The Bone Queen

  Some of his most painful memories played over and over again in his mind. One of the worst had happened not long after the terrible events in the Inkadh Grove, when he had lain feverish and near death in the healing house. Cadvan had only fragmented memories of that time, when dreams and waking had merged in a confusion of pain and terror, but he thought his family had cared for him. He wasn’t certain, as he had never asked them; he still wondered if some of those faces he had seen – his father, Nartan, holding a cup to his lips; his sister Juna clutching his hand as he cried out in anguish – were phantoms of his illness.

  One memory, however, was clear and unambiguous. He had woken, quite suddenly, in his right mind. He lay on his back staring at the white ceiling of the healing house. His body was light and empty, as if all his muscles had dissolved into air, and he felt too weak to speak or move. After a while he became aware of voices, familiar voices, and slowly realized his two brothers, Ardur and Ilios, were seated by the window on the far side of his chamber. They were talking together, unaware that he was conscious. At first he wanted to call out to them, but then he heard what they were saying.

  “It goes hard with his pride,” Ardur said. “I think the old man has fought with everyone in the village.”

  “Pride was always his problem.” Ilios, his youngest brother, was the most like Cadvan, restless and mercurial. “I never felt it from him, it must be said. It’s hard for me to love him. But he had such pride in the Bard…”

  “Aye. Aye.” Ardur glanced over to the bed. “If Cadvan knew how he boasted about him. Or how he was used as a club to beat about our heads. You’ll never be the half of Cadvan…”

  Ilios grunted. “Sometimes I hated him for that,” he said. Cadvan, listening, wondered if he meant him, or their father. Perhaps Ilios meant both.

  “Still, it’s low to scrawl filth on the front door,” said Ardur. “I’d give a mort of coin to know who did that.”

  “It could be anyone. A black mark has fallen on all of us now.”

  “I think the old man will die of humiliation,” said Ardur.

  “Perhaps it would be better if our brother died. More just, anyhow.” Cadvan flinched at the bitterness in Ilios’s voice.

  “Nay,” said Ardur softly. “We can’t think that. For all that he’s done wrong, he’s still our kin.” He stood up and walked over to the bed, and Cadvan felt Ardur’s gaze upon his face. He laid still, his eyes shut, pretending he was asleep.

  “Well, brother, I guess I might as well speak as not, though I doubt you’ll hear me,” said Ardur. “I wish you good health and a good life, though it looks like you’ll have neither now. We’ve come to say goodbye. We’re going south to find our fortunes, and I don’t think we’ll be back.” He stood for a while unspeaking, and then Cadvan heard steps as Ilios joined him.

  “He’s dead to me now.”

  “Nay,” said Ardur, his voice rough. “You don’t mean that, not in your heart. Remember him as he was, brother.”

  “Do we even know what he was?”

  Ardur didn’t answer, and there was a long silence. Cadvan felt the touch of fingers on his face, brushing back his hair, and then the sound of footsteps leaving the room.

  Cadvan couldn’t remember what had happened after his brothers had left; that was the first time the blackness had rolled in. Afterwards he had been delirious for days. Later, from his sister Juna, he discovered that his brothers had decided to leave Lirhan after Ilios’s betrothal to a local girl was forbidden by her family, who were shocked by the scandal. Ardur was already planning to move to Desor, where he had once journeyed with their father to trade at the famous market there, but Ilios had never wanted to leave Lirhan. The departure of his brothers was the moment when Cadvan began to realize what he had done to his family.

  Juna, a capable, gentle woman, never spoke of how Cadvan’s crime had affected her. Tera, like Ilios, had hero-worshipped her oldest brother. As far as he knew, she never came to his sickbed. Tera and Ilios were the youngest siblings, and Cadvan had helped to raise them from babyhood. Perhaps he had injured those two most. Once his recovery was certain, only Juna visited him in the healing house.

  The last time he had seen Nartan was just before he left for Jouan, when he had ridden over to say farewell. It was the beginning of winter, and a bright sun with no warmth cast a merciless light that carved sharp shadows of the leafless trees. Cadvan had stood outside the house where he was born for a long time, gathering the courage to knock on the door.

  Juna answered and led him to the kitchen, where Tera and Nartan waited. His sisters stood together awkwardly by the table, their hands clasped, their faces pale. Cadvan saw, with a constriction in his throat, that sweetmeats were set out, as if for a celebration. That would be Juna…

  Nartan sat apart by the big hearth, and his eyes were fixed on his son’s face. He seemed much older. He had always been a big man, strong-shouldered and well-muscled, but now Cadvan could see how age crept into his body, hollowing out his face, greying his hair, withering his arms. For the first time, he seemed frail.

  For a few moments everyone was frozen, not knowing what to do or to say. Then Juna stepped forward and embraced Cadvan. He held her fiercely, feeling her heart beating against his.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  “So am I,” she said. She stood back and tried to smile, wiping her cheeks. “Oh, Cadvan…”

  Tera hadn’t moved, and her face was stony. Cadvan tried to meet her eyes, but she turned away and mumbled something he couldn’t hear.

  “Let’s have a wine,” said Juna. “And drink the cup of farewell.”

  She had set out the best glasses, and poured the wine in silence, handing one to each of them.

  “Sit down, Tera,” she said. Tera sat at the far end of the table from Cadvan, her mouth set. Nartan took the glass automatically, as if he didn’t know what it was.

  Cadvan sipped the wine, and cleared his throat. “Nartan, I thank you for having me in your house,” he said. His words fell heavily into the silence, clumsy and awry. He glanced at his father, and looked away, clearing his throat again. “I know that you cannot forgive what I’ve done. I know I’ve hurt you deeply.”

  He paused, but no one said anything. Now his father had turned to look into the fire, his wine untasted in his hand.

  “I’m leaving Lirigon,” Cadvan said. “I can no longer stay here.”

  “You and your brothers,” said Tera viciously. “None of you have any guts. You should stay like us and face the shame.”

  “Tera, I … I’m not permitted… I’ll probably be exiled.”

  “I knew no good would come of this Barding,” said Nartan. “I knew right at the beginning, when you first had the words. It’s not for the likes of us.”

  “I can’t help what I am,” said Cadvan.

  “It’s from your mother’s side, for sure.”

  This was an old argument, and Cadvan felt the old anger stir inside him. “If you’d sent me to the School when I was first asked, none of this might have happened,” he said, before he could stop himself.

  “So it’s my fault now, is it?” Nartan cast him a look of contempt.

  “Let’s not argue,” said Juna quickly. “There’s no point.”

  “No, it’s too late for arguing,” said Nartan. “And no point in having him here, like I told you.”

  Cadvan felt himself trembling. “I shouldn’t have come,” he said. “I promise you won’t see me again. I just wanted to say … before I left, I wanted to say how sorry I am. I know it’s not enough, but I wanted to say it. I’m sorry for the shame I’ve brought upon you.”

  “It’s not the shame,” said Tera. “It’s not that…” And suddenly her face crumpled and she put her head in her arms and began to cry. Cadvan looked on helplessly, longing to comfort her but not daring to, as Juna leaned forward and stroked her hair.

  “I don’t want us to be sorry for what is not said, or what is said too late,” said Juna, when Tera’
s sobs had subsided. “That’s why we’re here. I love you, Cadvan, and I always will, no matter what bad things you did. You must remember that.”

  “I don’t deserve that,” said Cadvan.

  “Love isn’t about deserving. It just is.”

  Another unbearable silence stretched out between them. Cadvan glanced quickly at his father, drained his wine glass and stood up.

  “Juna, you are wiser than many Bards,” he said. “I wish I were as wise as you. Tera, Nartan, I don’t want you to regret anything you said or didn’t say to me. I must atone for what I’ve done, but you need feel no shame. You have done nothing wrong. Nothing. The shame is all mine.”

  He paused, and then spoke in a rush. “I came for one other reason. Maybe the only good one. Nelac has promised me that he will see to all of you when I am gone. If you are troubled, or if things get too bad, go straight to him.”

  Nartan shrugged. “What could a Bard do?” he said.

  “You must promise,” said Cadvan fiercely. “Promise that you will ask him in need, whatever that need is. I can’t do anything to help you, but Nelac can. If he had known in time, he would have stopped the pettiness that led to Ardur and Ilios leaving Lirhan. You know his voice is heard. Juna, will you?”

  Juna nodded.

  “I’ll leave then,” said Cadvan. “Remember what I said.”

  He took Juna in his arms and kissed her hair, smelling that familiar Juna smell that was so much part of his childhood and would now be lost to him for ever. Then he reached out his hand to Nartan. His father looked at him briefly, hard and cold, and turned away without taking his hand.

  Cadvan turned on his heel and walked blindly out of the kitchen. His only thought now was to leave this torment. It was so much worse than he had imagined. Even his father’s rage would have been better than his bitter, uncomprehending pain.

  Cadvan was at the front door when Tera rushed down the narrow hallway and flung her arms around him, sobbing passionately.

  “Don’t go,” she said. “Cadvan, don’t go. I do love you, I do. I didn’t mean it. I don’t want you to go.”

  “Tera.” For the first time, Cadvan felt tears burning his eyes. “Little sister. I have to go. I don’t have any choice.”

  He hugged her close, and then held her at arm’s length, holding her gaze. “Tera, I love you too. Never forget that. Look after our father. And Juna. I know it’s been hard on you all, but don’t forget that Juna needs to be cared for too…”

  She looked up at him, her face red with weeping, and nodded, swallowing. Cadvan kissed her forehead, and let her go. He opened the door and let himself out of the house. His whole being felt completely numb. He wondered if he would feel anything again.

  As he relived them, these memories were vivid and raw to Cadvan, as if they had happened the week before. Only the death of Ceredin hurt more. How many people had he wounded? Was it worse to harm those who loved you? What about the strangers who had suffered, who had died, because of what he had done? They had been loved too, and their pain was no less.

  He thought of Juna’s words. Love isn’t about deserving. It just is. He felt them as a brand on his soul. No one who loved him had escaped. No matter what he did with his life from now on, some things could never be atoned.

  Perhaps because Dernhil knew the worst of him, Cadvan found his companionship comforting. Dernhil guessed much of what troubled him; after the scrying, he knew Cadvan almost as well as he knew himself. Maybe, Dernhil thought, he knew him better, because he could stand outside his guilt and see him whole. Sometimes, in a small but generous gesture or in his unexpected smile, Dernhil saw a grace within Cadvan that touched and surprised him. And he was grateful for Cadvan’s healing; without that nightly succour, he knew he wouldn’t have withstood their journey. Cadvan was correct when he rebuked Dernhil for not taking sufficient care of himself; he resented his bodily weakness and preferred to ignore trivial pains. Each night now he slept dreamlessly, and he felt his muscles knitting together, finding new strength. In truth, for all his tiredness, he felt better than he had for months.

  He wondered at the fate that had blighted Cadvan’s life. Sometimes Nelac had spoken of it as a plan of the Dark, that had seen in Cadvan a gateway to its own ends; if so, then Cadvan had been merely a pawn, however willing. And there were more disturbing thoughts. Yes, sorcery was forbidden to Bards, and for good reason; yet if Cadvan had not known the spell that Likod had woven to destroy Lirigon, not one of them would now be alive. How to riddle that? Dernhil reflected that the machinery of the Light had as little mercy as the Dark; it seemed to him that Cadvan was pincered between the two. The White Flame, the centre of Barding, was very cold.

  None of the Bards spoke much at first; the events in Lirigon had left them weary to the depths of their souls, and the long days gave them no respite. Of all of them, Nelac felt it most: the victory over Likod had come at a high cost. Over the first three days, Selmana noticed that both Dernhil and Cadvan were covertly watching him, subtly slowing their pace if he slumped in the saddle. He was never permitted to keep watch at night. She understood their concern; new lines were carved deep in Nelac’s face from his nose to his mouth, and his eyes seemed sunken in his head. At night, when they stopped to rest, he barely spoke at all. She was astonished by the iron will that drove him on.

  Gradually the deathly greyness began to ebb from Nelac’s face, and she felt like weeping with relief. Over the past months, she had come to love him, and his frailty hurt her. She understood why he was so beloved of his students; he wore his learning lightly, unlike many Bards who were far less distinguished, and was endlessly patient. And he was funny; no teacher had ever made her laugh so much, or made learning a thing of such pleasure. He was like the father she would have loved to have. Even as the thought rose, she felt ashamed; her father was her father, and he was owed her respect. But he had never understood her as Nelac did, and she hungered for that understanding.

  Once they left the Fesse, there were no more roads. They followed a series of winding tracks, always northwards. Sometimes there was not even a path, and their progress was agonizingly slow as the horses picked their way through moors tumbled with boulders or through woodlands tangled with brown bracken that brushed the horses’ bellies. Cadvan, who by tacit consent was guiding them, never seemed to doubt his direction. On the fourth day they reached the track that ran along the foothills of the Osidh Elanor, a byway mostly used by the Pilanel people, and after that their journey was easier. They saw birds and foxes and hares and once, in the distance, a pack of hunting wolves, but they encountered no people at all.

  As the days passed, Selmana found herself fascinated by Cadvan and Dernhil’s friendship. They were very different, but she perceived a likeness in them all the same, a quickness of spirit that flowed above private depths. She knew their history, as did everyone in Lirigon, and was at first surprised to see the easy companionship that had grown between them. Cadvan checked Dernhil’s wellbeing each evening, joking that he would never forgive him if he collapsed; they would sit a little apart from the other two, talking softly as Cadvan wove his healcharms. If she overheard scraps of their conversation, it was never about anything important: trivial things that had happened that day, or some abstruse joke. But she felt the current of feeling that ran between them, and wondered.

  “I thought they were enemies,” she said one night to Nelac.

  “On the contrary,” said Nelac. “Those two were fated to be friends. The shame is that it took so long.”

  Selmana drew a deep breath. “It would take me a long time to forgive something like that,” she said. “If I ever could.”

  “I’m not certain that Dernhil has forgiven him,” said Nelac. “I think he has discovered that he likes and trusts Cadvan. If there is one good thing that has happened in the past days, it is that.”

  Selmana frowned. “You know, Nelac, I don’t understand how you can be friends with a person who has done you such wrong, if you have not for
given them.”

  “That wrong still stands,” said Nelac. “Myself, I think it will take Dernhil a long time to forgive Cadvan. It is not an easy thing. One can love and even trust, and not forgive.”

  “I guess I don’t understand people very well sometimes. I don’t understand anything very much.” Selmana hunched her cloak closer around her.

  Nelac cast her an amused look. “In your own way, my daughter, you are much wiser than I am,” he said. “Think of what Larla said.”

  Selmana gave him a fleeting smile. “That’s hard to believe,” she said. “I know so little, really.”

  “No, it’s true,” said Nelac. “All you are is young, but age is no sure measure of Knowing. I know Bards far older than you, who have read many books and studied arcane lore, who have not your perception. And in some ways you are far beyond me. In this dark time, you are my lantern. You throw light where I see only shadows.”

  Selmana stared broodingly into the campfire. All day she had been feeling homesick; it was a sharp ache through her whole body. She missed her mother, and she missed Lirigon. She worried uselessly about what was happening at home all the time, knowing that there was nothing she could do if anything was wrong. She wondered if Nelac suffered from homesickness; like all Bards, he travelled widely, but never with the fear, surely, that he might never be able to return… She glanced at him sideways. It still surprised her to see him squatting beside her, an old man stirring a pottage over a fire. Before she had met Nelac she had regarded him with awe, a great Bard far beyond her ken. If anything, her respect for him had increased; and yet in knowing him, the awe had vanished. He might be a great mage, but he was also a man, like any other man.

  “What do I show you?” she asked. “It’s not like I see anything…”

  “For one thing, you are showing me that the Bone Queen is nowhere near by,” he said. “And that is a comfort.”