The Naming (4 page)

"Alas, it's not impossible at all," replied Cadvan. "The king rejected his Name, because then he could also reject death. But with the gift of death, he cast away also the knowledge of those who die, and found his heart was empty, a pain sharper than any that he had known. For he was not of the immortals, and had not the right to deathlessness. He looked out on the world, and his eye was dark. He sought then the dominion of all on the earth and the destruction of all that rebuked him with its beauty, and he challenged the Law of the Balance, and overthrew it. And then, with massed armies and Black Sorcerers—those corrupt Bards that we call Hulls—he marched on the lovely citadel of Afinil, and cast down its fair towers and darkened the mere, so the moon no longer bathed there and the stars fled its lifeless face. Then began the Great Silence, when the Song was no longer heard in the wide lands of Annar.

"That was not the total of his evil, but it was among the most grievous. Many things then were lost to the world, beyond restoration."

Cadvan sighed. Maerad listened in silence, overwhelmed with wonder, not only at the tale, but at the sweet tautness the names began to awaken within her:
Afinil, Loresinger, the Light.
They recalled much of the scent and sound of her mother, her voice as she plucked the lyre, the dark fall of her hair as she kissed her, and other memories that she could not trace. She sighed also, and looked around them. They were now more than halfway down the valley, and the stars were massed above them, bright around a moon waxing to the full. She picked out the Five Gemmed Daughters, swinging high over them in their ceaseless dance. Ilion was now sunk beneath the horizon.

Cadvan stood up. "We should move on," he said. Maerad scrambled to her feet, and they began again the slow trudge down the valley. Maerad felt her exhaustion beginning to return, but she forced herself on, and Cadvan returned to his lesson.

"The story of the downfall of the Nameless One is long and hard and desperate, and many parts of that tale never returned from darkness," he continued. "Suffice to say that he was at last defeated. After his fall, the Bards made the Schools, which keep and teach the Knowing of the Light throughout Annar and the Seven Kingdoms. The center of all high knowledge is now Norloch, a fair place of gardens and high halls and learning. But in one way it differs from Afinil: for Norloch is walled and provision is made for a great garrison, and the innocence that was the downfall of Afinil will not be its weakness again. And this perhaps is the greatest loss caused by the Nameless, although some argue it is not so, and that in its greatness Norloch surpasses even the ancient citadel."

"Have you been there?" asked Maerad, when he said no more.

"Yes," said Cadvan. "Many times. For I am no longer part of any School, and travel between them as I must. The Light once more is under attack. And Bards now are sent on dangerous and secret ways to spy out the tracks of the Dark, rather than singing the leaves of spring in the old ways and bringing increase."

"Was that why you were near Gilman's Cot?" asked Maerad.

A shadow of pain passed over Cadvan's face. "It is a little close to speak of that," he said. He was silent then for a long time.

In the quiet Maerad again felt the oppressiveness of their surroundings. It was now some three hours since sunset, and the moonlight illuminated the sheer edges of the mountains with a white dew, casting the ravines into impenetrable shadow. In the distance she thought she heard faint howls and shrieks. She thought also that Cadvan's face held traces of some great strain, although his voice had betrayed nothing.

Maerad remembered his exhaustion only that morning, and that he had said he was wounded. She saw no sign of a wound.

At last she ventured another question. "Do you think that I might be a Bard?"

"Didn't you hear anything I told you?" said Cadvan shortly. Maerad cast him a glance of dislike. Her feet were beginning to throb with pain, and she marched on in silence, wondering if they would ever leave this cursed valley. Cadvan halted then and gasped, and Maerad saw that sweat stood out on his forehead.

"Maerad," he said. "I must ask your patience. I contest the will of the spirit of this place, which would not have us leave here. It bears down on me, and it gets worse the farther we go."

After a short time he walked on again, but more slowly, as if he were pushing through deep water. Maerad saw with anxiety they still had a long way to go before they passed out of the valley She could feel nothing herself, apart from an increasing sense of dread. She didn't dare to speak. It was difficult walking, as now they picked their way through broken boulders and piles of scree slipped from the sides of the mountain, and at times the track almost vanished altogether. Her boots were ragged, and her feet felt bruised and sore. And, for the first time that night, the cold began to trouble her. It seemed to creep into the marrow of her bones, forming crystals in her joints that made it hard to move. She gradually descended into a dull nightmare of exhaustion, and finally was concentrating only on putting one foot in front of the other. The mouth of the valley drew closer and closer, but as they neared it, so the cold increased and Cadvan's steps became slower.

At last he stopped altogether. Now sweat ran in runnels down his face, and the edges of his mouth trembled. "Maerad," he said hoarsely. "I must rest, just briefly." He collapsed slowly to the ground.

Instinctively Maerad reached out and clasped his hand.

All at once she felt it: a cold, cruel will that crushed her mind like a vice. She dropped his hand as if the touch scorched her.

"What
is
it?" she whispered.

Cadvan looked at her in amazement.

"You can feel it?" he said.

"Something," she said, wincing. "Something horrible ..."

"Take my hand again," he said. Maerad looked at him fearfully and flinched away. When she had touched Cadvan, it was as if her mind had been invaded by a malignant consciousness, implacable and terrifying.

Cadvan let out his breath in a gasp, and then braced himself to breathe again, like a man in pain. He held out his hand toward her, speaking steadily. "Maerad, at this moment I keep the entire mountain from toppling on our heads. Perhaps you can help me. Take my hand!"

Reluctantly Maerad reached out and clasped it again. His fingers were cold as ice. The feeling came back, worse this time. Cadvan clutched her hard, as if he were drowning.

"Hold it back," he said. "Command it to retreat."

Maerad felt bewildered. What did he mean?

Hold it back!

The command seemed not to be said out loud, but inside her head. It was Cadvan's voice. In the midst of the baleful darkness that disordered her mind, his voice seemed to be a light, a small white flame.. . . She turned toward it, fighting down her terror. She focused her thoughts.
Go away!
she cried. She didn't know if she said it out loud.
Begone!

At once the crushing sense of malevolence lightened. Cadvan let out an enormous sigh.

"By the Light, Maerad, that is some Gift you have. Now perhaps we will be able to leave." Slowly, holding her hand so tightly she could feel the bones crunching, he stood up.

They crept on steadily, bent over as if they carried heavy burdens. Maerad found it difficult to concentrate both on walking and on shielding her mind. Once she twisted her ankle on a rock and almost fell, crying out, but Cadvan kept fast her hand and she limped on. The end of the valley came closer with excruciating slowness.

At last, as the mountains began to turn silver gray and then rose pink with the approaching dawn, they reached the end of the valley. As they passed the last of its outrunning hills, Maerad felt the will snap shut behind her, like a gate, and suddenly her body walked freely again. She laughed with relief.

"We're out!" she cried, turning to Cadvan with an open smile for the first time.

Cadvan glanced at her somberly. "But still we must walk! Even in its shadows, the Landrost has power."

As if to emphasize his words, a deep rumble echoed from behind them and a great slide of rocks and boulders slipped off the side of the mountain and fell in dust to the ground. Maerad turned and looked into the valley for the last time.
Strange,
she thought; she felt no emotion at all, neither gladness nor regret. Nothing.

Then she turned away.

Before them she saw the turfed knees of the mountains descending to a great forest, obscured by mists that even now were drawing up to the sky. The sun was rising over the green hills, and its pale light fell on her face.

^III

THE
 
SCRYING

MAERAD limped on, her legs heavy, aching for sleep. An hour after sunrise, when the mouth of the valley had vanished in the larger range, but before they had reached the edges of the forest, Cadvan stopped beside a small grove of white-barked trees. Maerad saw they were ancient, with wide, scarred trunks, and grew in a circle close together.

"The birch is a tree of high virtue," Cadvan said. "Even here, we can sleep in peace. This is a dingle planted of old by the northern Bards. It is called Irihel, Icehome, and traveling Bards would stay here. It is well placed for us!"

They passed between the closely planted trunks, and Maerad saw that within them the grass was short and close-leafed, making a soft, fragrant ground that dipped down like a bowl. The branches met and interwove over their heads, the new leaves filtering the light green-gold. Cadvan sat down, throwing his pack to the ground, and stretched out his legs.

"We are not permitted to make fire here," he said. "More's the pity. My bones are frozen."

Maerad cautiously sat down with him. Her rough life in the cot had taught her to be wary of men; it had taken all her guile, and all her summonings of witchfears, to ward off Gilman's thugs. She had seen what they did to others weaker than they were. She was acutely aware that she was alone in a wild place, wholly in the power of this Cadvan; but he wasn't like any man she had met before, not even Mirlad, Gilman's dour and taciturn singer.

Cadvan eyed her with empathy. "There is a rivulet nearby if you would like to wash," he said. "I'll show you, and leave you there briefly. You will be within call, should you need me. If you are unable to call, shout my name in your head. I will hear you."

Maerad nodded, and he led her to a small stream that flowed, fresh and cold, from the mountains. Behind high bushes of gorse and bramble, a small bank of smooth grass shelved up from a pool, almost as if it had been made for bathing. Cadvan left her, and Maerad washed for the first time since the day before, gasping at the cold water. She soaked her swollen ankle. The sprain was not too bad: it would be better in a day or so.

Then she returned to the dingle, where Cadvan had taken a blanket and her lyre, still wrapped in sacking, from his pack. He had also spread some food: dried fruits and meats, and a tough-looking biscuit. "Eat," he said. "I'll be back in a minute."

Maerad picked up her lyre, shaking off the sacking, and cradled it, but she was too tired even to pluck the strings. By the time Cadvan returned, ten minutes later, she was already sound asleep with the blanket wrapped around her, the lyre tucked in the crook of her arm like a baby, the food untouched. He smiled wryly and ate some of the biscuit. Then he wrapped his cloak around him and slept.

Maerad was awoken by hunger pangs. The sun was already low in the sky. Cadvan was sitting with his back to her and turned when she stirred. He was eating and offered her some supper. They ate in silence. That simple food, seasoned only by hunger, burst on Maerad's tongue like freedom, and she felt as if her entire body were glowing with the taste of sunlight, of wind blowing in wide spaces and trees reaching their burdened arms to boundless skies.

When they finished eating, Cadvan brushed the crumbs off his cloak with almost fastidious care. "Now, Maerad," he said, not looking at her. "We must think of our plans. I must travel many hundreds of miles, through dangerous country, and quickly. And now I have a passenger, and no extra food. And I notice you brought not a blanket, nor any food, nor even spare clothes—only a harp, like a true Bard. What shall we do?"

Maerad looked at him, schooling her face to betray nothing. "How should I know?" she said. "You asked me to come with you." But a sudden fear plucked her. What, indeed, was she to do? She knew nothing and no one. As far as she knew, her family was all dead. She had no home. And she could be nothing but a liability to this man, who had freed her from slavery though clearly in danger himself. Would he abandon her?

As if he read her thoughts, Cadvan said quickly, "Of course, I wouldn't leave you here. But we must have some thought of where to go. My way bends to Norloch, where I must report to the Circle. I can either take you to a closer School, where you may rest and heal and be taught, or take you with me to Norloch."

"I don't mean to be in the way," said Maerad, a little sarcastically.

"Maerad, Bards learn that little that concerns them is the consequence of mere chance. Our meeting seems to me of more weight than that. Those of the Gift are rare enough: to find you in a cowbyre, in such circumstances, is too strange. And I doubt I would have made it out of that valley without your help. That much is clear to me. It is also, to my mind, astonishing to find such power as yours, wholly untutored. I would not have believed it if I had not experienced it. There's much I should tell you, much you should know. A Gift of this kind is a double-edged blade, and its possession can damage you if used wrongly. You are a puzzle."