The Singing Read Free Page A

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 prickled 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 passed 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.
    That was a Bard, he said.
    Or Bards.
    No, only one, I think. Cadvan sighed heavily, and strengthened his shield, I would say not a particularly powerful Bard. It explains the cloaking charm. It takes a powerful Hull to cloak its presence so thoroughly; Bards find it easier to hide themselves. But even if this Bard desires to kill us, I do not desire to kill any Bards. Though what a Bard is doing around here, I cannot begin to imagine...
    They