The Gift (12 page)

Malgorn, smiling, took her hand and bowed over it, suddenly grave. “I am honored to meet you, Maerad of Pellinor,” he said. “I thought none of your School yet lived. It has a place in my heart like no other, and was one of the most beautiful in Annar.”

Maerad looked up into a pair of warm brown eyes and swallowed. She made an awkward little bob, and Malgorn released her hand. He ushered them through the gates and a small cloister and then into the first courtyard of the School of Innail. There Maerad would have stopped and stared in astonishment, had Malgorn’s shepherding permitted her. The moonlight fell on well-tended gardens bordered by huge, smooth flags, and in the center a fountain trembled, a glittering veil. Men and women walking through the courtyard looked at them with cool curiosity. Someone was playing a flute somewhere far off in another building, and from another direction Maerad could hear voices joined together in song. Something within her leaped in recognition.

She had no time to stare, as Malgorn hurried them through curving streets of graceful buildings and across more courtyards to a great stone house with high, narrow windows from which spilled light as yellow as butter. Malgorn flung open the richly chased double doors and strode into the entrance hall, shouting, “Silvia! Silvia! We have guests!” And that was all Maerad saw, before a blackness came rushing over her and she slid to the ground in a dead faint.

MAERAD opened her eyes and blinked away the black spots. Her head was humming, and it was a few seconds before her vision focused and she could see where she was. Someone had lifted her onto a chair, and Cadvan was leaning toward her, holding a small glass full of a golden liquid.

“Drink,” he said. She had never touched glass before, and she took it gingerly as if it would shatter; it was cool and light against her fingers. The drink went down her throat like a smooth flame, burning her palate, and she choked as an aftertaste glowed in her mouth like a soft explosion of fruit. Warmth thrilled through her body all the way down to her toes, and for a second she wondered if she was about to be sick. Even feeling as she was, she couldn’t have stood the humiliation; but then it passed.

“Another,” said Cadvan.

“What is it?” she asked. Despite its initial sting, the liquor was as different from the harsh voka that Gilman’s men drank as anything she could imagine.

“It’s laradhel, a specialty of the house,” said Cadvan, grinning. “Distilled out of selected herbs and fruits, especially apricots, yes, Malgorn?” He lifted an inquiring eyebrow at Malgorn, who nodded. “By this particular connoisseur of the table, no less. Malgorn has a great interest in the arts of brewing and distilling, for pleasure as well as medicine.”

She drank again, and didn’t choke this time. Sip by sip she finished the glass, and handed it back to Cadvan. She felt less dizzy now, if a little lightheaded, and she looked around the room.

She was in a chamber that, to her confused perceptions, seemed like a vision or something from a dream. It was high-ceilinged and gracefully proportioned, with a carved mantel on one wall where a fire flickered in the grate. From the ceiling hung a silver lamp shaped like a lily, which diffused a gentle light. The walls were pale yellow, and the ceiling and carved cornices were painted with a pattern of stylized lilies and ivy leaves stenciled in black and subtly colored. Comfortable wooden chairs, heaped high with dark red cushions, were arranged around a huge fireplace, and musical instruments of all kinds were stacked casually against the walls and furniture. There was a big carved shelf of leather-bound books on the wall opposite, and one, with fine black writing illuminated with gold-leafed pictures, was open on a table. She blinked again in wonder.

“She’s white as a ghost,” said Malgorn. “What have you been doing with this child, Cadvan? Where did you find her?”

“I’m not a child,” said Maerad, more sulkily than she intended. “I mean, I’m sixteen summers old!” Then she blushed, feeling graceless, and fell silent.

“She’s certainly not a child,” said Cadvan, smiling mischievously at Maerad. “She faced twenty wers with only a stick in her hand. But I can’t blame her for fainting when she met
you
!”

Malgorn laughed, and then looked speculatively at Maerad. “Twenty wers, eh? Looks at the moment like twenty moths would be too much for her! That must be worth a song or two.”

“Not on my own!” Maerad protested, struggling to sit up. “Cadvan’s exaggerating!”

A woman entered the room, carrying a tray. “Is she conscious? Thank the Light for that.” She put the tray on a small table and bustled over to Maerad, holding out her hand. “Hello, Maerad, I am Silvia. I have the bad luck to be married to Malgorn here, and so have to put up with his nonsense all the time.” She smiled, and Maerad smiled back. She thought she had never seen such a beautiful face: kind and merry and wise, all at the same time. “Come, let’s leave these two to their own devices,” she said. “We’ll get you cleaned up. And get some food into you! You’re so thin! Has Cadvan been starving you?”

“Why is everyone blaming
me
?” asked Cadvan. “And where is the sympathy for
my
thinness?”

“Sympathy? For you?” said Silvia. “You’ve been eating her rations, for sure. I’ve never seen such a stick. Now, Malgorn, stop talking and show this poor man to his room.”

“And a bath!” said Cadvan “I crave a bath above all else!”

But Maerad was already being guided out of the room into a long hallway, Silvia’s arm around her shoulders. “Are you very hungry, Maerad?” she asked.

“No,” she mumbled. “Well, not at the moment.”

“If you’re not starving, there’s a bath being prepared for you. And we’ll find you some clothes. These can go in the fire! What has Cadvan been doing with you? Gadding about the wilderness, chasing monsters no doubt. What was he thinking? You’re too young for all that business. You should be safe in a school, learning scales and suchlike. Really!” She clicked her tongue impatiently.

“It wasn’t his fault!” Maerad said hotly, feeling Cadvan was being blamed unfairly. “Really, it wasn’t. He rescued me! I was a slave in Gilman’s Cot, and he took me out of there, and I never had enough to eat beforehand anyway. . . .”

“Did he, now?” Silvia stopped and took Maerad’s chin in her hand, looking into her eyes with a disconcerting seriousness. “Don’t take our jesting seriously, Maerad. Cadvan is a good friend, an old friend, and one of the most honorable men I ever met. There are not many Bards like him. Be sure we know that.”

Maerad nodded, feeling foolish again; she hadn’t encountered this kind of gentle mockery before, and she found it hard to read. Silvia continued her bustling and chatting, and before she knew it Maerad found herself in a steaming room smelling of lavender, with a stone bath sunk in the floor already full of hot water. Maerad had never even seen a bath before. She halted in the doorway, her eyes wide. Silvia looked at her swiftly, and said: “Would you like me to stay? I can leave you, if you like. But it sometimes helps to have someone scrub your back.”

“I . . . I don’t know,” whispered Maerad, almost overcome. “What do you normally do?”

“This time, my sweet, I will stay and help you,” said Silvia decidedly. “I should not like it if you fainted in the bath. And you look too exhausted to bathe alone.”

Gently she helped Maerad peel off her stinking clothes, throwing them into a basket, and helped her into the bath, pouring into it a sweet-smelling oil from a blue bottle. Then she scrubbed her with a soft cloth and lavender-scented soap, and washed her hair. Maerad was ashamed when she saw how filthy the water was, but Silvia seemed unfussed, and simply tut-tutted over the cut on Maerad’s forehead and the bruises and scars on her body. When she was satisfied that Maerad was clean down to the last fingernail, she helped her out, dried her, and draped a soft, warm robe around her shoulders. She smeared a balm on the cut and then took a wide-toothed comb from a cupboard, made her sit down on a low wooden stool in the corner of the room, and patiently combed all the knots out of her hair. It took some time. Maerad leaned back against her, sleepy and luxurious. She had never felt such ease in her body; her skin felt delicious, as if it were made of silk.

“Now, your room should be ready,” said Silvia. “Let’s go.”

She led her down more corridors and up a flight of stairs and opened the door on a small bedchamber. A fire flickered in a grate, and through an arched window Maerad could hear the bubbling voice of the fountain in the courtyard. A bed draped with a brocaded cover stood in the corner, and on it were laid bright clothes. She saw that someone had placed her lyre in the corner. Maerad stood hesitantly by the door, abashed by the rich colors. “Is all this for me?” she whispered.

Silvia looked at her with an unfathomable compassion. “It is, Maerad. All for you. Now, shall I help you to dress? Some of those buttons can be tricky.”

Maerad nodded dumbly. She had never seen dresses like this either, of such soft cloth in rich colors, made for comfort and beauty as well as warmth. She felt ignorant and coarse. Silvia chose a simple blue robe with silver embroiderings on the neck and sleeves. “You’ll be going to bed very soon,” she said practically. “And you don’t want to be fussing about. But you must have something to eat first. Are you feeling all right? Do you think you’ll faint again?”

Embarrassed, Maerad shook her head. The more kindness Silvia showed her, the less she felt able to speak. She felt as if there were some mistake; soon someone would find out that she wasn’t a proper Bard and would throw her out. Silvia picked out some woolen underclothes and passed them to Maerad, who wondered at their softness. She felt that she was dreaming. She sat down on the bed, lost in thought, stroking them with her fingers, and Silvia gently took them from her and, loosing her bathrobe, slipped the shift over Maerad’s head. It was like dressing a child, or a doll. Maerad said not a word.

When she was dressed, Silvia led her to a mirror. “Do you think that suits?” she said, leaning her chin over Maerad’s shoulder. “You should wear blue, it brings out your eyes. How pretty you are!”

Maerad blinked and stared. There had been no mirrors in Gilman’s Cot, apart from the polished metal of a shield or the still face of a pail of water. She couldn’t recognize the image in the mirror as herself; only the faint white line on her neck, a hairline scar from some old injury she couldn’t remember, seemed at all familiar. Suddenly there came into her mind, at once very vivid and immeasurably distant, a memory of her mother’s face bending toward her, perhaps to kiss her. She realized with a slight shock that she looked very much like Milana. It made her feel desolate, and perceiving this, Silvia said quickly: “It’s time to eat, before you drop on the floor with exhaustion. I’m sure Malgorn and Cadvan are waiting for us; we should hurry.”

She led her down the stairs, which Maerad negotiated hesitatingly, looking around in wonder. She found the house bewildering: there were too many chambers, too many doors, too many passages leading to unguessed-at destinations. She was used to buildings of one room, with beasts down one end and people at the other and no stairs anywhere. Even the Great Hall had been only one big room, with the sleeping quarters attached to one side as lean-tos.

At last they reached a small dining room, where there was a dark wooden table set with candles and fine, plain plates. In the center were dishes piled high with vegetables, and a plate heaped with carved meats. Maerad suddenly realized she was ravenous. Cadvan and Malgorn were already seated, and glanced up as they entered. For a second Cadvan looked a little startled, and Maerad faltered, feeling awkward and self-conscious in her new clothes, but then the men stood and bowed their heads courteously. Silvia bowed her head in answer, and Maerad, looking out the corner of her eye, copied her, and they all sat down.

“Roast beef, Maerad!” said Cadvan, settling in next to her. “Didn’t I promise you? And all the carrots and turnips you could possibly want. And they even rustled up some mushrooms, at my urgent request!” He served her generously, and then piled food on his own dish. “Malgorn has told me sternly that I can’t keep you up late, and that you mustn’t eat too much, for fear you will be ill. I told him it’s nothing to do with me!” He smiled, and Maerad began to relax a little.