It didn’t surprise him that Taran had such sharp intuitions – since they had become friends, he had grown to respect his insight – but he was astonished by his dreams.
“Why I’m leaving is to do with that … shadow,” he said at last.
“Rather you than me, then,” said Taran. “I don’t want to know any more, even if you would tell me, which I warrant you won’t.”
“It’s more can’t than won’t,” said Cadvan. “We scarce understand what it is we have to do. I don’t know if I can be of any use, anyway. But I have to go, whether it makes any difference or not.”
Taran finished his drink. “Time for home,” he said. The two men paid and left the tavern. They lingered outside for a while, looking up at the starry sky, as Cadvan searched for words. He wanted to say, without embarrassing him, how important Taran’s friendship had been; how much Taran’s tactful kindness had mattered when he had arrived, utterly without hope, in Jouan; how deeply he had grown to respect him. In the end, he said nothing. He grasped Taran’s hand and they embraced.
“Farewell, my friend,” he said.
“May the Light protect you,” said Taran. It was an odd thing for a miner to say: this was the blessing of Bards. He studied Cadvan with a deep, wordless compassion. “I don’t know what you have to face out there, but I’m with Hal. You’re not allowed to die. Make sure you come back one day.”
“I will,” said Cadvan. “If I can, I will.”
II
IX
S ELMANA sat up abruptly in her bed, sniffing the night uneasily like a startled animal. Something had wrenched her out of sleep: her heart was jumping in her chest, and the hair stood up on the back of her neck. She listened intently in the dark, and at last breathed out, telling herself that she was imagining things. And then she heard it again: a noise on the edge of hearing, a groaning that made her skin tighten with some unidentifiable horror.
She gestured and made a magelight, staring about the bedchamber. Everything looked the same as it always did. She had come home to visit her mother in Kien, as she did every fortnight or so, and this house was as familiar as her own hands: she had grown up here with her two brothers. Now both of her brothers were married and gone to their own houses, Selmana was learning to be a Bard in Lirigon, and her mother, long widowed, lived alone.
She waited for her heart to stop beating so fast, but the crawling sense of horror only seemed to intensify. She sent out her Bard senses in an agony of listening, so her whole body seemed a straining ear. She told herself that the noise must have been the tail end of a bad dream, but she knew she hadn’t imagined it. At last she couldn’t bear sitting there any more; she had to find out what was wrong. Snapping out the magelight, she scrambled silently out of bed, wrapping a soft woollen cloak around her against the night chill, and crept to the kitchen. She could hear her mother breathing in her bedroom, and the rustle of mice in the walls, and the sigh of the summer wind through the trees, and the rafters creaking: nothing more than the normal night noises. Yet the feeling was getting worse by the moment. Something was out there.
She stood uncertainly in the darkened kitchen, letting her eyes adjust. I’m a Bard, she thought. A Bard of Lirigon. She saw the kitchen knife and picked it up. Then she drew a deep, trembling breath, attempting to steady herself, and made a shield. It was one of the simplest transformations in magery, something every Minor Bard learned early, but her powers felt shaky and weak. She tested the barrier, found it wanting and tried again. This time it worked, and she felt a little better: at least now she should have some protection. She silently unlatched the door and, holding her breath lest the hinges creak and betray her, pushed it open and stepped out into the night.
The feeling of wrongness hit her like a blow. High above, a pale
“Why I’m leaving is to do with that … shadow,” he said at last.
“Rather you than me, then,” said Taran. “I don’t want to know any more, even if you would tell me, which I warrant you won’t.”
“It’s more can’t than won’t,” said Cadvan. “We scarce understand what it is we have to do. I don’t know if I can be of any use, anyway. But I have to go, whether it makes any difference or not.”
Taran finished his drink. “Time for home,” he said. The two men paid and left the tavern. They lingered outside for a while, looking up at the starry sky, as Cadvan searched for words. He wanted to say, without embarrassing him, how important Taran’s friendship had been; how much Taran’s tactful kindness had mattered when he had arrived, utterly without hope, in Jouan; how deeply he had grown to respect him. In the end, he said nothing. He grasped Taran’s hand and they embraced.
“Farewell, my friend,” he said.
“May the Light protect you,” said Taran. It was an odd thing for a miner to say: this was the blessing of Bards. He studied Cadvan with a deep, wordless compassion. “I don’t know what you have to face out there, but I’m with Hal. You’re not allowed to die. Make sure you come back one day.”
“I will,” said Cadvan. “If I can, I will.”
II
IX
S ELMANA sat up abruptly in her bed, sniffing the night uneasily like a startled animal. Something had wrenched her out of sleep: her heart was jumping in her chest, and the hair stood up on the back of her neck. She listened intently in the dark, and at last breathed out, telling herself that she was imagining things. And then she heard it again: a noise on the edge of hearing, a groaning that made her skin tighten with some unidentifiable horror.
She gestured and made a magelight, staring about the bedchamber. Everything looked the same as it always did. She had come home to visit her mother in Kien, as she did every fortnight or so, and this house was as familiar as her own hands: she had grown up here with her two brothers. Now both of her brothers were married and gone to their own houses, Selmana was learning to be a Bard in Lirigon, and her mother, long widowed, lived alone.
She waited for her heart to stop beating so fast, but the crawling sense of horror only seemed to intensify. She sent out her Bard senses in an agony of listening, so her whole body seemed a straining ear. She told herself that the noise must have been the tail end of a bad dream, but she knew she hadn’t imagined it. At last she couldn’t bear sitting there any more; she had to find out what was wrong. Snapping out the magelight, she scrambled silently out of bed, wrapping a soft woollen cloak around her against the night chill, and crept to the kitchen. She could hear her mother breathing in her bedroom, and the rustle of mice in the walls, and the sigh of the summer wind through the trees, and the rafters creaking: nothing more than the normal night noises. Yet the feeling was getting worse by the moment. Something was out there.
She stood uncertainly in the darkened kitchen, letting her eyes adjust. I’m a Bard, she thought. A Bard of Lirigon. She saw the kitchen knife and picked it up. Then she drew a deep, trembling breath, attempting to steady herself, and made a shield. It was one of the simplest transformations in magery, something every Minor Bard learned early, but her powers felt shaky and weak. She tested the barrier, found it wanting and tried again. This time it worked, and she felt a little better: at least now she should have some protection. She silently unlatched the door and, holding her breath lest the hinges creak and betray her, pushed it open and stepped out into the night.
The feeling of wrongness hit her like a blow. High above, a pale
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