3: THE BROKEN PROMISE

THE golden light of a late summer morning played over the garden outside Maerad's room. She sat alone in the portico, enjoying the warm breeze on her face. Birds argued in the trees and Maerad, using her Gift, idly eavesdropped. Birds, she thought, are so brainless. All they say is Mine! Mine! Mine! Go away! Go away! 

She let the birdspeech return to pretty burble, which was much more pleasant to listen to, and breathed in the balm of the garden's beauty. She ached: oh how she ached. Her soul was like one big bruise.

A late breakfast had been brought to her room by the same chatty Bard she had met the day before, but Maerad, who couldn't even remember his name, feigned sleep until he crept away. She felt momentarily guilty at her rudeness, but that dissipated quickly over her meal, sweet pastries and a salad of fruits, which she took outside and ate on the portico, where there was a low table and three chairs for her use. A silver pot held a hot sweet drink she hadn't encountered before: when she had finished eating she poured it into a small glass, wondering at its blackness, tasted it cautiously and decided she liked it: bitter and sweet at once. She sighed luxuriously and leant back in her chair, sipping the drink.

It was so pleasant to sit alone in a beautiful garden, and not to feel filthy or exhausted or cold or frightened, not to feel hunted by the Dark. But now she had a little peace, all these disturbing thoughts bubbled up inside her. Was she any closer to knowing who she was?  She had all these new names - once she had only been Maerad, then she was Maerad of Pellinor, and now she was Elednor of Edil-Amarandh, the Firelily come to resist the Dark - but really they told her nothing. And now Cadvan and she were on quest, charged to find the Treesong: some mysterious - song - she supposed, which was to do with the roots of the Speech.  Putting together this clue and that, they had decided that they must head north; but here, in this pretty garden, it seemed like the flimsiest of theories.  And what were they looking for?  Even Nelac didn't know what the Treesong was.

What are you? she asked herself, echoing Nerili's question of the night before. A freak? 

She had been ruminating for about an hour when another door further along the portico opened and Cadvan peered out. "Maerad!  Good morning!"   He came to up her table. "I see you've been spending your time well," he said, looking at the empty plates. "Is that coffee still hot?"

"Coffee?"

"The drink. Coffee." 

"No."

"A pity. I'm rather partial to it. It's a Suderain drink: you can rarely get it anywhere in Annar except here. They trade the beans from the South."

"It's nice," said Maerad. "But it's strong. I couldn't drink more than one glass."

"A bit like the Thoroldians, yes?" Cadvan said, smiling. He pulled one of the chairs up to the table and sat down.

"Well, I've only met Nerili. But, now you say so, yes."

Cadvan and Maerad sat in companionable silence for a while, looking out over the garden.  Maerad toyed with the idea of asking him about Nerili, and then decided against it.  She doubted he would tell her anything; and another part of her didn't want to know, even if he did.

"It's lovely here," she said at last. "I wish we could stay here forever."

"We can't," said Cadvan. "You know that. But we can certainly stay for a few weeks. We both need a rest. And before we head north to seek the Treesong, we have to some idea what we're looking for. I'm going to have a good look through the Library here - it's the most ancient in Edil-Amarandh, except maybe the one in Turbansk - and try and find some clue.  If we knew what it might be, then it might not be such a goose chase."

"It might be a goose chase anyway," said Maerad, thinking of the argumentative geese she had herded as a slave child, and then of the wise, gentle Bard Nelac, as she had last seen him in Norloch, solemnly laying quest on them.  They were such incongruous images she almost laughed.

"Well, while you hunt about in the library, I'll just sit in the garden," she said.  "I like it here."

"No, you won't," said Cadvan. "You can use the time to study. There's so much that you should know, and that it's dangerous not to know. You really need years to catch up, but of course we'll have to make do. I've spoken to Nerili about it - she's agreed to let you have private teaching, so you don't have to sit in classes with children half your age. And you have particular needs, anyway."

Maerad stuck her lip out mulishly. "I want a rest," she said. "I'm tired."

"And a rest you shall have. For two days. It will take me that long to arrange your lessons. You'll need some beginner's instruction in High Magery, which is a bit peculiar, because you have all the abilities, and more, of a full Bard, but you've never done the basic stuff. I'll have to think about who is best to teach you. Me, probably, but I'll be busy. And of course swordcraft, and reading and writing. You're quick, you'll use your time well."

Maerad pouted, but made no other protest. The prospect of resuming study excited her, but she wasn't going to tell Cadvan that. For all her powers, she was painfully aware that she had very little skill. 
 
 
 

In Busk, for the first time, Maerad began to live the life of a normal Bard. She slipped as easily into it as a fish into a stream; it seemed as natural as breathing. The days settled into a steady pattern: rising at six, breakfast at seven, and lessons from eight to three in the afternoon, with a short break for a light lunch. After that, unless she had further study to do (which was often) her time was her own; she was free to go back to her room and rest, or to sit in the garden, or to wander down to the town and markets of Busk, or, as she began to do more and more often after her first week, to join the noisy Bards in their colloquia under the porticos. She usually ate dinner with Cadvan, either in the Common Hall or in one or other of their rooms, when they would swap news about their day: what Maerad had learnt (a voracious amount) or what Cadvan had found (nothing).  Or they would wander down to the lower town to meet Owan and eat in the one of the many taverns, or at his house, which was surprisingly big for a humble fisherman, cementing what had become a fast friendship. 

As Cadvan had predicted, Maerad used her time well, and within a week all her mentors were telling her that they were astonished by her progress. Years of brusque tutelage from the Bard Mirlad in Gilman's Cot, being taught musicianship by ear, meant her memory was excellent; she had only to be told something once to remember it. But more than that, it seemed as if she held an innate knowledge of Barding which her teachers merely had to reawaken. Although Maerad didn't know this, they all commented on this separately to Cadvan; they found her aptitude a little unnerving. 

Her teachers were all senior Bards in the School of Busk. Elenxi of Busk taught her swordcraft, Intatha of Gent taught her reading and writing and, to Maerad's initial abashment, Nerili herself had taken on the task of introducing her to High Magery. Partly, Cadvan explained, the senior Bards were teaching her because Maerad was such an unusual case and because she needed swift teaching; another reason was secrecy. Maerad was known within the School as Maerad of Innail, travelling with Cadvan, who was too well known to conceal his identity. 

"I don't doubt that some will guess that you may be Maerad of Pellinor," said Cadvan, the first night after her lessons commenced. "Bards are the worst gossips, and your arrival and acceptance as Minor Bard at Innail caused a lot of comment: a survivor of the sack of Pellinor was big news. As was the scandal when I applied to be your sole mentor. But even so, it's better for us to lie low and be discreet, even here. We are just travelling Bards, visiting the School at Nerili's invitation. There is nothing unusual about that."

Maerad shrugged her shoulders. "Do you think there are spies here?"

"For the Dark, you mean?" said Cadvan. "I do not think there are any spies in the School, but nowhere is safe for us: and in the town there could be some. News has not reached here yet from Norloch. I don't doubt that it will soon. And then perhaps things might become a little more dangerous."

Maerad pondered what "dangerous" meant and then her thoughts turned, as they often did, to her young brother Hem. The day before, Cadvan had sent a message by bird to Turbansk, to tell them of their safe arrival in Thorold. Hem would riding there now with their friend, Saliman of Turbansk: Maerad wondered where they were, and if they were safe. 

Maerad's lessons were interesting. Her sessions with Intatha of Gent gave her a little pang at first; they could not but recall Dernhil, who was the first to open for her the world of reading and writing. For Maerad, reading itself was imbued with memories of him. And Intatha was of the same School as Dernhil, although Maerad never dared to ask her if she knew him. 

Intatha was an imposing-looking Bard: tall, with high cheekbones, a formidable eagle nose and hair that was silvering from black. She was, in a particularly gentle way, a stern teacher. Maerad worked hard for her, not because she feared her dispraise, but because she somehow expected something of her which Maerad wished not to disappoint. She found herself mastering the alphabetic script of Nelsor very quickly, building on the basics Dernhil had taught her, and even found that her handwriting began to please her, instead of looking scratchy and ill-formed. Intatha also started teaching her the Ladhen runes, coded symbols which Bards used when travelling to leave signs to each other, and some of the Dhyllic pictograms. It was intense work, and Maerad left their long sessions feeling both stimulated and drained, with her arms full of more work to do on her own.

Elenxi of Busk was surprisingly fun. For all his age and his giant frame he was quick and agile, and Maerad was not surprised to find he had been a famous warrior in his youth: she imagined that he would have been fearsome. Unlike Indik, the master swordsman who had taught Maerad at Innail, Elenxi was a patient and encouraging teacher. She was also no longer a raw beginner: holding a sword was no longer strange, and she had quick reactions and a good natural balance, and was surprisingly strong for someone of her size. Elenxi coached her in advanced swordcraft and unarmed combat, and Maerad began to feel for the first time that perhaps she might be able to hold her own against attack. 

"Don't get over confident!" Elenxi warned, after praising her efforts in her first lesson. "You are still only a beginner. It's the stroke you don't see that kills you."  He looked at her, wiping the sweat out of his eyes. "I think we deserve a wine, yes, young Bard?  We have worked hard today."

"A wine?" said Maerad shyly, thinking of the vociferous Bards in the porticos. Elenxi looked at her and laughed.

"Don't tell me you are frightened!  Well, we'll have to cure that." 

"But I'm filthy!" Maerad objected, blushing.

Elenxi lifted an eyebrow. "So?  Does one have to be clean to drink?  I should like to know when that was made a rule. No, young Bard, I will hear no excuses. We'll go to Oreston's house, he has the best wines."

They stowed their fighting gear, and only permitting her a quick wash, Elenxi led a reluctant Maerad down the road to one of the houses nearer the town. He strode into the portico confidently, expecting Maerad to be right behind him, and when he saw her still hesitating in the road went back and physically took hold of her, almost dragging her to a table where about six Bards, men and women, were engaged in lively conversation. At one end of the table a young man was idly plucking arpeggios, which ran like a quick river of music underneath the talk, on a beautiful big bellied stringed instrument. 

Maerad felt paralysed by shyness, and sat down quietly, hoping nobody would notice her. Elenxi exchanged cheerful greetings with all the Bards, and then introduced Maerad as a guest from Innail. She was immediately swamped with questions in both the Speech and Thoroldian: Innail?  It is long since someone came all the way from the East - how goes it there?  How was Oron?  They had heard of the death of Dernhil of Gent - how could that have happened?  Hulls murdering Bards in a School? 

Elenxi put up his hand to stem the tide. "Now, be fair," he said in the Speech. "Maerad is clever, but she can't speak Thoroldian. How can she answer all of you?  Anyway, what does she know about the high policies of Innail?  She is only a young Bard, and she hasn't been there for months. We have been working hard at improving her swordcraft this afternoon, and she is tired and needs a wine. She came all this way here to be taught by me, which shows remarkable good taste." 

He winked at her slyly, and Maerad, grateful for his intervention, gave him a little smile; she hadn't understood much, but she knew they had asked about Dernhil, and the mention distressed her. Suddenly a glass full of a dark red wine was in front of her, and she was being plied with delicacies and solicitations instead of questions. She clutched her glass and gulped the wine. The conversation resumed, in the Speech so she could understand it, and she sat quietly listening. After a while, emboldened by her second glass of wine, she asked the young man with the instrument, a Bard called Honas, what it was.

"It's a makilon," he said. "My father made this one especially for me: he's a master crafter of instruments, famous in Thorold. It's beautiful, yes?"  He handed it to her, and she stroked the smooth, mellow wood, admiring the mother of pearl inlay around the soundhole and the delicate carving of its neck.

"Oh yes, it's lovely," said Maerad. She let her fingers trickle over the strings, listening to its resonance. "So beautifully made. I've never seen one before. How do you play it?"

Honas, his face alight with what was obviously his passion, took the instrument back and started to show her the complicated fingerings and plucking styles for the makilon. Maerad's fingers itched to try them, and before long Honas gave it to her, placing her hands correctly on the neck and the strings. She ventured an arpeggio, marvelling at the sound. Honas was beginning to be more interested in Maerad then the music, but only Elenxi, keeping discreet watch from the other side of the table, noticed this. He smiled into his beard. Maerad was totally absorbed, and had now forgotten her shyness altogether.

Maybe they weren't so frightening, these Bards.
 
 
 

The most demanding studies were those in High Magery. This was something Maerad had never studied formally, although Cadvan had taught her much on their travels together. She went to Nerili's rooms for her first lesson with a strange reluctance; she hadn't spoken to the First Bard since the night she had arrived in Busk, and she felt a little apprehensive, as if she would not know what to say. Nerili took care to put her at her ease. 

"Well, Maerad," she said, smiling, when Maerad entered. "Cadvan has told me of your feats, striking down both a Kulag and a Wight. It seems passing strange to be teaching you, when you have already done more than most Bards!"

That day Nerili was dressed plainly, and wore no jewellery, but Maerad still found her beauty a bit dazzling, and she felt stiff and awkward. "There's still a lot I don't know," she mumbled, embarrassed. "I didn't think about anything when those things happened. It just - burst out of me." 

"So I understand. Well, we will just have to feel strange about it, no?  I'm sure that will disappear once we start working."  And so, Maerad found, it did.

They worked in a room which was clearly set aside for teaching: there was little furniture, apart from a big table and bench by the wall where they could both sit, if need be. A large part of what Maerad learned over the ensuing weeks was theoretical study of what the Bards called the Knowing, which was roughly divided into the Three Arts, Reading, Making and Tending, each of which was intricately related to the others. She was also taught various traditions about the Speech, some of which contradicted each other. "There is no single truth," Nerili explained. "But all these truths, woven together, might give us a picture of what is true. That is why it's important to know all the different stories. We can never see all the sky at once."

Maerad was introduced to the complex system of Bardic ethics. It had evolved over many centuries, and was centred on the idea of the Balance. The more she learnt about these things, the more Maerad wondered that Bards did magic at all: it seemed that drawing on her powers was fraught with responsibilities and implications, and that in most cases Bards practised their powers in order not to use them. Often in those days she thought uneasily of the times when her powers had exploded out of her, uncontrollable and terrifying, and of the wild exhilaration she had felt when she finally come into the Speech. Serious magery, she learned, was something practised seldom and only at need. The Balance was a delicate thing, and the smallest action could have unexpected and unintended consequences. Bards who had turned to the Dark, the Hulls, were those who desired power above all else, and eschewed the responsibilities of the Balance. 

"The difficulty is, of course," said Nerili thoughtfully during their first session, "that because they have not the same inhibitions on their powers, they can access forces and take actions that Bards will not. And this can make it difficult to fight them: they laugh at us, because they say our hands are tied and we are weak. Despite their mockery, we are well able to defend ourselves... but we remember that if we did not adhere to the Balance, even in our extremity, we would become like them. And that would be the greater defeat."

Maerad wondered at this, but for the moment did not argue. She thought of the brutality of her childhood in Gilman's Cot and of the malice of the Dark. She remembered the times when she had had to kill, in order to save her own life. She had always felt, with a deep discomfort, that the killing wounded her somehow, even though it had been necessary, even if it could be totally justified.  Yet, she thought, there might be times when the Light couldn't afford such niceties. 

Nerili looked at her steadily and then added, as if she caught the tenor of her thoughts:  "There's a great force in the renunciation of power, which those who are blinded by the lust for domination cannot understand, because those who love truly do not desire power. Among Bards, it is often known as the Way of the Heart. The Dark understands nothing of this: it is its greatest weakness."  Maerad started - this chimed a little too uncomfortably with her thoughts of the earlier night - but Nerili was staring out of the window, as if Maerad was not there. 

"Love is not easy," said Nerili. "We begin by loving the things we can, according to our stature. But it is not long before we find that what we love is other than ourselves, and that our love is no protection against being wounded. Do we then seek to dominate what we love, to make it bend to our will, to stop it hurting us, even though to do so is to betray love?  And that is only where the difficulty begins." 

She turned to Maerad, smiling a little sadly, but Maerad didn't respond: she felt too surprised.  For a moment she was sure that Nerili was speaking of her own feelings for Cadvan, and was aware, too, of the tangle of Maerad's emotions and sought, obscurely, to comfort her.  She shook her head: she was probably imagining things again.  To her relief, Nerili dropped the subject, and moved onto the practical aspects of High Magery. 

In these lessons, Maerad began to learn properly how to use her Bardic powers: how to control and shape the Speech, and how to make enchantments and spells. Nerili started with glimmerspells, the least part, she explained, of Bardic magic: a magic of illusion, not of substance. "You can already do glimmerspells, simply by willing them," Nerili said. "You know that?" 

"Yes," said Maerad. It was easy to make herself unseen, or to change her appearance. 

"There's more to them, nevertheless, than those instinctive powers. Glimmerspells can be quite useful. Not against Bards, of course, as you know: Bard eyes can always see through them. But if we do this" - and Nerili made a strange pass with her hands - "we can persuade Bard eyes to collude with us. Though it won't work against a Bard's will. And then we can share our imaginations."

Suddenly, in the middle of the room, there appeared a silver sapling. As Maerad watched, enchanted, it grew to the height of the roof in the space of a minute, putting out branches and broad silver leaves. When it was fully grown, there burst out all over it little golden buds, which opened wide to luminous flowers that seemed to be made of pure light. The petals withered and vanished, releasing a delicate fragrance, and where the flowers had been there swelled marvellous fruits: golden apples so bright they threw shadows over the walls. There was a music in the room, the same clear inhuman voices Maerad had heard during her instatement, which seemed to her like the sound of stars singing. She gasped in pure delight.

"The Tree of Light, as I see it each year at Midsummer," said Nerili, looking at it with her head cocked to one side. "It is beautiful, yes?  Each Bard sees it in her own way. This is how it appears to me. If ever you do the Rite of Renewing, you will see a different one. But just as beautiful."  She clapped her hands, and the tree vanished. "Now you try."

Maerad's mind went blank. "What?" she asked.

Nerili shrugged. "Show me something," she said. "Something you remember. Did you catch the passes?"  She showed Maerad the hand gestures again, and Maerad copied them slowly, fixing them in her memory. Into her mind leapt an image of the Wight she had destroyed at the Broken Teeth, just before she had reached Norloch. She bent her imagination to visualising it, and Nerili gasped.

"Not that!" she said quickly. "Not a creature of the Dark. No, show me something else."

My memories are full of horror, Maerad thought to herself. I can't help it. Obediently she pushed the Wight out of her mind, and cast about for another image. Gradually, shimmering a little, the figure of a woman appeared in the room, facing away from them. She was dressed in white robes and her long dark hair fell unbound down her back. Slowly she turned to look at the two Bards. Her face was full of sadness.

"Your mother, Milana of Pellinor," said Nerili softly. "I never met her. She looks very much like you. Thank you, Maerad."  The figure faded away, and there was a short silence. Maerad looked down at the floor. She didn't know why she had shown Nerili her mother, and she wished she hadn't, because she now felt like weeping. Nerili took her hand, and Maerad jumped. If she had said anything to her, Maerad might have started howling, but she didn't: they just sat wordlessly for a while, until Maerad had collected herself.

"Magery, even the slightest, calls on the deepest parts of ourselves," Nerili said at last, releasing her hand. "And often that is painful. It is the pain of being in the world, where so much that is fair passes into death and forgetfulness. But if we are to know joy, we must embrace that pain. You cannot have one without the other."

Maerad nodded, her face downcast. Sometimes, it seemed to her, the pain far outweighed the joy.
 
 
 

An emissary arrived from Norloch very quickly, five days after Maerad and Cadvan. They made council with Busk's First Circle and left early the next day for Gent. After they had gone, Nerili called another council of the First and Second Circles, all the senior Bards of the School of Busk, and this time Maerad and Cadvan were summoned.

When they arrived in the Council Room, Maerad was surprised to see half a dozen people who were clearly not Bards. They were the Steward of Busk, a tall, burly man called Arnamil, and the members of his Chamber, three women and two men; one of whom, Maerad saw, was Owan d'Aroki. In tandem with the six Bards of the First Circle of the School, the Chamber governed the Isle of Thorold. With the sixteen Bards, it made a sizeable gathering around the large round table which dominated the room.  When everyone was seated, Nerili stood and began without preamble. 

"Welcome, Chamber and Bards. Thank you for coming. I realise this meeting is out of our usual schedule, but these are unusual times."  She paused, and looked slowly around the table, meeting the eyes of each person present. "Bards of the First Circle, you know why I have called you here. You were present yesterday, when Igan of Norloch issued the edict of Norloch to the School of Thorold. What he told me deeply concerns all of Thorold, and this is why I asked you, Lord Steward, and your Chamber, to be present." 

She drew a deep breath, as if she was nervous; but Maerad realised quickly that Nerili was, with difficulty, restraining fury. 

"Igan of Norloch informed me yesterday that there have been certain changes within the School of Norloch, and within Annar."  Here Maerad sat up more straightly. "There has been revealed, he said, a plot within the First Circle itself, a faction of rebels who are in league with the Dark. The rebellion has been put down, and its leaders imprisoned. The imprisoned traitors are Nelac of Lirigon, Tared of Desor and Caragal of Norloch." 

There was an audible gasp of dismay around the table, and Maerad met Cadvan's eyes. He looked saddened, not shocked; she suspected he knew this already. Nerili continued. "Norloch is under the military rule of the White Guard, commanded by the First Bard, Enkir of Norloch, to combat the emergency caused by the rebels. He has invoked the triple sceptre, the emblem of the lost Kings of Annar, and claims the authority of High King over all the Seven Kingdoms." 

Again there was a collective gasp of shock. Arnamil leapt out of his chair, his mouth open ready to say something, but Nerili held up her hand to indicate she wasn't finished, and he slowly sat down.

"Moreover, he spoke of news that the kingdom of Dén Raven is moving in the south. He said that Norloch expects that Turbansk will be attacked within the next three months by the Sorcerer Imank."  Maerad thought of the army she had seen in her foredream. She bit her lip and looked down at her hands, trying to focus her thoughts; even if Turbansk was attacked, it didn't mean that Hem would be hurt. But it was hard to think of her brother in the midst of war; he was so young. Nerili kept speaking.

"In this climate of danger, Igan tells me, the First Bard of Norloch and the King of Annar, Enkir of Norloch, seeks the loyalty of all Schools and all Kingdoms. We are to give our undivided fealty, without question, to the triple sceptre, or we are to be regarded as rebels. And he gave me to understand, in not so many words, that to be rebels, and thus to earn the enmity of Norloch, would be to risk the full wrath of Norloch's might and power."

The final statement nearly caused a riot. Almost everyone in the room stood up and started shouting. Nerili again held up her hand for silence, and her voice rang out over the room.

"My friends," she said. "My dear fellow Thoroldians. I know as well as you that never, even in the times of the Kings of Annar, were we or any of the Seven Kingdoms under the authority of Annar. And you can be sure that I said this to Igan, embassy of Enkir of Norloch. And he said to me, 'Nerili of Busk, times change. We have entered dangerous times, and we must change our free ways if we are to survive them. Thoroldians must obey the new laws, or be the victims of them.'  Such is the edict of Enkir of Norloch."  Nerili bowed her head. "I am ashamed to be the bearer of this news. It casts a shadow over all Bards."

There was an wrathful murmur around the table, and Arnamil stood up again, his eyes flashing. "What did you say to this insult, Lady of Busk?" he asked. "Did you throw him out of the School, with his tail between his cowardly legs, as he deserved?"

"I did not."  Nerili looked him steadily in the eye. "Arnamil, to do so would be tantamount to severing all connection with Norloch, and risking open war. Such a thing has not happened since the Kings ruled in Annar, and such I am not prepared to venture, on my own authority."  She again looked around the table, which now sat in tense silence.

"I received him politely. I listened politely. I told him that I was aware that we live in dangerous times, and that we must take heed in such times of such that threatens us. I said I would consult with the Bards and Chamber, and then would let Norloch know of our response."  She paused. "He gave us a week. And he said again that if our fealty was withheld, we would suffer grave consequences."

"I say, then," said Arnamil, thumping the table with his huge fist, "that in a week we send back his damned edict, torn into little pieces."  Most of the table cheered. "We don't need Norloch."  He sat down truculently.

Now Elenxi stood. "I suggest, for the meantime, another way," he said. "Because if we can avoid war with Norloch, I think we should. Let them force the issue. If Norloch seeks to betray the covenant between Annar and the Seven Kingdoms in this way, then let Norloch break it. Not us."

"What do you suggest, then?"  Owan, who had hitherto sat silently throughout the noisy meeting, twisted around to look up at the old warrior.

"I suggest we offer Norloch our fealty."  There was an angry rumble. "We offer them our fealty, I say, under our unwavering allegiance to the Light. That covenant guarantees our freedom and our independence. If Norloch doesn't like it, Norloch has to say on what terms our fealty is unsatisfactory. This will take a little time, since we have broken no promises. Meanwhile, we send emissaries to other Schools in the Seven Kingdoms, and seek to know their own answers to this outrage. I think their minds will be like to ours. Will Annar seriously declare war on all of the Seven Kingdoms?  And in the meantime we look to our fortifications."  He glared around the table from under his bushy eyebrows, and sat down.

After a short silence, Arnamil started chuckling. "They always said you were a fox, Elenxi. I like it." 

"This is the course I advise, and the full First Circle," said Nerili, standing again. "Are we all agreed?"  Everyone in the room, even Cadvan and Maerad, who were not really supposed to vote, put up their hands. Nerili nodded. "Good then. We will pursue this policy until we find out whether Norloch's words have real steel, or are only empty threats. Norloch would be a dire enemy, doubt it not; but it would be no small thing to invade Thorold. We will all keep in close consultation. Elenxi and Arnamil can confer on the strength of our defences, and improve them, if need be."

"They'd have to kill every man, woman and child before they beat us," growled one of the Chamber. "And even then..."

"Now, there is one more thing. I need to introduce to you Cadvan of Lirigon and Maerad of Pellinor."  Cadvan stood up, and Maerad, taken by surprise, scrambled up after him. "Most of you know Cadvan well. He has spent much time here. Maerad only some of you know; she has been Cadvan's student, and is now a full Bard. They are, Igan told me, dangerous members of this rebellion in Norloch, and they are outlawed. They are now sought over all Annar."
The council turned to look at them with lively curiosity.

"I want you all to know that I cannot and do not believe that either of these Bards have any truck with the Dark. Igan tells me that anyone who hands these criminals to Norloch will earn great favour with the citadel, but those who harbour them from justice will feel the full force of its displeasure. He is unaware as yet, of course, that they are here in Thorold. I warned my people to keep silent when the embassy came, and I know also that they were asked after, both within the town and the School. To my knowledge, they found out nothing; but we cannot be sure of that. They may already know that these Bards have sought refuge here.

"I ask you now whether we, as Thoroldians, will hand them over to Norloch, as is ordered?  Or do we suffer this risk - to grant haven to Cadvan of Lirigon and Maerad of Pellinor, and risk its punishment?"

The table erupted again. The mood against Norloch was so ugly that Nerili had no need of persuasive argument: to be declared rebels by Enkir was itself enough to ensure their protection. 

"I need not tell you, then," said Nerili, "that their presence must be kept secret within the School, and must not be made known within the town of Busk, aside from those here, who already know. We do not know what spies are abroad, and the arm of Norloch is long. A loose word could forfeit their lives, and it would also cause Norloch to declare us rebels."  She stared around the table, to underline her seriousness. "Well, that is the end of our business."

She lifted up her arms, as if in blessing, and said with a sudden wild joy which sent goosebumps down Maerad's spine: "My friends - you make me so glad!  I expected no less from you. No tyrant will crush the heart of Thorold!"

The council ended in cheers.