The Gift (23 page)

Dernhil was, as ever, in his room. Maerad suspected that sometimes he slept there; she imagined him nodding over his books, the fire ebbing in its grate, the pen falling from his nerveless hand. He looked up as she entered. “Maerad! I’m glad you came. Sit down.”

Maerad drew up her usual chair, putting on the floor the books that already burdened it, and sat next to him. He was searching around his desk.

“I have something that I thought I should give you,” he said. “It’s here somewhere. . . . Yes, here it is.” He pulled a piece of parchment out of a pile of books and smoothed it out on the desk. It looked very old: it was worn thin, and the ink on it was so faded that in places it was almost indecipherable. Maerad could recognize some of the letters, but it was written in a strange hand and she could read none of the words.

“I found it the other day, when I was looking for something else,” Dernhil explained. “It was in a sheaf of papers and oddments of no especial interest, except to me perhaps — old ballads and lists and so forth. I think it will not be missed, and perhaps it might be more useful to you, and better taken from the Library, where the wrong eyes might see it.”

“What does it say?” asked Maerad.

“I’m sorry, I forgot, you can’t quite read it yet,” Dernhil said. “It’s a curious document, written in the Speech of the Middle Years, about three hundred years after Maninaë restored the Kingdom of Annar. It looks like nonsense, but I’m not so certain. . . .”

“Can you read it to me?” Maerad asked. Dernhil looked at her with amusement. On the edge of her chair, fidgeting with impatience, she looked like a ten-year-old child.

“All right. It says something like this:
I, Lanorgil of Pellinor, here set down my dream, so that those to come may know of it when I have gone through the Gates to the Uncircled Open.
Lanorgil was renowned as a seer in his time, which is what caught my eye in the first place. It was odd coming across it, though the Innail library is justly famed, and no one alive has read everything in it.”

Maerad shifted impatiently in her seat.

“Anyway, it goes on:
A mist obscures the bright river, a mist on which no eye can fasten its sight, a mist that confuses the brave, and casts down the —
I think —
small in fear and trembling.
” Maerad thought with a sudden pang of the dread of her own dream.
“All is in darkness and despair: corruption assails the High Seats of Annar, and those who truly follow the Light are cast into shadow. Seek then one who comes Speechless from the Mountains: a Bard unSchooled and yet of this School. Seek and cherish the Fire Lily, the Fated One, which blooms the fairer in dark places and sleepeth long in darkness; from such a root will blossom the White Flame anew, when it seems its seed is poisoned in the center. Note the Sign and be not Blind! In the name of the Light and in anxiety for the Speech, whose roots lie in the Treesong that nourishes all. Thus spake the Voices of Dream to Lanorgil, on this Dhorday, seventh of the month of Luminil, in the year 316 in the Annaren calendar.

“That dates it about six hundred years ago.” He looked at Maerad. “It seems like nonsense.
One who comes Speechless from the Mountains . . . unSchooled and yet of this School.
” His eyes rested on Maerad’s brooch. “An odd locution, though, to say
the Fire Lily
: that’s obviously a reference to Pellinor, though Pellinor is usually marked by the arum lily. . . .” He trailed off, seeming lost in thought, and Maerad waited patiently. “You seem rather to fit this riddle,” he said, looking up. “And it might explain Cadvan’s actions. . . . He is learned in the deep lore, and knows much that has been forgotten.”

“I . . . I don’t know,” said Maerad. “He hasn’t said much to me.”

Dernhil looked slightly disappointed. “Well, perhaps you can just give him this fragment,” he said. “No doubt it was not chance I found it just now; the Light stirs at need, it is said. It made me think of all those songs about the Fated One. They’re not sung anymore, but not everyone has forgotten.”

“The Fated One?” The little pang of dread was expanding in Maerad’s breast; she wished that Dernhil had not found the parchment, and she had a sudden impulse to tear it up. “What does that mean? Anyway, what can it have to do with me?”

“It’s hard to say,” said Dernhil, looking at her with a discomforting intensity. “In any case, speak of it to no one except Cadvan. I think I begin to understand a little.” His face was troubled. “I like not to think of you traveling, so young and so unschooled, over wide and dangerous lands,” he continued. “But it may be that you would be safe nowhere, and nowhere less safe than here, where some might guess you are more than an occasion for casual gossip. May the Light protect you!”

There was a short, slightly uncomfortable pause. Maerad didn’t know what to say; it seemed to her that for reasons she didn’t understand, Dernhil was distressed. She reached out and touched his hand.

“I will be safer with Cadvan than with any other, I think,” she said softly.

Dernhil took her hand in both of his, holding it tightly. “I think so too,” he said. “Nevertheless, I wish things were otherwise, and that you could stay here, loved as you should be.” He kissed her hand and then, very suddenly, gathered her in his arms and kissed her mouth.

Inside her head, a voice screamed
No!
but Maerad could make no sound. For a split second she was consumed by terror: a memory assailed her of hot breath against her skin, cruel hands bruising her body, the brutal gasps of a man aroused. . . . She twisted out of his arms like a snake, lashing out violently with her fists, and stood panting before him, her hands raised to curse, her eyes glaring. She saw that the man’s mouth was bleeding. Only then she recalled herself: this was
Dernhil,
not Burk, that thug who had tried to rape her in the cot; and Dernhil had only kissed her. She lowered her arms, speechless with embarrassment and confusion, and turned away. Dernhil covered his eyes with his hand.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. She realized she was shaking. Dernhil stirred and looked up.

“It is not you who should be sorry, Maerad,” he said. To her discomfort, his eyes brimmed with tears. “I’m ashamed; I’m afraid I forgot myself. It is sometimes hard to remember that you are so young, and how cruel your life has been. Perhaps we will meet again, and you might then understand something of the ways of the heart. You should go now. Don’t forget the parchment! May the Light bend always to your path!”

“And to yours,” Maerad mumbled hastily, as she snatched the parchment from the table, where Dernhil sat unmoving, his eyes shaded by his hand. She left the room quickly, her heart pounding, and did not look back.

Maerad went straight back to her room, walking fast through the rain, which now had settled into a steady downpour. She hardly noticed it. Although Cadvan had teased her about Dernhil’s preference for her, she hadn’t believed him. Had she done something wrong perhaps? Or said something misleading?

In her room she flung herself on her bed. She was filled with irrational panic. At Gilman’s Cot she had spent much of her time fending off the attentions of Gilman’s thugs and the other slaves; rape was not uncommon. She had only avoided it herself with extreme guile and caution, and because of the virulence of her curses. There had been that one frightening time with Burk — she shuddered at the memory — but after that, no one tried again. He was blind for three days and had boils for weeks, and no one dared to punish her. . . . The only man she trusted at all was Mirlad, and she had been wary even of him; otherwise, the attention of any man, however slight, was to be feared and avoided.

She knew that Dernhil was nothing like those men, yet still she couldn’t calm herself. She drew out the parchment he had given her and examined it closely; she could not make sense of it, the writing was so spidery and strange, and it was full of words she couldn’t recognize. She pushed the parchment under her pillow and lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. Her feelings about Dernhil were mixed up with her strange dread of the parchment.

Silvia knocked on her door about an hour later to ask if Maerad wanted help with dressing for the Feast that evening. “Are you all right, Maerad?” she asked, with swift concern.

“I’m fine,” said Maerad, looking up at her woefully.

“What’s happened? Has someone said something? Or are you worried about leaving?”

It didn’t take Silvia long to worm out Maerad’s encounter with Dernhil. Maerad told her haltingly, almost paralyzed by embarrassment. She didn’t mention the parchment, since Dernhil had told her to keep it secret from all save Cadvan. There was a long pause while Silvia turned the words over in her head.

“Listen, Maerad, among Bards it is not quite as it is among most other people,” she said. “It is partly because we are so long-lived.” She paused again. “One thing Bards learn, and venerate above all else, is to be wise in the ways of the heart, to understand what it is they love. Dernhil is not one of shallow passions. . . . I think he has not been as wise as he should have been. He would not like to think he has so upset you.” For a time she was silent. “Why does it bother you so?”

“Did I do something wrong?” She couldn’t tell Silvia how afraid it made her, that look in Dernhil’s face; she would not understand.

“No, my love, how could you?” She patted Maerad’s hand. “I doubt he will be the last. But what do
you
feel?”

Surprised, Maerad considered the question. “About Dernhil? I don’t know,” she said. “I mean, I like Dernhil very much, he has been very kind to me, but I think of him, well, you know, as my friend.”

“And so he is, and so he will remain,” said Silvia firmly. She put her arm around Maerad and hugged her close. “You mustn’t worry. Dernhil is a grown man and will not blame you for his own feelings. There is no shame in loving: it is the sign of a generous heart, and pain the price of an open soul. He knows that. In any case,” she said, changing the subject, “Dernhil asked me to give you this.” She handed her a roll of parchment sealed with wax. “He seemed quite distressed; I see why now. Would you mind if I told him about our conversation?”

Maerad shook her head. “Tell him; it’s all right now,” she said.

“I’ll be back later, then.” Silvia left the room.

Maerad looked at the new parchment dubiously. After a while, with a strange reluctance, she broke the wax seal and unrolled it. Written there, in Dernhil’s clear, firm hand, was a poem, a short enryu, which she spelled out slowly.

Underneath Dernhil had written:
Maerad, my deepest apologies for my foolishness. Your steadfast friend, Dernhil.
She studied the parchment for some minutes, and a warm feeling, new to her, stole over her. She wondered whether she should answer it.
Of course,
she thought.
Perhaps one day how I bloodied his lip will be a joke, like the tale of Cadvan’s duel.
She went to her table and, using some of the paper Dernhil had given her, she laboriously wrote out:
Thank you, Dernhil. From your friend, Maerad.
She would give it to Silvia to deliver later.

Then, remembering the time with a start, she went for the last time to the bathroom, perhaps her favorite room in the house. She had bathed every day, delighting in the warm water and oils, the luxurious sense of well-being it gave her. She spent rather longer there than usual, and by the time she returned Silvia was already in her room, dressed and waiting.

It seemed almost like a ritual, although they had done it only once before and this time was so different. Maerad felt no sense of abashment at the fine clothes and put her dress on by herself, although Silvia helped her with some buttons at the back. She sat before the mirror as Silvia combed and arranged her hair and realized the cut on her forehead from the fight with the wers was completely healed; the only sign of it was a fine white line near her hairline. She leaned back into Silvia and sighed.

“I will miss you, Maerad,” said Silvia, as she stood up. “The risk of all friendship is, alas, a little grief. You have made me remember many things I love, which are now gone. It is a cause of joy, as well as pain, and for that I thank you.” She took a small package out of her breast and gave it to Maerad. “I wanted to give you something to remember me by. It belonged to my daughter, Clavila, and I would like you to have it.”

Speechlessly Maerad unwrapped the package. Inside was a white stone like the one Silvia wore on her hand. It was suspended from a fine gold chain. “It’s the stone we call Starwater,
dhillian,
and it is dear to the Light and has certain virtues,” Silvia said. “Perhaps in a dark place, it might bring you healing.” She put it around Maerad’s neck, and Maerad looked at herself in the mirror. “And in a light place, of course, it adorns you.” She kissed her on the cheek.

Maerad turned and hugged Silvia almost desperately, as if she were a small child. She held her tight, breathing in her scent, a fragrant mixture of milk and almond and lavender. At last Silvia kissed the top of her head, and said: “We should go downstairs.”

“Thank you, Silvia,” Maerad mumbled into her dress. “Thank you so much, for everything, everything you’ve given me. I wish I could give you something back.”

“You have,” she answered. “Now, let’s go.”

Malgorn and Cadvan were waiting in the music room, and together they made their way to the Great Hall for the feast. Silvia and Malgorn parted with them at the door, because Malgorn was First Bard in Oron’s absence. Maerad looked around swiftly for Dernhil, but to her mingled relief and disappointment he wasn’t there. The Hall was decorated as before, but Maerad felt a change in the atmosphere of the feast. She thought perhaps it was her own heavy spirits, but when she mentioned it to Cadvan, he agreed.

“Yes, a shadow lies over the Bards,” he said. “After a week of talking, all that has emerged are our differences. We are all agreed that something is amiss. There is too much evidence to deny it, or to brush it aside as part of a natural cycle, though there are some even now who seek to do so. But even those of goodwill cannot agree what to do, nor even define what the ill is.”