The Gift (31 page)

Cadvan was still alert, continually checking around them, but Maerad was too cold to care and rode on in a stupor of misery. She was taken by surprise when he halted, lifting his hand to signal that she should stop too. “Listen,” he said.

Maerad started and guiltily sent out her hearing. Under the thin whine of the wind she could hear hoofbeats in the distance. It sounded like a single horse, heading toward them. She turned questioningly to Cadvan.

“I think it is about a mile in front of us,” said Cadvan. “A solitary traveler in these lands must be a Bard. And I cannot disguise us now; this close, that spell would be sensed.” He looked across at Maerad. “We will have to pretend we are simply travelers. If it is a Hull, which is unlikely, don’t look surprised or shocked; it will most likely be wrapped in a glimmerspell, and you would not know, if you were not a Bard.”

“But won’t a Hull know we’re Bards?” asked Maerad uneasily.

“He probably won’t look that closely, in this weather,” said Cadvan. “But it would be well to veil yourself.”

“Veil myself?” Maerad stared at him. As she watched, the air around Cadvan seemed to dim. It was barely perceptible, and she felt, rather than saw, the difference.

“Think of a shield around you, hiding you,” he said. Maerad shut her eyes and concentrated. She opened them again and looked inquiringly at Cadvan.

“Yes, that’s it,” he said. He inspected them both, then pulled his hood farther down over his face. “I think we look miserable enough to pass for peasants,” he said. “But Darsor will not do.” He spoke to the horse, who snorted and pawed the ground but then slumped himself. Maerad blinked in surprise: the proud Darsor now looked goosenecked and swaybacked, and he walked with a slight limp. Cadvan patted his neck. “A master actor, this horse,” he said.

“This time I could be your lunatic daughter,” said Maerad. “If that would help.” She messed up her hair, trailing tresses across her face in witch-locked tangles, and adopted a slack-jawed expression.

Cadvan laughed grimly. “I’m beginning to think that in some respects your education was quite thorough,” he said.

They continued at a slow walk. Maerad was now alert, forgetting the cold entirely, and she monitored the hoofbeats until they entered her normal range of hearing. She felt a vague sense of evil, a feeling of desolation and malice that grew as the hoofbeats drew closer. Her heart beat faster and faster. Then, more suddenly than she expected, the horseman appeared a hundred feet or so before them, coming at a slow trot around a ridge of rock.

He was cloaked heavily in black and wore high black boots with sharp spurs. He rode a big-boned bay horse, which continually threw up its head, champing on a cruel bit.

Maerad knew immediately the rider was a Hull. The horse’s eyes were circled with white and its sides were flecked with white foam streaked with blood. The Hull’s face was entirely shadowed by its hood, but Maerad saw with a shudder that the hands on the reins were shriveled and white and bony, like those of a mummified corpse, and it wore a ring of dull silver that clasped a black stone. She gulped and plodded on with Cadvan, closer and closer to the Hull, although she felt that Imi’s steps were full of loathing, and the animal threatened to shy.

After what seemed an age they drew level. Now Maerad’s heart was hammering against her ribs, and her tongue was dry in her mouth. She could not have said anything, even if she had wanted to. The rider halted, blocking their way, and her stomach lurched with fright. She looked down at its hands, although the sight of them sickened her, and saw the black stone of the ring was carved into the semblance of a grinning skull. Cadvan stopped, as if it were a courtesy, and spoke. “Good day, sir,” he said pleasantly. “Mighty hard weather for a ride.”

The Hull stared at him, and now Maerad could see a bony nose and eyes burning like red embers within the shadow of the hood. “It is indeed,” it said, and its voice seemed to come from a great depth. “Only the foolhardy venture forth on this route.”

“Aye,” said Cadvan. “Or the desperate.” He indicated Maerad with an inclination of his head. “My daughter, sir, has been mad these last three months, and I go to Ettinor to ask their help.”

Maerad obligingly goggled at the Hull. She found that if she unfocused her eyes the Hull looked almost like a Bard or a fine lord in a long cloak, which was easier to bear than the grim figure she otherwise saw.

“There might be help in Ettinor for such as you,” said the Hull sneeringly. “Or there might not.”

“I seek no favors, sir, that I can’t pay for,” said Cadvan. His face was blank, eager to please, and a little foolish. “But I wonder, sir: have you seen bandits farther up the road? I feared at first that you were one of them, begging your pardon, but we’ve seen none so far, though others warned us of them.”

“The bandits have been purged,” said the Hull. “They became a nuisance.”

“Well, then, that’s good news, and no mistake,” said Cadvan. There was a short pause. “Well, we’ve a way to go.” He urged Darsor on. “A good day to you, then, sir.”

Slowly, as if it did so reluctantly, the Hull moved aside to let them pass. Maerad put her head down and followed Cadvan, keeping her mind as blank as possible. She couldn’t stop her hands from shaking. As she drew level, the Hull’s head suddenly rose, and it hissed as if it were about to say something, looking straight at her. She could feel it probing her mind, as if sickly tentacles crept over her, and the gorge rose in her throat. Without thinking she threw herself forward over the pommel of her saddle, letting out a high, tearing scream, as she had heard a lunatic woman wail once in Gilman’s Cot. She filled her mind with nightmarish images of a giant spider, and then of a many-headed snake, and the Hull’s fingerings withdrew with a snap, as if in distaste.

“Now, Marta, don’t take on so,” said Cadvan, riding forward. “Forgive her, sir, forgive her,” he said to the Hull. “It’s the madness, she has such fits. . . .”

The Hull spat on the ground and spurred its horse on past them, knocking into Darsor. The black horse shied, almost unseating Cadvan. Maerad continued her wailing until the hoofbeats vanished in the distance, and then stopped, hiccupping a few times for verisimilitude. She looked up at Cadvan, who put his forefinger over his mouth to silence her. They continued at the same slow walk for another hour before they dared say anything to each other.

“That was close,” Cadvan said at length. “Thank the Light for your quick wits, Maerad. I thought for a second we were lost. It sensed you.”

Maerad still felt nauseous, as if somehow she had been poisoned. “He tried to read me,” she said shakily. “So I just let myself panic and thought of monsters. It was horrible.”

“You’re not nearly as fragile as you look. Better to seem weak than to be so.” Cadvan grinned wryly, and Maerad wanly smiled back, feeling her nausea begin to subside. “It’s rare for Hulls to ride openly through Annar, even these days,” Cadvan said. “And it was riding from Ettinor. Perhaps it had been sent to gather news of us, perhaps on other business. I don’t know. But I begin to understand some things more clearly.”

“About Ettinor?” asked Maerad.

“Yes,” Cadvan said heavily. “I’ve spoken of some of my fears to you already. It seems they are not misled. I have not been in Ettinor these past few years. Last time I did not like it, but did not sense an active evil. But things can change fast.” Cadvan seemed deep in troubled thought. “Even if Ettinor is one of the corrupt Schools, I can hardly bear to think of it as beholden to the Nameless One and a haven for Hulls. There are Bards, even there, who have spoken out against the corruption of the Knowing in the Schools, and who work for the restoration of Barding.”

They rode on for some time in silence. “The Nameless must feel sure in his power, to be so closely folded in the bosom of his enemy,” he said at last. “It is a very bad sign.”

CADVAN and Maerad reached the Fesse of Ettinor on the afternoon of the next day. The Broken Hills sank gradually down into level plains, and here wild grasses nodded knee-high beside the road in a mild breeze, and willows hung their long leaves in the river beside them. After a few miles the road turned sharply north and forded the Milhol River, and on its other side they rode through farming lands dotted by herds of cattle and sheep, with frequent copses of beech, alder or poplar, or huge solitary oaks. The houses were styled differently from those in the Innail Fesse, built of gray stone with small, high windows and roofs of red clay tiles, and many had bright window boxes with red or pink geraniums. It was a pleasant countryside to ride through, and Maerad felt it as a balm on her eyes after the harsh rocks and scrubby vegetation of the past few days.

They were again in disguise as the cobbler Mowther and his idiot son, this time traveling the countryside seeking work; after their encounter the previous day, Cadvan was taking no chances. They passed several people on the road, but again Maerad noticed that few returned Cadvan’s greetings. They saw no Bards. Once they saw a farrier riding along in a big black apron, with his tools jingling on his saddle, on his way perhaps to shoe one of the big working horses Maerad had seen in the fields; and a shepherd with two dogs chivvying along a small flock of sheep; and three barefoot children playing in the road who, when they saw the strangers, immediately ran away and hid. Soon in the distance Maerad saw the walls of the School, and its high gray towers. Cadvan bent their way south of the School, heading west.

“It’s pretty country,” said Maerad. “Almost as pretty as Innail.”

“Yes, but growing poor,” Cadvan said. “Not so long ago, you never saw children shoeless around here. Another few decades and it will be like the country around Milhol.”

After that Maerad began to notice signs of neglect or poverty; tiles missing in a barn roof or rotting carts and wagons abandoned by the side of the road. Many fields, which Cadvan told her should now be under seed, were growing wild with rank grasses and thistles; and not infrequently they saw farmhouses that had been abandoned altogether, their windows broken, their roofs beginning to collapse, high dockweeds thrusting over the walls of the courtyards. It was not always so, and she still saw many houses with well-tended gardens and orchards, and some very grand houses looking out over big grounds; but beneath the pleasant surface of Ettinor she felt a pervasive sense of slow decay, of hopeless struggle against entropy.

“Despair is in the heart of Ettinor,” said Cadvan, as they passed another rotting farm. “It is the worst sickness of all. A betrayal of the covenant of Barding.”

“Where do the people go?” asked Maerad.

“Into the towns, sometimes, to try to earn a living there,” said Cadvan. “Some become travelers, working for others when they can’t make a living on their own land.”

“But why is it happening? I mean, it’s not like there’s famine or anything. . . .”

“It’s since the death of Eth, who was First Bard here,” Cadvan said. “He was succeeded by Finlan, a proud and ambitious man, fifty or so years ago. Finlan raised the tithes on the landowners, arguing the Bards were ill-paid for their work. Perhaps none would have objected, had the Bards kept up their service; but this he allowed to slacken. And still the tithes rise, and they are demanded with force from those who cannot pay them.”

At this, Maerad cocked a questioning eyebrow. Cadvan then explained that the Schools were kept not only by their economies of Wrighting and Making, but by tithes paid by the landowners in the Fesses; and in return, the Bards were considered the servants of the people, and made their skills available.

“They teach the children to read and do their sums, heal the sick, perform the rites of spring and harvest, and many other things,” he said. “But Ettinor Bards have become arrogant and believe they are above such service, and they demand payment for much that once was freely given. So the name of Barding in many places has fallen into disrepute.”

“Is Finlan a Hull, then?” asked Maerad.

“I don’t believe so,” said Cadvan. “Although these days it is difficult to be sure of anything. But I have wondered if there are Hulls at Ettinor School, and my doubts have increased with the years. Now I am sure there are.”

Toward dusk they entered a small unwalled town named Fort, and there stayed in a comfortable inn called the Brown Duck. To Maerad’s delight it even had a bathroom, although it didn’t have hot water. With intense relief she peeled off her filthy clothes, washed herself all over, and changed into the clean clothes in her pack. It was peculiar, she thought, washing what felt like the body of a girl but looked like a boy. It had already led to some difficulties: when she wanted to urinate, she thought she ought to stand up, but found this was a little messy unless she stood with her hips stuck out at a very unnatural angle. She had caught Cadvan laughing at her earlier in the day when she was struggling behind a tree and, scarlet-cheeked, she had forgotten her supposed muteness and had shouted at him. Which had, to her fury, only increased his amusement.

She returned to their sitting room to find Cadvan, in the guise of Mowther, slumped by the fire, his boots off. “We need to do some washing,” she said, expecting that he would demur that they had no time. To her surprise, he agreed.