The Singing by Alison Croggon Read Free Book Online Page A

a stern-looking, stocky man, the severity of his face exaggerated by a savage scar that drew the skin around his eyes into a squint.
    "I'll be leaving you scoundrels for a while," he said to his students. "If I find that any of you have been lazy while I'm away, a price will be exacted. Don't think that I won't notice. I will. That includes you, Rundal," he said, turning his fierce gaze onto a young man whose undisciplined hair framed his face with a mass of curls.
    This imp-faced lad of about fifteen looked up and nodded seriously. As Indik turned away, he winked slyly at his friend next to him. Maerad was quite certain that Indik saw this, but he gave no sign as he greeted them.
    "So you're still alive," he said gruffly to Maerad, unable to entirely conceal his pleasure. "Amazing. I think that deserves a wine, don't you?"
    Bards, Maerad reflected as she and Cadvan followed Indik to a nearby tavern called, predictably enough, the Horse's Mane, thought every occasion deserved a drink. Even if there wasn't an occasion, they would invent one. So different from the thugs at Gilman's Cot, where she had been a slave; there they would gulp down the voka, an eye-stinging spirit distilled from turnips, until they vomited or fell senseless to the ground. Maerad had very seldom seen a drunken Bard, and had never seen Bards drinking themselves into a stupor. For them, drinking was all about pleasure: winemaking was considered one of the higher arts, and skilled winemakers were greatly revered.
    Once they had their wine, and were seated by a fire at a low table looking out through a mullioned window on a day that was rapidly clouding over, Indik began to talk about the recent events in Annar. Unlike Silvia or Malgorn, he seemed enlivened; a cold light burned in his eyes as he spoke of the battles that had taken place.
    "I've felt it coming," he said. "Like you, Cadvan, I knew something was happening these past years—a gathering. And now the storm breaks, no?"
    "Only its outriders, I fear," Cadvan answered. "The storm itself is yet to hit."
    "Yes, well. I heard about Turbansk." Indik was briefly gloomy, staring ahead, pulling at his lower lip. "That is bad, certainly. Very bad. And all this scheming from Enkir. That's bad too. If Norloch has gone to the Dark without a sword being raised, we are in desperate times indeed."
    Maerad glanced swiftly at the shrewd old warrior. No one else, even in Innail, had spoken of Norloch as being in alliance with the Dark; it was thought that Enkir was acting on his own black counsel.
    "Enkir is with the Dark," she said. "I have no doubt of it. Though many others do, obviously. I suppose no one wants to believe that of the First Bard of Annar." She tried to keep the scorn from her voice, but it was difficult; she felt a particular hatred for Enkir. It was Enkir who had set fire to Pellinor, who had betrayed and killed her parents, who had destroyed her childhood.
    "Difficult to get people to believe you, huh," Indik snorted. "It's obvious enough to me. I never trusted that dried-up old fish. People like Enkir need power to cover up their weakness; they are afraid of who they will see if they are left without its trappings. Some puny thing, I imagine, all covered in sores. Those people have worms for souls. Hulls in almost every respect..."
    The contempt was thick in his voice, and he nearly spat. Cadvan smiled grimly. "How right you are, old friend," he said. "And how do you read things here?"
    "The attacks on us are all from the mountains, mainly at the east end of Innail Fesse. Westward so far is basically untouched. But they are directed with a chill intelligence, and we have suffered some bad losses. You heard, of course, about Oron The only walled towns in Innail are Innail School and Tinagel; most people live in villages. But many villagers are now behind walls in Tinagel or here. Some stay and fight. One thing, those who say the valley dwellers are soft have it sadly wrong. . . . Most attacks