The Bone Queen (40 page)

Almost at once, Cadvan opened the door. They stared at each other without speaking. Then Cadvan smiled.

“I suppose you had better come in,” he said.

W
HEN
Selmana turned up at the tavern, Dernhil, Cadvan and Nelac were debating the risks of searching for her through the Circles. They had returned to the tavern scarcely an hour before, in despair and exhaustion: the rupture between the Circles was now closed, but they had found no sign of Selmana anywhere, and none of them had any notion of where to begin searching for her. Beyond telling them that she had taken no harm, Selmana didn’t want to speak about what had happened. When Cadvan impatiently questioned her, she turned her shoulder against him.

In truth, as Dernhil said in the silence that followed, they were all too tired to talk. They each retired to their tiny chambers, and none of them was seen until the sun was high in the sky the following day. Cadvan was up first. He felt too sick to break his fast and instead went in search of Taran. Taran was down the mine with his brothers, but Hal was waiting for him, and invited him to her healing house.

“I dreamed of you last night,” she said shyly, as she prepared him a tea. “I saw you fighting with a man in black armour, and I thought he was going to strike you down and kill you, but instead you killed him.”

“It was the Bone Queen,” said Cadvan absently. “You shouldn’t have any more trouble here.”

“The Bone Queen?” Hal’s brow wrinkled. “Who is she?”

Cadvan took the mug she offered and looked about Hal’s kitchen. She had made this house her own; besides the herbs and salves that lined the shelves, she had arranged her precious things about the room: a carving of a wooden cat that had belonged to her mother, the mortar and pestle that Cadvan had given her when he left, a length of bright red cloth that she had laid on the table. Everything was meticulously clean. He looked back at Hal and smiled, wondering how to answer her question.

“The Bone Queen is a terrible spirit who tore open the World, and called the dead into Jouan,” he said. “We mended the hole, and I think those dreams won’t trouble the village again.”

“That’s good,” said Hal, and wriggled in her chair like a little girl, flashing him a look that spoke of everything she found difficult to say. When she had brought Cadvan into the house, she had been a gracious hostess, anxious that he be pleased with what he saw, but now it was as if she suddenly relaxed.

“I like your house,” said Cadvan, and her face lit up.

“Do you?” she said. “Oh, Cadvan, there’s so much that I don’t know. I haven’t done anything wrong yet, I remembered what you said about being honest about what I can do, but people come to me almost every day. Mostly I can help them, even if it’s just a little bit, but sometimes I can’t at all. I wish I knew more.”

“I’ve never had a better or more eager pupil than you, Hal,” Cadvan said.

Her face reddened with pleasure, and she began to tell him of some of the cases she had dealt with, questioning Cadvan about her decisions, and listening seriously to his answers. They fell easily into their old relationship of teacher and student, but Hal pushed him further, willing now to challenge his judgements or jumping ahead of him. Cadvan wondered again whether he had missed the Gift in her: she was so quick and intuitive, and her memory was formidable. But, no, she showed no signs of magery.

At last, remembering the time with a start, Cadvan took his leave, asking Hal to tell Taran that they had dealt with the problem as well as they could. She looked down, her face shadowed. “I almost forgot you don’t live here any more,” she said. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Cadvan smiled painfully. “I don’t think I’ll live here again,” he said. “And I haven’t finished the task that took me away. But my promise still stands. I’ll return when I can.”

“And not die.”

“And not die.” He stood up and Hal, suddenly formal again, showed him to the door, wishing him blessings for his journey. He took her hand in farewell, studying her face.

“You are doing so well on your own,” he said. “I’m proud of you, Hal. You do me great credit.”

Tears started in her eyes, and she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. Then she stood back, swallowing hard and trying to smile, and shut the door.

Cadvan walked back to the tavern, hunching his cloak against a heavy fall of rain that had swept over from the mountains. The nausea that had made him want to gag since he uttered the curse the night before had lifted. Although he remembered all the spells that Likod had shown him, this was only the second time he had attempted sorcery. He remembered, with shame, the awful joy he had felt in using that power. He hoped that he never had to use it again. But it had worked: as he had conjectured, Kansabur had been unprepared for sorcery. He thought of the unshadowed light in Hal’s serious eyes when she spoke about healing. He had, at least, protected that. But there was no justification that could make him forgive the malice he saw in himself.

Back at the tavern, Dernhil and Nelac were spooning up bowls of oaten porridge well laced with honey. Dernhil looked up when Cadvan entered, studying him coolly.

“I like this tavern,” he said. “I never was fond of porridge, but this is delicious. Back in Gent, they make it with salt.”

“Traders have to journey far to come here, so Jonalan pays attention to his fare,” said Cadvan, joining them. “He has a reputation to keep up.”

“He might as easily serve pig slop, since there is no one else,” said Dernhil.

“Well, I’m grateful he does not.”

There was no sign of Selmana. They didn’t talk about the events of the night before until she came down the stairs an hour later. Then all four Bards talked for a long time, as the increasing rain beat against the windows. This time Selmana told them of what had happened when she had vanished from the World, and the other three listened in astonishment.

“I’ve never heard of anything like that,” said Cadvan. “I wonder who this woman is. A creature of the stars?”

“She must have been an Elemental,” said Dernhil. “Think you, Nelac? I have read a little about them. It’s said that they can take any form they like, but always their eyes are slotted.”

“She was so beautiful,” said Selmana quietly. It still hurt to speak of the wild girl. “I’ve never been so happy… I didn’t want to come back.”

“If she was an Elidhu, then you have stepped with perilous beings,” said Nelac. “They are not as we are, and follow different laws.”

“She helped me,” said Selmana fiercely. “She found me and brought me back here. Yes, she was different from us. But not that different…”

“Good and evil don’t look to them as they do to us,” said Nelac. “They cannot die, and they do not know the sorrow of mortals. Remember, the Elidhu allied with the Dark… I wonder what their part in this might be.”

“That they have a part seems certain,” said Cadvan. “I think we ought to be encouraged rather than daunted.”

“But it is a power that is not to be trusted.” Nelac studied Selmana doubtfully.

Selmana opened her mouth to argue, and then shut it. There seemed no point: if they thought the wild girl was an Elidhu, and perhaps she was, then she foresaw all their objections. Bards saw Elementals as traitors: if they were not the Dark itself, they were as lawless, following their own ends. It was in all the songs: the treachery of the Elidhu had brought down the Great Silence, permitting the Dark to rule over Annar. Yet the woman she had seen among the stars had nothing to do with the Dark. Whoever she was, Selmana had loved her at once, as if she had known her all her life. The desire to see her again still ached inside her; she thought that the memory of that blazing freedom would never leave her. She hadn’t told the others that the girl had said that they would meet again; that was her own secret. And yet she didn’t even know her name. Perhaps she had bewitched her, but even as the thought occurred to her, Selmana realized she didn’t care. All love was a form of bewitchment: did that make it evil?

She listened to what had happened after she had vanished, but to her surprise, it seemed of no great moment to her. She was glad for the villagers of Jouan, and she was glad that the obscene rip in the fabric of the World had been mended. More than in their words, she saw the tale of the struggle in the grey faces of the Bards before her, still gaunt with exhaustion. But somehow this struggle, which had been so pressing, now seemed only of passing importance.

“Well,” she said at last, growing tired of the conversation. “I suppose we should just move on to Pellinor.”

“But not at once,” said Cadvan, casting her a glance of amusement. “I think we have bought ourselves some time. Unless you want to rush out into this rainstorm.” She caught his eye, and wondered if he had guessed what she was thinking. Cadvan seemed different today, somehow freer, but she couldn’t think what had changed.

“Tomorrow will do,” she said.

T
HERE!”
said Dernhil, pointing down the valley. They had emerged quite suddenly from a pine wood over the lip of a stony ridge. A thin wind drove ragged clouds south from the mountains that loomed over the horizon, their grim buttresses jutting through the first heavy snows. Selmana shivered against the chill, looking to where Dernhil pointed, and caught her breath. Pellinor nestled like a jewel in the breast of the valley, its white walls already lit against the darkening day. A single finger of light broke through the clouds and struck the great copper dome of the Singing Hall, which glowed green, like a living thing.

It was six days since they had left Jouan, and they had travelled hard, using healcharms to hasten their way. As before, it had been a boring, cold and punishing journey, darkened always by a fear of pursuit. After the battle in Jouan, they couldn’t hope that the Dark hadn’t guessed where they planned to go, and they travelled shielded, alert for any sign of its presence. Aside from an increasing sense of foreboding, they saw nothing.

There had been one reprieve from watchfulness, on the third night, when they had camped in a Bardhome, a dingle circled by a stand of ash trees. There were a number of these in northern Annar, planted by Bards centuries before and ringed with a virtue of protection, and Bards used them when travelling through the wilderness for respite and refuge. They set no watch, and it seemed to Selmana that when they arose the following day, her three companions were healed of more than tiredness: for the first time since Jouan, their faces were unshadowed.

That night, Selmana had dreamt of the wild girl. A tree had stepped down from the edge of the dingle and bent towards her, and when she looked up she saw the girl curled in a forked branch, smiling mischievously. A pale sun filtered through the leaves and haloed her in a green light.

Selmana cried out and leapt to her feet, as delight surged through her.
What’s your name?
she said.
Tell me your name, at least!

You do not need my name, dear one,
said the girl.
You know me already. I am with you always, in your Making and your Knowing.

But what will I call you?

Are words so important?
It seemed then that the branches of the tree bent down to the ground, as if the ash tenderly placed her before Selmana. The girl stepped up to her, her feet naked on the grass, and took her hand.
You do not need words.

I need you!
Selmana didn’t think she said it out loud, but she knew the girl heard her.
What am I to call you?

The girl looked at her, smiling.
You need a name so much?
she said.
Well then. I have so many names… Which would you like? I was once called the Moonchild, which is “Anghar” in one of the tongues of the north.

Anghar,
said Selmana, trying it on her tongue, like a charm.
Anghar
. She looked into the girl’s slotted eyes, and felt her strangeness.
Who are you? Why did you rescue me when I was lost?

So many questions!
Anghar laughed, and Selmana felt it like a shower of silver rain through her soul, cleansing and vital.
I had forgotten the curiosity of humans… Dear one, you are fleet and supple, and step between dimensions as one of my kin. And so the Bitter Queen seeks you. I do not choose that she should find you.

The Bitter Queen?

The laughter vanished from Anghar’s eyes, and she was suddenly solemn.
The lifehaters,
she said.
They steal our life from us, taking what is most precious. But even the Bitter Queen is not as mighty as the great Lifehater, who burned with envy in years long past and stole the song of our hearts. I name them enemy. I will not permit them to take you also.

Selmana felt an unquestioning faith that the Bone Queen couldn’t find her if Anghar didn’t let her, and she realized that, for the first time in weeks, she felt completely safe. Other questions bubbled up inside her, but in the enchantment of the moment she forgot them all. Nothing mattered except Anghar’s loveliness, the cool touch of her hand.

I wish I could stay with you for ever,
Selmana said.

You cannot. But be glad,
said the girl.
I am with you now. In time I will leave, as I must. But all leaving is brief…

The sunlight through the branches brightened until Selmana blinked in dazzlement, and then Anghar was gone. But somehow Selmana wasn’t so bereft this time, and when she woke up the next day, the burden of loss she had borne since Jouan was less heavy. Travelling was not so hard after that. She didn’t tell the other Bards of her dream. She felt, fiercely, that it was for her alone, and she didn’t want them picking over the secret joy in her heart.

Now they had at last reached the Fesse of Pellinor, an older desire quickened in Selmana’s breast: her passion for Making. Here lived the lore she loved.

The valley was beautiful, even in the sombre dress of approaching winter, with its fields ploughed in and the orchards raising bare branches. Selmana realized, with a jolt of surprise, that what she felt was very similar to the yearning that had possessed her when she saw the castle from the white beach, when she ran with Anghar through the stars. She puzzled over this as they trotted down into the valley, cursing that she hadn’t thought to ask Anghar the name of the citadel. Anghar had all but promised that one day she would go there.