The Gift (4 page)

“I must leave now. If you want to come with me, you may. Leaving will be a simple matter. Other things will not be so simple, but we will have to take them as they come.”

Maerad was suddenly breathless and could make no reply.

“Yes?” the stranger said. “Or no?”

“Why are you asking me this?” she said. “It’s impossible! Are you tricking me?”

Cadvan merely looked at her without answering. She stared back at him stubbornly, refusing to lower her eyes.

“There come few times in a person’s life where there is a clear choice,” said Cadvan at last. “The difference between one person and another is how they meet that choice.” There was a short silence, and then he gestured impatiently. “I have no time. I have made my offer. You can stay or leave as you wish. I am asking what you want. If you don’t know, it is no concern of mine.” He brushed some straw from his cloak and turned to leave the byre.

A feeling akin to panic surged through Maerad. For a second she felt as if she were drowning again: only this time there would be no hand to haul her out onto the bank.

“Wait!” she called out. “Wait.”

Cadvan turned again to face her.

“I’ll come,” she said.

Cadvan looked at her bundled lyre. “Is there anything you must fetch?” Maerad shook her head. “Well, that is good. We’ll go now, then.”

“Now? What about the cows?” And indeed, they were lowing, asking her to relieve them of their burden of milk.

“Someone else will milk them tonight,” said Cadvan. “I do not think Gilman will let his beasts suffer; they are too valuable. Now, quickly. Come here.”

Maerad approached him warily, and he made her stand square in front of him. He put his hands on her shoulders and spoke. The words sent a thrill through Maerad; it was like plunging into cold, fresh water from a spring welling from the morning of the world.

“Larnea il oseanna, lembel Maerad inasfrea!”
He dropped his hands. “‘Turn the eyes of men from Maerad so she may walk unseen,’ is roughly what I have said,” he explained. “Now no man could see you, though you stood a span from his nose. The virtue will not work on objects, if you drop them. So keep your bundle close! Now, we must scale the walls.”

He picked up a pack Maerad had not noticed and walked toward the low door. As he did so, Maerad was assailed by panic once again. Somehow she already felt her decision was irrevocable, yet she didn’t know what it was she had decided: why trust this man? She knew nothing of him. But her doubts were overwhelmed by a fierce longing, as if all her desires for freedom, crushed by hopelessness for so many years, came back in a single urgent wave.
It can’t be worse than here,
she thought,
because here I’m certain to die, and out there — who knows?
She took a deep breath and followed Cadvan out of the byre.

“We must hurry,” he said. “No speaking. I cannot make us unheard as well.”

They left the byre and made for the south wall. Maerad found it hard not to flinch in the open squares, where the Thane’s men stood lounging against the walls, toying with their weapons; it was difficult to believe in her invisibility when she felt so visible.

Their way led them straight past the Great Hall. The chained dogs looked up and sniffed in greeting as they passed, but the men looked through them.

She kept close behind Cadvan, tiptoeing despite herself, until they came to the least-guarded section of the outer walls. The wall itself was not hard to climb; Maerad had often considered the logistics. Impossible, however, under the vigilance of the guards, whose sight covered every inch of the wall and who knew their lives were forfeit if anyone left. Cadvan set his foot on the wall, and Maerad helplessly showed him her sacking-wrapped lyre, which she could not sling on her back. He stopped thoughtfully, took it, and stowed it in his bag. Then they started again. When they reached the top, Cadvan paused, looking each way for the guards who patrolled the way. Choosing his time carefully, he took Maerad by the arm and pushed her across the narrow path, and then together they went down the other side.

As they did, Maerad heard the bell ring — once, twice, thrice — before it began a long, urgent peal. It was the signal for an escape. She started, feeling horribly exposed. Lothar must have discovered her absence already, but it was very quick — no doubt he wanted revenge for her slight this morning, and she would be whipped for sparking an alarm. A commotion rose in the cot. She half scrambled, half fell down the wall, beating Cadvan to the ground.

“Now
you
make the pace!” he said, laughing. “I thought I’d never get you out of there!”

“They’ll send the dogs after us!” whispered Maerad, panting with fear. “There’s no escaping Gilman’s hounds. They’ll track a stag for a week and they can tear a grown man to pieces in a minute!”

“Dogs are easy to deal with,” said Cadvan. “Don’t be afraid, Maerad. If dogs are the worst we have to face, we will be fortunate. But now we must move on. See the end of this valley? I want to be well clear of this before the night is over. Our doom tonight is, I am afraid, a long walk. Then we’ll rest.”

Maerad looked down the valley where she had been imprisoned most of her short life. The ground swept away before her, a constant, steady decline of boulders and mountain rubble covered with sparse scrub and the odd tree bent against the harsh winds that swept down from the mountains, the Osidh Annova, eastern border of the Inner Kingdom. A rudimentary track wandered down the center of the valley, strewn here and there with stones from some landslide.

She suddenly felt very small and frightened. She looked at the man who stood at her elbow, and swallowed. His face was dark and closed; the great dogs that figured in her nightmares, with their yelping bays and their long, loping gait, were but small trouble to him. No doubt he knew far worse. He now seemed remote, charged with some hidden power she only sensed. She didn’t want to seem foolish before such a man. She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath.

“We’ll walk, then,” she said, turning her face toward the broken path.

At her back, behind the cot, reared the Landrost, its tip stained red by the setting sun, its massive bulk throwing all the valley into shadow.

THEY had not gone half a mile when Maerad heard the long halloo of the hunting horn and the bay of Gilman’s hounds. Her heart constricted. Before long the gates of the cot flung open and three of the Thane’s men emerged, shouting, roughly horsed, and the hounds poured after them, loping in the low light. Noses down, they cast around for a scent, the bloodlust already a fire in their eyes. Maerad fought a rising fear and unconsciously shrank toward Cadvan. He glanced at her swiftly.

“Maerad, they cannot harm us,” he said softly. “The men cannot see us.”

She nodded and trudged on, trying to contain herself. Suddenly another bay went up — the hounds had found their scent and were running. The horsemen followed, spurring on their mounts. Cadvan was still walking steadily.

“But the
hounds
can see us,” whispered Maerad hoarsely. “The hounds can see us, and . . .”

“They won’t harm us,” said Cadvan. “They’re savage beasts, but innocent. They serve no dark purpose. Have faith.”

The hounds were nearing them swiftly. As they drew close, Cadvan stopped and wheeled around. He raised his arms, and to Maerad it seemed that suddenly a light was gathered about him, or within him, although she could see no source.

“Lemmach!”
he said.

The leading hound stopped dead in its tracks, so the dog behind it tumbled over its feet. The pack wheeled around and stopped.

“Lemmach ni ardrost!”

The lead dog came up to Cadvan and whiffled around his knees. Cadvan stroked its nose.
“Ni ardrost,”
he said again, gently, and the dogs each sniffed him and then, as if they had just gone for a drink at a pond, trotted casually back to the riders.

Maerad stood stock still, her face a cipher. “What did you do?”

“I told them to stop and asked them to go home,” said Cadvan. “And being friendly beasts, they obligingly did so. They’ll not hunt us now, no matter what their masters do. They obey older laws.”

At her back, Maerad could hear the riders cursing the dogs, and their yelps as they whipped them. She realized she was trembling. A massive exhaustion swept over her, and she stumbled. Cadvan caught her elbow in quick concern.

“I’m sorry to drive you, Maerad, but we cannot rest here tonight,” he said. “Gilman’s hounds are no danger to us, but other things are. This is an unwholesome place. And already it grows dark.”

Maerad shrugged off Cadvan’s hand.
Other things?
she thought.
What other things?
All the recent rumors of wers and other creatures of the night crowded uncomfortably in her mind.

“I’m all right,” she said sullenly.

“It is safest if we keep moving,” said Cadvan.

The night had a cold edge, but this early it was still mild and clear. They walked for some time in silence, and as Maerad began to get her second wind, they started talking. Maerad asked Cadvan what he was doing in Gilman’s Cot, but he evaded the answer, instead asking about her life there, and whether she had earlier memories, from Pellinor. She could tell him little on that point.

“Fragments,” she said. “A man — I think it was my father — a handsome man, tall, with long, black hair, laughing. A chair with beautiful carvings with a strange-colored light falling on it from a high window. A few scraps of music. I thought that I dreamed it.”

“It’s no dream. The Schools are places of high learning and much beauty,” said Cadvan sadly, as if he spoke of something loved that was vanishing. “The Lore is upheld, and the Light shines over all who dwell there. But now their power wanes, and darkness reaches into Annar.”

“What are the Schools?” asked Maerad, feeling ignorant and coarse. “Is that where you learned those spells?”

He glanced at her, and to her confusion he laughed. “Maerad, it is so strange to me that one of the Gift should know nothing at all of the Schools.”

“The Gift?” said Maerad. She looked down the valley; a long way before her, she could see the stars glimmering between the spurs where it ended, opening out onto the wide world, of which she knew nothing. She suddenly felt more alone than she ever had in her life; and she was so tired, more tired than she had ever been. A ball of grief rose in her throat, and she couldn’t speak.

“Please forgive me, Maerad,” Cadvan said. “I do not mean to tease your ignorance. Perhaps more tutored, you would now be dead, and your lack of knowledge has protected you from the sight of those who would otherwise have done you harm.” He smiled at her, and Maerad, not quite understanding him, smiled wanly back. “Perhaps I should turn Loresinger for a while?” he said. “Tonight we could have an introductory lesson. It will pass the time.”

“All right, then,” said Maerad, glancing across at the shadowy man beside her. “Tell me about the Gift.”

They had a long way to go, but they were making good time, despite boulders and loose stones that constantly threatened to turn an ankle. The last traces of daylight were retreating from the mountains, and it was the dark interval before moonrise. Her legs felt heavy and sore with tiredness, but talking took her mind off her discomfort.

“Where to begin?” said Cadvan. “What is the Gift? How to answer that, when nobody really knows?” He paused, as if gathering his thoughts. “Well, those of the Gift are like to the Loresingers of Afinil. All Bards are of the Gift, and it means they have certain powers and abilities. The most important is the Speech.” He paused. “Bards do not learn the Speech, but are born with it already living within them. In the mouths of those with the Gift, the Speech holds an innate power; it is the source of our Knowing and much of our might. Those with the Gift also live for three spans of a normal life: I am already an old man by normal reckonings, although you would not think so, perhaps.”

“An old man?” said Maerad, looking dubiously at Cadvan. He did not look old to her; she had already guessed his age to be about thirty-five years. She wondered briefly if he was making it up, but then she thought of how he had made her invisible.

“Not old in the measure of Bards,” said Cadvan, smiling, “but old enough. A long life is a double-edged privilege, believe me. But there are other signs; Bards know other Bards, which is how I knew you. This morning I thought for a second my powers had wholly failed me, when you challenged me.” He clutched his breast. “My heart stopped! But then I saw your eyes. . . .”

Maerad glanced at him, again uncertain of what he meant, or whether she should laugh. She noticed that as he spoke Cadvan was constantly alert, but in ways she didn’t recognize. He never looked around or behind him, but seemed to be innerly attuned to something she couldn’t hear, as if inside him flowed a music that, at times, demanded intense attention. It felt a bit odd, as if he were only half there.

“There is much you should know about Bards and the Light,” said Cadvan. “To have the Gift, and to be ignorant of what it means, can be a terrible thing.” He began to speak in an oddly formal tone, almost a chant, which at first nearly made her smile. She had a swift unbidden vision of a stone hall with high windows, and of many people seated in a circle, their heads bowed in concentration. The vision vanished, and she looked around her at the empty night and the gloomy shadows of the mountainside; but Cadvan’s voice continued steadily in the darkness.