1: INNAIL

INNAIL. Maerad breathed out the name as if it were a spell. 

She was curled up on a red couch in the music room in Silvia and Malgorn's house, waiting for Cadvan to meet her there before dinner. She had arrived early after a long and luxurious bath, and right now she was very content to be alone. It had been a long time since Maerad had felt this safe and comfortable.

This room was her favourite in the house. Though her bedchamber was her favourite room as well...and she loved the bathroom too, with its deep stone bath and glass bottles of scented oils and endless supply of hot water. Her gaze swept lazily across the pale yellow walls with their black stencilled flowers, the miscellaneous instruments stacked casually against the bookshelves, and returned to the fire in the grate which burned brightly against the cold winter evening. 

It felt like an age since she had last been here, although it had been less than a year since Cadvan had brought her to Innail. Would that shy girl who had arrived last spring, ashamed of her rags and tangled hair, ignorant of Bards and Schools and Magery, recognise the Maerad who sat here now?  Perhaps she would have gazed in wonder at her as at a figure out of legend: Maerad of Edil-Amarandh, the Fire Lily herself, who had spoken with Ardina, Queen of Rachida, Daughter of the Moon; the same who had travelled to the very north of the world and seen cold curtains of light dancing in the sky, and had escaped the clutches of Arkan, the Ice Witch, himself. Maerad the Shape Shifter, who could become a wolf at will. Maerad the Chosen, the Fated, the One, whose destiny was to save Edil-Amarandh from the Dark.

Maerad the Unpredictable, she added, thinking of an old joke of Cadvan's.  But I am really quite predictable. I don't want any of these fine names. I don't want these mysterious powers that frighten good people and make the Dark hunt me down. I just want to stay where I am and to sleep in a bed with clean linen sheets and a warm down coverlet. And I don't want to be cold or hungry or sad ever again. 

Although, for as long as she could remember, Maerad had always been sad.
 
 

She and Cadvan had arrived in Innail earlier that afternoon, just as the high pale blue of the winter sky was darkening towards a frosty, moonless evening. The sight of the white walls in the distance, glimmering under the stars that burned huge and still in the clear sky, made her heart beat painfully in her breast. 

For speed - Maerad had no horse, and Cadvan was mounted on Darsor, his black stallion - and for other reasons, Maerad travelled in her wolf form. Cadvan would not let her change from her wolf shape until they were well inside the School, and as a result he had argued at Innail's gate for some time. Cadvan would not identify himself, and the guard didn't recognise him. Aside from that, the guard was very dubious about letting in a wild animal, especially one as big and powerful-looking as Maerad. She had tried to look as docile as possible, all but rolling on her back in her efforts to show how harmless she was.  Finally, on Cadvan's insistence, Malgorn himself appeared and, after a hurried consultation with Cadvan, sternly informed the wolf in the Speech that she was welcome, but that she was not to chase or eat any of the hens or ducks or other domestic animals. 

If wolves could have giggled, Maerad would have giggled then; she flashed an ironic glance to Cadvan as Malgorn ordered the gates open,  and he winked solemnly as he led her and Darsor inside. 

"By the Light, Cadvan, what are you doing with a wolf?" asked Malgorn, as he hurried them through the outer streets. "Where am I going to put it? I can hardly place it in the stables, the horses would go out of their minds, no matter how tame it is."

"The house will do fine, old friend," said Cadvan. "Surely you have a spare bedroom?"

"For a wolf?" Malgorn boggled briefly and then, clearly deciding that Cadvan was either joking or out of his mind, dropped the subject.   They went to the stables where Cadvan saw Darsor comfortably housed and well fed, and then turned their steps towards Silvia and Malgorn's house. Maerad stuck close to Cadvan, fearing that she might, after all, be housed in the stables: what she wanted above all was a bath and a good supper.  Malgorn watched her warily, but made no comment, even when she entered his front door and followed the Bards into the music room. Maerad thought he seemed reserved, even stiff. He stood in the doorway uncertainly, as if he were trying to think of what to say.

"How about one of your marvellous brews?" asked Cadvan, flinging himself on the couch. "I tell you, Malgorn, I have a well-earned thirst. And I am a mort tired."

"Of course," said Malgorn, almost with relief, and hurried to get glasses and a bottle.

Something is wrong, Maerad said into Cadvan's mind. Is it because he is nervous around wolves?

Malgorn? I think not. Remember, the lore of animals is his Knowing, Cadvan answered. In any case, you can change now. 

Maerad sat on her haunches and grew still, seeking that deep inner place where the names fell away and she was no longer Maerad nor Elednor nor anyone else. She felt herself become clear and empty, the still point of transformation where all possibilities opened. Be Maerad, she told herself. Be Me.

She was now quite practised at this transformation. There was an ease about it that almost astonished her, as if she had been shape shifting since she was a baby. But always before she did it there was a moment of dread, a fear that ran through her veins like cold water. To reach that point of being no one, she had to forget everything she knew about herself, and this was more frightening than she liked to admit. And then when she transformed there was that flash of pure agony, as if, for the briefest moment, she had been thrown into a fire. And then she wasn't a wolf any more.

 "I don't think I'll ever get used to your doing that," said Cadvan mildly. "I have never seen anything so strange."

 Maerad shook her head as if she were shaking her thick winter wolf's mane, and stretched out her arms. There was still something wolfish about her gestures.

"That's so much better," she said, sighing. "But, you know Cadvan, maybe I'm being too much wolf. I might forget my proper shape if I am too much in the other."

Cadvan opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment Malgorn bustled in with a bottle. He stopped in the doorway, his mouth open. 

"Maerad!" he said. "Where did you come from?"

"Greetings, Malgorn," said Maerad. "I'm sorry I couldn't say so before. Cadvan didn't want anyone to know that I was here."

Malgorn plumped down on the couch next to Cadvan, holding the bottle like one in a daze. Cadvan gently removed it from his hands.

"Allow me to pour a drink, my dear friend," he said to Malgorn. "I think we might need another glass."

 Malgorn didn't answer. He was still staring at Maerad.

"Cadvan, what black magery is this?" he said at last. "What have you brought into this house?"

"Malgorn, you know Maerad. Maerad of Edil-Amarandh, if you want her proper name these days. I know it's astounding that she can change her shape, but that doesn't make her a wer nor any creature of the Dark."

"Cadvan, these are black days..."

"Aye, my friend. None know better than I do. But I swear to you, by the Light itself, that Maerad has no truck with the Dark. You should know that yourself."

Malgorn gave Maerad a black stare. Maerad, hurt and offended, met his gaze, and Malgorn flinched and looked down at his shoes.

"My tale since we last met is a strange one," said Maerad. Her voice was cold with anger. "I have faced death and seen the death of some I love. I have spoken with the Elidhu. I have found the Treesong. I have risked so much, suffered so much, as part of our struggle against the Dark. And then you say..."

Her voice broke, and she turned away and looked out of the window. 

There was a heavy silence. Cadvan stood up and took some glasses from a shelf on the far side of the room, poured some laradhel into one of them and handed it to Malgorn. He then poured out another measure and gave it to Maerad.

"Old friend," said Cadvan, filling another glass for himself and sniffing its rich smell. "You must trust me."

Malgorn sat up and sighed. He lifted his glass to Maerad and drank it down in one gulp.

"I am sorry," he said. "Maerad, I am sorry. These are fearful times, and fear does not make us wise."

Maerad turned to face him and tried to smile. "I know," she said. "Bad times. But still we must not lose trust in one another..." She studied Malgorn's face, noting for the first time how tired and strained he looked, and a terrible thought occurred to her. "Malgorn, is Silvia ... is Silvia all right? Is she..."

Silvia, Malgorn's wife, was probably the main reason Maerad had longed for Innail these past harsh months. Her kindness had opened Maerad's eyes to another world, a world very different from the brutish slave settlement in which she had spent her childhood. Maerad couldn't have borne it if something had happened to Silvia.

"Aye, aye, she's well," said Malgorn hastily, seeing the look on Maerad's face. "You musn't worry. She's busy, but I've told her that Cadvan was here, and she will come as soon as she can. She asked after you, Maerad..."

Maerad sighed with relief, and sat down on the couch, cradling her glass.  Suddenly she felt exhausted.  Malgorn and Cadvan began to talk and she listened idly, with no desire to participate in the conversation.

Shortly afterwards, when Silvia still did not appear, Malgorn disappeared to organise beds for the two travellers. To her delight, Maerad was given the same chamber she had slept in last time she had been in Innail. A friendly woman whom she did not know had given her clean clothes. Maerad dumped her pack on the floor and immediately repaired to the bathroom where, with a feeling of inexpressible bliss, she lowered herself into the hot water and washed off all the grime of travel.

As far as possible, she did not look at her left hand. She tried to keep it out of sight as much as possible. The two fingers she had lost to frostbite made it an ugly claw, and she felt ashamed when she looked at it. She was getting used to compensating and could now do most things without too much difficulty, but she tried to keep it out of sight whenever possible.  With a hand so maimed, she could no longer play music whenever she wished; and every time she glimpsed her missing fingers, she remembered her loss anew.

Then she dressed in the clean clothes, sighing for the sheer pleasure of the soft fabrics against her skin, and made her way back to the music room. It was now full night and the lamps were lit, casting a soft glow around the room. For this brief suspended time, she pretended nothing was wrong: that she was just an ordinary Bard, that she had never heard of the Nameless One. Tonight she would eat a delicious dinner, and tomorrow she would resume her studies... 

Her thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of Silvia, who stopped dead in surprise when she saw Maerad and then, when Maread stood up, came forward and embraced her hard, kissing the top of her head.

"Maerad!" she said, standing back and earnestly examining Maerad's face. "What a relief! When I was told only Cadvan had arrived, I feared the worst...but here you are!" 

Maerad smiled for pure happiness. "Here I am!" she said. "And it's so good to be here. Innail is as beautiful as I remembered." 

"Aye. But things have changed since last you were here." Silvia's clear brow briefly darkened, but she shook her head, putting those thoughts aside. "But - wasn't there a wolf? Malgorn said Cadvan had lost his mind and insisted on bringing a wolf into the house."

Maerad laughed. "That was me," she said. "Cadvan didn't want anyone to know that I was here."

Silvia stared at Maerad without speaking for a time, her face expressionless. "You?" she said at last.

"Yes." Maerad gazed back at Silvia with a stab of sadness, feeling again the gulfs that lay between her and those she loved. "I can shapeshift. It's one of the things I have found out about myself." She wondered whether she should tell Silvia about her Elemental self, but couldn't, for the moment, face the thought. Bards distrusted the Elidhu, and Maerad felt she couldn't bear to see the doubt it would raise in Silvia's face. Another time. "It's part of - part of my Gift."

"I can see that there's an interesting story to tell," said Silvia. "We can do that over dinner. Malgorn's arranged it, so it's sure to be good - even in these hard times, we in Innail take pride in our table." She smiled, reaching for Maerad's hand, and went still with shock. Blushing, Maerad pulled back her hand and concealed again it in the folds of her dress, where she had kept it hidden from Silvia's eyes. Very gently, Silvia reached out and took her maimed hand, pressing it between both of her own.

"Oh, Maerad," she said, her voice hoarse with sorrow.  

"It - I lost some fingers in the cold," said Maerad awkwardly. "It's all right. I can do most things."

"But you can't play your lyre with your hand like that!" said Silvia, putting her finger straight on the deepest wound. "My dear. I am so sorry...Oh, this world!" she cried with sudden passion, her eyes brimming with tears. "It is filled with such hurts!" 

Maerad, her face averted, had nothing to say. But Silvia gathered her into her arms and hugged her again, and then said, her voice muffled by Maerad's hair: "And it is full of such joys, and we must not forget those. I thought of you every day, and feared I would not see you again. I am so glad that you are back. Now," and suddenly she became brisk. "I think that the both of us need something to drink. Or at least, I do. I'm pretty sure there's a wine in here somewhere..." 

She went over to a table by the window, where a carafe stood next to some glasses, and poured two drinks. She handed a glass to Maerad, lifted hers in salute, and took a long draught.

"It has been a hard year, Maerad," she said. "And we have had our own losses. But I doubt that my year has been as hard as yours."

"It has been hard," Maerad answered, thinking back. "But I'd rather hear about what has happened here."

Silvia sighed, and looked down at her wine, swirling it thoughtfully in her glass. "We lost Oron," she said, naming the First Bard of Innail. 

Maerad drew in her breath, remembering Oron's stern, iron-grey head, her straight back, her kind authority. "How?"

"A battle near Tinagel. Innail has been much afflicted by bands of marauders down this side of the mountain, men mainly, but also some wers... They mounted a big assasult on Tinagel, attacking the townspeople at night. They weren't entirely unprepared, but it was a hard battle. Oron went to help the defence, with many other Bards. They destroyed the attackers. But  Oron did not return." There was a slight catch in Silvia's voice, and she sighed. "She is sorely missed. Malgorn is First Bard now, which doesn't sit easily on him. He worries overmuch. Not that there isn't much to worry about." She smiled crookedly. "Alas, I am trying to think of good things to tell, but none will come to me." 

Looking at Silvia closely, Maerad saw that her face had lines of care that hadn't been there last spring. She hunted for something to say that might be comforting. "We're still here!" Maerad said at last.

"Yes, despite all. Though we have not reached the worst, I think." Silvia shook her head again, like a dog shaking off rain. "Maerad, almost I have forgotten lightness. Is that the worst thing?" Suddenly she smiled, with a spark of her normal mischief. "Of course, you are right. We are here, and the fire is bright and this room - well, this room is as beautiful as it has ever been. And we are about to eat, I am quite sure, a delicious dinner. That should be enough for any of us."
 
 

Dinner was as tasty as Silvia had promised: roasted wild goat basted with almond oil and butter and stuffed with fresh herbs and nuts, and carrots flavoured with honey and rosemary, and fried cabbage with butter melting into its green and white and purple folds. That was followed by a rich latticed pie made out of the last of the winter apples. Maerad resisted the urge to gobble it all down, and savoured every mouthful. She couldn't remember when she had last eaten such food: it must have been when she was in Norloch. 

By unspoken consent, all the Bards spoke about distant or pleasant things - memories of Cavdan's and Malgorn's youth, or funny stories that Silvia retailed from her childhood in a village nearby, or arguments about the relative merits of favourite songs - until they had finished eating. They returned to the music room holding glasses of an apricot liqueur of Malgorn's concoction like amber jewels in their hands, and settled in the comfortable red couches by the fire.

Malgorn could not conceal his gloom, although he tried his best to be a cheerful host. At first, they did not speak about Maerad's and Cadvan's travels over the past year: Cadvan, hungry for information, wanted to know what had happened in Annar over the past few months. There was, it seemed, no good news anywhere. Armies from Norloch, claiming to be under the orders of the First Bard of Annar, Enkir, were, it was rumoured, roaming the land, pressganging farmers and tradesmen and acting like brigands. 

"Enkir grows in his strength," Malgorn said. "And still many Schools support him, and none dare oppose him openly. Yet. People are more afraid of the Dark than they are of what Enkir is doing. I fear both of them, equally...As ever, the greatest resistance is in the Seven Kingdoms."

"Enkir demands clear and unambiguous fealty from every School," said Silvia. "As if a First Bard has ever demanded such a thing! Only the kings have dared to do such a thing, once, and we know what that led to - war and ruin in Annar. But we all fear that he plans to march on Til Amon, which lies most open to him. They have not, as yet, returned their pledge. As we have not. And others."

"It's hard to keep in touch," added Malgorn, frowning. "Roads are no longer as safe  as they were, and no one dares to trust letters, lest they fall into the wrong hands. And so we sift gossip and rumours, trying to discern what is true and what is not, what is likely and what is impossible..." He fell silent and stared at the table.

"We hear news, all the same," said Silvia. "And Bards have not completely given up travelling. The worst, of course, is the Fall of Turbansk..."

Maerad looked up sharply. Silvia could not know that Maerad's brother, Hem, was in Turbansk, with their friend Saliman. 

"Turbansk has fallen?" Cadvan said, glancing anxiously at Maerad. "What news of that?"

"Little, and bad," said Malgorn heavily. "We hear that the Black Army, led by the sorceror Imank, marched on Baladh, and sacked and burned the city, and then on to Turbansk, where it laid seige and at last fell to the Dark forces. Now there are rumours that Imank marches north, while others say that he is moving westward to Car Amdridh. Many refugees have fled northwards to Til Amon. I heard that Juriken, the First Bard there, is dead. But from this distance, it is impossible to know the truth of the matter: we have birdnews at best, and that is always sketchy."

"But some got away," said Maerad quickly. "Surely some people escaped."

"Always some escape," Silvia answered. She had noticed Maerad's anxiety, and attempted to comfort her. "Saliman is a resourceful Bard, and a powerful one, and no mean warrior. I am sure he would have as good a chance as anyone."

That was cold comfort indeed.  For a time, the only sounds was the sleepy popping of the fire.

"When did you hear this news?" asked Cadvan.

"Only a fortnight hence," said Silvia. "It is a heavy blow. We can look for no help from the south, and can only hope that Amdridh holds against the Black Army."

"Turbansk has never fallen before," said Cadvan. "Not even through all the long years of the Great Silence. It must be a great army."

"I saw it," said Maerad suddenly. The Bards gravely turned to look at her. "I saw the army in a dream. A huge army, stretching further than the eye could see, with monstrous soldiers made of iron... And I saw Turbansk laid waste and all its towers and walls crumbled." She suddenly wanted to weep. "My brother is there."

Now Silvia was astonished. "Your brother?"

"My brother Hem. Well, Cai is his proper name, but he only calls himself Hem. We found him, Cadvan and me, in the middle of the Valverras. The Hulls stole him; I think that's why they sacked Pellinor, because Enkir and the Hulls wanted to find him. They thought he was the One, not me. We took him to Norloch. And then, when Norloch was burning, Saliman took him to Turbansk, to join the School there. And now..." She felt tears gathering like a hot ball in her throat, but she didn't want to cry. "Now, I don't know where he is."

"Silvia is right, Maerad," said Cadvan gently. "If anyone could make sure that Hem is safe, it is Saliman."

"Yes," said Maerad harshly. "But we don't know if Saliman is alive. Do we?"

There was a long silence. Malgorn, looking at Maerad sympathetically, wordlessly filled everyone's glasses. It did seem strange, Maerad thought suddenly, to be speaking of war and death in such a comfortable and beautiful room, drinking out of delicately blown glasses.  Nothing seemed to be quite real.

At last she broke the silence. "I think I would know if Hem was dead," she said. "It's like there's a ...a kind of thread that binds me to him. I don't think I imagine it."

"Sometimes," said Silvia gravely, "it is like that between people. I do not doubt you, Maerad."

Maerad looked up into Silvia's gentle, dark eyes, now filled with a deep sadness and love. She looked away swiftly, because kindness would really make her weep, and she did not wish to weep here, among people who had also suffered deeply. "If Hem is still alive," she said, "then so are other people. Saliman too."

"I hope you are right," said Malgorn.  

"I have to find him." She already felt lightheaded, but drained her glass anyway. "I have to find him very soon."

Malgorn almost smiled. "In all of Annar and the Suderain, you seek your brother?"

"It's a knowing I  have." She stared fiercely at Malgorn. "I know it's important. Beyond wanting him and loving him, of course; of course I want to find him because of that. But it's more important even than that. I don't know why."

Such was the passion and certainty in Maerad's voice, no one in the room disbelieved her. Malgorn nodded gravely. "Well, then, you must seek him," he said, with a special gentleness that she had not heard in his voice before. "But first, I think, you must sleep."
 
 

Maerad woke late to a clear winter day. The pale sun spilt through the casement, and she lay idly, listening, as she had almost a year ago, to the noises of the School: musical instruments tuning up; a dog barking; pigeons cooing outside her window. Her room was warm, and it was no punishment to leave her cosy bed and wash herself and dress. 

She wandered downstairs to see what she could get for breakfast. She met Cadvan in the corridor, on the same errand.

"We're up a bit late," he said. "But there will be something. I'm ravenous!"

"Something" turned out to be meat pastries, warmed up for them by the Bardhouse cook, and fresh ryebread, white cheese and a choice of fruit. They took their bounty to the small dining room where they eaten the night before, and set to with pleasure, talking over their plans for the day. Maerad wanted to wander around in the sunshine and visit her favourite places in Innail, and perhaps to see the swordmaster Indik and others she had met on her last stay here. Cadvan, his brow creased, was already planning further ahead.

"What shall we do, Maerad?" he asked, pushing back in his plate with a contented sigh. "I believe you totally when you say that we have to find Hem. But how do we go about that? He could be anywhere in Edil-Amarandh. And travelling, as Malgorn said last night, has become perilous: Annar is already at war. It would be good to have some idea of where to start, at least."

Maerad studied Cadvan gravely. Cadvan, unlike Silvia and Malgorn, was little changed from when she had first met him, aside from a thin white scar which curled around his cheekbone and around his left eye, the mark of a Hull's whiplash. He had always had a certain grimness about him. Perhaps, thought Maerad, he was a little more careworn; yet she often had the sense that his grimness was a veil, and that underneath it welled a brilliant fountain of joy.

This was the first time he had asked her what they ought to do next. Always it had been Cadvan who made the decisions, who led the way. It made her realise again how she had changed in the past months. And perhaps Cadvan had changed as well. He was prepared to go with her, unquestioningly, on a dangerous quest which which most people would dismiss as mad and futile. 

"I think we have to go south." Maerad frowned, pondering her ignorance of Annar. All she knew was that the Suderain was south of Annar, and that Turbansk was - had been - in the Suderain. And that, if they were lucky - very lucky - Hem would be heading north. If he had survived. "I mean, Hem would likely be coming north - maybe."

"What do you feel, though?" Cadvan stared at her intently. "Maerad, I trust that you are correct, that your Knowing speaks true in you. I remember when we first found Hem, how your Knowing guided you then, against my better judgement." Cadvan unconsciously rubbed the scar on his cheekbone - meeting Hem had led to the battle with the Hulls that had nearly killed him and that had marred his face. "I think perhaps we can use that sense to guide us. But you must be certain: you must not let the Knowing be muddied by your hope."

Maerad paused a while before she answered, searching inside herself for her truest feeling. She knew exactly what Cadvan meant. In Gilman's Cot, when she had been a slave, there had been a saying: "Hope shines in the dying man". The more desperate you were, she thought, the more danger there was of being misled by your hopefulness. 

She missed Hem with every fibre of her being. He was the only family she had left: her mother and father were dead, killed by the Dark. His thin, mischievous face rose up in her mind's eye: she thought with a pang that he probably looked different now. When she had last seen him he had seemed to her, for all his toughness, to be mostly a little boy. But boys his age changed so fast...

She sighed, and tried to focus her thoughts. Or, more precisely, tried not to think at all, so that whatever was in her mind would rise up and speak itself. She waited, with a relaxed attention, for what she knew to reveal itself.

"I think it is south," she said at last. "Some kind of - tug - that way. I don't know anything else." 

"South it is, then," Cadvan said. "As soon as we can. But for now, I would dearly love to rest in Innail. It has been a difficult winter, and I doubt that spring will be any easier."

Maerad felt a huge relief, as if she had passed some test she had not been aware she was taking. Cadvan's implicit trust moved her deeply: she doubted herself so fiercely. A sudden tenderness washed over her, and she almost reached out to brush back the lock of hair that dropped over his forehead as he leaned across the table towards her. 

"I need a new sword," she said. "Arkan took Irigan when he captured me."

"And a horse. Unless you want to run south wolfwise," said Cadvan.

"I think I have been too much a wolf lately." Maerad loved the strength that went with her wolf-self, the sense of freedom, the vivid and exciting sensual world of smell and taste and instinct: but she had begun to be secretly afraid that she might forget how to turn back into herself.  

"Well then. We can mix business with pleasure today, and ask Indik about both mount and sword," said Cadvan, standing up to gather their plates. 

"I wish I had Imi." Maerad thought sadly of the mare who had carried her the length of Annar, and who had been her dear and gentle friend.

"She's with the Pilanel. They are good with beasts, especially good with horses, so you must not worry for her. But it would be some detour to go north over the mountains to get her back."

Maerad knew that was only sense, but still regretted the loss of her horse. For months it had been the four of them, Cadvan and Maerad, Darsor and Imi. It would be strange to have another mount.
 
 

Cadvan still wanted Maerad's presence in Innail to be as little known as possible, and he insisted that she leave the Bardhouse heavily hooded. Maerad didn't argue too much: although it was sunny, outside the air was still and cold. 

Their first stop was Indik, who was both swordmaster and horsemaster of Innail. On her last visit, Maerad had almost hated him: he had taught her the rudiments of swordskills with scant patience.  Even as she had cursed him, she had given Indik her grudging respect: if he was harsh, it was not without reason. Later she had seen another, lighter side of him, and now thought of him fondly.

Indik's house was at the outer rim of the School, and for Maerad it was sheer pleasure to walk through the paved stone streets, greeting the buildings which now seemed so familiar to her, although in truth she had lived here only briefly. The gardens were still wintry, the trees not yet coming into leaf, but Innail was still beautiful. She felt as if she were breathing the beauty in, as if she had been starving for it.

"It's strange," she mused to Cadvan. "In the north, I saw many so things that I will never forget. I saw the Hramask snowlands under the winter sun, and the ice seas of the north with their strange bergs, which are like the strangest castles you ever saw, and their islands of ice and fire. I saw the heavenly dancers in the sky. But this - " She gestured at a house they were now passing, with wide, shallow stone steps leading up to a door carven with leaves. "This is different..."

Cadvan glanced across at her. "There is a beauty that human beings make that answers to our need," he said. "A need for home, maybe."

Home. Maerad rolled the word on her tongue. Yes, coming back to Innail was like coming home. "I don't have a home," she said. "Pellinor was my home, and that was lost to me a long time ago."

"These are still your people," said Cadvan. "Innail is not so far from Pellinor. And it is, Maerad, the place where you first came into your own. It is not surprising that you should love it." He looked around him, his face alight. "One day you must come to Lirigon, my birth home," he said. "There the houses are built of dark stone and have clay red tiles. The marketplace of Lirigon is famous for its pottery. There is good clay near the Lir River."

Maerad did not answer. The mention of Lirigon raised a dark memory. On the road to Lirigon, as she and Cadvan had made their way northwards, a lifetime ago it seemed, Maerad had killed a Bard, Ilar of Desor, who was travelling with a Lirigon Bard, Namaridh. She and Cadvan had become bitterly estranged afterwards, and that had led to disaster. 

"I do not think I can ever go to Lirigon," said Maerad at last. "There is a black crime on my soul."

Cadvan looked at her in surprise. They had not spoken of the murder since they had reunited, such a short time ago; it had been too painful to essay. "There is, Maerad," he said. "You will have to answer to it, if you have not already."

"How could I have answered already?" asked Maerad, with an edge of bitterness. 

Cadvan reached for her gloved left hand, but she flinched away. "You have suffered much since then," he said. "And I think that suffering has made you wiser. It doesn't always do that, you know. Suffering can destroy the soul; it can make people mean where once they were generous, small where once they were great. It can turn people mad. Remember that half-mad woman we saw in Edinur?"

"Her name was Ikabel," she said softly, remembering the woman's broken face.

"That was  done to her. And things at least as bad have been done to you, Maerad. But you have not broken. You entered your suffering, and it has made you better understand the suffering of others."

Maerad listened in silence, her face averted. "I cannot undo it," she said. "And I wish I could."

"No, you cannot undo it. When all this is over, when peace returns to Edil-Amarandh, we will address this question. Only then you can answer to Ilar's people, and hear justice. For the moment it must be put aside. But Maerad," and now Cadvan's voice was urgent. "Remember this. It is only through understanding the darkness in yourself that you can understand the good, for the stars do not distinguish between good and bad as human beings do. There is much light in you. It shines more brightly than it ever did. And by the laws of the Balance, the light in you must be weighed in the scales, as much as your crimes."

They walked on for a while in silence, and Cadvan added: "I do not mean that there will be nothing to answer."

"I know that," said Maerad. Her voice was so low he could barely hear it. "I do not seek to escape what justice is owed me."

"If our labours bear fruit, it will be just," Cadvan answered. "If the Dark succeeds, there will be no justice anywhere."

Maerad nodded again. "I know that too," she said. 

She was thinking of how she had felt when she had killed other beings - those of the Dark, the wer and the kulag, or the Hulls. She had always felt that the act had marked her. She could justify it: they were evil, she had to save her own life. And yet, all the same, it seemed to her that killing the murderous creatures of the Dark had led, subtly but inevitably, to her killing of Ilar. Whether she liked it or not, whether she thought her assailants were evil or not, she was dealing out death, and she couldn't still the voice inside her that said that it was wrong. She reflected, not for the first time, that it wasn't so easy to know whether or not your actions were right. "Sometimes," Cadvan had said to her once, "there is no choice before you, except between bad and worse."
 
 

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