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THEY tracked down Indik in the saddlery, where he was overseeing some young Bards and other apprentices who were polishing the saddles, bridles and other equipment. The room was filled with a quiet hum of industrious activity and a delicious smell of linseed oil and leather. Maerad sniffed appreciatively.

Indik glanced up when they entered and, despite himself, smiled broadly. He was a stern-looking, stocky man, the severity of his face exaggerated by a savage scar that drew the skin around his eyes into a squint. 

"I'll be leaving you lot for a while," he said to his students. "If I find that any of you have been lazy while I'm away, a price will exacted. Don't think that I won't notice. I will. That includes you, Rundal," he said, turning his fierce gaze onto a young man whose undisciplined hair framed his face with a riot of curls. 

Rundal, an imp-faced lad of about fifteen, looked up and nodded seriously. When Indik's back was turned, he winked slyly at his friend next to him. Maerad was quite certain that Indik saw this, but he gave no sign as he came up and greeted them.

"So you're still alive," he said gruffly to Maerad, unable to entirely conceal his pleasure. "Amazing. I think that deserves a wine, don't you?"

Bards, Maerad reflected, as she and Cadvan followed Indik to a nearby tavern called, predictably enough, the Horse's Mane, thought every occasion deserved a drink. Even if there wasn't an occasion, they would invent one. So different from the thugs at Gilman's Cot, where she had been a slave; there they would gulp down the voka, an eye-stinging spirit distilled from turnips, until they vomited or fell unconscious to the ground. Maerad had very seldom seen a drunken Bard, and had never seen Bards drinking themselves into stupor. For them, drinking was all about pleasure: winemaking was considered one of the higher arts, and skilled winemakers were greatly revered.

Once they had their wines, and were seated at a low table by a fire looking out through a mullioned window on a day that was rapidly clouding over, Indik began to talk about the recent events in Annar. Unlike Silvia or Malgorn, he seemed enlivened; a cold light burned in his eyes as he spoke of the battles that had taken place. 

"I've felt it coming," he said. "Like you Cadvan, I knew something was happening these past years, a gathering. And now the storm breaks, no?"

"Only its outriders, I fear," Cadvan answered. "The storm itself is yet to hit."

"Yes, well. I heard about Turbansk." Indik was briefly gloomy, staring ahead, pulling at his lower lip. "That is bad, certainly. Very bad. And all this rubbish from Enkir. That's bad too. If Norloch has gone to the Dark without a sword being raised, we are in desperate times indeed."

Maerad glanced swiftly at the shrewd old warrior. No one else, even in Innail, had spoken of Norloch as being in alliance with the Dark; it was thought that Enkir was acting on his own black counsel. 

"Enkir is with the Dark," she said. "I have no doubt of it. Though many others do, obviously. I suppose no one wants to believe that of the First Bard of Annar." She tried to keep the scorn from her voice, but it was difficult; she felt a particular hatred for Enkir.

"Difficult to get people to believe you, huh." Indik snorted. "It's obvious enough to me. I never trusted that dried up old fish. People like Enkir need power to cover up their weakness: they are afraid of who they will see if they are left without its trappings. Some puny unmuscled thing, I imagine, all covered in sores. Those people have worms for souls. Hulls in almost every respect..."

The contempt was thick in his voice, and he nearly spat, and Cadvan smiled grimly. "How right you are, old friend," he said.  "And how do you read things here?"

"The attacks on us are all from the mountains, mainly at the east end of Innail Fesse. Westwards so far is basically untouched. But they are directed with a chill intelligence, and we have suffered some bad losses. You heard, of course, about Oron.... The only walled towns in Innail are Innail School and Tinagel; most people live in villages. Many villagers are now behind walls in Tinagel or Innail. Some stay and fight. One thing, those who say the valley-dwellers are soft have it sadly wrong... Most attacks have been murderous raids on the villages, aside from the big assault on Tinagel itself. We fought them back that time. But there is a will, Cadvan, a will; something leads these wers."

"No Hulls?" said Cadvan.

"No. Wers, hundreds of them. Foul, evil creatures. And men, too, fighting for spoils. Mountain dwellers. Rough warriors, decent weaponry, cunningly led...they kill any male, of any age, and the women and girls..." He screwed up his face. "You don't want to lose those battles."

"The Landrost, I guess," said Maerad. 

"Innail is still far from the Landrost's home, on the other side of the mountains," Cadvan said musingly. "All the same, it seems likely to me. He is most certainly in the thrall of the Nameless One, and does his bidding here."

"So we guess," said Indik. "There is a strange sorcery in some of these attacks that is not one we know of from the Dark. And weathercraft. Unless it is just chance that attacks only happen in thunderstorms." He pulled at his lip again, his scarred face dark with thought. "I guess you are not staying, Cadvan. We could do with one of your abilities here."

"Maerad and I have other tasks," said Cadvan. "Much as we would stay to help defend this place we love."

"Yes." Indik looked between the two. "I won't ask," he said. "I will find out, I expect, and I have enough to worry over. Still, I am sorry you can't fight here. If it is the Landrost we face - and that is our best guess - then we have a formidable foe. We won't get any help from Annar, that's for sure. But Innail has always stood on her own." He grinned, his scarred face becoming a savage mask, and Maerad thought what a terrifying warrior Indik would be: there was something in him that loved battle for its very peril, a kind of finely judged recklessness, an utter ruthlessness. He would have no qualms about killing Hulls...

"I've a favour to ask," said Cadvan. "We will have to leave Innail soon, and Maerad needs a horse and a sword. Do you have any that would suit?"

Indik looked sternly at Maerad. "It goes hard to lose a horse," he said. "Imi was a good mount."

"She didn't die," said Maerad, with a shade of indignation. "She's with the Pilanel in Murask, and we can't get her back right now."

Indik's eyebrows rose. "You have wandered far in your travels," he said. "And the sword?"

"Arkan took Irigan when he captured me. I don't know what happened to it." Maerad thought of her sword regretfully; it had been one of her few possessions, and it was precious to her.

"Arkan? The Winterking?" Indik glanced over to Cadvan for confirmation, plainly flabbergasted, although he covered it quickly. "Well then. To lose arms when you are captured is only to be expected."

"Don't be such a dry old stick, Indik," said Maerad teasingly. "I wouldn't just leave my sword in an inn, would I? But I do need a new one. I can't be a wolf all the time."

"Now you are talking in riddles," said Indik, rubbing his chin and directing a piercing look at Maerad. She suddenly realised that she had been gesturing with her left hand, and that he must have noticed her missing fingers. He had said nothing: Indik was no stranger, after all, to wounds and scars. It was, Maerad realised, the first time she hadn't felt ashamed of it. 

"I am chiefly wondering," said Indik, "what happened to that shy, charming Bard I met last spring. What did you do with her, Cadvan? Who is this bold young warrior?"

"I'm not sure. I ask myself the same question," said Cadvan, smiling.

"I'm the same person," Maerad said, lifting her chin. "Maerad of Pellinor, at your service." 

"You're still too thin," said Indik. "But I somehow think that you don't drop your sword any more."
 
 

With Darsor's freely given advice thrown in, Maerad chose a new horse shortly afterwards. Indik had three of the same hardy cross-breed as Imi, two mares and a stallion: as far as Darsor was concerned, the fine-looking bay stallion was out of the question (although Maerad rather regretfully turned her eyes from him). There were also a black mare and a strawberry roan with a broad blaze down her nose. Maerad examined both of them carefully, under Indik's deceptively casual gaze, and chose the roan. She knew she had chosen well by Indik's barely perceptible nod of approval.

"That's Keru," said Indik, patting the mare's neck. "She'll carry you far. A little flightier than Imi, but just as tough."

The mare reached her nose forward and sniffed Maerad's hand.

Will you carry me? asked Maerad in the Speech.

You smell good, said Keru. And you're very small. You're a friend of Darsor's?

Yes, said Maerad. But we will be travelling hard and far and fast.

Good. I'm bored here. I will bear you. The mare turned away to snatch some straw from a manger, and Maerad missed Imi all over again. She saw at once that Keru was a good, strong horse, and she had been polite, but the companionship Maerad had with Imi would be hard to replace. 

Well, she thought to herself. I guess we can't be friends all at once. 

Indik gave her a sword that he had forged himself. "It was supposed to be for a young woman in Tinagel," he said. "She will have to wait a few days longer; she has not your urgency. It is well made: I laid charms in every tempering. Make sure you are less careless with this one." He drew it from its light leather scabbard and handed the hilt to Maerad; she tested the balance, feeling it light and apt to her hand.

"Thank you, Indik. I'll take good care of it, I promise."

"What will you name it?" asked Cadvan.

Maerad examined the sword. It was beautiful, with a straight, short blade of blue steel and a silver hilt shaped like a leaf and cunningly enamelled with green. "Eled, I think," she said after a while. "Lily. It is a lily, like me."

"Eled is a good name. It was meant for you, I think, although I did not know that when I made it." Maerad looked up and met Indik's eyes, and saw there the well-guarded gentleness that burned like a quiet flame inside him. "May you bear it to good fortune." 

Maerad felt the blessing in his words. Indik said things sometimes that resonated through her being; if he wasn't a Truthteller like Cadvan, he was very nearly one. She realised afresh how much she liked this ugly, harsh, honest man. 

"I hope so," she said fervently. "For all our sakes."
 
 

After they left Indik, Cadvan went off on some business of his own and Maerad made her way to the centre of the School, bending her steps to the Library. She wanted to visit Dernhil's rooms. Dernhil of Gent was a Bard - a great poet, Cadvan had said - who had taught her how to read and write, opening up the world of books to her astonished pleasure and delight. She was still very slow at both - she had not had much time to practise it in the past year - and the hunger to learn more ached inside her; but Dernhil's promise that he would teach her all the lore of Annar and the Seven Kingdoms would never now be kept. He had died last spring, when Hulls had secretly entered Innail in search of Maerad. The small illuminated book of poems Dernhil had given her was one of her most treasured possessions; she kept it in her pack, wrapped in oilskin. 

She remembered the way through the maze of corridors without difficulty, nodding abstractedly to the Bards she passed, and halted outside the familiar door, suddenly feeling a little foolish. What if someone was in there? She hadn't asked anyone's permission to come, and it wasn't as if it was Dernhil's room any longer. She knocked hesitantly and, when no one answered, slowly pushed open the door.

She had expected to find the room changed, filled perhaps with the belongings of another Bard. And it was different, but not for that reason. What had once been a cheerful room, full of clutter and work and warm light, was now empty and forlorn and cold. The air smelt musty and stale, as if it had not been opened for a long time. Dernhil's furniture - a huge wooden desk and two chairs covered in azure silk - was still there, but the books that had filled the shelves on the walls were gone, leaving behind a litter of dusty oddments. A chill winter sun shone through the casement, casting a silver light over the dusty desk and chairs. Clearly no one used the room now.

Maerad entered the chamber and shut the door behind her, filled with a sudden and overwhelming sense of bereavement. It was as if she hadn't really believed Dernhil was dead until this moment. Some secret part of her had still thought that really he was waiting here, at work in his room, that she would knock on the door and he would glance up to greet her with that quick, ironic smile and clear a space for her on the chair beside his. 

He died in this room, Maerad thought. That's probably why no one took it over. She wandered around the room, looking at the shelves; on one was a pen she remembered Dernhil using, left because it was broken. She picked it up and closed her fist around it; she would keep it with Dernhil's book, as a memento. Then she walked over to the desk and sat down.  The desk that she remembered as scarcely visible under a clutter of books, writing materials, parchments and scrolls was completely bare, covered in a thin layer of dust. Into her mind, unbidden, came the chant Cadvan had sung for Dernhil, after they had heard the news of his death:
 
 

Where has he gone? His chamber is empty

And bright are the tears in the high halls of Oron

Where once he stepped lightly, singing deep secrets

Out of the heartvault and into the open...
 
 

I didn't know him long enough, Maerad thought, to feel this sad.  But even as she thought this, she knew it to be nonsense, a denial of a deeper knowing. I know he loved you, Cadvan had told her, long ago it seemed now, in another life. He was one of those who can see clearly into another's soul, and his feelings were true. Such things have little to do with brevity of meeting.  All too brief, all the same: when we parted, there was promise of so many things, of deep friendship, of learning; and now all that promise is frozen in the past, like those strange animals I saw deep in the glacier... Is that what I am really mourning? All the conversations we never had, the books you will never read to me, the lovers we will never be. If you kissed me now, would I hit you? 

In her mind's eye, Maerad could see Dernhil as vividly as if he stood before her. He was tall and slender, his brown hair falling carelessly over his forehead, his expression intelligent, mobile, amused. He was, she realised, very handsome. She hadn't really noticed that when they had met. No, she thought. I would not hit him now.

What would you say to me if we met now? Would you say, like Indik, where is the shy, charming girl I met last spring? Would you still want to kiss me? I have changed so much. But I am still Maerad...

 "I wanted to tell you..." she said, and jumped, because she had spoken aloud. But who would hear her? 

"I wanted to tell you...so many things. And you're dead now. You've gone through the Gates and I will never speak to you again. I wanted to thank you for protecting me from the Hulls. I wanted to tell you that I have learned something of the Way of the Heart. I understand a little better now, I think. What I understand is that I love you. But you're dead, and it's too late." Her voice broke, and  she dug her nails into her palm to stop herself from crying. It was important that she say at last what she wanted to say, even if there was no one there to hear it. 

"I wanted to tell you that your poem saved me when I was captured by the Winterking and held in his palace. I read your poem, and it reminded me of everyone I love. Including you. It reminded me of why we are fighting so hard and with such sorrow. It reminded me how much beauty there is..." Maerad stared down at her hands lying on the desk, one whole, the other maimed, and bit her lip. "...how much beauty there is in the world, and why it matters. It reminded me that even if we die, it doesn't mean that everything we do is useless. That even though you are dead, you are still speaking to me. I hear your voice every time I read your poems."

She paused, taking in a long breath. "But it made me feel sadder than ever, Dernhil. Reading your poems is not the same as talking to you. My cousin Dharin will never come back. I'll never see my mother or my father again, no matter how much I want to. Maybe all of us will die in this battle. And I know I'm just talking to empty space, I know you are not here.  I think that perhaps, somewhere, in some other place where time is different, you might hear what I say and smile, and that comforts me a little. I know that's a stupid thought, but I think it all the same. Maybe it's not so stupid. I don't know... I just wish, with all my heart, that you were here and that I could talk to you and tell you these things."

Maerad fell silent and sat for a long time at the desk, with her head in her hands.  Finally she stood up and went to the door, turning for a last look at Dernhil's empty room. "Farewell, my friend," she whispered, and closed the door behind her.
 
 

When she returned to her room, Maerad emptied her pack and laid out all her possessions on her bed. As a slave, she hadn't owned anything beyond the clothes she wore and her lyre, and she still felt a faint disbelief at her comparative riches, even if they could all be put into a bag. The objects laid out on her bed were like a tangible diary of her life.

Most precious of all was her lyre, lying snugly inside the leather case with Cadvan had given her. She put Dernhil's book next to it, and then her new sword, Eled.  There were oddments like her kit for the horses, and a water bottle, and a flask of medhyl, the herbed drink that Bards used to ward off weariness when travelling. There were her spare clothes, now newly washed and folded. Some of her possessions were gifts that she wore: the white stone that hung from a slender chain around her neck, a present from Silvia, and the exquisite golden ring that the Elidhu Queen Ardina had given her, that she wore on her right hand. Also from Ardina was a rustic reed flute. A small fish carved of ivory was a gift from the Wise Kindred, whom she had visited far in the North, and she put next to that the blackstone she had taken from a Hull in Thorold. The blackstone was a strange object made of albarac, a mineral valued among Bards because it could deflect or absorb magery. She stroked the stone's surface with her fingertip: it was more like the absence of something than an object, neither cold nor warm, rough nor smooth. It was attached to a silver chain, but she felt there was something uncanny about it, and she never wore it. 

There were things that were missing, because she had given them away: a little wooden cat that she had given to Mirka, the old woman who had cared for her in the mountains when she had nearly died; and the silver brooch with the arum lilies, the sign of the School of Pellinor, that she had given to Nim, a young man who had been one of her Jussack captors, and who had been kind to her. That had been a princely gift: the brooch had been given her by Oron herself. But, somehow, Maerad was sure that Oron would have understood: Innail was a School that set great, unspoken store on kindness. 

She studied her possessions for a while, and then, one by one, put them back in her pack, wondering if she would ever have a room of her own in which to keep them. Innail was the first place, in almost a year of travelling, to which she had returned. Cadvan and she would be off any day now, and perhaps she would never see it again. She felt as if she had been travelling forever. Perhaps, when all this was finished, if she survived it, she could begin to make a home...

She pushed that thought away. If she followed it, she would end up wallowing in self-pity. Tonight, she knew, Malgorn and Silvia had invited some other Bards for a meal, and she should have a bath first. Maerad's policy was to have a bath whenever it was possible; sometimes in Innail she bathed twice a day, to make up for the months of scrappy washes in cold streams when she was travelling. Sighing, she stood and made her way to the bathroom.

That evening, it was a merry night in the Bardhouse. No one spoke of the troubles in Innail, putting them aside for the moment. Maerad noticed that after the meal the Bards, perhaps warned by Silvia that Maerad could no longer play her lyre, had not taken out their instruments after the meal, as was their custom. 

"I can play my lyre," she said firmly. "If you don't mind me glowing."

Indik glanced at her with something like approval, as she drew her own lyre out of its case. She paused to gather her power, and as her magery began softly to illuminate the room, she looked down and saw her hand was whole, a hand of light. Silvia smiled with joyous surprise, and took down her own lyre from the wall, and the other Bards disappeared briefly to get their own instruments. They began with an instrumental piece in a minor key, beautiful and melancholy, and then Cadvan and Maerad sang the duet of Andomian and Beruldh, which they had sung when they had first met. The other Bards listened in absorbed silence and burst into applause when they both finished.

The Bards made music together long into the night, and Maerad felt something in her fill up, as if she had been starving. Music, she thought, is like meat and drink for the soul, a necessity. For these few enchanted hours, she felt entirely happy. 

Music, Cadvan had once said to her, is my home.
 
 

Waking late the next day, she felt stronger than she had in a long time. Her life might be hard and full of sadnesses, but she counted herself lucky; it had also granted her moments that she would not have missed for the world. She lounged lazily in her bed, feeling no hurry to rise; life would be tough again soon enough, so why not enjoy a comfortable bed while she could?

Eventually, after her ritual bath, she made her way downstairs to find breakfast. She grabbed a pastry from the kitchen and ate in the corner, where she was out of the way. Silvia would have normally been in the kitchen at that time, but she was out again; she was kept busy looking after the flood of people who were seeking refuge in Innail from the attacks in the valley. Then, at a loose end, Maerad began to look for Cadvan.  Although nothing had been said between them, she knew that they would be leaving soon: perhaps the next day.  Against her desire to stay in Innail was an even stronger sense of urgency; somehow she knew that time was running short. 

Although he had said little, Indik had clearly thought Maerad was crazy when she had said the previous night that she was now looking for Hem, who could be anywhere in Edil-Amarandh, if he was alive at all. And Maerad couldn't pretend that she didn't have her own doubts. On the other hand, she had journeyed across the frozen wastes of the north in her quest for the Treesong, with little more than hints to guide her; she felt more confident now of her own intuitions. Cadvan's trust in her Knowing was comforting. 

It was raining, with a hint of sleet: winter was back with a vengeance. Maerad wrapped her cloak tightly around her and hurried head-down through the rain-lashed streets to the stables, where she guessed Cadvan was most likely to be. She guessed aright: he was sitting on a feedbin, deep in conversation with Darsor. He looked up as Maerad entered and smiled.

"Darsor was just letting me know that he rather likes the idea of a warm stable on a day like this," he said. "Good weather, all the same, for those who wish to travel unnoticed."

"It was raining last time we left." Maerad sat down next to Cadvan, and let Darsor nuzzle her neck in greeting before he attended to a mash of oats Cadvan had made for him. The great black horse looked none the worse for his recent travels, his muscles sliding easily underneath his winter coat. 

"Yes, I remember." Cadvan looked at Maerad sidelong. "But not much else is the same, I think. Not least you, Maerad. Being here reminds me of the waif you were then. You barely dared to open your mouth."

"It was terrifying. I thought they'd throw me out when they found out I wasn't a proper Bard." 

"You're not a proper Bard." 

"No, I suppose not." Maerad picked up some straw and twirled it around her finger meditatively. "I can't help wishing I was, though. I can think of nothing better than staying here, learning the Three Arts properly, reading all the lore of Annar, just being ordinary..." She couldn't keep the raw longing out of her voice, and Cadvan was silent for a time.

"I wish all that for you, Maerad," he said at last. "You don't know how much. And I begin to think, too, that I am tired of my restless life. I wonder how many steps I've walked since my youth... I suppose I never felt that I had the right to stop anywhere for long." 

Cadvan had never said anything like that before, and Maerad glanced at him, surprised. He was staring at the floor, his face reflective and a little sad. In the dim light of the stables he seemed younger. 

"You probably earned the right years ago," she said. 

"It's never a question of what others think," Cadvan answered, with an edge of harshness in his voice. "The hard thing is always to forgive oneself."  

"Then you're simply being selfish." 

"Do you think so?" A smile quirked the edge of Cadvan's mouth. "A little self indulgent, perhaps?"

"I think so. Definitely. If others forgive you, what right have you not to forgive yourself? It's just vanity."

Cadvan almost looked offended, but then he started to laugh. "Ah, Maerad," he said. "I think I will keep you as my conscience. I fear that you're painfully right."

"I've had quite a bit of time to get to know you," she said, smiling. "They're not wrong, those who accuse you of pride."

"Or arrogance. No, they're not wrong. Maybe only you know how hard I work to keep these things at bay."

"But you wouldn't be you without them, all the same."

"It's a question of the Balance. As always. I wish it were not the case that our faults are so often the other side of our virtues." He stood up and stretched. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'm hungry."

"I just broke my fast," said Maerad. "But I only had a pastry. I wouldn't mind eating again."

"We could go to that tavern. The food looks like good Innail fare."

Over lunch, they discussed their immediate plans. Cadvan thought they should leave Innail the following day, heading south. "I think our best bet would be to make for Til Amon," he said. "If Hem and - I hope - Saliman have fled Turbansk, they would, I imagine, have gone there. And - I suppose - we'll just follow your nose."

"I hope it's working properly," Maerad said dryly. "Obviously Indik thinks we've taken leave of our senses."

"Maybe we have," said Cadvan, grinning. "Perhaps not. The Way of the Heart is not, after all, so mad; and it's something the Dark does not understand. I think we follow that way now. Although I do not know where it will lead us."

"No." Maerad turned her face away, and Cadvan, sensing her discomfort, began to talk of practical things: the food they would take, whether it would be safe to stay in inns in the valley, how dangerous the road might be.
 
 

Early the next morning, they farewelled their friends and trotted out of the main gate of Innail. The rain had stopped, leaving in its wake a biting wind straight off the mountainside; Maerad had dressed in several layers of clothes to ward off the cold, and still felt the chill. Their leavetaking had been quick and sombre: Maerad had embraced her friends, feeling as if she were about to jump into an abyss. Suddenly all sense of urgency had vanished: she just wanted to stay where it was safe and warm, amid the beauty of Innail. But she knew better, and bit down the tears that threatened at the back of her throat, and turned her face determinedly to the road.

They set off at a brisk walk. It was still dark, and the road glimmered faintly beneath them. Keru, Maerad's mare, was clearly wishing that she was back in a warm stable, although she said nothing; she carried Maerad as she promised she would, but there was no willingness in her step. Maerad thought of Imi, and hoped that she was happy in Murask. No doubt she was safer than she would be with Maerad, but Maerad missed her all the same. 

After a while the sky lightened to a faint grey, but the day brought no relief; the wind lifted and it began to rain. They quickened their pace: they planned to stay that night at an inn in Barcombe, a hard day's ride from Innail, and both were anxious to get there as swiftly as they could. The countryside was bare and wintry, and gave them little incentive to dawdle. Maerad's hands were freezing, even though she was wearing thick silk gloves, and the skin on her face began to turn numb. The further they rode, the colder it became: soon it began to be unbearable. She hunched miserably on Keru in a futile attempt to save a little fugitive warmth in her body.

Cadvan pulled Darson up, and Keru automatically drew to a halt beside him. "I like not this cold," he said. "The wind has an unnatural taste."

Her wits slowed by the cold, Maerad stared at him, missing his meaning. 

"Weatherworking, I think," said Cadvan. He was scanning the sky anxiously. "And powerful weatherworking, too. It has to be the Landrost. Maerad, I am thinking it is a bad time to be out in the open."

Maerad turned Keru around, looked up at the sky and swore viciously. They had been riding uphill, and the valley slanted down in front of her towards Innail. The School itself was hidden in the murk, but Maerad could see black clouds building to the east of them in the distance beyond Innail. Even from this far it was clear that they were veined with strange lightnings. There was a faint tang in the air, like the smell of burnt metal, that left a sour taste in her mouth, and an oppression in her mind. She wondered why she hadn't noticed it before. 

She and Cadvan had discussed the risk of being caught on the road during one of the Landrost's attacks: they knew it was possible.  All previous attacks had been at night, and near Tinagel: they had judged they ought to be reasonably safe if they left early and travelled fast. Being caught alone in the open with the Landrost's wers was the worst possible chance: they would have very little chance of survival. 

 "We can't stay here," she said. "Stormont is not so far - perhaps we could ride there..."

"I'm thinking that Stormont will be no shelter against an attack like this," Cadvan answered. "But that storm looks as if it is heading for Innail, Maerad. Indik said that he was expecting an attack on the School very soon. And the Landrost knows that if he can destroy Innail, the rest of the vale is his."

For a moment they stared at each other, the same thought in both of their minds. Then they pushed the horses on so sharply that Keru stumbled, and began to ride for their lives back to Innail. The road was straight before them, and Darsor stretched flat into a full gallop. Keru began to fall behind.

Faster, Keru, Maerad cried to her mare. 

I'm - trying, Keru said. I cannot run as fast as Darsor -

If we do not reach Innail very soon, we will die. Do you understand?

Keru didn't answer: she plunged forward, her ears flat against her skull.  Now they were bolting down the road; Darsor was still ahead of them, but the gap between them was not growing. Perhaps Cadvan, seeing that Maerad had fallen behind, had slowed Darsor down. Maerad leaned forward in the saddle, the wind of their speed lashing her hair into her mouth, all thought of the cold forgotten. How long had they been riding since they left Innail? An hour? Two hours? For much of that time they had been walking, because of the dark; they couldn't have come too far. And how hardy was Keru? She didn't know how far her mare could be pushed. She urged her on, checking the sky when she could: visibility was poor, as the rain was getting heavier and turning to hail, and she could no longer see the clouds in the east. Perhaps they would be too late: perhaps they would find themselves outside the walls of Innail when the Landrost's forces attacked, caught between the hammer and the nail. 

She concentrated on keeping Darsor and Cadvan in sight and staying on the road: the sleet drove into her eyes, but she strained to see ahead, knowing she had to guide Keru, who was running blind. Huge rolls of thunder boomed in the distance, and she could feel the mare panicking beneath her. 

It's all right, my beauty, she said to the mare. Just keep on. We're getting there...

I hope, Maerad added silently to herself. I hope we're getting there. It felt as if it was taking too long. Her maimed left hand had been aching with the cold all morning, but now it was really hurting her.  She began to worry that they had taken a wrong turning; but they had passed no forks in the road - there was no wrong turning here... There were evil voices in the wind, she was sure: screams and howls that came from throats. It was rising all the time, with powerful gusts that sometimes threatened to push them off the road, and the mingled sleet and hail  and rain stung her face. She could feel Keru tiring beneath her. 

At last Maerad saw a light burning through the veils of rain. She would have cried out with relief if she were not so breathless: Innail was in sight. Keru saw it too, and put on an extra burst of speed, catching up at last with Darsor. They were going so fast they almost slammed into the heavy oaken gates. 

The gates were shut fast, and Maerad's Bard sense told her that they were held with powerful magery as well as iron bars; the wards almost made her head buzz. Of course they were shut: after her initial shock, Maerad realised that they would hardly be open if Innail were under imminent attack.

Cadvan stood up in his stirrups and thrust his arms high in the air, making a blinding light around him, and shouted in a great voice. 

"Lirean! Lirean noch Dhillarearean!"

Maerad thought there was little chance that anyone could hear him above the storm; and even if they did, would they open the gates? She began to shout with Cadvan, fighting the panic that assailed her at the thought that they might be trapped outside the walls.

She had almost given up hope when the gate suddenly swung inward. Behind it a cloaked figure was waving them in; whoever it was was shouting too, but their words were torn away by the wind. Darsor and Keru didn't have to be told to go inside: as soon as the gap was wide enough, they pushed through. The gate slammed shut behind them, and it seemed like half a dozen people were heaving the heavy iron bars back into place. It suddenly seemed very quiet. 

Maerad swung off Keru, who stood with head down, her chest heaving, wet and trembling all over. 

Well done, Keru, she whispered in the mare's ears, patting her neck. I thank you.  Then she turned to thank the person who had let them in, and saw it was Silvia. 

"Thank the Light," said Silvia, clutching Maerad to her breast and then embracing Cadvan. "I told them it was you. I knew an hour after you left that it had been a mistake..."

Maerad hugged her tightly, and then stood back, because she was as wet as if she had jumped into a pond. "I'd better put Keru in the stables," she said. 

"And I must see to Darsor too," said Cadvan. "Silvia, we'll take care of the horses and get changed. And maybe then we can work out how we can be of best use to you."

 "Malgorn is in the Watch House. Meet us there, as soon as you can. I have to hurry - there are too many things to do..." Silvia drew herself up and Maerad saw with a small shock that underneath her cloak she was wearing mail. She had never thought of Silvia as a warrior. "This is the attack that we all feared was coming. I can't pretend that we don't need all the help we can get. I'm grateful you're here, Cadvan."

Cadvan clasped Silvia's shoulder, and she nodded at both of them and left. They both stood for a moment, listening to the howls of the wind. 

"Well," Cadvan said, picking up Darsor's reins. "Once more into the storm, Darsor; but at least this time there's hay at the end of it." He turned to Maerad.  "Better here than outside," he said. "But still, I have a feeling it's going to be a long day." 
 
 

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