The Gift (15 page)

“He must have been a Bard,” said Silvia. “Perhaps he lost his way. Such things happen. I wonder where he was from, and what was his history? It must be a sad story. And your mother? Did she teach you?”

“She . . . I don’t remember much. She taught me some songs. I was only seven when she died.” Maerad’s face closed, and Silvia waited, holding her breath. “I don’t remember her ever telling me about Pellinor. But when Cadvan asked me, I just knew. How is that?”

“Cadvan is a Truthteller,” said Silvia seriously. “There are different kinds of Bards, as you will discover. Bards like Cadvan are the most rare, and the path they tread is the most perilous. He can bring the truth out of a person, just by asking, even if they didn’t know it was there.”

“Yes,” said Maerad thoughtfully. “I can see that. He is harsh, sometimes, and distant. But he hasn’t lied to me.”

“No, nor will he, if he counts you friend, though he is wily too, and apt at the arts of disguise. He is a difficult person to know well. Most Bards are.”

They paused, watching the shadows lengthen over the courtyard.

“Are you a Bard, Silvia?” asked Maerad suddenly.

“Yes, I am,” said Silvia. “My knowledge is mainly with herblore and medicine. I do not study the high knowledge of peoples long dead or the histories of Annar and the Seven Kingdoms or the great battles of Light and Dark, as Cadvan does. Malgorn’s knowledge is that of beasts, the beasts of the farmyard and of the wild. Few know as much as he does of the secret ways of animals, and none more than he of the husbandry of this land. The ways of Barding are many, but all are important in the life of this land, and all meet in singing, which braids together the different knowings into a wide and subtle music, the music of living.” Silvia seemed no longer to be aware of Maerad’s presence, and gazed into an unseen distance. “It is a great Gift, the Gift of Barding,” she said softly. “And a great love, and a great burden. For all that we care for and love so much must die. And is not all our singing a lament for all that is green and fair and must pass, like shadows on a plain, leaving no trace behind? What song, however so fair, can staunch that anguish?”

Maerad perceived the deep sadness in Silvia’s face, and wondered what griefs had carved her beauty, so gentle and yet underneath, she sensed, harder than any stone. Silvia shook herself a little and smiled and seemed again the merry, practical woman Maerad was already beginning to love, her starved heart splitting open under the soft pressure of Silvia’s smile. Now she saw how profundities moved beneath her laughter, like unmapped depths of water beneath a dazzling surface of ripples, and wondered at the complexities of these people.
My people,
she said to herself, trying it out.
My people.
But Silvia was already standing up.

“Alas, we have not time for me to show you the School today,” she said. “I thought to show the Singing Hall, and the other Bardhouses, and other things that might interest you, perhaps. Now you should wash. We will eat soon, but not privately tonight: the Bards dine together, for the Welcome Feast. The Meet proper starts tomorrow.”

Maerad looked down at her feet, and Silvia clasped her hands. “Maerad, don’t be shy!” And she kissed her on both cheeks. “Come, I will help you choose what to wear. Then I must prepare myself. The Welcome Feast is always a joyous time, and no one will be talking business. But if you are tired, or feel that you must leave for any reason, you must tell me. Yes?”

Maerad nodded, and Silvia took her back through the kitchen, where meats were turning on spits over the fire, and the iron range was crowded with pots steaming and bubbling, and breads were being taken out of the ovens and left to cool on clean cloths. A different delicious smell emanated from each corner, and now all the cooks seemed busier and more serious. Silvia put the plate and glass down in the scullery and hurried Maerad up the stairs again to her room, where she drew from the wooden chest a dress of deep crimson, richly embroidered on the neck and sleeves with gold thread, and laid it on her bed. Maerad looked at it nervously.

“Oh, that’s much too grand for me,” she said.

“No, no Maerad. This is a feast day! It will fit, I promise. It’s a beautiful dress; it used to be mine. I loved wearing it when I was little older than you. Wear it as a token of my friendship. But now, you go to the bathroom. I will come back later and help you dress.” She pushed the bathrobe into Maerad’s hands and hurried off down the hall.

Maerad stood in the doorway and looked helplessly around the room. Since her torment earlier, the room had been tidied: fresh sheets were on the bed, and the fire had been relit. Her hands ached for her lyre, but remembering that Silvia was returning and expected her to be washed, she found her way to the bathroom and washed herself with the soft cloths and soap, thinking she would very much like another bath. She returned to her room, shut the door, and sat on the bed waiting for Silvia. She didn’t arrive, so Maerad picked up her lyre and began to play, humming as she did. She slipped from one melody to another, deepening the harmonies and extending the variations as she went, and was completely absorbed by the time Silvia knocked. She stopped, startled, and paused. “Maerad?” said Silvia.

“Yes?”

“May I come in?”

“Oh, yes, of course!” Maerad was halfway to the door when Silvia entered.

“Beautiful!” said Silvia warmly. “Cadvan said your musicianship was extraordinary. You were Bard-taught for sure. You must bring your lyre tonight, but Maerad . . .” and here Silvia’s tone was suddenly serious, “you must not tell anyone this is Dhyllic ware. Cadvan knew, because he is versed in ancient lore, but very few Bards would recognize this without being told. And such things are best kept hidden. Now,” she went on, “shall we get you dressed? I haven’t had such fun since my own daughter was your age.”

“You have a daughter?” asked Maerad, a little startled. Silvia didn’t look old enough to have grown-up children.

“Yes. I did.” Silvia’s face was suddenly withdrawn, as if the question hurt her, and something told Maerad not to question any further.

Silvia was in high dress. She wore a moss green robe that fell in rich folds to the floor from a bodice sewn with tiny pearls in intricate patterns of flowers. Her auburn hair, loosed from the band that usually held it, fell in a river of mingled golds and reds, stayed only by a thin gold fillet that dropped a single white gem on her forehead. A gold ring set with a white stone was on her right hand, and on her breast was pinned a curiously wrought golden brooch in the shape of a running horse.

“You look lovely,” Maerad said bashfully, and the shadow left Silvia’s face. She laughed and picked up the crimson dress she had chosen for Maerad.

“And so do you, and you are not even dressed!” she said. “Now, may I braid your hair? I would like to. Now, you need the slip, so. That’s right. As I said, these buttons are a bit tricky.” The dress hugged close around Maerad’s shoulders and arms and then flared out from her hips in a long, generous fall to the ground. The sleeves opened out from her elbows, like the mouths of lilies, she thought. Silvia was right; the dress felt beautiful to wear, and it swished around her knees with an enticing rustle. She began to feel excited, and turned to make the dress swirl.

“I thought it would suit you,” said Silvia. “Now, do you feel all right? Yes? Well then, you must tell me or Cadvan if you do not; I mean if the cramps return. I’m tempted to dose you again, but you might fall asleep — so we will chance it. I shall keep the elixir handy. Now, your hair.”

She made Maerad sit on the chair before her and plaited her hair, piling it on her head and fixing it with some small golden combs. Then she let Maerad see herself in the mirror. Maerad blushed; even the rehearsal of the night before hadn’t prepared her for this transformation. The cut on her forehead had been artfully concealed with a curl of hair, and by no other sign could anyone have told that less than a week before she had been the slave of a small, crude tyrant, used to pallets of straw and bad food and beatings. Silvia’s braiding exposed the fine bones of her face and drew attention to her full mouth. Her eyes stared back at her gravely.

“It is good to dress in fair clothes to dine with friends,” said Silvia solemnly. “It honors your host, if you are a guest; and your guest, if you are a host. And both adorn the feast, and so celebrate the gifts of the world.”

“What do I do at the feast?” Maerad asked nervously. The butterflies in her stomach, forgotten in the fascination of dressing, had started again.

“Just be who you are,” said Silvia, winking. “Remember that people will forgive youth many things. You managed very well last night. And don’t forget your lyre!”

Clutching her lyre, Maerad followed Silvia from the room, her heart beating fast. She felt as if she were steeling herself for an ordeal.
The dress helps,
the cold, witnessing part of her observed. You can pretend to be someone else. Not Maerad at all. Pretending to be someone else was an old game of Maerad’s; she had often played roles at the cot. She took a deep breath and tried to walk like a fine lady, as her mother might have walked.

They went first to the music chamber downstairs, the beautiful room where Maerad had recovered from her faint the night before. Cadvan and Malgorn sat before the fire, deep in conversation, and both rose and bowed when the two women entered. The men had gone to no less trouble than the women, and were arrayed in fine clothes: Cadvan in plain black, with a long black cloak trimmed with fine silver braiding. He wore his sword openly, and Maerad saw it was sheathed in silver intricately worked with runes and patterns, and that he wore a silver brooch shaped like a four-pointed star on his breast. Malgorn bore no sword, and was like Silvia in moss green; on his breast he bore a silver sign of a horse running. He wore a ring with a white stone on his right hand.

Cadvan smiled at Maerad with no trace of embarrassment. “Two enchantresses!” he said. “If I had to choose, I would be at a loss — who could decide between autumn and spring?”

“Fortunately for me, it is not for you to choose,” said Malgorn. “Autumn is all mine.” He picked a lute from the wall and took Silvia’s elbow. “That is, of course, if she is agreeable.” He nodded gravely at Silvia, and she kissed him on the cheek. “You would grace the halls of Afinil tonight, my love,” he said.

“Thank you indeed, kind sir,” said Silvia, mock seriously. “But now, you must admire my protégé. And this, remember, is her first Meet!”

“She is indeed very beautiful,” said Malgorn, rather primly. For a few seconds all three Bards stopped and examined her dispassionately, as if she were a piece of sculpture. Maerad shifted uncomfortably under their gaze. What was she, a trophy? Cadvan released her from the unwelcome attention by stepping forward and taking her hand.

“If you would do me the pleasure,” he said, “I would be honored if you accompanied me to the Welcome Feast.”

Maerad hesitated, uncertain of the correct response. “I would be very happy to,” she said stiltedly, after a slight pause.

“We are ready, then?” asked Malgorn. “Then let’s go!”

“Silvia has worked a miracle!” murmured Cadvan to Maerad, as they left the room. “What would they say at Gilman’s Cot?”

“They’d say, ‘She was always above herself,’” said Maerad. “I’d get a whipping for my pains. But very likely they wouldn’t know who I was!”

“Very likely,” said Cadvan. “Though, for all the fine clothes, I see the same girl who gave me a fright in a cowbyre!”

“Thanks!” said Maerad sarcastically.

“I meant, Maerad, that even slavery could not hide who you were. Don’t be so touchy!” said Cadvan hurriedly. “Now, this is your first Meet, and will likely be a little difficult, so grow some armor. Not all Bards are like Malgorn and Silvia. Some, indeed, are so different they barely deserve the name. I’m afraid Malgorn was quite correct in saying that some Schools are corrupt: the only questions are, how corrupt, and corrupted by what? In some places, it is just petty greed and other vices. In others . . .” He stopped and shook his head. “In any case, there will be much curiosity about you, the more since you are turning up looking like a princess. Stay alert! And stay close to me!”

“I’ll stick like a burr,” said Maerad.

“Silvia has also told me that I am to send you to bed the second you look wan. She is sterner than she looks, and I daren’t disobey. Running away once was bad enough!”

“You didn’t quite run away!” said Maerad, wanting to laugh but not quite daring.

“I confess to cowardice. Me, Cadvan, unmanned by a young girl! How can this be? But it’s true I’m not used to such things.” He smiled at Maerad, and suddenly she relaxed and laughed. “That’s better,” he said. “It’s a feast, not an examination. And now you are a grown woman, remember! I may never call you child again.”

Maerad flushed with mingled pleasure and embarrassment, and walked straighter. By now they had crossed the courtyard and passed down several streets of houses very like Malgorn and Silvia’s, which led to a huge flagged circle surrounded by formal gardens. In the center on a high plinth stood a magnificent white statue of a rearing horse, bearing neither bit nor bridle, its mane flaring in an unseen wind.

“Lanorgrim!” said Cadvan, pointing to the statue. “So he appeared out of the north in the morning of the world, wild and free. No one could tame him, save Maninaë, the Lost King. In battle his mane was fire and his eyes were lances, and the thunder of his hooves put fear into the hearts of all his enemies. I doubt Annar will see his like again. Innail Valley was his feeding ground, and so this School honors his memory. The horse is the School’s emblem.” Maerad remembered the brooches that Silvia and Malgorn wore.

“Did he fight the Nameless One?” she asked.

“Yes, he was one of the many. In the final battle he was shot with an evil arrow that poisoned his blood, and he died in agony. One of many griefs. A great mound was lifted for him, and his kind have honor throughout Annar.”

Dozens of people were crossing the circle on their way to a stone hall on the opposite side, the Great Hall of Innail. Its double doors, three times as high as a man, stood open wide; warm light spilled out from many tapers, and strains of music ventured into the warm air. Maerad had never seen such a diversity of people: men and women, and not a few children, all richly dressed. Most people wore the token of the horse, but she saw many others: a triple clover leaf, a thistle, a rose, an acorn, three linked stars. A few of the crowd were dark and blue-eyed, as she was, but most were fair like Malgorn. She saw with surprise one man with dark skin, arrayed in gold and red, with a golden, many-rayed sun pinned to his robes. She and Cadvan reached the door at the same time as he did, and the man laughed in recognition and clasped Cadvan’s hand.