The Singing by Alison Croggon

  Maerad nodded. She was afraid that she might fail—the last time she had tried to meld with Cadvan, when they were attacked in the mountains, it hadn't worked at all—but she said nothing. It had to work.

  She didn't know the Bards they were to work with; there were faces she vaguely remembered, but she had never been long enough in Innail to meet everybody. They looked up, their faces gray with strain, as Cadvan and Maerad entered their circle.

  There was no time for introductions, though a couple of the Bards cried out gladly when they recognized Cadvan. To her relief, when Maerad opened her mind she could feel the joined powers of the other Bards. Tentatively she put out her own to meld with them. It was a little like a vine putting out tendrils to tangle with another plant, she thought, a process at once deli­cate and chaotic and individual to itself. As soon as she had joined with the other Bards, the storm began to bother her less; despite the extremity of the situation, she found herself fascinated by touching so many minds at once, intrigued by the forces they were weaving together. It really was like trying to puzzle out a tapestry of deep, abstract intricacies, only its pat­tern was constantly changing. Or, more accurately, it was con­stantly being torn up and then being rewoven.

  The magery was colored by the Bards' emotions; she imme­diately felt both their fear and determination. As she sensed her way into its pattern, she saw it had a formal shape. She couldn't read it; she didn't have the training, she supposed, and it was as if she were looking into a book of poems in a language she didn't understand. She could perceive the grammar, the syntax, the recurring words, the shapes of the verses, but its meaning was beyond her.

  At this point, Maerad felt like giving up: she was obviously going to be useless, as she didn't have the experience. But she was still deeply intrigued, and kept on feeling her way in. Even as she did, she felt with a shock the magery being torn apart by the forces of the storm; its tendrils broke and whipped apart, although the Bards' melding stayed firm. Maerad found herself admiring their strength: she felt as if she had been punched, and gasped aloud.

  Patiently, the Bards began again, and this time Maerad thought she could see what they were trying to do. She was staggered at the size of the spell. They were attempting to weave a charm around the borders of Innail, which would keep the air calm within its walls, and leave the storm raging with­out. But, as Malgorn had said, the wind would not listen, and raged against the magery.

  They're making it worse, she thought. The storm would not be harnessed in this way. It was driven by the dire rage of the Landrost, but it was not the Landrost himself. The fell voices on the air, which Maerad had thought were wers, were those of Elemental creatures, not creatures of the Dark.

  Speak to them, Maerad said suddenly. We must speak to them.

  One of the Bards, whom Maerad thought was the leading mage among them, turned sharply toward her. He was soaked to the skin, his hair plastered over his forehead, and his eyes were set in deep hollows; he looked exhausted and angry.

  In case you haven't noticed, he said, ice in his voice, we have been trying to do just that for some time.

  Just as he spoke, the Bards rocked back as their magery tore apart with a new violence and a fork of lightning hit the stone parapet near them, splintering the rock. Maerad had a night­mare glimpse of a man falling, his mouth open in a scream she couldn't hear, his hair on fire. One of the Bards gave Maerad a look of such rage that she almost withdrew from the melding in fear and shame, as if it were her fault. But then she felt Cadvan's voice, calm amid the growing panic of the Bards.

  What do you mean, Maerad?

  I mean—you're not speaking to it in the right way... It's like... it's like a baby, or something—but very angry and strong. What you're doing isn't, well, crude enough ...

  It was hard to explain, even in mindspeech, which didn't use language as it was normally used, relying as much on a cur­rent of empathy between minds as much as words to communi­cate. So Maerad thought it might be easier just to do it.

  Something like this, she said. I don't know if this will work...

  She paused briefly to focus, and then began to croon a string of nonsense words. The other Bards kept their melding strong, preparing to attempt their own magery again in a moment, and she could feel their skepticism and even a thread of savage mockery. Maerad first used the Speech, trying to feel her way into some rhythm that she felt she could almost hear, and as she became more sure, slipped imperceptibly into the language of the Elidhu. Now she felt incomprehension around her, rising to anger, and tried to ignore it; she was fumbling, trying to sense something by feel, something strange, and she needed to concentrate. For a moment she thought she nearly had the key, but it slipped by, and almost at the same time she heard the same Bard who had turned on her in rage seek to stop her.

  Don't, said Cadvan. His voice was gentle, but it held some­thing implacable. The Bard halted. Listen instead, said Cadvan. Listen well...

  Maerad kept mumbling, not knowing what she was saying, concentrating so hard that she lost almost all sense of the others, and of the storm itself. And then she caught a feeling that was like a melody, something recognizable, and then another. She matched them together, repeating them with variations as she went, and found something else yielding. Gradually a pattern of enormous complexity opened up before her, and she could see the relationships between its different parts, its infinite variations and repetitions. Then—Ah!—she saw the Landrost within it, like a black spiral, churning and churning the pattern.

  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 urge
ncy, 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 Mae
rad. "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..."