The Naming (5 page)

He smiled at her, but Maerad sat gloweringly and would not smile back. There was a short silence.

"May I look at your lyre?" he asked. "It caught my eye...."

Maerad picked up her instrument, unconsciously stroking it, and passed it to him. He took it and examined it closely, his interest quickening, his long slender fingers testing its weight and balance. He drew his hand across the strings in a gentle chord. The notes rang out sweetly and hung in the air. Cadvan whistled softly.

"This lyre," he said. "Was it your mother's?"

Maerad nodded. Cadvan sat thoughtfully, turning it over in his hands, running his fingers over the carved script.

"Have you ever had to tune it?" he said. "I suppose you have never replaced the strings?"

"No," said Maerad. "Should I have? I didn't know. . . . Mirlad never said ..."

Cadvan laughed, startling her. "Oh, Maerad," he said, when he regained his breath. "Should you have strung it?" He laughed again, softly, wonder palpable in his voice. "This is a thing precious beyond the ransom of kings. What would Gilman have done, had he known such a treasure lay hidden in his small cot? It is worth ten times, no, a thousand thousand times, the worth of everything in it. Such lyres have not been made for many a long age, not since the days of Afinil. It was carved by a great craftsman. I don't know this script at all, and I know many that are long fallen into disuse; no doubt it tells the name of who made it. Instruments like these are known as Dhyllic ware, and a great potency is woven into their making. The virtue on its strings is one now long lost. I have read of these instruments, but I have never seen one. It was thought they were all lost. What a riddle you are!" He looked at her, still smiling.

Maerad had no idea how to answer him. She was staggered.

Her humble lyre, a thing out of legend? But, suddenly serious, Cadvan reached out and patted her hand.

"We shall have to be friends, if we are to travel together," he said. "And we must trust each other. Don't mind my teasing. Nevertheless, we must decide what to do."

Maerad looked uneasily down at her hands and said nothing. She didn't know what to say to this man: did he mean her ill? How could she tell?

"In any case, we won't leave here tonight," continued Cadvan. "I am still weary, truth be told. And I need to think. Here we are safe, for the time being. Rest will harm neither of us. And there is a long road ahead, whatever we decide."

He opened his pack and drew out a lyre. "Of less noble lineage than yours, but noble enough to keep it company," he said. "And still true, and my first love." He struck some chords, tuning it, and then plucked a cascade of notes that pierced Maerad's heart. It was a song she knew well, the beginning of the tragic lay of Andomian and Beruldh, which Mirlad had taught her many years before. Cadvan began to sing the part of Andomian in a clear, beautiful voice:

"Speak to me, fair maid!

Speak and do not go!

What sorrows have your eyes inlaid

With such black woe?"

He paused, plucking the melody, and Maerad realized he was waiting for her to respond. She was still holding her lyre, and began to play the antiphon, singing the answering verse. She hadn't played a duet since Mirlad died. They continued to sing the alternate verses of the ancient lay, Cadvan's baritone and Maerad's contralto filling the grove with music. Maerad
had the odd feeling that the trees were listening, bending inward the better to hear them.

"My dam is buried deep

Dark are my father's halls

And carrion fowl and wolves now keep

Their ruined walls."

"Stay and heal your hurt

Lay down that brow of stone

From this day forth my hidden heart

Will be your own."

"The curse of Karak binds me

My brothers are his thralls

And I must turn all joy and flee

To his foul halls ..."

Maerad stopped, suddenly faltering. Cadvan ceased his play, and after the rippling chords of music there was a deep silence. "And so Andomian and Beruldh met, and wended their way to the dungeons of the Nameless, and there died, beyond hope or help of the Light," he said. "But none of the legends speak of his regret." He struck a sudden harsh, impatient chord. "You're right, Maerad. This is no song for such a place, unhoused, in the dark, where wers howl in the distance. You play well: you've had some good teaching, clearly, although with some odd variants. I see you know more than you choose to show. I should have expected that. We'll talk of this later."

He put away his lyre and spoke no more for some time, and now his brow was dark and troubled. Maerad sat disconsolate, wondering if she had been impertinent or coarse. This man was
beyond her ken: he seemed to regard her with tolerant irony, and then, without warning, his mood would change and he would become distant and withdrawn. He was nothing like the men in Gilman's Cot, who were moved only by coarse, violent impulses, nor like Mirlad, who had been brusque, but whose gruffness concealed a deep kindness. An instinct had told her Mirlad was deeply unhappy, and so she excused his disillusion and his odd moods. He had never spoken to her of the history of Annar, or the Lore, or the Speech, although he had taught her many songs, saying dismissively that they passed the time. Thinking back, she supposed he saw as little hope as she did of her escape, and so sought to protect her from dreaming, as perhaps he did, of another life. A life where Bards and Song were held in honor, and were not merely the entertainment at crude feastings.

And he had died there. She felt a new compassion wash over her for the degradation of Mirlad's life, and his lonely death.

Cadvan, though, was quite different, and much less easy to feel out. He seemed more mercurial; his face was mobile, and his thoughts flowed over it like the sun rippling over water. Yet paradoxically he seemed more hidden, full of secrets beyond even those he hinted at.
Perhaps,
she thought,
all real Bards are like this, at once more present and more remote.
At least he had gotten her out of the cot—but she couldn't think of what she should do now, unless she followed Cadvan. He said himself this was dangerous country, and she had no knowledge of any dangers, save those of being beaten, and fighting off the Thane's men. She would be as vulnerable as a baby rabbit.

Maerad leaned back against one of the birches and gazed up through its branches, which twined black against the deep blue of evening. A few early stars shone through, white jewels snared in an intricate net.
I cannot understand this pattern,
she thought tiredly.
But the stars, at least, remain the same.

At last Cadvan said curtly that she should get some rest, and so she curled into the blanket. It didn't take long for her to sleep, despite the disorder of her thoughts.

Maerad woke with a start. For a moment she forgot where she was and wondered why there had been no bell; then a shaft of light striking through the branches shone in her eyes, and as she blinked, the events of the past two days came back with a rush. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, and saw that Cadvan was already up and had laid out breakfast. He had been to the stream, and his dark hair fell wet across his forehead.

"Good morning," he said, bowing. "The mistress of the house must forgive our fare, which, alas, is the same as last night. But wholesome, for all its monotony. Does my lady wish to wash first, or after she breaks her fast?"

Maerad laughed. "Later, I think. It's a better breakfast than I'm used to!"

They ate in a companionable silence. Then Cadvan packed up. Maerad wrapped her lyre in its sacking, and Cadvan stowed it.

"We must leave here today," he said. "I have decided to vary my course somewhat, and go to a place I know about sixty miles hence. At a good pace, and all being well, we will make it in about a week. We need supplies, and you need some clothes. Bards are not welcome everywhere these days, and we will have to disguise ourselves. But I think they will not turn away travelers in need."

Then he paused, as if he were uncertain. "Now, I wish to ask of you a favor. Maerad, you are a sore puzzle to me, and such is the importance of my errand.... I want to ask if I can scry you."

"Scry me?" said Maerad. "What does that mean?"

"It's hard to explain, if you don't know," he said. "But I must tell you, that if you refuse, I will respect your decision and will
attempt to place no weight on it. Scrying is a hard thing, and no Bard performs it lightly. It means that I wish to look into you and see what you are."

"Oh," said Maerad. She still had no idea what he was talking about. Doubtfully, she asked, "Does it hurt?"

"Well. Yes, it does, in a way. It's a little like my asking if you would take all your clothes off and stand in front of me while I pore over you with a seeing glass."

Maerad stared at him, nonplussed. Cadvan's eyes were frank and open, and there seemed to be no guile in his request. Still, she felt misgivings stir within her. "It sounds like you want to magic me," she said suspiciously. "Don't you trust me? Is that it?"

He sighed. "It's not a spell, not as such. At least, I would do nothing
to
you, apart from look."

Maerad still said nothing.

"I don't like to ask," Cadvan said. "I brought you out of that place in good faith, and I would not ask if all that were at risk were myself."

"What if I don't agree?" she asked.

"Then I won't do it," said Cadvan. "And we shall continue with our journey." His face was suddenly inscrutable, and he bent to pick up his pack.

"What do you have to do?"

Cadvan paused.

"I look into your eyes. I see into your mind. That's all."

"That's
all?"
Maerad considered for a short time. It seemed important to Cadvan. And she didn't believe he would hurt her; he had had plenty of opportunity already, if that was what he wished to do. "All right, then," she said, shrugging. "If it makes you feel better. What do you have to do?"

"Are you sure?"

"Do you want to do it, or not?" she said.

Cadvan dropped his pack again. "Then stand square in front of me, like you did in the byre. And place your hands on my shoulders."

She did so, and he put his hands on her shoulders. They stood face-to-face, and Cadvan looked into her eyes. Maerad had a sudden desire to giggle.

"Don't laugh, Maerad," said Cadvan softly. "Empty your mind."

He spoke words in the Speech, very rapidly so Maerad couldn't catch them. It seemed to Maerad that the light around them darkened, and that all she could see were Cadvan's eyes. They were a very dark blue and burned with an inner fire that seemed at first cold, but then, she realized, was hot at the center, hot enough to burn. And what was that sadness in them? A deep sadness, a wound ... a face much loved, she could almost see it. . . and something else, a darkness, like a scar.. . . But then suddenly she was overwhelmed with memories of her own life: memories she had forgotten, or pressed into the back of her mind. They came in a flood, in no particular order, almost as if her whole life were occurring in a single second; but some stood out.

Memory after memory of Gilman's Cot, numbing exhaustion and boredom and pain, the humiliations of the riots and beatings, playing with Mirlad when she was a child, and listening to his dour teaching. . . Her mother, and an old woman, blue-eyed, holding her, and a garden full of sweet-scented flowers ... Singing and music and laughter in a great hall filled with men and women and children in fine clothes and lit with great branches of candles . . . Her mother clutching her in terror and sickness and grief, lurching in a wagon ... A small table, piled high with fruit... Her mother holding a small baby, her brother Cai, who was chortling and reaching for a red flower. . . Her mother's despair and her mother dying. Her mother yellowed
and wasted on a pallet, her lips cracked and ulcerated, her voice a whisper, brushing back her hair and saying, "Maerad, be strong. Be strong...." And the death rattle ... Crows wheeling in a dark sky, and men shouting, and terrible screams, a man she knew was her father felled with a blow from a mace, falling among many bodies, and a high tower burning in the night and a shout as the roof caved in, sending forth a leap of flame ...

An intolerable anguish possessed Maerad, beyond even the grief she had felt at her mother's death; it was as if all the pain she had ever experienced gathered into a white-hot node in the center of her mind. It grew and grew, a distressing coruscation of her whole being, until she could no longer bear it. Beyond her conscious will, she screamed
No!
and burst into a storm of scalding tears.

She was aware of nothing else for some time. After a while, she realized she was on the ground, weeping on Cadvan's shoulder, and he was stroking her hair. Her sobs subsided at last and she sat back, thrusting Cadvan away and rubbing the back of her hand over her eyes.

Cadvan looked pale and distressed. "Maerad, I am truly sorry," he said. "I am very, very sorry."

She wasn't sure if he was sorry for the scrying, or for what the scrying had revealed. She felt limp, and the beginnings of a slight headache pulsed behind her brow. She hid her face in her hands.

"It
did
hurt," she said in a muffled voice.

"I shouldn't have asked," Cadvan said, after a silence. "For all your power, you are not much more than a child, and even the great find scrying a hard thing. I was in such doubt, whether you were a spirit of the Dark, sent to trick me."

"Me
trick
you?"
Maerad looked up in surprise. Cadvan grinned at her crookedly

"You have the consolation that I have paid for my doubt. The cry you sent out threw me over to those trees. I was lucky my neck wasn't broken!"

"I did that?" She stared at him, her mouth open in astonishment.

"Indeed you did. But it wasn't your fault." He grimaced, rubbing his head, and Maerad saw there was a mark on his forehead. "You need to learn how to control your power."

"You'll have a bump there," she said.

"Yes, I will."

"Is it all right, then?"

"What?"

"I mean, it's all right?"

"Oh, yes." Cadvan answered her almost distractedly. "There is no Darkness in you, if that's what you mean; I know that, even though I couldn't finish the scrying. If there were, I would have found different walls and different kinds of refusals." He looked at her oddly—almost, she thought, shyly. "It's a strange business, scrying. I haven't done it very often. But I can tell you, Maerad, that I have not scried one with so much anguish as you. I shan't do it again in a hurry, and you almost scried me instead!" He shook his head, and they both sat unspeaking for some time. Maerad's headache ebbed away. She felt dazed and emptied; but there was also a strange sense of relief, as if she had been lanced of a large abscess.