The Gift (36 page)

“Perhaps it will clear the farther we get from the cliff,” said Maerad, not very hopefully. But it proved to be the case; it seemed the briars and rough ground hugged the edge of the cut, and under a mile away they found the trees much bigger and better spaced, opening sometimes to wide glades where broad yellow beams of sunlight pierced the gloom. Some trees were clearly very ancient, huge oaks with trunks as broad as a small house, whose lofty crowns stretched more than a hundred feet; and there were beeches and elms and blossoming groves of rowan and crab apple. The river ran lazily between shallow banks, eddying into little pools in which grew yellow water lilies and crowsfoot and cresses and tall green reeds; and dragonflies hung there shimmering like winged emeralds and sapphires. The forest briars and brambles shrank to bushes rather than impassable shoulder-high thickets, and here they saw bluebells and daffodils pushing brightly through the long grass; and at last they mounted their horses and began to move at a better pace, feeling more hopeful than they had in days.

They traveled for almost ten days without incident, covering, by Cadvan’s calculations, some forty leagues, which he reckoned meant they had crossed half the forest’s length. Their nights were disturbed by nothing worse than frogs croaking in the pools or owls floating almost soundlessly down through the trees or the squeaks of mice hunting crickets. Still they remained wary and always kept watch, and did not play or sing in the evenings when they made camp. At night sometimes, struggling against sleep, Maerad thought she saw eyes watching them from the branches, although when she rubbed her eyes and turned to look at them, they vanished. Once during the day they surprised a huge red stag standing in a glade; it turned to them with a proud sweep of its head, and then slowly, moving with a lordly contempt, cantered off through the trees. For the most part, although the forest seemed to quiver with life, it remained hidden, and they moved through it like strangers or shadows, having no part in it.

Cadvan was cautious about lighting fires and only did so well away from trees. “Those who live in the forests do not trust those who wield fire,” he said. “And I would not inadvertently rouse them.” This was no great hardship, for the weather continued clear and almost warm, although it remained cool beneath the eaves of the trees. The horses began to gain a bit of the condition they had lost in the soul-eroding tramp through the Hutmoors, and both Maerad and Cadvan looked less drawn.

“I wonder,” said Maerad one day, “why they say the Great Forest is such a dark place? For it seems fair and wholesome to me.”

“It does feel as if some spirit presides here, or once did; for it seems distant in time, as if only its memory lives here,” Cadvan answered. “Perhaps I am mistaken, but the light seems rich and gentle, as the wilds never are.”

“Maybe it is just that no one has been here, and so strange stories have grown out of ignorance,” said Maerad. “After all, there are evil stories told about Bards.”

“Yes, there are,” said Cadvan. “But, alas, you have seen how they are based in fact. And I do not doubt that there are parts of this forest that are dark indeed and are the lairs of nameless creatures. But perhaps we ride through a part in which fair memories of the Light live still. I don’t know.”

That afternoon, just before dusk, there was a light rain and they sheltered under one of the great oaks waiting for it to pass. They had just urged on the horses when a voice spoke suddenly from the tree above them.

“Lemmach!”
it said.

Maerad looked up wildly, but could see nothing through the leaves. Startled, Imi moved forward one pace. There was a
whir,
and an arrow appeared in the ground before her, quivering.

“Lemmach, Oseanë,”
said the voice again.

Maerad stared at Cadvan, her eyes wide.

“Don’t move,” he whispered. “Whatever you do.” He looked up and called,
“Ke an de, Dereni? Ile ni taramsë lir.”

“Ke an de, Oseanë? Noch de remanë kel de an ambach.”

A man sprang down from the tree, a jump of easily twenty feet. He landed lightly on his feet, as if he merely leaped from a log. He bore an intricately carved bow almost as tall as he was, and a white-feathered arrow was set in the nock. The arrow was pointed directly at Cadvan’s chest.

Too startled at first even to be afraid, Maerad stared at the bowman with wonder. He was tall and fair and long-limbed, dressed in motley green designed to conceal him among leaves.

He stared back at Maerad and Cadvan, his face utterly expressionless. Only his eyes betrayed any feeling, and they were unwelcoming and cold.

CADVAN again told the bowman they traveled in peace, holding out his bare hands as he did so. Although he didn’t lower his bow, the man seemed to regard them less coldly. They spoke for some time, and Maerad shifted uneasily in her saddle; she knew enough of the Speech to know they spoke that tongue, but she understood nothing of what was said. She heard Cadvan mention her name, and he turned to her with a gesture of his hand; she nodded then, and smiled with what she hoped was a guileless and open expression. Still the stranger did not lower his weapon, and at last, after more talking, Cadvan turned to her.

“He says we have to go with him and he will brook no disobedience. He says he has friends close by, and that if we move in any direction save that he says, we will both die instantly with an arrow in our throats. I think we have no choice.”

“Who is he?” said Maerad. “Is he a Bard?”

“No,” said Cadvan. “And I have never heard of Bards in the Great Forest. But these are not evil people, and I think we will be safe enough, or at least I hope so.”

The bowman was impatiently indicating they should move forward, so they ceased speaking and moved in front of him. Immediately four other bowmen, as tall and graceful as the first, jumped down from the oak and joined him. They all had arrows to the string. Maerad and Cadvan were told to dismount; the bowmen seemed wary of the horses, and consulted privately before they ordered that they must lead them. Then they were marched away from the river, deep into the heart of the forest. Even if they had tried to escape, it would have been fruitless; soon they had lost their bearings entirely.

The bowmen led them for hours, long into the night. Maerad looked up through the trees and saw there the stars shining bright and cold above them. How many times had she cast up her eyes to the stars for succor? she wondered to herself; for as long as she could remember she had found a comfort in their chilly beauty, so remote from human suffering. She was tired now and very hungry, and her legs felt numb; she moved by sheer will. At last, when she felt as if she really could not walk another mile even if an arrow was pointed at her breast, their captors led them through a thick ring of trees into a Bardhome.

This one was bigger than any Maerad had seen: a grass arena of perhaps two hundred feet across, so the night sky looked down unimpeded at its center, and the crescent moon and stars let down their shadowless light over the grass. At the far end of the glade a stream fell silver and pearl in the moonlight down a small rockface. Here they were allowed to rest, and the horses were unsaddled to drink and graze. Behind the veil of the waterfall was a large cave. To Maerad’s surprise, it concealed a large and comfortable chamber lit by flickering torches set into the rocky walls; there were even beds, made of branches thickly twined. Two of the bowmen then left on some urgent errand. The one who acted as the leader spoke to Cadvan, and Cadvan told Maerad that here they would eat and rest before pressing on again the following day.

“Where are they taking us?” asked Maerad fearfully.

“They won’t say,” said Cadvan. “But I for one am grateful for a bed and a hot meal.” He walked to where the stream gathered in a small pool, before it flowed away through the Bardhome and out through the forest, and splashed water over his face. “Now perhaps I might stay awake long enough to eat!”

In a little while they were given steaming herbed stew in bowls made of glazed clay. Maerad looked at the workmanship curiously; the bowls had a purity of line that caught her eye. She ate hungrily and then lay down on one of the beds and fell asleep almost instantly.

The bowmen woke them early, and once again they began their weary tramp. Soon afterward Maerad realized they were following a path that wound through trees that seemed, she thought, even bigger than those they had seen over the past few days. Despite being on foot they went swiftly and covered perhaps twenty miles before they stopped at another Bardhome, very similar to the first. Cadvan and Maerad spoke very little during the day, although he chatted with the bowmen, who were called Farndar, Imunt, and Penar. Their conversation revealed very little. They would tell him neither their destination nor who they were beyond their names, and did not ask Cadvan of the reason for their journey, or where it began. Maerad didn’t feel afraid so much as apprehensive; she wondered how they would ever get out of the forest, if these strange folk let them leave. They were less hostile, but it was clear that Cadvan and Maerad were their captives. How were they to get to Norloch now?

At lunchtime the next day they reached a broad river that flowed swiftly in a rocky course, hurrying between high banks. “This might be the Cirion, which flows uncharted through the Great Forest,” Cadvan said to Maerad. “It flows from the Osidh Elanor through Lirhan, and then vanishes into the forest, where it disappears from the maps. I begin to remember stories from my childhood of the wild people, the Deridhu, who live in the heart of the forest; they are supposed to come out and bring nightmares to children who do not do as they are told, and ride the cows so they come to the morning stare-eyed and milkless. Perhaps they are a hearthside memory of these folk. Many forgotten things live still in children’s tales.” Maerad glanced at the bowmen; they looked altogether too grim to take cows on wild rides.

The path ran along the banks of the river for some time and then turned left. Here it was possible to cross; there was no bridge, but the banks were less steep and the water spread shallowly. A small stream split off from the river and wandered lazily off through the trees. The crossing was not quite a ford, but Penar waded across and tied a rope to a tree on the other bank. Using this as a guide they crossed safely to its other side. They followed the smaller stream, noticing that the golden light grew steadily more intense and that the trees were even more broadly spaced, so at times it seemed they moved through meadows densely treed rather than a forest. They didn’t stop for lunch, and the sun was just beginning its slow descent when they suddenly left the trees and found they overlooked a long green valley cleft into the very heart of the forest.

Maerad gasped with astonishment. Before them stretched a city made wholly of wood. All the buildings were low, with high, curiously carved gables and doors that opened out to wide porches, and their shingled roofs gleamed bright silver in the sunlight. Around them were fair gardens and lawns, and blossoming trees — rowan, plum, almond, and apple — were everywhere thickly planted. They were just now coming into leaf and the blossom mostly fallen, and the ground was strewn with pink and white petals, as if it had snowed.

The bowmen spoke to Cadvan, who had halted, his face bright with wonder.

“They tell me this is the city of Rachida,” Cadvan told Maerad. “I have heard of a place with that name: it was one of the havens of the Dhyllin and was thought destroyed many years ago. I think I begin to understand. But how could so fair a place go so long unmarked by the Bards of Annar?”

He shook his head, as if he did not quite believe what he had said, and they walked on, following their escorts through the wide streets of the city. The bowmen had at last laid aside their arrows, and they walked freely, turning their heads from side to side to look at the buildings as they passed. They were fairly and strongly made, all with curious carvings around the doors and lintels and eaves. Maerad saw nowhere any glass; the houses had wide windows which were shuttered at need with thick wood, and behind them were stretched white screens that admitted a gentle daylight, which she found out later were made of a strong paper. The inhabitants were fair-haired and tall like the bowmen and nodded courteously to the strangers, although after they had passed many stood and stared after them. Maerad and Cadvan, being both dark-haired, stood out; but of even more interest to the people they passed were the horses, which seemed to be completely unknown in that land. As they progressed through Rachida they began to gather a curious entourage of small children who followed them in an increasing throng, wide-eyed and laughing, calling to each other and pointing.

At last they reached a broad hill, covered by a smooth lawn dotted with small blue flowers, and there Imunt and Penar left them and the children dispersed. Farndar told Cadvan the hill was called the Nirimor, the Navel in the Annaren, and at its top was the Nirhel, the hall of their ruler. The horses were told to stay at its base and Cadvan and Maerad followed Farndar up shallow steps cut in the turf to the top of the hill. There stood a large house, made like the others they had seen, but loftier. Its doors were fashioned of silver wood, intricately carved and strangely unweathered, and they stood open to a wide, light corridor. They were led inside and off to the left into a pleasant room in which stood a low table of hard black wood surrounded by broad, richly dyed cushions. The screens were drawn back from the windows, and they could see through the casement to a small grassed courtyard in which blossoming trees hung black branches into a pond. Petals floated on the clear water, and they saw flashes of gold where carp swirled lazily under lilies.