The Gift (6 page)

MAERAD limped on, her legs heavy, aching for sleep. An hour after sunrise, when the mouth of the valley had vanished in the larger range, but before they had reached the edges of the forest, Cadvan stopped beside a small grove of white-barked trees. Maerad saw they were ancient, with wide, scarred trunks, and grew in a circle close together.

“The birch is a tree of high virtue,” Cadvan said. “Even here, we can sleep in peace. This is a dingle planted of old by the northern Bards. It is called Irihel, Icehome, and traveling Bards would stay here. It is well placed for us!”

They passed between the closely planted trunks, and Maerad saw that within them the grass was short and close-leafed, making a soft, fragrant ground that dipped down like a bowl. The branches met and interwove over their heads, the new leaves filtering the light green-gold. Cadvan sat down, throwing his pack to the ground, and stretched out his legs.

“We are not permitted to make fire here,” he said. “More’s the pity. My bones are frozen.”

Maerad cautiously sat down with him. Her rough life in the cot had taught her to be wary of men; it had taken all her guile, and all her summonings of witchfears, to ward off Gilman’s thugs. She had seen what they did to others weaker than they were. She was acutely aware that she was alone in a wild place, wholly in the power of this Cadvan; but he wasn’t like any man she had met before, not even Mirlad, Gilman’s dour and taciturn singer.

Cadvan eyed her with empathy. “There is a rivulet nearby, if you would like to wash,” he said. “I’ll show you, and leave you there briefly. You will be within call, should you need me. If you are unable to call, shout my name in your head. I will hear you.”

Maerad nodded, and he led her to a small stream that flowed, fresh and cold, from the mountains. Behind high bushes of gorse and bramble, a small bank of smooth grass shelved up from a pool, almost as if it had been made for bathing. Cadvan left her, and Maerad washed for the first time since the day before, gasping at the cold water. She soaked her swollen ankle. The sprain was not too bad: it would be better in a day or so.

Then she returned to the dingle, where Cadvan had taken a blanket and her lyre, still wrapped in sacking, from his pack. He had also spread some food: dried fruits and meats, and a tough-looking biscuit. “Eat,” he said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Maerad picked up her lyre, shaking off the sacking, and cradled it, but she was too tired even to pluck the strings. By the time Cadvan returned, ten minutes later, she was already sound asleep with the blanket wrapped around her, the lyre tucked in the crook of her arm like a baby, the food untouched. He smiled wryly and ate some of the biscuit. Then he wrapped his cloak around him and slept.

Maerad was awoken by hunger pangs. The sun was already low in the sky. Cadvan was sitting with his back to her and turned when she stirred. He was eating and offered her some supper. They ate in silence. That simple food, seasoned only by hunger, burst on Maerad’s tongue like freedom, and she felt as if her entire body were glowing with the taste of sunlight, of wind blowing in wide spaces and trees reaching their burdened arms to boundless skies.

When they finished eating, Cadvan brushed the crumbs off his cloak with almost fastidious care. “Now, Maerad,” he said, not looking at her. “We must think of our plans. I must travel many hundreds of miles, through dangerous country, and quickly. And now I have a passenger, and no extra food. And I notice you brought not a blanket, nor any food, nor even spare clothes — only a harp, like a true Bard. What shall we do?”

Maerad looked at him, schooling her face to betray nothing. “How should I know?” she said. “You asked me to come with you.” But a sudden fear plucked her. What, indeed, was she to do? She knew nothing and no one. As far as she knew, her family was all dead. She had no home. And she could be nothing but a liability to this man, who had freed her from slavery though clearly in danger himself. Would he abandon her?

As if he read her thoughts, Cadvan said quickly, “Of course, I wouldn’t leave you here. But we must have some thought of where to go. My way bends to Norloch, where I must report to the Circle. I can either take you to a closer School, where you may rest and heal and be taught, or take you with me to Norloch.”

“I don’t mean to be in the way,” said Maerad, a little sarcastically.

“Maerad, Bards learn that little that concerns them is the consequence of mere chance. Our meeting seems to me of more weight than that. Those of the Gift are rare enough: to find you in a cowbyre, in such circumstances, is too strange. And I doubt I would have made it out of that valley without your help. That much is clear to me. It is also, to my mind, astonishing to find such power as yours, wholly untutored. I would not have believed it if I had not experienced it. There’s much I should tell you, much you should know. A Gift of this kind is a double-edged blade, and its possession can damage you if used wrongly. You are a puzzle.”

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:

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.

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?”