipment and looking about them with wonder. Malgorn was in the Watch House above the gate. He was openly delighted at the success of the charm, and when Isam told him of Maerad's part in it, embraced her with a new warmth. Then he held her back from him, studying her face.

  "Maerad, you are the color of snow," he said. "Are you all right?"

  Maerad nodded. "I'm—tired. That's all."

  Malgorn looked dubious. "I've seen people that color when they are dead," he said. "You have done too much. Perhaps you ought to rest."

  Maerad looked up and met his eyes. "So should you. So should all the other Bards who helped with the weatherworking. But Indik was right: I could help with the Landrost. It worked with the storm. Of course I'm staying here."

  "Perhaps some medhyl wouldn't go astray," said Isam, producing a small stoppered bottle from a bag. "It is made to stay exhaustion. Especially of the kind that comes from magery."

  Maerad sipped it gratefully, and it took the edge off her weariness at once. She still could have slept for hours, but she no longer felt dizzy.

  Malgorn watched her steadily until some color came back into her face. "That's better," he said. "Maerad, if you are to be our major weapon against the Landrost—an idea I like not at all—I would prefer it if you didn't kill yourself. But I thank you. We have a chance now, I think. It does mean that we can't see the enemy, and that is a problem for us. They are cloaked by the storm. But on the other hand, those without sorcery shielding them will scarce be able to draw a sword or a bow with that wind howling about their ears. They can barely see a hand-breadth in front of them."

  "Maerad thinks the Landrost is close," said Cadvan. "If he plans to assault the gate, it won't be long now."

  Malgorn set his jaw and stared at the outer walls, as if his sight could pierce the darkness beyond them. "Let him come," he said. "He shall not take our home as easily as he thinks."

  Isam and the other Bards were sent to various points around the walls of Innail, but Malgorn asked Maerad and Cadvan to stay with him. There was no sign of Indik, but Malgorn was kept busy with a constant stream of people entering and leaving the keep. For the moment, Maerad felt no interest in what was happening out in the streets: she was too cold. She huddled by a brazier in a corner, trying to dry off. She had no idea how long she had been out in the rain, but it had been long enough
to soak her through for the second time that day. She wondered what time it was: her departure that morning from Innail seemed as if it had been last week. Steam rose up from her cloak, and her mail grew uncomfortably hot, but she huddled close, feeling her body thaw. Once she stopped shivering, she realized she was hungry.

  "Is it time to eat yet?" she asked Cadvan.

  A young Bard nearby laughed. "We balance on the edge of doom, and Maerad of Pellinor demands the noon meal!" he said. "Mistress Maerad, you must be more used to peril than some of us." He bowed flamboyantly, and Maerad found herself smiling. "I confess, I have no appetite at all."

  "Maerad is a seasoned warrior indeed, Camphis," said Cadvan. "And like all old soldiers, thinks chiefly about a comfortable bed and a good meal. It is not long after noon, Maerad. I'm sure there'll be food up here somewhere. This is Innail, after all..."

  Camphis took some smoked fish, cheese, bread, and fruit from a cupboard, and spread them on a table with a flask of wine. "Will this do?" he asked. "I assume you have your own knife."

  "I lost mine," said Maerad, feeling a little foolish.

  "You can borrow mine, then." Camphis handed over a wooden-handled clasp knife, and Maerad smiled her thanks, sat down, and set to. She was ravenous: the morning's ride, the scramble back to Innail, and the charm casting had given her a keen appetite. Cadvan joined her, and Camphis picked at some dried plums to keep them company, chatting idly. Maerad could see that, underneath his lightness, he was very frightened, and admired how he hid it. It seemed that he had but lately become a Major Bard, and was one of Silvia's students.

  "My true interest is herblore, not swordcraft," he said, regarding his armor with distaste. "Although of course I know how to use weapons; Indik bullies us all into some kind of competence. I'd die for Innail. I only hope I don't have to." He smiled a little crookedly, and Cadvan patted his shoulder.

  "We all hope that," he said. "Never fear, we have Maerad on our side. One never knows what she might do. She could turn all the enemies into rabbits."

  Camphis looked his astonishment, and began to laugh again.

  "She did it once to a Hull, you know," said Cadvan, enjoying himself as Maerad blushed next to him. "She even sang a lullaby to a stormdog."

  "These are strange tales," Camphis said. "I hope one day you will have the time to tell me them in full."

  "The strangest thing about them is that they are true," said Cadvan. He winked at Maerad. "She is perilous company, to be sure, but you can't say she's dull."

  "Is it true that you take the form of a white wolf?" Camphis asked, fascinated.

  Maerad looked over at Cadvan before she nodded. Clearly there was no point in hiding her presence in Innail now.

  "And other forms as well?"

  "I don't know. I haven't tried."

  Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of wild yelling. It sounded uncomfortably close and the Bards started up, feeling for their swords. Almost immediately, Indik strode into the room.

  "It has begun," he said. "The outriders are at our gates. And already we have beaten back two attacks on the eastern walls."

  Maerad saw Camphis turn white, although his mouth was set and hard. He was much more frightened, she realized, than she was. And the Light knows, she thought, that I am afraid enough...

  "Maerad," said Indik. "Can you tell if the Landrost is close to us, or not? So far we face mountain men and some wers, but it is hard to tell precisely what assails us."

  "I do not think he is at the gate," said Maerad, unwillingly dragging herself back to consciousness of the shadow that oppressed her mind. "He seems a little distant to me. Though I could be wrong..."

  Cadvan glanced at Indik, his face serious. "What will you have of us?" he asked.

  "At present, I want Maerad to stay in mindtouch with me." Indik looked across at her. "If you could tell me the moment you feel any change, any tensing—as if he prepares to leap— you know the kind of thing. Cadvan, Camphis, I could do with some help with any wers. Malgorn, are there any other Bards to spare?"

  "No," said Malgorn. He paused and listened intently for a few moments. "Silvia is asking for more hands as well. We are spread thin as it is. I've placed all the Bards as evenly as possible around the walls. There is no sign of wers within Innail. Either they fled when the charm was set or they have been killed."

  "We'll have to make do with what we have." Indik's face was expressionless. "I wish I could clearly see what is out there. But all reports seem to indicate that a great force is gathered in that darkness. And Innail is not a fortress, after all. I am glad of the wards; magery will have to make up for what we lack in stone."

  "Do you need me there?" asked Malgorn.

  "I'd rather you stayed out of the fighting," said Indik. "It is hard to keep mindtouch with many people in the midst of battle, and we need one Bard at least in constant contact with everyone. I will send for you if we need you." He nodded at the other Bards, and marched out.

  Maerad glanced quickly over at Cadvan. "I'd like to come with you," she said.

  "Why not?" said Cadvan. "You can keep an eye on the Landrost just as well on the outer wall as here."

  Maerad hesitated, and then, on impulse, drew the blackstone over her head and held it out to Cadvan. He looked at her inquiringly.

  "I don't think I'll use it," she said. "I don't like it. I know it's not from the Dark, but there's . . . there's something about it— and it might be useful to you."

  Cadvan reached out and took it, and held it in his hand, weighing it.

  "They are strange to use, I know," he said. "It's as if they numb the magery inside your skin. But it might be handy, all the same. Are you sure?"

  She nodded; Cadvan stroked the stone's strange surface, which seemed to absorb all light as if it were a hole instead of a solid stone, and put it around his neck.

  They left the keep and climbed a flight of steps to a broad area behind the battlement wall. Here they were directly above the gate, and it was bustling with activity: archers were posted thickly around the battlements and there were knots of grim-faced soldiers, ready to repel any attackers who raised ladders. They had the same contained, disciplined air that Indik possessed, and although there was a tension among them, a palpable sense that the attack would happen at any moment, they were relaxed. Some were playing dice, others were joking with the young boys and girls who stood ready to tip cauldrons of boiling pitch or to throw stones onto the heads of any who threatened the gate itself.

  Maerad was shocked to see children so young up on the battlements; most were no older than Hem. Indik caught her expression.

  "I didn't think children fought in Innail," she said to him.

  "All volunteers," he answered shortly. "We need every hand we can get. These ones know what they face if we lose. Some have already seen their homes destroyed, their families killed."

  Maerad said nothing. It brought home to her, as nothing else had, the violence that had already occurred in the gentle valley of Innail. She felt a deep anger smoldering inside her.

  Here on the battlements, she could see the full strangeness of the weathercharm she had helped to cast. The air was still here, even a little stuffy, but the noise of the wind was very loud. Winter sunlight fell on her shoulders, but only a few spans away was a great shadow in which light faltered and died. Through the gloom, she could make out a boiling mass of figures on the ground before the Innail gates, holding flaring torches that hissed and spat in the rain. She could hear the rhythmic twang of bowstrings, and she realized that archers were picking off any attackers foolhardy enough to venture into bowshot.

  Indik was right: it was very hard to see what the army was doing, or how far back it stretched into the gloom. But there seemed many, many more soldiers than were stationed here at the gates. Maerad wondered if the forces were this thick all the way around the walls, and drew in her breath. She didn't know if it was worse imagining their attackers, or seeing them with her own eyes. On the whole, she th
ought, it was better to know the worst. But now she was very frightened indeed.

  Remember, said Indik into her mind. I rely on you to keep track of the Landrost. And stay out of bowshot. I don't want any stray arrows putting you out of action.

  Maerad nodded, as if Indik—who was out of sight—could see her, and gathering her wits, moved back from the battlements. Without losing awareness of her present surroundings, she delicately felt her way back into the net of magery that she had woven with the weatherworkers. She knew the Landrost was in there somewhere, and she could feel his presence more accurately if she let her mind touch his strands, as if he were a spider in the center of his web and she a fly on its outer edges, sensing his presence by subtle vibrations.

  From her post, Maerad could see the outer wall better. Although at first it had seemed chaotic with activity, now she saw there was an order in it. She had little experience of fortifications, but even she could see that compared with Norloch, Innail had minimal defenses. A high stone wall, reinforced with wards woven into the stone to keep out creatures of the Dark, seemed the thinnest tissue against the forces she had seen swirling below.

  Even as she thought this, the clouds before her seemed to explode, and Maerad reeled and almost fell. Before she even knew what was happening, she had automatically drawn her sword, shaking her head to rid herself of a dizziness. It was as if something had struck her head, although nothing had come near her. The air seemed to be full of black, wet, leathery wings. Wers, she thought, in some cold part of her. They've broken through the wards ...

  The wers landed swiftly, their claws raking the stone and striking sparks, and began to transform almost immediately into man shapes: tall figures with shoulders of brutal strength and black broadswords. Maerad heard, as if from a great distance, Indik shouting orders, and the screaming of the children, and already the clash of weapons. Almost without thinking, she lifted her arms and said the word for White Fire, noroch, and a silver ball shot from her fingertips and caught the nearest wer on its shoulder, as it raised its arm to strike at a Bard. The flame stuck and burned, flaming through its hair, and the wer screeched. The sound went through Maerad's head like a knife. As it writhed on the ground, flames blackening and withering its body, the White Flame leaped to another wer close by, and Maerad saw more wers behind. She stretched out her hand to send more White Fire: but it was already over, and all the wers were dead, either hacked by the Bards and soldiers or burned by the White Flame.