The Bone Queen (43 page)

“Perhaps it is,” said Cadvan. “And perhaps I am simply a sacrifice on the altar of your purity.”

“Mercy is not the aim of the Light,” said Enkir.

“What is, then?” said Nelac softly.

“Justice.”

“Yet wisdom is the meeting of justice and compassion,” said Nelac. “Be not so quick to dismiss the claims of mercy.”

Enkir met Nelac’s gaze, and it seemed to Selmana that they wrestled in thought, although neither of them moved or spoke. At last Enkir put up his hands and looked away. “I have no desire to quarrel with you, Nelac. Of course all judgements of the Light are complex. That isn’t my point. I respect Milana’s decision to welcome Cadvan, and even see her reasons, although I disagree. For all that, we are no clearer about what we should do next.”

“What’s clear to me is that we must banish the Bone Queen,” said Milana. “And now, rather than later.”

“Easily said,” said Cadvan. “But not so easily done. We have already failed once.”

M
ILANA
climbed the stone stairway that wound inside the walls of the Singing Hall and stepped out onto the arched walkway that ran beneath its vast copper dome. She huddled her cloak close against the cold and took a deep breath. She often came here when her thoughts were restless. From this height she could look over the Pellinor valley as it stretched back to the embrace of the mountains, which loomed black and shrouded on the horizon. She could see the yellow trembling lights of villages and farms, small and isolated on the valley flanks and gathering in clusters along the dim grey ribbon of the River Pel. Silently she named each village: Pilan, Sher, Westban, Ashkin…

She had walked the paths of this valley all her long life. She had been to every village, to visit friends, or to learn some new detail of crafting; to teach children their letters, or to heal sickness, or to arbitrate disputes. She had made the spring blessing of increase, when Bards sang the Tree of Light into the dawn sky, lifting its white branches so they swelled with golden blossoms that opened and let fall their glowing petals onto the dark earth of the fields and woods. She had danced the funeral rites in every village square, to comfort the lost soul and set its feet on its journey across the Long Path of Stars to the Gates. She had broken bread in these houses, and shared their joys and sorrows. She was Pellinor’s First Bard and that was her duty and her love. No one in this valley went hungry, and no one needing succour or seeking knowledge was turned away. That was the Way of the Light, as Milana had known and lived it all her life.

Tonight she was deeply troubled. The arrival of the Bards hadn’t surprised her; after the news from Lirigon, she had expected that they might seek refuge in Pellinor. But she felt it as an echo of doom, as one step closer towards the dark end that Dorn had seen in his dreams. She couldn’t shake the sorrow this loosened in her breast; even if they staved back the evil now, even if they succeeded in banishing the Bone Queen utterly from the bright margins of the World, Pellinor would fall and all its beauty would be lost for ever. It seemed to Milana that the decision she made now spelled out the first words of that sorrowful tale. And yet, no matter how deeply she searched her conscience, she could see no other choice. To turn her face away from a darkening of the Light out of a cowardly fear for her own skin would be a greater wrong still.

Night deepened over Pellinor. One by one, the lights in the valley went out. From where she stood, her listening open, Milana could hear a rising wind rustling through the meadows, the cough of a fox, a plover calling. The cold, clear skies of the past two days closed in, and a heavy cloud rolled down into the valley, blotting out the stars. She watched, her brow creasing. Were there deeper shadows there than the pure darkness of night? The cloud muffled sound as it flowed towards the School, blurring her listening, but she thought she heard a faint howl that belonged to no creature that she knew. She stood for a long time, alert and wary, but she heard nothing more, and at last she shivered, feeling the cold seep through her cloak, and made her way to her bedchamber.

Cadvan of Lirigon.
Cadvan woke and lay a while in bed, studying the ceiling of his room, which was painted with a pattern of birds in flight. All of them were birds that lived in the Fesse of Pellinor: ducks, ospreys, eagles and hawks, pigeons and owls, warblers and blackbirds and finches, and many others. He idly identified the different species, reflecting that the Bard who had painted this room had clearly been a passionate observer as well as a painter of rare skill: each kind was meticulously depicted in every detail. He could name almost all of them.

He thought then of his own name.
Cadvan of Lirigon.
When Milana had spoken his Bard name the day before, Cadvan’s heart had jolted in his breast: he had never thought to hear himself addressed in that way ever again. For the past few years he had been
Cadvan, formerly of Lirigon
, or merely Cadvan, of Nowhere: a disgraced exile, marred by the Dark. But Milana had broken the ban of the First Circle of Lirigon, first by welcoming him into her School as a Bard, and then by giving him back his title. She had spoken clearly and deliberately, and there had been a magery in her words, as if she uttered his Truename. All Bards understood the power of naming, but Cadvan had never felt it so intimately. With those words, Milana had restored him as a Bard of the Light.

And here he lay, in a comfortable bed with sheets of finely woven linen, in a room made beautiful by some gifted artist of Pellinor, as if he had never been banished, as if he were not outlawed. Milana had coolly undone that shame. He knew that she did so because of Nelac’s trust in him, but he was fiercely grateful. It had helped him to bear Enkir’s needling the evening before, and stilled his tongue when he would have taken foolish exception. He and Enkir had never liked each other. Cadvan couldn’t help but respect him, as a deep scholar and a mage of rare power. He wondered if it was impossible that Kansabur had hidden something of herself in Enkir. Nothing was impossible, if even Nelac had taken that hurt … and yet, thinking over it as fairly as he could, Cadvan thought it was very unlikely.

When Enkir had challenged Milana the night before, claiming that his allegiance to the Light was beyond question, Cadvan had felt no doubt that he was speaking the truth. Enkir’s magery had blazed with a fierce flame in the mindmeld when they had worked together to banish Kansabur, pure as diamond. No shadow could find a home there, surely. Part of Cadvan – an unworthy voice, he acknowledged to himself – wished that Enkir had been tainted. To have the Dark clinging inside his soul would humble him, and if ever a Bard needed humbling, it was Enkir.

But, for all his faults, Cadvan didn’t doubt Enkir’s honesty: he was severe, pitilessly so, but no one had ever known him to be less than utterly truthful. If he said he sensed no diminution in his Knowing, it must be the case. The man was swift-tempered, and he wielded his power with an inflexible will, but no one could be less apt to the wiles of the Dark. If there was little kindliness in his judgements, they were also untempered by self-interest or malice, and the stern passion of his long devotion to the Light was written on his face. Nelac had once said, after a stinging session with the First Circle of Lirigon during which Enkir had told Cadvan exactly what he thought of him, that if Enkir judged others harshly, he reserved the sternest judgements for himself. Nelac had also said, with an ironic glance, that perhaps they disliked each other because they were too alike.

Cadvan sighed and dragged himself out of his warm bed, thinking that if Enkir was a vision of his future as an old Bard, he should probably travel back to Jouan and learn mining. He dressed slowly, enjoying the thick carpet beneath his toes, the whisper of silk underclothes against his skin, the warm air of the heated chamber. Milana certainly ensured the comfort of her guests… He was reluctant to leave: while he was alone in his room, he could indulge the fantasy that he was merely visiting, a Bard like any other Bard. But that’s what it was: an indulgence. He squared his shoulders and made his way downstairs.

He found Dernhil in the dining room, where he was piling a plate with green salad and white cheese and freshly baked rye bread, dark and soft as earth. “You’d better hurry, if you want to eat,” Dernhil said. “I have a rare appetite this morning.”

“It’s the mountain air,” said Cadvan, taking a plate and doing the same. “That, and days of short vittles and hard ground.”

“I’ve had more than my share of that these past months,” Dernhil answered. “When all this is over, I’m planning to retire to Gent, where I’ll not stir from my rooms except for meals.”

“It wouldn’t be unpleasant to stay here,” said Cadvan, through a mouthful of bread. “The ceiling of my bedchamber is some sort of masterpiece.”

“It is Pellinor,” said Dernhil. “It’s to be expected.”

They finished their meal, and then, as neither Nelac nor Selmana were to be seen, they decided to go for a stroll. Outside the door, Dernhil stopped and looked across the Inner Circle. A pale winter sunshine lent the paved stone a fugitive gold, and glanced off a fine statue in the middle. It was of Maninaë, when he had returned from his journey beyond the Gates, to the Empyrean: he was on one knee, his face raised to the heavens, his long hair falling down his back in graceful curves of stone. One hand touched the ground, and the other was stretched before him, empty, and on his face was an expression that was at once calm and filled with unassuageable yearning.

“I’ve always loved that carving,” said Dernhil. “It seems right to me that Ilborc chose to depict Maninaë at that moment: not in his triumph, striking down the Nameless One, but instead with the sorrow of knowledge and acceptance, understanding his mortality at last…”

Cadvan glanced at him. “Ilborc understood human sadness,” he said. “Few have surpassed him in the art of sculpture.”

“Aye. His work is one reason why I love coming to this School.” They began to walk across the Circle. “Cadvan, I was thinking about our discussion last night. It troubles me that we reached no firm decision.”

“It was very inconclusive. But at least Enkir has been brought to Milana’s way of thinking.”

“Most unwillingly, it must be said. Do you believe we can trust him? You know him better than I do.”

“I will never enjoy his company,” Cadvan said. “But, yes, I believe we can trust him. And he is a formidable ally in the struggle with the Dark.”

“I don’t doubt that.” Dernhil walked a few paces, frowning. “But still… Something in my heart misgives me. Why did he so object to being scried?”

“No Bard is willingly scried,” said Cadvan. “It’s a hard thing.”

“As we both know.” Dernhil smiled briefly at Cadvan and then shook his head. “Ah, it’s of no matter. I dislike his arrogance. It’s likely nothing more than that.” He walked on restlessly. “I’m wondering if we did right to come to Pellinor.”

“None of us can return to Lirigon,” said Cadvan. “Where else could we go?”

“I know. But I feel at a loss again. It was good, in Jouan, knowing what to do and who to fight. Now I just feel like we’re back poking sticks at fog.”

“Do you not feel the Dark gathering?” said Cadvan. “I do, all the time. It’s like a pressure in my mind. It went away for a couple of days after Jouan, and it was such a relief. But now it’s coming back, like a storm under the horizon. And it’s looking for us. The Dark will want revenge.”

Dernhil turned his face away and was silent for a time. “I sense it, but vaguely,” he said. “A distant threat. Perhaps it’s simply what I wish were the case. I don’t doubt your Knowing, Cadvan. Not for a moment.”

They walked on without speaking for a while.

“Do you think the Dark seeks us here?” asked Dernhil.

Cadvan shrugged. “It wouldn’t be hard to guess where we were heading, after Jouan. I don’t doubt Likod is looking for us. Word will be out soon that we are in Pellinor, in any case. Milana scorns to hide from Lirigon: she is making her disavowal of the Circle’s judgement very plain. Which is why it’s encouraging that Enkir sides with us, whatever his disapproval.”

“He did say that he didn’t believe that you were a servant of the Dark,” said Dernhil. “Which, coming from him, is some concession. It will force the Circle to think again.”

“Aye. I’m worse than that: a failed servant of the Light.” Cadvan laughed, but there was a bitterness in it. “Sadly, he is right in that.”

“That’s where I differ with Enkir,” said Dernhil. “In fact, I think he is completely wrong. I saw what you did in Jouan.”

“Yes, I struck down the Bone Queen, and saved us from what might have been a terrible death,” said Cadvan. “But employing the Black Arts is hardly an argument for my being a Bard of the Light.”

“No,” said Dernhil, and now he was smiling. “I wasn’t thinking of that, although you know very well you made that sorcery for good reason, and you can’t tell me that it didn’t cost you more than you will admit. I was thinking of young Hal, and how you helped the villagers there. Jonalan told us what you did after the explosion in the mine. They love you for good reason, Cadvan. And that can only be the work of the Light.”

Again a silence fell between them, and they made their way back, both wrapped in thought. On the threshold of the guesthouse, Dernhil looked up at the sky. “I think our little bit of sunshine will soon pass,” he said. “I smell a cold rain on the wind.”

Cadvan clasped his shoulder. “Thank you, Dernhil,” he said.

Dernhil’s eyes lit up. “What did I do?”

“For what you said before. It comforts me.”

“Good.” Dernhil opened the door, bowing Cadvan before him. “You are very awkward to comfort. I’ve been trying ever since I decided that I liked you after all.”

Cadvan smiled. “I warned you I was made of spikes.”

On their return, the housemaster told Cadvan and Dernhil that Milana awaited them in the music room. This was a large, comfortable chamber on the ground floor. On one wall was a mural of a wintry landscape, where a dozen wolves with white pelts played beneath a copse of bare trees. The wide windows were hung with curtains of blue Thoroldian silk, and looked out over the Inner Circle, where the first drops of rain were beginning to patter down.