The Bone Queen (27 page)

There was a shocked silence, and then Cadvan jumped out of his chair. “No,” he said. “You can’t.”

“I can, and I will, Cadvan,” said Nelac mildly. “Do not argue with me.”

“But won’t you end up like Bashar?” said Selmana.

“No,” said Nelac. “Not if all goes well. That is, of course, a risk.”

“But we know nothing about Likod’s powers,” said Cadvan. “We know nothing about this thing that is Kansabur. You don’t know what you will be facing. This is reckless beyond measure. If anyone is to take that risk, it ought to be me. We can’t afford to lose you, Nelac. And in any case, it all started with me, and the price is mine to pay.”

“What did I say about your vanity, Cadvan?” said Nelac. “Of course it didn’t begin with you. If we are correct, it began in the days of Afinil, when Sharma of Dagra rejected his Truename and wove the binding spell that bent the laws of the Circles and made him into the Nameless One. But this task is mine. I am the only one among you with the Knowing to do this. And only I have the strength.”

Cadvan opened his mouth to argue further, but Nelac glared at him. For a moment Nelac’s anger seemed to outline him in a restless silver light. Cadvan slowly sat back down in his chair without speaking.

“If that is what must be done, then how shall we do it?” said Dernhil. “I think you should not go alone.”

“Selmana shall stay here,” Nelac said. At this she cried out in protest, and he glanced at her kindly. “No, Selmana. I have other plans for you. It’s not because I doubt you. Dernhil and Cadvan are to come with me.”

Larla smiled at Selmana. “Don’t worry, kitten,” she said. “You’re still a babe, and there’s nothing to be ashamed of in that.”

“If we don’t return by tomorrow morning, Selmana, I want you to leave Lirigon and travel to Pellinor as swiftly as you can. You must speak to the First Bard there, Milana, and tell her what has happened in Lirigon. She is a dear friend and wise and she will listen. Go to my mare, Cina. Tell her my Truename, Validur, as a token. She knows the way and she will bear you. Trust her: she is the best of beasts.”

All three Bards stared at Nelac with their mouths open. Only Larla, who was listening intently, her restless hands busy with some sewing, seemed unsurprised. Nelac had said his Truename openly before all of them. No Bard ever revealed their Truename lightly, and if they did, it was only to those they trusted with their lives. Selmana was abashed and shocked by his confidence; it underlined their peril as nothing else had. She swallowed hard. Leave Lirigon on her own?

Nelac took a gold ring from his finger. “This is the Ring of Silur, a treasure of Lirigon. It has the virtue of fitting any hand that wears it. When you reach Pellinor, show it to Milana. She will know you bear my word.”

Selmana took the ring and studied it curiously: it felt cool and heavy in her hand, and was inscribed with strange runes that she didn’t recognize. She slid it onto her middle finger. Her hands were larger and rougher than Nelac’s, and at first it seemed that it would be too small; but as she put it on, the metal seemed to shrug and it slid easily onto her middle finger.

“I’m sure you’ll come back, though,” she said. To her annoyance, her voice wavered. She didn’t want to seem afraid. “And then I can give you back the ring. It’s too precious for me.”

Dernhil smiled reassuringly. “We’ll come back,” he said. “Of course we will. Nelac always plans for the worst.”

“The truth is that we may not,” said Nelac. “But if I thought we had no chance of success, I wouldn’t suggest this course. Now. We are decided, yes?”

“
You
have decided,” said Cadvan, with a flicker of humour. “We but follow in your wake.”

“You’re going out in this storm?” said Larla. “You will scarcely stand up against the wind!”

“It will work to our advantage, I think,” said Nelac. “Likod will not expect us in this chaos. We’ll use shields against the tempest.” He stood up, suddenly brusque. “Cadvan, you can’t use magery without breaking the Pilanel charm, yes? That’s a little inconvenient. Dernhil will have to shield both of you: I don’t want anyone to recognize you, even though there’s little chance of anyone seeing anything in this weather.”

The room was now charged with purpose and grim urgency. Perversely, given her earlier impatience, Selmana was alarmed by how quickly things were moving. The three other Bards pulled on their boots and cloaks, still damp from their earlier walk, and made the shields that would protect them from the storm. A quick embrace in Larla’s tiny hallway, and they were gone. The brutal wind tore through the door and blew the wall hangings so they fluttered wildly, and it took the strength of both Larla and Selmana to wrestle it shut. The hallway seemed strangely quiet. Selmana stared at the blue door, suddenly feeling lost. The tea that Larla had poured for them when they arrived wasn’t even cold, and now she might never see Nelac, Dernhil and Cadvan again.

“We’ll have to wait now, kitten,” said Larla. “Waiting is the worst thing, much worse than having to do something.” She gave Selmana a shrewd look. “Now then, Nelac wouldn’t send you to Pellinor if he didn’t think you could do it.”

“I don’t think I could,” said Selmana forlornly. “I’ve never been anywhere.”

“Of course you could,” said Larla. “Lucky I was making some honey cakes, because I sniffed the weather and I knew we’d be holed up inside. They’ll be ready just about now.”

I
T
was scarcely two hours since Nelac had spoken to Bashar, and in that time the wind and rain had steadily increased. Cadvan linked arms with Dernhil to ensure that Dernhil’s shield covered both of them, but also because it was difficult simply to move forward. The wind snatched the words from their mouths, and if they had need they spoke, as Bards will sometimes, into each other’s minds. The shields didn’t keep out the cold, which bit through their cloaks and numbed their hands. It was probably almost noon, Cadvan thought – it was hard this day to tell the time – but Lirigon was plunged into murky twilight. He could only just see Nelac’s form, a mere pace away. The streets were shin-deep rivers that coursed so fast that, without magery, they might have been swept away. They passed blurred blooms of light, where people had lit lamps in their homes. Anyone on lower ground would already be flooded.

Cadvan felt his will tiring: every step was hard won. When they reached the Inner Circle, the wind hit them with renewed force, eddying with unpredictable violence in the open space. They worked their way around the edge of the Circle towards Bashar’s Bardhouse, broken branches and leaves whipping around their faces. Huge hailstones hit the stone flags and smashed like small boulders before melting into grey sludge. If it hadn’t been for the shields, Cadvan thought, they would for certain have been cut or knocked out by flying debris.

They finally reached the portico of the First Bardhouse. The great double-leaved door was locked, but Nelac drew out a bunch of keys and let them in. The three Bards tumbled breathlessly into the entrance hall and then turned to fight the door shut. Nelac locked the door again and leaned against the wall, breathing hard. The Bardhouse, usually bustling with comings and goings, was eerily deserted. It was normally well-lit, but now the high hall was thrown into gloom; the long windows were all shuttered, and only a single lamp glowed at the far end, where stairs wound up to the next floor.

“Where is everybody?” whispered Cadvan.

“I imagine the Bards are out at the villages, trying to help with storm damage,” said Nelac. “The Light knows what’s happening in the Fesse… But we cannot think of that now. It was more than wind and rain we were fighting there, my friends. There is a will in this storm.”

“There is,” said Dernhil. The dim light threw shadows of strain over his face. “I think it is not a human will.”

Cadvan studied Nelac anxiously; he looked frail and already weary. But even as he watched, Nelac gathered himself, straightening his shoulders, and his age seemed to fall away. “The storm is the least of our worries now,” he said. “Dernhil, Cadvan, whatever we face in here will demand everything we have, and more. I fear that we may not prevail, but I fear more not making the attempt.”

At this Cadvan’s heart sank. Dernhil stood unmoving, his mouth drawn into a grim, determined line. Nelac drew them close, speaking directly into their minds, using the Speech so his instructions would be clear and unambiguous, burned into their memories.

Now, listen well. Listen with all your listening: I have never been more serious. When we enter Bashar’s rooms, I want you both to follow my lead. Say nothing unless you must, and do nothing until there is need. It may be that an impetuous act, an act made out of fear or anger, could ruin us all. Whatever happens, be mindful.

He paused, to let his words sink in.
There will be a struggle, and it will be difficult to perceive. Watch carefully. You will know me if I say my Name. If I do not, if I cannot say my Name, then you must kill me. The battle will be yours then, to fight as you must.

Kill you?
said Dernhil.

Nelac’s face softened.
There are things that are worse than death, my dearest friends. I know I could demand nothing more terrible of you, but I ask this out of the love I know you bear me.

An appalled silence stretched out between them, and then both Cadvan and Dernhil nodded. Cadvan was white to his lips, and his eyes shone.

“I would do this thing, because you ask it,” he said out loud. “But if it comes to that, it will be the worst thing the Dark has done to me.”

Nelac grasped his hand. “I believe it will not come to that,” he said. “Nothing is certain. But know you must do this thing, if I am defeated.”

“What shall we look for?” said Dernhil.

“Watch with all your senses,” said Nelac. “You will know.”

Cadvan took a deep breath to still the shaking in his body. It was one thing to be afraid for himself; it was quite another to be afraid for Nelac, who, he realized with a pang, he loved as if he were his father. More than his real father, he thought; and then he felt ashamed. A vivid memory rose unbidden in his mind, from when his father began to teach him how to cut and shape leather. It was before his mother died, and he had been perhaps five years old. He saw his father’s face, patient and gentle, his skilled, strong hands. Nartan loved him, and deserved his love in return. It wasn’t his father’s fault he had a Bard for a son, instead of the cobbler he wanted. He hadn’t deserved the pain that Cadvan had brought him. How was his family surviving this storm? Why hadn’t he thought of them since he had returned to Lirigon?

He deliberately pushed the thought of his father out of his head. Now wasn’t the time. But perhaps there would be no time after… To distract himself, he stared at Nelac’s cloak as he walked up the stairs in front of him. It was made of green and red wool cunningly crossed into a pattern of repeating leaves, the work of a master weaver. The thought of the skill and patience that had gone into making that cloak made him want to weep.

It was hard to stay focused. The sense of wrongness in the Bardhouse was palpable, like a constant dissonant noise that keened below the cacophony of the wind, or a heavy toxin in the air that blurred and weighted his thoughts. Cadvan was almost certain that he was walking to his death. He realized very clearly that he didn’t want to die.

Dernhil touched his arm, and Cadvan started out of his distraction.
I am afraid too
, he said into Cadvan’s mind.
The only time I was more afraid was in the Inkadh Grove.

Cadvan took his hand and clutched it hard before letting go. Nelac had spoken of love: it was love that the Dark didn’t understand, it was through love that Cadvan might find the clear space where he could stand and fight. He felt no less afraid, but a small chink of hope opened in his mind.

Bashar’s quarters occupied the whole of the top floor of the Bardhouse. They didn’t need to discuss where she was: with their heightened senses they could feel Likod’s presence as if it were a source of feverish heat. The Bards were still shielded, and their footsteps were muffled by rich carpets as well as the wind, but it seemed strange that they had encountered no one. Cadvan thought that the house must be utterly empty; even through the shield, he should have sensed the under-flicker of magery. Where were the other Bards?

At last they stood in front of the carved double doors that led to Bashar’s private meeting room. Nelac pushed them open and a gelid light poured out, dazzling after the gloom of the hallway. Cadvan blinked, swaying with the force of its power. He glanced involuntarily over to Dernhil, who stood beside him, his mouth set, his eyes blazing with something like hatred or contempt.

This is the empty heart
, said Dernhil.
This is the void.

The light came from Bashar herself, but it wasn’t the illumination of magery: it was a fierce cold, so fierce it burned, a pure, deadly energy that radiated from her skin. Cadvan flinched at the obscenity of what he saw: Bashar was reduced to an instrument of Likod’s will, her powers used to his ends. She was motionless, but other senses told Cadvan that she was deep in a complex sorcery that occupied all her attention. Bashar hadn’t even noticed that they had entered the room: she stood by the window, her arms outstretched. The arched casements were wide open, but some force kept the storm outside. The air inside the room was utterly still. Then Cadvan realized the window no longer opened on Lirigon: outside was no worldly storm, but a sight-defeating darkness, a vortex of impossible energies riven with fires that were beyond the spectrum of human sight.

Nelac strode forward, throwing back his hood from his face. He burned with the silver-gold radiance of magery, but it was dim next to the light that beat out of Bashar. Cadvan and Dernhil followed for a few paces and then stopped, tense and uncertain, all their perceptions painfully alert.

Cadvan wondered what malevolence Bashar was calling with such concentration: for it seemed to him that something was being summoned. He could feel the edges of a presence, a dread that cut beneath the fear he was feeling now. He opened his deepest listening and suddenly, as if a lid were lifted, he perceived the sorcery that Likod was weaving through Bashar’s power. He recoiled; with a thrill of terror, he realized that he knew the spell. Likod had shown it to him during the last of their meetings.