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FOR MY COVEN SISTERS, KATE ELLIOTT AND COURTNEY SCHAFER, WHO GOT ME THROUGH
A NOTE ON THE TEXT
IT is once again my pleasure to present to a wider general audience a classic of Annaren literature. As is the case with the Naraudh Lar-Chanë (The Riddle of the Treesong, originally published in my translation as the Pellinor quartet), The Bone Queen is mostly unknown outside the field of Edil-Amarandh studies, but I feel it has the capacity to delight far beyond the academic readership it now holds.
The trove of manuscripts, books and other cultural artefacts discovered in 1991, when an earthquake in the Atlas Mountains of Morocco opened up a hitherto unknown cave system, is one of the most significant archaeological finds of the twentieth century. This treasury of documents, which are in a remarkable state of preservation, has since (somewhat erroneously) become popularly known as the Annaren Scripts. They reveal the existence of a pre-modern civilization of unprecedented complexity and sophistication, occupying a continent that stretched from the polar ice fields to near the equator. To its various peoples, the continent was known as Edil-Amarandh.
It’s now widely accepted that the Annaren Scripts comprise the collection that was held at the Library of Turbansk, which must have been conveyed there for preservation shortly before the catastrophe which finally destroyed this remarkable culture.
The Naraudh Lar-Chanë was one of the first of the Annaren Scripts to be translated in full. The story of Cadvan of Lirigon and Maerad of Pellinor’s epic quest to find the Treesong in order to save their world from conquest by the Nameless One was clearly as appealing to its contemporary audience as it remains to the modern reader: since I began my own translation, laboured over between 1999 and 2008, no less than fourteen other copies have been discovered, written in Annaren, Suderain and the Speech.
As an introduction to the diverse peoples and landscapes of Edil-Amarandh, which stretched far beyond the central realm of Annar to include the highly individual cultures of the Seven Kingdoms, the nomadic collectives of the Pilanel in the north and the ancient Suderain civilization in the south, the Naraudh Lar-Chanë remains unparalleled. In contrast, The Bone Queen takes place entirely in Northern Annar, in the area bounded by the Schools of Lirigon and Pellinor, and the Osidh Elanor (the Mountains of the Dawn). The story concerns itself with an incident some fifty years before those recorded in the other four Books of Pellinor (but briefly referred to in The Gift), when Cadvan of Lirigon was a young man.
The Bone Queen was written in Annaren, but its original title, Illarenen na Noroch (The Fading of the Light), is in the Speech. It is a signature of Bardic-authored texts that, even if they are written in another language, they are titled in the Speech; but as with the Naraudh Lar-Chanë, no author is credited. This opens a rich field of speculation. Arguments have been made for Cadvan himself, Dernhil of Gent, Selmana of Lirigon or Nelac of Lirigon. My own research inclines me to the notion that it was written by Selmana, who later in life became a prominent Maker and is the confirmed author of several books (including an Annaren translation of Poryphia’s Aximidiaë, as foreshadowed in this text). But in truth, unless further evidence comes to light, none of us can be sure.
The text, aside from its virtues as an adventure, gives us some new insights into the Bards’ beliefs, in particular their theories on magery and sorcery and the eleven dimensions which they believed structured the universe. And, which is perhaps of more interest to readers of my original translation of the Naraudh Lar-Chanë, it is also an intimate portrait of the early years of Cadvan of Lirigon, who figures prominently in the larger events of the other Books of Pellinor.
I would like to sketch a few general notes for readers new to this remote but fascinating world. I have used the word “Bard” to translate Dhillarearën, which in the Speech means “Starpeople”. They existed in every culture of Edil-Amarandh, but cultural conventions around Barding differed widely. Bards were people born with the Gift of magery and the ability to use the Speech. This gave them unique abilities, including a long lifespan and the capacity to speak to animals. The Speech was the language used in all spells and charms and, in Annar at least (although there is a voluminous list of writings from Annar and elsewhere which questions this rule), was considered the defining attribute of a Bard.
The Bards of Annar, as elsewhere in Edil-Amarandh, possessed both civil and spiritual authority, but it was considered a breach of the Balance (the central ethical guide of Barding) for Bards to be the sole authorities. Consequently, most regions had a double system of government – Bardic and secular, in order to check each other’s excesses. In Lirigon, for example, the Thane, who figures only as a minor character in this story, was as important to governance as the First Bard, although in matters pertaining solely to the School, the Bards had final authority.
In Bards, the Speech was inborn: they never had to learn it. A Bard “came into” the Speech at some point during childhood, usually in pre-pubescence, although this appears to have varied widely. (Cadvan of Lirigon is said to have been five, while Maerad of Pellinor achieved the Speech at sixteen, which was considered unusually late.) Although it could be learned by non-Bards, and was sometimes used as a lingua franca, it only held its properties of magery when spoken by a Bard.
For those interested, the appendices in the later Books of Pellinor have more information on this fascinating civilization, the Speech, the history of Edil-Amarandh, and a list of further reading.
As ever, The Bone Queen is the result of the labour of many people besides myself. My husband, Daniel Keene, has once again been commendable in his provision of delicious meals at crisis points, and in his proofreading skills. I wish to thank my children, Joshua, Zoë and Ben, for their patience and support, and I’m again grateful to Richard, Jan, Nicholas and Veryan Croggon for their generous feedback. I owe a special debt to my editors, Chris Kloet and Emily Damesick, for picking up my grammatical infelicities.
None of this would have been possible without the work of colleagues who have gone before me, and who have helped me over many years. I owe particular gratitude to the profound Bardic scholarship of Kate Elliott and Courtney Schafer, who guided me through some obscure problems at a difficult point of this translation. Any oversights or errors that remain are all my own. Lastly, I would again like to acknowledge the staff of the Libridha Museum at the University of Querétaro, whose courtesy and unfailing helpfulness remain exemplary.
Alison Croggon
Melbourne, 2015
A NOTE ON PRONUNCIATION
MOST Annaren proper nouns derive from the Speech, and generally share its pronunciation. In words of three or more syllables, the stress is usually laid on the second syllable: in words of two syllables, (eg, lembel, invisible) stress is always on the first.
Spellings are mainly phonetic.
ae – a long sound, as in ice.
aë – two syllables prono
unced separately, to sound eye–ee. Maninaë is pronounced Man–in–eye–ee.
au – ow. Raur rhymes with sour.
e – as in get. Always pronounced at the end of a word: for example, remane, to walk, has three syllables. Sometimes this is indicated with ë, which indicates also that the stress of the word lies on the vowel (for example, ilë, we, is sometimes pronounced almost to lose the i sound).
ea – the two vowel sounds are pronounced separately, to make the sound ay–uh. Inasfrea, to walk, thus sounds: in–ass–fray–uh.
eu – oi sound, as in boy.
i – as in hit.
ia – two vowels pronounced separately, as in the name Ian.
y – uh sound, as in much.
c – always a hard c, as in crust, not ice.
ch – soft, as in the German ach or loch, not church.
dh – a consonantal sound halfway between a hard d and a hard th, as in the, not thought. There is no equivalent in English; it is best approximated by hard th. Medhyl can be said Meth’l.
s – always soft, as in soft, not noise.
I
I
IT was towards sundown when they felt it: a shudder beneath them, as if the earth had twitched its skin. Afterwards some said that the light had flickered and briefly darkened, but what they saw was the shadow in their minds, a sudden knowledge that made their hearts stop beating for an endless moment before they started running.
One man, who was cobbling a boot on the porch outside his house in the spring sunshine, didn’t run. He slowly stood up and watched the villagers racing past. He didn’t stop anyone to ask what had happened: instead, he looked as if he were listening intently. He was a stranger in the village, so no one thought to pause and speak to him, but he bore them no resentment for that. Carefully, without hurry, he packed away his tools, and walked the half mile to the mine.
This man, who the villagers knew only as Cadvan, had arrived in Jouan, a small, unbeautiful mining settlement in the shadow of the northern mountains, almost three months before. He was tall and dark-haired like most of the Lirhan natives, and although he was young, perhaps in his early twenties, his manner made him seem much older. After enquiring politely whether there was need for a cobbler, and negotiating the right to live in an abandoned house on the edge of the village, he had quietly begun work. Most villagers looked at Cadvan askance as a foreigner, but they allowed that his boots were cheap and well made, and that it was useful to have a cobbler local-like, for quick repairs. His accent betrayed that he was from Lirigon, and they felt no need to question further. He in turn asked no impertinent questions of them.
Strangers were not unusual in Jouan but, unless they came seeking work in the mine, there was little reason for them to stay, and few attractions. The most common visitors were the traders who made their way to the north on carts pulled by oxen or heavy-limbed horses, to buy the coal that was piled in black heaps near the mine. As well as news from the outside world, they brought woollen cloth, leather, iron and luxuries for those who could afford them: spices from the south or a length of Thoroldian silk for a wedding dress. Coal was rarely used in Annar: it was useless for smelting ore, as its impurities spoiled the metal, but was highly prized by smiths. Jouan coal ended up in forges in Pellinor or Lirigon, or even as far afield as Baladh. For the traders, Jouan was the end of the road: the only thing north of the village was the Osidh Elanor, the high mountain range that bordered Annar. It was as far away from the world of Barding as anyone could get.
When Cadvan had first arrived, he had been appalled that people should live as the Jouains did, although he quickly found they bristled at any suggestion that they were to be pitied. The mine was a living – nobody starved, and, by their lights, the families of the best hewers were wealthy – but there was no argument that it came at a high price. Almost everyone in the hamlet worked at the mine, beginning as soon as they could climb a ladder and pull a basket. Cadvan saw very few villagers who were older than about forty years: if miners escaped the ill-chance of accidents, they were killed by lung disease and the toll of decades of back-breaking labour.
Cadvan had grown up in a place where Barding, the magery of the Light which sought knowledge in all things, was taken for granted, where illness or injury was always attended by a healer, and where human justice tempered the harsh necessities of survival. Until he left Lirigon, he had thought such customs general throughout Annar. Jouan, far from the great centres of learning, knew little of Barding, and cared less: its people had their own rites and traditions, which were nobody else’s business. Ashamed of his ignorance, Cadvan was wise enough to keep his thoughts to himself. The village needed a cobbler: and so Cadvan had stayed.
As Cadvan walked up the long, bare slope to the minehead, he could see the mountains clearly before him, seeming closer than they were because of the clarity of the air. The lowering sun cast long shadows ahead. It had been a beautiful day, the first real sunshine of spring, and crocuses and daffodils were pushing up through the tussocks. A rabbit startled, and he watched its white tail bobbing up and down as it raced for its burrow. Rooks circled to their roosts and wrens called and squabbled in the hawthorn and blackberry bushes. It seemed too peaceful for catastrophe.
A few dozen onlookers were already gathered: women with babies on their hips, small children, miners who had been on the dawn shift, the tavern keeper and the smith, above-ground workers like the scramblers and pilers. They stared at the smoke that billowed out of the shaft and mounted high above them in a thick cloud, and at the broken windlass above the shaft, which creaked sadly as the terrified horse stamped and blew in its yoke, until someone unharnessed it and led it away. Some people were gathered in knots, talking urgently of what they might do now, but most stood staring at the mineshaft, waiting.
Those who had escaped the pit gathered a little distance away. They were mainly women and children, haulers who had been near the bottom of the shaft at the time of the explosion and had been able to climb out. Their eyes, the only part of them unblackened by coal dust, were shocked, blank holes in their faces. Some were injured, and the blood ran brightly, red rivers in the black grime on their skin. One man was being restrained by two others from climbing back down the shaft: he was shouting that his friends were down there, that he had to go down and get them. The others were soothing him, not attempting to argue: it was clearly impossible to enter the mine until the dust and gases had cleared.
Every detail seemed terribly sharp, outlined in the clarity of disaster. When he recalled it later, Cadvan remembered no sound: he knew that people were talking and shouting and weeping, but in his memory there was only a dreadful silence.
He turned to the man who limped up next to him, a hewer called Taran who had injured his foot a couple of days beforehand, and so had not been down the pit. Cadvan had helped him clean and bandage the deep cut, techniques that needed no magery, and had advised him to stay at home until the wound closed, or else he would face almost certain infection and the possible loss of his foot. Taran had screwed up his face at the advice, but Cadvan was glad to see that he had taken it.
“How many were down there?” he asked.
“Maybe three dozens,” said Taran. His face was tight and pale. “Inshi and Hal went down this morning. Hal forgot her lunch.” His expression crumpled for a moment, and Cadvan grasped his hand in sudden sympathy. Inshi and Hal were Taran’s younger brother and sister. They worked as haulers, dragging the coal from the face in baskets so it could be winched up to the surface by the windlass: dirty, dangerous, body-breaking work at the best of times. If they hadn’t come up by now, Cadvan thought, there was little hope that they were still alive.
Even Cadvan knew about the dangers of explosions. Gases in mines were a constant peril, but it was the firedamp that coal miners feared most. Any naked flame – even the spark of a metal tool on stone – could make it explode. That in turn could ignite the coal dust that hung thick in the air, driving a blast of fire through the pit.
Deadly as that was, more people died of the bad air, the afterdamp, that followed. Cadvan thought of the people suffocating underground in the dark without hope of rescue, and shuddered.
“Maybe I can help?” said Cadvan diffidently. “At least, with those who are out. I have a few healing skills…”
Taran glanced at him, and nodded. “There’s no healers here,” he said. “Even a little is better than nothing.”
Taking that as permission, Cadvan went to those who had escaped the mine. They were gathered together near a shed, surrounded by other villagers. He paused, suddenly shy of intruding, and approached a man who lay at the edge of the group, coughing violently.
“Can I help?” he asked the woman who held him. “I might ease the cough…”
The woman looked up at Cadvan. “You’re that cobbler,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “I know a bit about healing…”
The woman gave him a long, calculating look, but it was free of hostility. Then she shrugged and moved aside.
“I doubt you’ll stop the coughing,” she said. “When he sets off like this, it goes on and on.” Cadvan knelt down and put his hand against the man’s chest; underneath the convulsing coughs, he felt the rumble of diseased lungs struggling for breath. There were so many in the village like this man, withering away from the illness caused by breathing in coal dust. It killed most miners in the end. Many kept on working until they were unable to. The lucky ones found jobs overground before it was too late.
“Is he your husband?” Cadvan asked.
“Aye,” she said, pushing back her hair. “Ten years we been together, Ald and me. The smoke set him off, I reckon.”
Cadvan could find no injury, so he closed his eyes, sending out his Gift, trying to find the health in the blackened lungs beneath his hands. The disease was beyond his helping, beyond anyone’s help; but he could ease the immediate crisis. Gradually Ald stopped coughing, and he sat up, looking at Cadvan narrowly.