The Gift (48 page)

They stood high up, looking over a wide valley that stretched for many leagues to the south and west. The road plunged down its sides into the fair Vale of Norloch, which fell in rills and terraces away from their feet. They saw beneath them the tiny shapes of houses and barns and haystacks, and sometimes the darker clumps of unwalled towns and woods.

“Down there is an inn, the Hardellach,” said Cadvan, sounding exhausted. He pointed to a town that nestled into the side of the hill some five miles away. “It’s been many years since I traveled this way, but it used to be run by Colun of Gent, and I sorely hope it still is. Farther on, by the sea, you can just see the light of the Tower of Machelinor, the highest tower of Norloch. All we need do now is ride there, and then we can rest.”

Rest,
thought Maerad. It was the most wonderful word she had ever heard.

Far to the south they could see where the Aleph River wound lazily through the farmlands, glittering in the afternoon sun like a huge golden snake dozing on a green sward. Hem peeked out of Cadvan’s cloak with a dazed look, as if he thought he had reached the fabulous realms of the south. With an obscure feeling of dread, Maerad picked out far in the distance a white flash of light, tiny but bright as a star, and beyond that a glimmering blue mist, which she thought must be the sea. It was her first glimpse of Norloch, Citadel of the White Flame, the High City of Bards; and her heart beat fast in her breast.

FOUR days later they reached the wide meads of the Carmallachen at the center of the Norloch Vale. Now at last they saw Norloch rising tall and white out of the fields, and Maerad gasped; even at this distance it was bigger and more lordly than she had imagined. The citadel flung up, battlemented wall within battlemented wall, and its high towers thrust into the sky as gracefully as lilies, but proud and puissant and stern. At the very top, the Tower of Machelinor threw back the sunlight like a crystal, and the city seemed like a bright crown surmounted by a living star. Beyond the citadel stretched a blue distance that might have been the sky, but might also have been the sea slumbering under a summer haze. Maerad thought that she heard the faint sound of a bell drifting over the meadows toward them.

They had ridden hard since the ambush at the Broken Teeth. Maerad was exhausted after the battle with the wight, but there had been no time to rest. They’d spent one night at the Hardellach Inn, where the Bard Colun stitched the wounds on Cadvan’s face. Then early the following morning they set off on a punishing trek through the Vale of Norloch.

If Maerad had not seen everything through a blur of weariness, she might have enjoyed the ride. The weather was fine but not too hot, the sky a deep clear blue, and above them she could sometimes hear the faint twittering of a lark borne high on the summer thermals, although she could not see it. Around them stretched a peaceful and fertile landscape slumbering in a faint haze of heat; they passed many stone houses edged with overflowing gardens, set in the hills overlooking the vale.

The road pushed steadily downhill, winding past meadows of rich grass growing in wide terraces, which were often divided by silver streams and treed with fine stands of beech or birch or elm. White herds of cattle or black-faced sheep grazed there, or perhaps a few horses drowsed in the sun, flicking away the flies with their tails. Around the gray stone houses were small hedged fields planted with barley or oats or wheat, their seed heads fattening in the ripe sunlight, or dark green rows of beets or cabbages, or peas flowering cheerfully in pinks and whites, and everywhere were green orchards of apples and almonds and soft fruits. Sometimes the road passed through a small forest and the cool, dappled shade fell on their faces, a welcome relief from the heat. They saw many people: farmers with carts, or children skipping or intent on some errand, or women walking with big wicker baskets, and once a shepherd with his dogs, the sheep filling the road like a bleating cloud. Sometimes they passed cloaked riders who Maerad thought must be Bards.

When they reached the straight road through the Meads of Carmallachen, on the morning of the fourth day, they went at a fast canter. Occasionally they could see the Aleph River winding many miles to their left, glittering in the sun. Cadvan squinted at the sky. “I think our fine weather is going to break,” he said. “The wind is changing.”

By the time they drew close to the walls of Norloch, late in the afternoon, a dark bank of clouds had spread over most of the sky and a chill wind was blowing. As the sun dipped to the horizon it fell beneath the clouds, loosing a rich golden light that seemed to etch every object with a surreal clarity, and it seemed as if the world held its breath. Close up, the city stretched dizzyingly high above them; Maerad craned back her neck to look, feeling as if the whole thing would topple down on her, crushing her with a vast weight of stone. The road led to high gates of black iron, featureless apart from huge silver hinges in the shapes of curling flames. Above the gates was a tower with a belfry of white stone, in which hung an enormous bronze bell.

“The gates shut at the sundown bell. We’re just in time,” said Cadvan. “I sent a message by bird to Nelac, but we may have arrived before it. I hope he’s expecting us.” He turned to Maerad, unsmiling; the marks of the whip still slashed lividly across his face, and his eye was bruised black. She was shocked to see how pale and strained he looked. “There will be a savage storm tonight, if I have any weatherlore.”

They passed through the gate arch, and its dark shadow fell over them. The sun was already beginning to disappear. Before them stretched a wide thoroughfare, edged with big stone buildings of many kinds: the Ninth Circle of Norloch. On its other side the Circle was bounded by a great stone quay that stretched beneath black cliffs, but Cadvan led them away from the quay, upward to the Eighth Circle. A few large raindrops began to splash on the road, and Maerad shivered and gathered her cloak close around her.

Cadvan began to hurry them down the street, anxious to reach Nelac’s house before the storm broke and, it seemed to Maerad, driven by some other urgency she couldn’t guess. There was no time to stop and stare, but she had a confused impression of wide streets lit by huge lamps that cast a broad, steady light over grand houses and buildings and inns. The dusk was vanishing swiftly, and as the sun finally disappeared she heard a great tolling; the bell of Norloch was signaling the coming of night and the closing of the gates. Then, almost instantly it seemed to her, it was deep night. The isolated raindrops were now falling more swiftly and she could hear distant rumblings of thunder. It would not be long before the storm broke over their heads.

The horses rode swiftly up the nine levels, climbing each time, winding back and forth from gate to gate. Norloch had been built many hundreds of years before on a pinnacle of rock that thrust straight up more than seven hundred feet from a harbor enclosed by steep cliffs. On one side the rock dropped sheer to the sea, and on the other it inclined more gently down to the plains of the Carmallachen. It was on this incline that the city had been built. The Circles of Norloch were in truth half-circles, becoming less regular the nearer they fell to the plains, and their walls stretched from cliff to cliff. In the Ninth Circle the wall stopped at the harbor, a small cliff-bounded inlet with a narrow mouth, bordered on the city side by a wide stone quay.

The original up-thrust rock had been strengthened and extended, and it was now fashioned into an almost impregnable fortress, protected on one side by the sea and on the other by the swamps and waterlands of the Aleph River. The one clear approach to the Ninth Gate was from the north, and the only other entry to the city was by sea through the narrow heads of the harbor, which were risky to navigate and would admit only one ship at a time. Beneath the city there were delvings and caves that reached deep into the rock, with provision for supplies to keep the city alive for many months if it came under siege. The city’s garrison lived in the Third and Fourth Circles, companies of stern warriors numbering in the thousands. Even in the days of Maninaë, when Norloch had long fallen from its greatness, it was proud and strong.

They went unquestioned until they reached the Fourth Circle, where a man in the silver and blue livery of the citadel challenged them. Maerad concealed herself in her hood, suddenly fearful they would not be allowed through, and she noticed that Hem was completely hidden inside Cadvan’s cloak. But when the soldier recognized Cadvan, he bowed low and drew aside, and they passed through; and so it was at each higher gate. As they walked through the final gate into the First Circle, the storm finally broke. A brilliant flash of lightning illuminated the High Citadel starkly, for a brief second, before the rain started to pour down. Maerad saw glimmering white walls reaching high into the darkness and streets edged with trees, now boiling and thrashing in the gale, and high plinths on which were set figures, some leafed with gold and gleaming brightly, some black in the darkness, before the rain came down like a blinding sheet.

“We haven’t far,” shouted Cadvan over his shoulder. “But hurry! Don’t lose me!” And he set off at a brisk canter. Imi, skittering nervously at the lightning, followed Darsor almost at his tail; although the streets were well lit, it would have been easy to lose him in the heavy rain and flailing shadows. At last, with water streaming off their cloaks, they reached the house Cadvan was seeking. It gave a blank, high wall to the street, in which was set one high door with carvings about its lintel. Cadvan dismounted and pulled a small iron lever in the wall, which Maerad guessed must be attached to a bell. They waited, sheltering against the side of the wall to try to escape the savage wind, for what seemed an age. It was in reality a short time before the door opened and before them stood an old bearded man heavily cloaked in gray, bearing a lamp.

“Who’s there?” he said, peering out into the darkness. “By the Light, Cadvan! What are you doing here? Come in, come in, this weather isn’t fit for rats!” He waved them in, and they led the horses through the door into a wide stone-flagged courtyard. They were at last out of the wind, although the rain still poured down in a deluge, coming off the roofs in great spouts. The man locked the door behind them.

“Nelac,” said Cadvan, embracing the old man. “How good it is to see you!” Maerad saw that Cadvan suddenly looked exhausted and gray, as if he’d been holding himself together by sheer will and now, having reached his goal, was on the verge of collapse. The old man stood back, his hands on Cadvan’s shoulders, and inspected him sharply.

“And good to see you, Cadvan, my dear friend. I’ve missed you. But you’ve been ill-used, I can see.” He nodded at Maerad and Hem. “Let’s get out of this weather before we talk. Come.” He led them across the courtyard toward some stables. “We must attend to the beasts, first.”

In the shelter of the stables it was suddenly quiet and calm, and Maerad breathed in, comforted by the warm smell of hay and horses. They said nothing more as they hastily unsaddled and groomed the horses, leaving them comfortably housed, snorting at full mangers. Then Nelac led them at a run across the courtyard and through more high doors into a wide hallway.

It was made of plain stone and dimly lit by a silver lamp suspended from the roof, but it gave an impression of richness; there were gold hangings of heavy brocade on the walls, and Maerad saw that many rooms ran off it. Some doors were open and their light spilled onto the stone floor, and she heard voices talking and, far off, the trilling of a flute. They put off their cloaks in the hallway; they were all so wet they stood in little puddles. Cadvan leaned against the wall, swaying slightly.

“Well!” said Nelac, surveying the dripping group. “And who are these two?”

Cadvan gestured vaguely, too exhausted for formalities. “They’re Maerad and Hem, I mean Cai, of Pellinor.” Nelac’s eyebrows rose in surprise, and his gaze rested for a second with a strange intensity on Maerad’s face. “Maerad, Hem, this is Nelac. My old teacher and a good friend.”

“We’ll have to get you dry clothes,” said Nelac. “Brin!” He called down the hallway and a dark, stocky man appeared out of a door. “Brin, we have some unexpected guests. Can you get their rooms ready? Three. And I need clothes for three, urgently. One woman and a boy.” The man nodded and disappeared. “Come into my rooms while we’re waiting,” Nelac said. “It’s warm in there.”

Like Malgorn and Silvia, Nelac lived with his students; his rooms were downstairs off the huge entrance hall, behind a high, plain wooden door. Nelac led them into a large sitting room that seemed very bright after the dimness of the corridors. Here it was not so grand; the room was full of tables and comfortable chairs and shelves laden with books and instruments of various kinds, and a fire blazed in a large iron grate. One wall, free of any shelves, was painted curiously, so that it seemed to look out on a woodland inhabited by marvelous beasts and birds. On its other side the room had windowed doors that opened out onto a garden, but there it was all blackness and storm. Maerad looked around, her mouth open, and saw a tall, black-skinned man standing to greet them, his face blank with astonishment. She blinked in surprise: it was Saliman.