The Bone Queen (19 page)

The flood of memories increased, overwhelming him. It was as if his entire life were happening at once in a single, endless moment, a vortex of texture and colour and smell and sound and feeling in which he had no foothold, so he was tumbled in himself, as helpless as a single leaf in a tornado. Now he couldn’t flinch away, even if he wanted to; and a darkness was growing in the vortex, an angry eye of pain. There was no protection here: his nerves were raw and unsheathed, and he felt everything again, more bitter than rue: the sour taste of disappointment and malice, the white-hot agony of rage, the desperate chill of grief and loneliness; and still the memories gathered force, whirling him powerlessly through them, the scars of love and hope, of delight and anguish, of humiliation and pride and terror, of everything that made him who he was.

It was unendurable, he was sure he would break, and still it wasn’t the worst; the worst yet lay hidden within him, and he was afraid he couldn’t bear it, the black flood that must now erupt and erase everything. But there was no black flood, no undifferentiated sweep of despair and emptiness. It was all bitterly clear, each single moment vivid in its detail. The sweet, heavy perfume of hunaf flowers, the trees of the Inkadh Grove, every twig outlined against the heavily starred sky, the metal taste of the Black Speech on his tongue, the grim dead queen wrenching aside his circle of power and reaching towards him with her arms of bone, the blue-edged scythe of sorcery, the black sword sweeping in a deadly arc, Ceredin falling voiceless to the ground, a red flood erupting from her throat, her belly. He screamed in his mind, but there was no sound. And still the memories crowded the moment, layer upon layer upon layer, in this place where there was no time; the haunted Shadowplains, the tormented shepherd, Hal crouched in the corner of his kitchen in Jouan, frowning as she pummelled dried herbs in a stone mortar, Nelac embracing him as he stood for the first time after his illness…

And there, in a corner in this place of no corners, something else. Something like a stench that yet had a strange solidity; something that, in all this whirl of Cadvan, was not-Cadvan. In the fountain of himself, a malignant intelligence, formless and winding like vapour, but present, ever more present, scrabbling to hide itself from the inexorable light that poured through Cadvan’s being. Cadvan was aware of a wave of disgust, as if his soul were retching. He could feel this thing tightening within him, as if it were some shelled creature closing its claws on his most sensitive skin, hundreds of little claws, each one needle-sharp and toxic, piercing him. And still the light grew larger and brighter, so that nothing might hide; and as the creature became more visible, so it gained solidity, its claws tightening and lengthening, driving deeper into him, until a red mist of torment obscured everything. Suddenly, bright and brief and vivid, he saw Dernhil, haloed with magery, speaking words that Cadvan could no longer understand, and a terrible pressure wrenched him, as if he were being ripped in two, and he thought he was going to die. And then he remembered nothing.

Cadvan opened his eyes and groaned. His entire body ached, as if he were a single bruise. It was a few moments before he recollected himself: he was lying on his back on Dernhil’s bed. The first grey light of morning was beginning to filter through the window, which was swinging open on its hinges, broken. He stirred, and realized that Dernhil was sitting next to him, his arms wrapped around his knees.

Cadvan struggled to sit upright, wincing, and Dernhil turned towards him. His face was haggard, carved with deep shadows; he looked deathly ill. He made a wan attempt at a smile.

“I swear, Cadvan, that you will be the end of me one day,” he said.

Cadvan was silent. In truth, he didn’t know what to say.

“That was almost the worst thing that has ever happened to me,” said Dernhil. “Almost.”

Cadvan cleared his throat. “It was all the worst things,” he said.

Dernhil smiled again. “And all the best things,” he said.

Cadvan blushed with a sudden hot embarrassment. He felt raw all over, utterly exposed, like a newborn baby. Everything hurt. Yet at the same time, he was conscious of a new buoyancy within him, a sense of relief. It was said that scrying could do that, by bringing hidden wounds to the surface of the mind and draining them of poison. But there had been something else, there had been a parasite in his soul, a darkness that did not belong to him, and he knew it was gone. A surge of gratitude washed through him, and impulsively he grasped Dernhil’s hand.

“Let me say this, before my pride or something else stupid forbids it,” he said. “I owe you more than I can say. I…”

“You need not say, Cadvan.”

Cadvan studied Dernhil narrowly, sighed and turned away, staring at the wall opposite. “It was done at great cost,” he said at last.

“You were right,” said Dernhil after a while. He spoke thickly, as if he were having trouble forming his words. “I don’t know what you remember, but there was something there, a – fragment, if you like. It was a bitter will, winding deep into you. It was cruel work to tear it out. I am sure it was something of Kansabur.”

“I remember a little,” said Cadvan.

“It wasn’t mindless, but it wasn’t a mind, either.” Dernhil laid his face on his knees. “Ah, I feel stupid with tiredness. I was able to cast it out of you. I thought for a while I had killed you doing it. And then it attacked me. It almost…”

Suddenly afraid, Cadvan looked a question.

“No, it didn’t … it’s gone. I’m quite sure. I saw it, I can’t even describe what I saw. Before I could do anything it had burst out of the window and fled.”

“How long ago was that?”

“I hardly know. Not long.”

“I fear what it might do,” said Cadvan. “But I think that neither of us is up to a hunt.” He turned Dernhil to face him, examining him with concern. “You’re not well.”

“Just … exhaustion,” whispered Dernhil. “I feel as if all the life in me has drained out, for ever.”

Cadvan sat up straighter and placed his hand on Dernhil’s brow. Dernhil was right; there was no injury, but he had been taxed dangerously beyond his strength. Cadvan considered his own weariness, and put it aside.

“I practised one useful thing in Jouan,” he said, swinging his legs off the bed. “Well, two useful things, if you count cobbling. I am not so bad a healer now.” He told Dernhil to lie down and close his eyes, and then he laid both his hands on Dernhil’s breast, summoning what power remained within him. Miraculously something answered his need, from reserves he didn’t know he possessed; his hands burned silver with magery, illuminating the room brightly before the light ebbed slowly away, a last, soft luminosity clinging to Dernhil’s skin. Cadvan knew that he was already dreamlessly asleep.

Cadvan straightened slowly, like a very old man, and shuffled over to the broken window, pulling the frame closed. The first rays of the sun were edging over the horizon, and the first birds were beginning their morning calls. He was surprised, when he thought about it, that they hadn’t roused the whole inn. Perhaps there had been no sound, no cry that could reach ordinary human ears. Aside from the window, there was little sign of struggle; the candlestick had been knocked off the table, but that was all. He picked it up and placed it back carefully, and then stumbled across the hallway and fell onto his bed, too tired even to take off his cloak.

N
ELAC
had ridden swiftly back to Lirigon, smelling the coming change in the weather. His black mood continued to dog him: the meeting with Cadvan and Dernhil had, if anything, intensified his gloom. Two Bards, who should have been leading lights of their generation, grievously injured by vanity and folly: Cadvan, exiled into shame and guilt; Dernhil, scarred and haunted. And Ceredin dead: Ceredin, who might have been the greatest of them all, wandering lost and afraid in the Shadowplains, denied even the peace of death. All that possibility, all that promise, broken…

After he had stabled Cina, he walked slowly to his Bardhouse. The hour’s ride to Bural and back had left him unusually weary and sore, but he put that down to his state of mind. Though it was true that he was getting old: he could feel mortality silting through him, as if every year left a fine dust that slowly built up in his veins. Two and a half centuries walking on this earth: perhaps he had another fifty years; perhaps, if he were lucky, another century. A generous lifespan, part of the Gift of a Bard, but still it wasn’t enough. Or perhaps it was too much. With knowledge cometh sorrow, as the Chronicles said…

The sunny day was darkening swiftly. He entered his rooms just before the storm broke overhead with a deafening clap of thunder. An unlit fire was laid in the hearth, and all was in gloom. He snapped on the lamps with a gesture, and then, after a little consideration, lit the fire, as the temperature had dropped sharply. He poured himself a glass of spirits from a decanter on the low table and sat down heavily.

Carefully, piece by piece, he sifted through what he knew: Dernhil’s visions of Ceredin and his terrible foredreams, Cadvan’s dream in Jouan, the encounter with the boar… As Cadvan said, they pointed irresistibly to a single conclusion: the Bone Queen, stalking Lirigon in a new, insidious form. Although he had told Cadvan that they couldn’t be sure, that they should consider all possibilities before leaping to conclusions, his inner Knowing had no such caution. Perhaps it was time to put that necessary scepticism aside and to face what had to be faced.

Unconsciously he sighed, and poured himself another glass. Cadvan’s question kept coming back to him:
What shall we do now
? It was a fair question, but Nelac had no answers. How to track a foe that left no trace of its presence, and that had split into pieces? Was Kansabur, as Dernhil speculated, seeking to possess Bards to reunite her broken selves? Surely that was too dangerous, even for her? And yet…

Nelac stood up and paced to the window, peering out through the cascades of rain. The storms of the past two days disturbed him: they smelt odd, somehow. Too quick and too violent for this time of year: usually the autumn rains in Lirigon came in gentle bursts, heavy but brief. The unsettled weather seemed of a piece with everything else, in a way he couldn’t trace… He shook himself. He was in danger of becoming an anxious old man, weaving everything he saw into a pattern of his fears.

He turned around, looking about his sitting room, and it was then that he saw the note propped on the books on his work table. He recognized Selmana’s handwriting, and picked it up with a sudden clutch of foreboding.

Nelac looked up unseeingly at the ceiling, and then read the note again. He swiftly cloaked and booted himself and went out into the rain. He arrived shortly afterwards at the Bardhouse where the Minor Bards lived, and endured a scolding from Seriven, the Bard in charge of them, as he entered the door, dripping rivulets of water onto the floor.

“Nelac! By the Light, what are you doing, venturing out in weather like this at your age?” he said. “Look at you. You’re soaked to the skin!”

“At my age I can do what I like,” Nelac said tersely. “And I assure you that this cloak repels water very efficiently. I’m looking for Selmana.”

Seriven pursed his lips, but something in Nelac’s voice stopped him from further upbraiding. “I haven’t seen her all day, since she went out to her classes this morning,” he said. “I know some of them went for a picnic, and maybe she went with them. With any luck, they didn’t get caught in that storm.”

“Perhaps they took shelter elsewhere,” said Nelac. “She said she’d be back here this afternoon.”

“Well, you know what young people are.”

“Yes.” Nelac paused for a moment, thinking what to do. “If you see her, tell her I am back in Lirigon, and am awaiting her in my rooms. If I’m not there, I’ll leave word where I am. Make sure you tell her.”

Seriven’s eyebrows lifted at the urgency in Nelac’s voice, but he didn’t ask any questions, and simply promised to pass on the message. He watched Nelac’s departure with a frown. He hadn’t before seen Nelac in such a state of agitation, and it disturbed him.

Nelac returned to his rooms, and dried himself by the fire, which was blazing merrily. There was nothing he could do now but wait: there was no point in chasing Selmana around Lirigon. From the moment he had read her note, he had been afraid for her. Most Bards had a mental bond to the people they cared for. Nelac had an inner web of connection to his students, which alerted him if something was desperately wrong. It was a vague intuition, and not always reliable, as he reminded himself. It was this sense, more than the disturbance in the Balance, that had warned him the instant that Cadvan had lost control of the Bone Queen. Now it was as if a small star in his inner constellation had simply gone out. He had no sense of distress or death, just an absence where there should have been a shining thread.

After an hour, the rain eased and slowly stopped. The hem of the clouds over the western horizon lifted, and a yellow storm light flooded through Nelac’s window, illuminating the page he was attempting to read. He realized that he hadn’t absorbed a single word for the past hour and put the book aside. For some time he just sat, watching the shadows darken to evening.

A light knock on his door pulled him out of his reverie. It was Seriven, looking worried. Selmana hadn’t returned to the Bardhouse. Her friends had returned soon after the storm cleared, and said that they hadn’t seen Selmana since the morning lessons, although they had expected her to come to their picnic. Disturbed, Seriven had asked around, and it seemed nobody had seen her.