Copyright © [first year of publication] Individual author and/or
Walker Books Ltd. All rights reserved.
T h e S i n g i n g

r e t u r n
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
course, 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 travellers 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 faggots 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 rumours 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 hoofbeats 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 faggots so tightly to his chest that his
knuckles were white.
“Over there, you think?”
The shepherd heard the man dismount and begin to walk
towards 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, and 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 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 face 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 shrugged. “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 travelled swiftly, and 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 passed
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 passed, waiting for the shadows to fall and its powers to
grow strong. At the thought her hackles rose, and she gave an
involuntary growl.
I 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. Towards
sunset the sky clouded over, and a thick mist began to rise from
the ground, muffling 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 and 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 massive 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 pricked up, but she did not answer. Her gaze
turned inward as she pondered Cadvan’s words. She had travelled
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, not so close to the mountains.
I don’t think I’ll forget, she said at last. But even so, I can’t
change now. 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 travelled 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 Arkan – although she did – 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 him – he was as beyond her understanding
as the mountains themselves – 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 smelt 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 only illuminated 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
which 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 upwards, 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 agonising 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 probably think you’re a Hull, said Maerad. You should
stop wearing black…
At that moment, another blast of white fire flashed above
them. It followed the last almost at once; their conversation had
flashed between them as swiftly as thought itself.
The white fire had broken the Bard’s cloaking charm, and
now Maerad could sense exactly where their attacker was.
He was a few spans from them, just outside the copse; he was
definitely a man, and definitely a Bard, and alone. But there
was something wrong, all the same: even Maerad’s muffled
Bardic instincts could tell that there was something amiss in his
magery.
Can he harm us? she asked, as another bolt of white fire
flashed over their heads.
I don’t believe so. Though he may be holding something in
reserve.
Shield me, said Maerad. Perhaps I can overpower him without
hurting him.

Cadvan nodded, and she felt the prickle of magery in her
skin as he cast a shield of magery to protect her. Then he lifted
his hand and sent a blast of white flame over the Bard’s head
to distract him, as Maerad began to move noiselessly out of
the trees, circling behind their attacker so she could stalk him.
Before long she was behind him, readying herself to pounce:
his silhouette jumped out briefly, black against another flash of
white fire. She felt her puzzlement deepen as she watched him.
He reminded her of nothing so much as a boy throwing stones
at a tree, and his attack was about as effective. It made no sense
at all.
She mindtouched Cadvan to warn him that she was about
to attack, readied herself, and then leapt upon the Bard’s back,
knocking him to the ground and winding him. He was taken so
completely by surprise he could do nothing to defend himself,
falling without even a cry. He lay struggling for breath beneath
Maerad’s weight as she pinned him to the ground.
Within moments Cadvan had joined Maerad. He froze the
Bard with a charm, rendering him utterly unable to move or to
work magery. Maerad lifted her paws from his shoulders and
sat on her haunches nearby. Now there was no danger, she was
overwhelmed with curiosity.
Cadvan waited until the Bard had stopped gasping, and
then roughly sat him up and loosened the charm so he could
speak, setting a small magelight before his face for illumination.
It was difficult to tell how old he was, even given the difficulty
of estimating a Bard’s age. He looked like a man in his late fifties,
but he was skeletally thin and his face was so seamed with
suffering it made any guess impossible: he might have been
much younger. He had a grotesque tic, so that he seemed to be
always grimacing, and his flesh shone white through the rents
in his filthy clothes. Although he must have known it was no
use, he struggled violently against the freezing charm.
Maerad looked once into his eyes, and then turned her head
away, battling an overwhelming animal panic. He’s mad, she
said to Cadvan.
Cadvan said nothing. He seemed to be bracing himself.
“It is no use trying any magery against us,” he said to the
Bard. Although he spoke harshly, Maerad could hear the pity in
his voice. “And I don’t recommend it.”
The man stopped struggling and met Cadvan’s gaze. His
eyes glittered with hatred.
“Kill me then,” he said, and spat.
“I do not wish to kill you,” said Cadvan. “That’s the last
thing I want to do.”
“Then I will kill you.” The Bard’s face twisted. “Get your
monstrous beast to tear me to pieces. I will kill you if you do not
kill me. So kill me.”
“I don’t want to kill you,” said Cadvan again. “And you
can’t kill me.” He paused. “What is your name?”
The Bard cackled, and Maerad jumped. It was a horrible
sound, an expression of such despair that she went cold.
“Name? You ask my name? I don’t have any name. What’s
yours, you spawn of the Dark? I know that such as you have no
name either, so why do you ask me?”
“I have a name,” said Cadvan. “And so do you.” A halo of
starlight began to bloom gently about Cadvan’s form, and he
leaned forward and pressed his palm against the man’s forehead.
After a time, Cadvan sighed deeply and took away his
hand, and Maerad looked again at the Bard. His face slowly
relaxed as the pain and hatred ebbed from his expression.
“Now,” said Cadvan calmly. “What is your name?”
There was a long silence before the Bard answered, as if he
had to search through his memory before he could find the right
answer. “Hilarin,” he said. “Hilarin of Pellinor.”
Cadvan’s face went white. “Hilarin of Pellinor?” he
repeated.
Do you know him? asked Maerad.
I have heard his name, said Cadvan. Hilarin of Pellinor was
a famous singer, once.
“My friend, what has happened to you?” Cadvan spoke with
a grieving gentleness and took his hand, but Hilarin snatched it
back, rubbing it with his other hand as if the touch had soiled
him. “It was thought that you were dead. Where have you
been?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been – I’ve been hunting…” Hilarin’s
words were confused, and Maerad saw the shadows gathering
in his face again. Even Cadvan’s magery couldn’t keep his madness
at bay for long. “There was a School here once and it has
been taken and hidden. But I know where to find it. It’s buried
beneath the earth. They took it, those dark ones, the dark ones
like you, I’ll kill them all, you disgust me, you traitors…” He
trailed off into a string of obscenities, and then began to weep
helplessly. Maerad looked at Cadvan in bafflement.
What does he mean?
Cadvan’s face was grim and sad. Not much, I fear. Nonsense.
I guess that the sack of Pellinor drove him mad. Or perhaps
something else.
Maerad stared at Hilarin. This man, she thought, had once
been a proud Bard of Pellinor. This drooling, broken man. She
wondered how he had survived. She suddenly wanted to be
sick.
What can we do with him? she asked at last. We can’t leave
him like this.
She felt the agony of indecision in Cadvan’s mind. No, he
said. But neither can we take him with us. Our quest is too
urgent to risk it with a madman. I wonder what happened to
him…
A vivid image rose in Maerad’s mind: she saw again how
her mother Milana, also a proud Bard, had been broken by
Enkir, the First Bard of Annar, during the sack of Pellinor. It was
Enkir, a traitor to the Light, who had led the assault on Pellinor
when Maerad had been a small child. What he had done to
her mother was one of Maerad’s most painful memories. She
thought she knew what might have happened to Hilarin.
Can you heal him? asked Maerad.
Healing this is beyond my Knowing, said Cadvan. I can but
offer a little relief, a little rest. And perhaps set a thought in his
dreams, to lead him where he might find some respite. Lirigon
would be the closest place…
He sat down next to Hilarin and began to weave a charm,
murmuring words from the Speech in a low voice. The Bard at
once sank into a deep sleep; but that was only the beginning of
Cadvan’s magery. Maerad watched him for a while, and then,
realising that he would be some time, she wandered back to the
fire.
Darsor was a seasoned warrior: knowing that the skirmish
was over, he had already fallen asleep again. Maerad didn’t
wake him. She lay with her nose to the fire, as deeply depressed
as she had ever been. She wasn’t sure if she had seen anything
more pitiable in her life. Hilarin of Pellinor was a famous singer,
once. And now…
Cadvan returned later, his face grey with weariness, and laid
his hand lightly on Maerad’s pelt.
You should sleep, she said, turning to him as he sat down
beside her.
Soon, he answered.
Will Hilarin ever heal?
I don’t think so, he said. Something is so deeply broken in
him that I think it will never mend. I have done what I can; he
will sleep for a long time, and I have shielded him so he will be
safe. And when we are far from here, he will wake up and make
his way to Lirigon, where there are healers who might be able
to soothe his suffering, if nothing else.
What happened to him is like what has happened to this
country, said Maerad.
Aye, said Cadvan. It is. The Dark does its work thoroughly.
What can we do against such wills that work these things?
Cadvan picked up a stick and stirred up the embers of the
fire, and sparks flew up into the night. We do what we can, he
said.
But is there any hope?
Cadvan said nothing for a while. When he spoke, his voice
was harsh. There is always hope, he said.

oh that ending is so sad

I know!

I was kinda hoping for a nuzzle from maerad in there too...

lol yes that would be so cute, oh there are so many funny things alison can do with the wolf thing i cant wait
what i dont get though is why she could become human at the end of the riddle and she cant become human now cuz of arkan that doesnt make any since to me

Well, I think that in The Singing Alison will explain..

BUT I think that the reasoning behind it was that she didn't realize how dangerous it really was for her, and Cadvan convinced her to change into a wolf...because he LOVES HER! Wouldn't that just be ah-mazing?