The Gift (26 page)

It was a long time before she dragged the covers back over herself and fell again into an uneasy sleep.

THEY were up well before light the next day, and ate in the huge inn kitchen, at the scrubbed pine table with Halifax and his wife, Marta, warmed by the iron range.

“She’s a quiet one, your wife, eh?” said Halifax, shrugging his shoulder in Maerad’s direction.

“She don’t like strangers that well,” said Cadvan. “She’s sociable enough on her own.”

“Well, there’s some as never shut up, so I guess it’s swings and roundabouts.” Halifax rolled his eyes comically, and Marta kicked him under the table.

“I know who doesn’t shut up around here,” she said comfortably. “Can I do you a lunch? It’s a long ways to Milhol, grand horses and all.”

They waited while she cut them pieces of a fresh loaf and packed them cold meats and pickles and cheeses and some fresh spring onions. Cadvan stowed them in his pack, thanking the innkeepers, and then he and Maerad went to the stables, mounted, and were off. The dawn was yet a pink streak on the horizon and the loud chatter of birds was beginning to wake up the countryside as they trotted out of Barcombe and back onto the western road.

“We’re almost out of Innail Fesse now,” said Cadvan. “And right now I’m thinking the farther we get, the better.” Silently, still disturbed by the cry that had woken her the night before, Maerad agreed with him. They urged the horses to a canter, and so they continued for the next couple of hours as the sun rose into a clear sky and pulled away the early mists. Maerad saw that the mountains were running much closer on either side of them. They almost met a few miles ahead, where each spur tapered down into soft hills, the opening of the valley called the Innail Let. The road now was wider and straighter and looked much used, but they saw no one else this early on their ride. Within another couple of hours they were again under the mountain shadows, riding along the Imlan River, which rolled broadly between easily sloping banks. On the other side were narrow fields and fewer houses, and pine forests drew away from them up the slopes. Cadvan slowed to a walk.

“We’ll be well out of here by lunchtime, I think,” he said. “Nevertheless, it’s well to be wary now. There could be spies placed along this road; it’s the only way out of the valley.”

“Spies?” said Maerad. She looked involuntarily up into the sky and saw a black bird circling. Cadvan followed her gaze.

“Yes, of all kinds,” he said grimly. As they watched, the bird began to circle down toward them, and Cadvan watched it, halting Darsor. Maerad began to realize the bird was heading toward them.

“What should we do?” she asked, suddenly afraid.

“Nothing,” said Cadvan. “It is a raven, if I’m not mistaken.”

“A raven?” said Maerad. She waited with Cadvan. The bird flapped heavily down and landed on Cadvan’s arm. It opened its beak and, to Maerad’s astonishment, spoke in ordinary speech.

“Hail, Lord Cadvan,” it said.

“Hail, Lord Kargan,” said Cadvan. “What brings you here?”

“Evil tidings. I come from the Lady Silvia, who bade me seek you and tell you this. Last night, two Hulls entered the School of Innail. They tried the door of the house of Malgorn and Silvia, but the ward repulsed them. Then they questioned Dernhil of Gent.”

“Dernhil?” said Maerad. Cadvan’s face drained of blood.

“And after the questioning, what then?” he asked.

“We know not, Lord Cadvan. He was found in his room first light this morning, and none will know what passed there, unless they journey through the Gates to the Hidden Land.”

Cadvan bowed his head.

Afraid, Maerad said, “Do you mean he’s dead?”

“Alas, yes, Lady Maerad,” said the raven, and nodded its head. Maerad went cold with shock.

“You bear black news,” said Cadvan heavily. “Is the Lady Silvia sure they were Hulls?”

“The signs are certain,” said the Raven, turning its head to fix him with one of its eyes. “None others of the Dark have the powers to pass hidden through the Gates of Innail. But I also saw them, although they saw not me.”

Cadvan was silent for some time.

“Lord Kargan,” he said. “You have already done much, but I seek your help still. We need to pass through the Innail Let, and I know not if the Dark has gathered its spies there. It may be that it is yet unwatched, because they think that we are still at Innail. I would be grateful if you could fly there and tell me what you see.”

The bird fixed Cadvan again with its unblinking stare.

“I will be happy to do this thing,” it said, and flew away.

Cadvan and Maerad continued along the road. Cadvan was ashen, and his hands shook slightly on the reins.

Maerad could not believe the news; it couldn’t be true. Dernhil killed! And then, behind the numbness of shock, rose an inchoate fear:
They’re looking for me. They’re close behind. They’ve already murdered Dernhil. . . . And in Innail, which had seemed so safe, so impregnable.

“This is hard news!” Cadvan said at last. “Alas, he was my friend, and I loved him, and this is a grievous loss.”

“I didn’t know him for very long,” said Maerad awkwardly. She felt too stunned for tears. “But . . . he was my friend also.” She stopped, feeling helpless at how inadequate words were to express what she felt. They walked on, each wrapped in their own thoughts.

“I heard Dernhil last night,” said Maerad, suddenly remembering the terrible cry that had woken her from her sleep the night before.

“You heard him?”

“I woke up, because I heard someone call me. I heard him call my name. I thought it must have been a dream. A bad dream.” Her voice caught, but she continued. “But I know now it was Dernhil.”

Cadvan was silent again for some time.

“I spoke of you with Dernhil, Maerad,” he said. “I know he loved you. He was one of those who can see clearly into another’s soul, and his feelings were true. Such things have little to do with brevity of meeting. And in that lies our hope: for the Dark understands nothing of love. And if, as seems almost certain, the Hulls sought news of you, maybe his love protected you as nothing else could.”

Maerad thought of her last meeting with Dernhil, and of the enryu he had sent her. “Perhaps we will meet again,” he had said to her, and now there would be no more meetings, no more poems, no more conversations by the fire. She wished, with a sudden fierce regret, that she had not been so afraid when he had kissed her, that there had been more time for them. How carelessly she had assumed there would be a future in which hurts could be mended! And now there was none. . . . “It’s my fault,” she said in a muffled voice. “If he hadn’t been teaching me . . .”

Cadvan glanced at her. “You did not kill him,” he said, with a harsh edge to his voice. “It’s not your fault there is evil in this world.” He stopped abruptly, as if he feared what he might say, and sighed heavily. “I am thinking that there is a knowledge known only to Bards, which is how to kill themselves without weapons. They might sometimes use it, if nothing else prevails against a forcing of their minds.” For a while they both said nothing. Maerad wondered what he meant by “forcing of their minds.“

“It is unutterably terrible,” said Cadvan at last, “to hope that Dernhil killed himself rather than be murdered by those evil things; yet that is what I hope.”

They walked on, saying nothing more. Soon they saw Kargan again, flapping toward them. He landed as before on Cadvan’s arm.

“The road is safe, Lord Cadvan,” he said. “I have asked the creatures, and they have told me. Two Dark ones passed this way three nights ago, they said, and the forest stirred; but now only the men of Innail disturb the way.”

“Thank you, Lord Kargan,” said Cadvan gravely. “I shall ever be in your debt. Take news of us to the Lady Silvia, and our thanks and love, and tell her we will be soon out of Innail Fesse.”

The raven took off, heading toward Innail, and Cadvan lifted his arm in farewell. Then he turned to Maerad.

“The Dark is at our very heels,” he said. “We must fly now like the wind. Imi,
esterine ni
?”

The mare snorted and stamped her feet, and then they were off at a full gallop. The mountains swept in close to them, and the road was before them, straight as an arrow, and then they were through and out of Innail. The wide land of Annar lay before them, and the bright river through it, like a silver snake.

When they were well past the Let, Cadvan slowed down. Imi, for all her pluckiness, was lathered with sweat and beginning to stumble. They paused briefly, going down to the river to water the horses and stretch their legs and hastily eat the lunch that Marta had packed for them that morning.
Was it really this morning?
thought Maerad to herself, for it seemed an age ago. The landscape stretched before them on a slight decline, and the mountains rose behind, swaddled in cloud. Otherwise the sky was clear and the sun warmed their backs and steamed the sweat off the horses. The Imlan River ran to their left, broad and rapid, sometimes diving into cuttings, sometimes lazily meandering between shallow banks, and to their right was a tall forest of oak and ash. The road ran by the river but more straightly, leaving the river to its wider turns and curls, and here was made of level stone, with low stone markers at the side.

“The Annarens laid this road when the Schools were first built, nine centuries ago,” explained Cadvan as they rode along. “Such roads link all the Schools, although some have fallen into disuse and disrepair. The West Road runs all the way to Norloch, and there is the North Road and the South Road and others to all the Seven Kingdoms.”

They continued along the road for another few miles, and then Cadvan, looking up and down to make sure nobody saw them, led them swiftly off onto a small track that vanished quickly into the forest. A coolness fell over them; the sunlight fell in dapples, and Maerad saw squirrels vanishing up the trunks of the trees as they passed, and a rabbit propped in a glade, its white tail bobbing into the trees as they drew closer. Many of the trees had massive trunks, and the high crowns of the biggest covered an area the size of a large house.

“This is the Weywood,” Cadvan said. “It’s one of the oldest in Annar, a remnant of the ancient forests that once stretched from sea to mountain. It is a wild place, and so deserves caution. Human beings have little place here.”

Riding through the trees, Maerad had a powerful sense that the forest shut her out. It seemed to watch with a wariness that was not quite unfriendly. The feeling increased as they moved deeper into the forest and the trees thickened and less light fell through the tangled canopy, but she felt no fear. She thought that if she were not with Cadvan she might feel differently; although he said it was not an evil place, she sensed a power that could be hostile if anything threatened it.

The shadows began to lengthen, and immediately a chill fell around them. Cadvan was looking around as he rode, hunting for something, and at last he nodded and led them slightly away from the track to a small dingle like the Irihel where she and Cadvan had stayed the first night after her escape from Gilman. This one was of rowan trees closely growing in a half circle so their branches met and intertwined above; the smooth grass within shelved down to a spring that bubbled out of a ledge of rock, on top of which grew briars and woodbines. Half hidden by this growth was a smooth cave with a sandy floor, where people had clearly made camp many times before. It even had a rough hearth made of loose stones.

“This is a Derenhel, or Woodhome,” said Cadvan, showing her the cave. “It is a Bardhome. There are many such throughout Annar.” He spoke to the horses, unsaddled them, and loosed them in the dingle to graze. In all their travels Maerad never saw Cadvan tether his horse, nor had need to tether her own; he asked that they stay close, and they never wandered. Then Cadvan and Maerad took their packs and entered the cave, and there, after they had gathered some dead branches, Cadvan lit a fire, and the gloom that had enveloped both of them since Lord Kargan’s news lifted a little. They did not at first speak of Dernhil’s death, as the subject was too raw for mere words, but the knowledge lay beneath all their speaking, a shadow of grief and fear.

Maerad felt very stiff and sore after the past two days’ ride. She stretched, grimacing. “Ow! I don’t think I’ll be able to walk tomorrow,” she said. “Let alone ride. I feel like I’ve been beaten all over with sticks.”

“A couple more days and you’ll be used to it,” said Cadvan. “But I can do some Bardic tricks to get rid of the worst of the stiffness.” He told Maerad to stand before him, and then passed his hands around her body without touching her. Where his hands passed Maerad felt a tingling warmth, and the aches lessened. She could then sit down without discomfort, although she still felt exhausted and a little sore.

“Magic!” she said, stretching her legs out in front of her.

“So some call it,” said Cadvan. “Bards call it the Knowing. Of which there are certain gaps in your knowledge, young Minor Bard.” He grinned through his tiredness. “We’ll eat, and then I should start your lessons.”

“There are so many things I would like to know,” said Maerad. “Oh, lots of things. Why could I understand the raven, if I don’t have the Speech? And what is the Speech, anyway? How can I know it without knowing it?”