The Gift (22 page)

“It’s less than two weeks ago that you were sitting in a byre milking a cow, thinking you’d be a slave for the rest of your life,” Cadvan said. He was now standing, looking out of the window. “That’s not very long. I’m surprised you don’t feel more confused. Most people would.” He turned around and looked at her straightly. “I’m not promising an easy journey, Maerad. But for a time at least it should be peaceful.”

“People keep pointing at me,” said Maerad. “I don’t like it.”

“People are difficult,” Cadvan said. “I can never live long in town. But I am perhaps an unusual case.” His expression was suddenly unreadable, and he fell silent. After a moment of quiet he said he would meet her at dinner, at the next bell, and abruptly left the room.

Oron, Dernhil, and Indik were at dinner that night; Oron was there to bid farewell to Cadvan and Maerad, as she said she was not attending the next night’s feast. Present also was a short, dark-haired Bard named Kelia whom Maerad didn’t know, although she had often seen her in the Hall playing gis with fierce concentration. She was, Maerad knew, the undisputed champion of Innail.

Together with Silvia and Malgorn, these Bards comprised the six of Innail’s Circle. As Maerad entered the room, slightly late because she had been over-long getting ready, she felt an electric prickle in her skin. The sense of power in the room was palpable: not troubled this time, as it had been at the Council, but clear and focused, as if the air crackled with a white fire.

Oron had appeared distant and forbidding to Maerad, who had seen her only at formal events in her guise as the First Bard, but in private she had something of the mischief of Silvia, and the meal was a merry affair. Although she didn’t realize it, Maerad looked a different girl from the one who had fainted at Malgorn’s front door; a week’s excellent diet and daily exercise meant that her painful thinness had already become mere slenderness, tinged with a robust energy. There was also a different expression in her eyes: the wariness of one who might be clouted for the smallest misdemeanor was being replaced by a new self-confidence. She joked and laughed with the other Bards as if she had been there all her life.

As they lazily picked at the sweetmeats and sipped Malgorn’s cherry cordial, the talk turned to discussion of the Meet. The news, it seemed, was all bad. The prestige of the Schools was the lowest it had ever been, and in some places caused overt resentment. Sighting of wers and other creatures of the Dark were now almost commonplace, even far from the border regions of Annar; worse, a deathly sickness that all but the most gifted Bards seemed powerless to heal was overcoming many of the holds and villages in the west. Also in some western Kingdoms there was the fear of famine, after the failure of crops the year before and a bad winter, promising starvation and desperate violence in the most afflicted regions.

“But that’s not what troubles me most,” said Malgorn. “It’s the tales of the failing of the Speech at the Springturn and harvest. Even Thurl said that when he said the Words of Making this year, they would not live inside him. There are too many reports like that simply to be put down to incompetent Bards or bad teaching.”

“Yes, my friend, something is amiss at the heart of things,” said Cadvan sadly. “And I think it has no Name.”

Silvia looked down, biting her lip. “I have always prayed that I would not live in such times,” she said. “And that I would see out my life in peace, in the richness of harvest.”

“So have we all, and so have all who live in dark times,” answered Cadvan. “But it is not to be.”

“Still,” said Dernhil, “it is said: fear is but one part of prudence.”

“And also, fear hath a quick ear,” countered Indik. “The Black Sorcerers have built their fortress in Dén Raven and harried the Suderain for nigh on three centuries now. They have their own Lords and Captains; it seems to me to cast a wide net to say the Nameless rises again.”

“Perhaps,” said Cadvan. “Still, it does not do to dismiss such fears out of hand.”

No one had an answer to that, and a meditative silence settled over the group.

“What do you hope for in Norloch, Cadvan?” asked Kelia. She leaned forward, a slight frown line between her dark brows. “Have you been there in recent times?”

“Not this last year,” Cadvan replied. “I am bound there: I must report to the First Circle. Enkir sent me north to gather news of the Dark, and so I am bound to bring him fair harvest.” He spoke slightly ironically. “But chiefly, or closer to my heart, I wish to see Nelac of Lirigon.”

“He must be old now,” said Kelia. “I have never met him, though I’ve read some of his work, of course: I liked
The Strange Flowers of Gis,
a minor masterpiece.” Some Bards smiled at Kelia’s mention of her obsession. “But I should have been clearer: what do
you
hope, for Maerad?”

Maerad pricked up her ears.

“Maerad has yet to come into the Speech,” Cadvan answered, “and as you know, that is late for a Bard, though not unheard of; Callihal of Desor, it is said, didn’t come into the Speech until he was near nineteen. But of course she cannot be instated, nor will her Name reveal itself until she does. I think Nelac will be able to advise, better than anyone in Annar, what is the best course for Maerad.”

“Better than any here?” Kelia lifted her eyebrows, not bothering to hide her scepticism.

“He is deeply read in some matters of lore on which I wish to consult him,” said Cadvan.

“Why do you need lore?” she persisted. “This is surely just a question of a latecomer to Barding.”

“No, not simply that,” said Cadvan, and he refused, despite more prodding from Kelia, to elaborate further. Maerad was disappointed. Kelia was not the only one who wanted to know why Cadvan considered her so important.

“I’ve finally forgiven Cadvan for taking Maerad away,” said Silvia lightly, as Kelia and Cadvan seemed to be on the brink of quarreling. “Though I wanted more than any of you to keep her.” She turned to Maerad, smiling sadly. “I was just being selfish, really; it was almost like having a daughter again.” Malgorn glanced at his wife with sudden concern, and Maerad looked up inquiringly.

“Clavila, our daughter, died in an accident almost thirty years ago now,” explained Malgorn. Maerad thought she caught an edge of resentment in his voice, as if he disliked remembering old pain.

“Oh,” said Maerad awkwardly, unable to think of any graceful response. “I’m sorry.” She looked at Silvia with a new understanding, but Silvia’s face was turned away toward the fire.

Shortly afterward they all retired to the music room, and the Bards picked up their instruments. Maerad had left hers in her chamber, and on Oron’s request ran upstairs to get it. Oron examined it with immense curiosity. “It is Dhyllic ware, I’ve no doubt,” she said. “You are quite right, Cadvan, to keep this from general knowledge. I’ve never seen one before.” She caressed the worn wood and drew her fingers gently over the strings. “What tone it has! How did Milana conceal such a thing?”

“Pellinor was an old School, and had many treasures,” said Cadvan. “I don’t doubt this was the greatest of all of them; but it looks such a humble object, perhaps it was easier to keep it secret than might be thought. Most folk, even most Bards, would think it a peasant’s harp, nothing more.”

“That’s what they thought at Gilman’s Cot,” Maerad said. “If it had looked more, I would not have been allowed to keep it.” She was still privately staggered that her humble lyre should be such a treasure. “I loved it for other reasons. It is the only thing I have of my mother.” She took it back from Oron and struck a gentle chord on the strings. “She sings to me.”

“Smart of you to spot it, Cadvan,” said Oron.

“If I wasn’t smart, I’d be dead,” he answered dryly. “Now, what shall we play? An instrumental piece, I think.”

Maerad had never enjoyed herself so much, wrapped in the intimacy of music in that lovely room. To play with such accomplished musicians — to her surprise, even Indik was a master flautist, with an astonishingly delicate touch for one of his grim visage — was a pleasure she had never known before. The lamp glow glanced warmly off the polished instruments and glasses of wine, and a joking camaraderie sparkled over the underlying seriousness of a mutual passion for music and song. It was late before Silvia drew the party to a halt and they made their farewells.

As she left, Oron stood and took both Maerad’s hands. “I am only sorry our meeting has been so hurried. May the Light bend always to your path!”

“And to yours,” Maerad returned, knowing now the polite response. Oron looked her full in the face, and Maerad felt a mind probing hers, keen and merciless, as if a ray of light lanced suddenly into a dark room. She flinched, and Oron laughed gently and let her go.

“I think we will not meet again,” Oron said. “The Light blesses you cruelly, and your path will be dark and hard. But a brave heart might prevail where skill is wanting.”

Maerad remembered Indik saying the same thing, but Oron’s statement had a different weight, as if she were talking of something much more portentous and profound than skill with a sword. A qualm came over her at Oron’s words, a presentiment of shadow, and she shivered. “I hope so,” she said soberly. “I’ve much to learn.”

“So have we all,” Oron answered lightly. Then she gave Maerad a silver brooch fashioned into the lily sign of Pellinor, pinning it on her breast. “Wear it with pride!” she said. “This belonged to Icarim of Pellinor, my old friend, and a great Bard. I think he would be glad to know who now wears it.” Turning then to Cadvan, Oron said: “Cadvan, I don’t have to tell you to protect this young woman. She is more than worthy of your life. Your path is dark and uncertain, but it was ever so. All I can tell you, old friend, is take care!”

“I am used to taking care,” said Cadvan. “But my heart misgives me. I think when next we meet, it will be past the Gates of Unreturn, Oron of Innail.”

Oron held his gaze and then bowed her head. “If it be so, I have had a long and joyous life,” she said. “I no longer fear for myself. My hopes and fears go with you, and with your task.”

She put her hands on his shoulders and kissed his forehead, and for a moment they were still, two tall, grave figures. It seemed to Maerad they stood outside time, like figures in a story told over many centuries: two noble Bards of the Knowing, accounted great in the annals of the land. But the moment passed, and, blinking, Maerad saw just a man and a woman standing in a little room where the fire slumbered over its embers. Oron nodded to the other Bards and left swiftly.

Silvia looked white. “I know not what you saw there, Cadvan,” she said. “Oron would be a hard loss to all of us.”

“There will be many losses before the end,” said Cadvan heavily. “And none can see what that end is.”

No one felt like staying longer after that, and shortly afterward Maerad and Cadvan said their good nights to the rest of the company and left.

“Interesting that Silvia mentioned her daughter,” Cadvan said, as he walked with Maerad down the corridor. “She never talks about her. You have stirred up old griefs, Maerad.”

“I didn’t mean to,” said Maerad sadly. She thought of her own mother. If she stayed in Innail, she could perhaps restore something of that aching loss. She was beginning to understand a little of Silvia’s complex longings.

“It’s not to blame you,” Cadvan said. “Sometimes new life is painful: the waking limb burns. I think, rather, that it is a good thing, perhaps for both of you.”

Maerad felt strangely comforted by his words. They bade each other good night at her door. Inside her room, she curled into bed with the book Dernhil had given her. It took her a long time to spell out the name of the poem she attempted to read: it was called “For Clavila.”

She felt suddenly too sad to struggle with letters, and put the book carefully on her shelf. She would read it tomorrow night.

Before lunch the next day, Cadvan found Maerad sitting glumly on her bed. She had been listening to the sounds of the School: the distant tuning of instruments, the calls of students and Bards elsewhere in the house, the patter of the rain. Today the thought of leaving Innail for an uncertain and uncomfortable journey made for reasons she didn’t fully understand seemed less exciting than it had.

“Rain!” Cadvan said, crossing to the window. “Let’s hope it doesn’t lessen. Though I must say,” he added, squinting through the leaded panes, “it looks as if it has set in.”

“It’s hardly ideal riding weather,” Maerad said, a little sulkily.

“So the lesser chance of anyone thinking we are leaving tonight, or stumbling across our path,” said Cadvan. He looked cheerier than he had for days. “With any luck, no one will know whether we are here or not for at least a couple of days.”

“I suppose not,” said Maerad. “Though what difference that makes, I don’t know.”

“Perhaps none. Perhaps every difference.” He walked up and down the room restlessly. “We should check our horses,” he said. “And didn’t you want to see Dernhil today? We can do both at once.”

They donned heavy cloaks and made their way to the stables. Imi snorted in greeting when she saw them, and Maerad cheered up a little; she was already fond of her mare. Cadvan’s mount was a big black stallion named Darsor. Maerad had never seen such a proud and powerful beast. “He arrived from the south of Annar yesterday, to my call,” Cadvan said. “He is of the race of Lanorgrim. He consents to be my mount; I do not command him. He is my friend.”

“He looks as if he is spoiling for exercise, rather than just having ended a long journey,” said Maerad in wonder. “What do you mean: you called him?”

“A friend will always hear,” Cadvan said inscrutably. “And this is Imi? Indik picked well; she looks perfect for you.” He spoke a few words to the mare in the Speech, and she snorted and pawed the ground with her hoof. He laughed.

“A proud and willful mare, like her rider, no doubt,” he said, turning to Maerad. “She refuses to be cowed even by Darsor, who is a lord among horses. I asked if she could keep up with us, and she is offended I should ask.” He patted Imi’s neck.

After they left the stables, they arranged to meet for the Feast in the music room at Malgorn and Silvia’s house, and Cadvan went to the Music House on some of his own business. Maerad bent her steps for the last time to the Library to see Dernhil.