THE SINGING.

THE FOURTH BOOK OF PELLINOR.

ALISON CROGGON.

A NOTE ON THE TEXT.

It is with mixed feelings that I have at last finished my task of translating the Naraudh Lar-Chane, the Riddle of the Treesong. On the one hand, I write this with the intense relief, not to say euphoria, that attends the end of any long labor; on the other, its completion will leave a large gap in my life. I will miss Maerad, Cadvan, Hem, Saliman, and their many friends; in the past seven years they have become as real to me as anyone in my life. I feel as if I have journeyed with them and shared their joys and sorrows, and now I must leave them behind and turn to the more sober demands of my academic profession, from which this has been the most pleasurable diversion imaginable.

The past three volumes translate the first six books of this great epic of Annaren literature.

In The Naming, we follow Maerad's adventures as she meets the Bard Cadvan of Lirigon, learns her destiny and true ident.i.ty, and journeys to Norloch, the great citadel of the Light in Annar, discovering her lost brother, Hem, on the way. In Norloch, Maerad and Cadvan find the Light is corrupted and are forced to flee as civil war breaks out among the Bards of Annar.

In the second volume, The Riddle, Maerad travels with Cadvan to the frozen wastelands of the north in search of the Treesong. After a skirmish in which she believes Cadvan is killed, she journeys to the deep north, where she is told that half of the Treesong is written on her own lyre. On her way back, she is captured by the powerful Elidhu, Arkan, the Winterking, but escapes his clutches and is reunited with Cadvan.

The Crow shifts focus to follow Hem's story. Hem travels with the Bard Saliman to the city of Turbansk and is embroiled in the great battles in the south, when the Nameless One marches on the Suderain and lays siege to Turbansk. Hem's dark journey to the Nameless One's stronghold, Dagra, in the heart of Den Raven, is the nadir of the story.

In The Singing, which consists of the final two books of the Naraudh Lar-Chane, the story of the quest for the Treesong reaches its end. I will leave it to the reader to discover the story; but I will say that I probably enjoyed my task most in these final books.

In the course of the books, we encounter some of the diverse cultures of Edil-Amarandh, and we learn a lot about the place of Barding in this society, further details of which I have endeavored to provide in the appendices in the three previous books. I have always considered this story more than just a source of information about these cultures; in its own time, I have no doubt that it was treasured as much for its delights as its usefulness.

The Naraudh Lar-Chane was, according to popular tradition, written by Maerad and Cadvan themselves, although some scholars dispute this authorship and claim it was written decades after their deaths, drawing from oral traditions. I have little interest in these arguments myself, just as I am not very concerned about the disputes regarding the authorship of Shakespeare's plays; what has always excited me most is the story itself.

For reasons that scholars can only guess, the histories come to an abrupt and unexplained end in about N1500, around five hundred years after the events of the Naraudh Lar-Chane. The most popular theory is that the civilization of Edil-Amarandh was destroyed by a major cataclysm caused by a meteor striking the earth. Like so many aspects of Annaren lore, the truth remains a teasing mystery. All that is known for sure is that this fascinating society vanished, leaving nothing behind except the strangely enigmatic traces preserved in the Annaren Scrolls.

I owe thanks to so many people that I do not have the s.p.a.ce to acknowledge them all here. Firstly, as always, I want to thank my family for their patience and help over the years while I was working on this translationa"my husband, Daniel Keene, for his support of this project and his proofing skills, and my children, Joshua, Zoe, and Ben. I am again grateful to Richard, Jan, Nicholas, and Veryan Croggon for their generous feedback on early drafts of the translation. I owe a special debt to my editor, Chris Kloet, whose sharp eye and good advice have improved on my own work beyond measure; it has been an unfailingly pleasurable collaboration. My debt to the generous and creative contributions of my colleague Professor Patrick Insole, now Regius Professor of Ancient Languages at the University of Leeds, is also beyond measure. Equally, I would like to thank my many colleagues who have so kindly helped me with suggestions and advice over what has now been many years of delightful conversations; they are too numerous to name, but I am grateful to them alla"their help has been beyond priceless, and any oversights or errors that remain after such advice are all my own. Lastly, I would again like to acknowledge the unfailing courtesy and helpfulness of the staff of the Libridha Museum at the University of Queretaro during the months I spent there researching the Naraudh Lar-Chane.

Alison Croggon Melbourne, Australia.

A NOTE ON p.r.o.nUNCIATION.

M.

OST Annaren proper nouns derive from the Speech, and generally share its p.r.o.nunciation. In words of three or more syllables, (e.g., invisible) the stress is usually laid on the second syllable: in words of two syllables, (e.g., lembel) stress is always on the first. There are some exceptions in proper names; the names Pellinor and Annar, for example, are p.r.o.nounced with the stress on the first syllable.

Spellings are mainly phonetic.

aa"as in flat. Ar rhymes with bar.

aea"a long i sound, as in ice. Maerad is p.r.o.nounced MY-rad. aea"two syllables p.r.o.nounced separately, to sound eye-ee. Maninae is p.r.o.nounced man-IN-eye-ee.

aia"rhymes with hay. Innail rhymes with nail. aua"ow. Raw rhymes with sour.

ea"as in get. Always p.r.o.nounced at the end of a word: for example, remane, to walk, has three syllables. Sometimes this is indicated with e, which indicates also that the stress of the word lies on the e (for example, He, we, is sometimes p.r.o.nounced almost to lose the i sound).

eaa"the two vowel sounds are p.r.o.nounced separately, to make the sound ay-uh. Inasfrea, to walk, thus sounds: in-a.s.s-fray-uh. eua"oi sound, as in boy. ia"as in hit.

iaa"two vowels p.r.o.nounced separately, as in the name lan.

ya"uh sound, as in much.

ca"always a hard c, as in crust, not ice.

cha"soft, as in the German ach or loch, not church.

dha"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.

sa"always soft, as in soft, not noise.

Note: Den Raven does not derive from the Speech, but from the southern tongues. It is p.r.o.nounced Don RAH-ven.

I am the Lily that stands in the still waters, and the morning sun alights on me, amber and rose; I am delicate, as the mist is delicate that climbs with the dawn; yea, the smallest breath of the wind will stir me. And yet my roots run deep as the Song, and my crown is mightier than the sky itself, And my heart is a white flame that dances in its joy, and its light will never be quenched. Though the Dark One comes in all his strength, I shall not be daunted.

Though he attack with his mighty armies, though he strike with iron and fire, with all his grievous weapons, Even should he turn his deadly eye upon me, fear will not defeat me. I will arise, and he will be shaken where he stands, and his sword will be shivered in the dust, For he is blind and knows nothing of love, and it will be love that defeats him.

From The Song of Maerad, Itilan of Turbansk.

Chapter I.

WOLF.

A SHEPHERD was gathering firewood by the old Pellinor Road when a strange sight caught his attention. A horseman dressed in black, mounted on a magnificent black horse, was trotting briskly along the disused coursea"a clear, small figure in the pale winter sunshine.

To see a stranger at all was noteworthy. Since the sack of the School of Pellinor ten years before and the bad times that had followed, few travelers came this way. The days when Bards and merchants had ridden easily to Pellinor, making the road bright with their fine clothes and singing, had vanished so completely they now seemed like a time of legend. But the sight of a stranger, even one so ominously cloaked, was not what made the old man clutch his bundle of f.a.gots to his chest and step warily behind a thicket of brambles, fearfully making the sign against the evil eye. His eyes were fixed on the beast that accompanied the rider: a large, white dog. If it was a dog, that is. It was like no dog the shepherd had seen. It was taller than a calf, and seemed bigger because of its thick winter pelt, which stood out around its head like a ruff. It kept pace effortlessly with the horse, running at an easy lope that revealed the strong muscles of its shoulders and haunches. If it hadn't been with the rider, the old man would have thought it a wolf; but he had never heard that a wolf would run with a horse.

As the strange trio came nearer, the shepherd's heart chilled and he crouched down behind the brambles, his hands trembling. His eyesight wasn't what it was, but he knew a wolf when he saw one. He began to regret having strayed so close to the road, even on so fair a day, and all the rumors he had heard of uncanny events, of evil creatures and dark sorcerers, crowded into his head at once. If anything should happen to him, his wife would never know; and she would be quite alone, as their son had left the hamlet, looking for a better life. The shepherd crouched closer to the ground, hoping he would remain unnoticed, and held his breath as the hoof beats came closer and closer. To his alarm, they slowed to a walk; and then they stopped altogether.

"Where is he, Maerad?" A man's voice rang clear on the cold air, although he spoke in a low voice.

Even though he was so frightened, the old man was confused: to whom was the stranger speaking? He had seen no other with him. Did he converse, as the black witches were said to do, with spirits of the air? The shepherd held his breath, clutching his bundle of f.a.gots so tightly to his chest that his knuckles were white.

"Over there, you think?"

The shepherd heard the man dismount and begin to walk toward him. In his agitation, the old man dropped his firewood with a clatter that to him sounded like thunder. He turned to run, but tripped over a tussock and fell over. As he scrambled onto his hands and knees, he found himself face-to-face with the wolf, and groaned in terror. Instinctively he hid his face in his hands, so he should not see his own death.

But he did not feel the wolf's teeth meeting in his neck, as he had expected. Instead, the stranger was speaking to him. At first the shepherd was too terrified to hear what he said.

"I beg your forgiveness," the stranger was saying. "I swear by the Light that we mean you no harm."

Slowly, the shepherd took his hands from his face. There was no sign of the wolf, and instead the stranger was standing before him, offering his hand. He helped the old man to his feet and gently brushed down his jerkin. Then he silently picked up the firewood and carefully heaped it in the shepherd's arms. The old man regained his breath. The stranger had a kindly look; but there was something else about him, an air of grace, that reminded the shepherd of better days. It had been a long time since his kind had been seen here.

He thanked the stranger gravely, in the formal way he once would have thanked a Bard who did him some healing or said the spring rites over a crop. The other gave him a sharp look.

"It's been many years since I've seen a Bard around here," said the old man. Now that his fright was over, he wanted to talk.

"There is little reason to come," said the stranger. His eyes met the old man's, and they both looked away at the same instant, as if reading in each other's faces a sadness they didn't wish to name.

"Does this mean that the School of Pellinor will come back? Will there be Bards again?"

The Bard hesitated. "I don't know," he said.

The shepherd shifted the firewood, as it was getting heavy. "I am hoping that they do," he said at last. "It's hard with them gone. The winters bad and the lambs born awry and all else gone wrong."

"Aye," said the Bard. "Much else, and not only here. These are hard times for many people."

The shepherd nodded, and sniffed unhappily. But the stranger reached forward and touched his brow briefly, and for a moment it was as if a soft sun bloomed in the old man's forehead, and spread its golden warmth through his whole body.

"The Light go with you," said the Bard.

"And with you," answered the shepherd, in the proper way. He watched as the stranger walked back to his horse, which stood patiently on the road awaiting its rider. The white wolf sat on its haunches by the horse, looking no more dangerous than a big puppy. The Bard mounted, raised his hand in farewell, and rode away. It was only then that the old man realized that he hadn't asked his name.

He didn't stay to watch the horseman vanish in the distance. His wife would be waiting. The warmth from the Bard's touch still ran through his veins, and he hummed an old song as he walked home. His step was light: for the first time since he could remember, hope stirred in his heart.

"You almost made that poor old man die of fright, Maerad," said the Bard, glancing down at the wolf.

I didn't mean to, Cadvan. The wolf answered him in the Speech. She was silent for a time, and then added, He did smell of fear. But if he planned to attack us, he would have been frightened anyway . . .

"I suppose so. It's as well to be wary, but I think we were lucky his heart didn't give way," Cadvan said, shrugging. "No harm done in the end. I hope. Still, it worried me that he had seen through the glimmerspells and was hiding from us. He should have seen only an empty road. He knew I was a Bard, you know."

I heard him. Did he have the Gift?

"A little," said Cadvan. "Not the Gift of a Bard, but enough to have a little Bardsight. I imagine that he's good with beasts. Probably he runs the healthiest flock in the district. Or did once, anyway, when this was a populous and pleasant region. It oppresses my heart, Maerad, to ride through it now."

He sighed and looked ahead, over the hills before them. It was not long after Midwinter Day and, despite the sunshine, there was little sign of spring. The wild was reclaiming the land, and leafless brambles and other weeds crept over what had once been stone-fenced fields.

The trio traveled swiftly; the sun reached the height of its short day and began to descend to the horizon. Every now and then they saw an abandoned farmhouse, and once pa.s.sed through a deserted village where doors hung off their hinges and pans left many years ago by the side of the overgrown paths rusted in the mud.

The wild no longer seemed desolate to Maerad, as once it had: a landscape untamed by human hands had its own meanings. But here the land was neither tame nor untamed. It just felt abandoned and sad and eerie. Her questing nose picked up the scent of old sorceries: evil had been done here, evil had driven these people from their homes. Perhaps it still hid among the crumbling farmhouses and overgrown orchards, watching as they pa.s.sed, waiting for the shadows to fall and its powers to grow strong. At the thought, her hackles rose, and she gave an involuntary growl.

]" do not like it here, Maerad said, speaking directly into Cadvan's mind.

Nor I, replied Cadvan in the mindspeech. His earlier words had seemed too loud. It has a deathly air.

Darsor, Cadvan's mount, seemed to agree; although he said nothing, he quickened his pace to a steady canter. They continued in silence, and Maerad remained alert and uneasy. Toward sunset the sky clouded over, and a thick mist began to rise from the ground, m.u.f.fling her sense of smell. This bothered her more than the darkness; she depended more on her nose than her eyes.

They didn't stop until it became too dark to move on. Cadvan found an overgrown copse where he might conceal a fire easily with a little magery and unsaddled Darsor, then rubbed down his rough coat. Maerad watched him as he worked, her eyes glowing. She had eaten the day before, and was not hungry, but the water rose in her mouth as Cadvan cooked himself a meal and ate it. He glanced at her.

"You should say if you want something," he said.

Maerad was slightly offended and turned her head away. She would not ask; it was up to him to offer. Cadvan laughed.

"I swear, Maerad, you behave more like a real wolf every day. I can't always remember wolf etiquette. Would you like a bite?"

Maerad stared over his shoulder, ignoring him, and he shrugged and finished his meal. When he had cleaned the pot, he glanced at the wolf again. She lay on her belly, just at the edge of the circle of firelight, her ma.s.sive muzzle resting on her paws, and watched his every movement. Her ears flickered back and forth, but she betrayed no other sign of uneasiness.

"I worry that you will forget that you are human if you are too much wolf," said Cadvan. "I know nothing of these powers. Are you ever afraid that you will forget how to become Maerad again?"

Maerad's ears p.r.i.c.ked up, but she did not answer. Her gaze turned inward as she pondered Cadvan's words. She had traveled in wolf form for a week now. The ability to transform was part of her Gift, an Elemental power that was outside the usual capacity of Bards, and she knew that Cadvan was not wholly at ease with it. Her human self was present inside her, but it was true that the longer she stayed in wolf form, the more distant it seemed, like a dream she had once had. But she dared not change into the young girl she was now, not so close to the mountains.

I don't think I'll forget, she said at last. But even so, I can't change yet. The Winterking would find me at once.

Cadvan nodded, and seemed about to say more, but checked himself. Instead he asked Maerad if she would take the first watch. They had traveled hard since they left the burned ruins of Pellinor on Midwinter Day, heading south to haven in the School of Innail, and he ached with exhaustion. He wrapped himself in his cloak and a thick blanket against the deep chill of the night, and fell asleep at once.

Maerad was tired, but not unpleasantly, and she didn't feel the cold at all. She seemed to doze, but she was by no means asleep: her keen senses registered the smallest twitch of a twig, the tiniest shift of the air currents. She thought about Arkan, the Winterking, the Elemental being who had captured her in his mountain fortress and from whom she had so recently escaped. The reason she dared not change into her human form was not because she feared Arkana"although she dida"but because she didn't trust herself. The thought of him opened a hollow inside her, a mixture of fear and desire. If Arkan said her name, she thought with contempt, she would even now turn and run to him. She didn't understand hima"he was as beyond her understanding as the mountains themselvesa"and she didn't even like him; but something burned inside her that she couldn't control or ignore. Perhaps her desire for him was her Elidhu blood surging within her, like responding to like; perhaps her fear came from her human self. At this point, she shifted impatiently. It was always confusing thinking about her different selves.

It was simpler to be a wolf.

The night deepened. Maerad smelled rain coming, perhaps the next day. The clouds were heavy overhead, and neither moon nor star lifted the utter blackness. The damped-down fire gave out little light, and even that illuminated only the curls of mist that gathered between the tree trunks. But sight was only one of Maerad's senses. She heard an owl hoot in the distance and the soft swirl of its wings as it swooped on a small night creature that squeaked briefly and was silent. A light wind soughed through the bare branches, rattling the dead winter leaves that still clung to them, and she heard Cadvan's soft breathing and Darsor as he shifted while he slept; but there was little other sound. There seemed to be nothing amiss, but she felt more and more uneasy. She stood up and prowled noiselessly around the copse, her muzzle tilted upward, tasting the air.

There was nothing to smell, nothing to hear, nothing to see; but still the hair stood up on her spine. Some other sense p.r.i.c.kled her alarm. She paced restlessly back and forth, waking Darsor, who put his nose down to hers and blew out of his nostrils.

Something is wrong? he asked.

Yes. No. Now she was bristling all over. Yes, but I don't know what it is.

Darsor lifted his head and sniffed the air, and a shiver went through his skin. There is someone approaching, he said. Someone well cloaked. You must wake my friend.

Maerad nosed Cadvan and he was alert at once, his hair ruffled with sleep, reaching for his sword. What is it?

I don't know, said Maerad. Darsor says someone is here. Someone cloaked.

Cadvan was already standing. Darsor would know, he said.

His stillness and intensity told Maerad that Cadvan was listening with his Bard hearing. She felt a sudden frustration: the sharpness of her wolf instincts were matched by the dimming of other senses. While Cadvan could feel the working of magery, or the presence of the Dark, Maerad's abilities were blunted.

Do you think it's a Hull? A red flash lit Maerad's eyes at the thought: Hulls were Bards who had allied themselves with the Dark, giving their power to the Nameless One in return for endless life. They filled her with a mixture of contempt and fear.

Most likely. I hope it is, because if it isn't, it is probably something worse. I wish that you were a Bard right now.

Maerad paused, and then asked, Should I change?

Cadvan studied her thoughtfully for a moment, and then shook his head. No, he said. I think we don't need to risk calling down more trouble on our heads and attract the Winterking as well. In any case, you're dangerous enough as you are. A ghost of a smile fleetingly lit his face, and then he turned away from the fire and was swallowed in shadow.

For some time, nothing happened. The moments pa.s.sed with agonizing slowness: the approaching menace neither grew nor lessened. Perhaps, thought Maerad, whatever approached knew that they were aware of its presence. Her hunting senses were fully alert, and she didn't move a muscle. Nearby she heard Darsor shift his weight and breathe out heavily. She wondered fleetingly how many times she and Cadvan had stood in just such suspense, waiting to be attacked: it was more often than she liked to think.

Then something infinitesimal seemed to shift, although her acute senses couldn't trace what it was. She glanced quickly at Cadvan, and saw his hand tighten on his sword. Then a blast of light seared across the clearing where they were camped, hitting a tree behind Maerad, which burst into instant flame. Darsor didn't even flinch, but Maerad crouched low to the ground, growling in her throat, the shadows from the flaming branches flickering over her coat. Cadvan didn't strike back; he swore instead, and she turned in surprise. It was a moment before she understood why. It wasn't a Hull attacking them, after all: no Hull used White Fire.