The Gift (16 page)

“Well met, old friend!” he said. “I didn’t think you were this far south.”

“Saliman!” said Cadvan. “Well met, indeed! What brings you here?”

“News, as always, news. To gather and to tell. I am the messenger boy of fate, driven hither and thither on the whim of events.” He turned to Maerad. “But you have not introduced me to your fair companion.”

“My companion is fiercer than her looks belie,” said Cadvan, winking at Maerad. “I would not trifle with such a warrior, myself. This is Maerad of Pellinor.” At the mention of Pellinor, Saliman’s eyes widened in amazement. “Maerad, meet an old friend, Saliman of Turbansk, far to the south. But be warned: he is a knave.”

“I see Cadvan hasn’t changed,” said Saliman, grinning. “He only accuses to hide his own faults. Of Pellinor?” he continued, turning to Maerad. “Did one escape? That is brave news indeed. I am the more pleased to meet you, Maerad.” He bowed his head formally, and Maerad bowed back, grateful for the formality, which smoothed her awkwardness. She had thought all people were fair-skinned like she was, and felt anew the scope of her ignorance.

“Did you know Pellinor?” she asked.

“I only visited there once. It was a fair place, and it saddened me to hear of its fate. Alas, such stories are more common these days, and so shock the less; Pellinor was the first, after all. I went to Jerr-Niken after it was sacked; it was one of the saddest things I have seen in my life. All that beauty in ruin, so much death.” He shook his head. “I think it was not simply the work of banditry, myself. Bandits would not have been so thorough in wanton destruction. It had about it the mark of Darkness.”

“You are right, I think,” said Cadvan. “There is a singular malice that informs these acts. But now is not the time to speak of these things.”

“Perhaps you met my mother,” said Maerad boldly. “Her name was Milana.”

“Milana?” Saliman smiled. “Yes, I do remember Milana. She was First Bard of the Circle, as I recall. A fine musician. Did she live too?”

“For a while,” said Maerad, and she fell silent. A clear vision of her mother stood before her: Milana as she was before the sack of Pellinor — tall, proud, and gentle, smiling before a great host of people with her lyre in her hand, a white stone shining like a star on her forehead. Maerad was pierced by a sudden grief, and briefly forgot all about pretense and masks: the world was too cruel for play. The vision passed as quick as thought, and she blinked, aware again of Saliman.

“I see there are stories here,” said Saliman. “But stories of sorrow, and I will not darken this evening by pressing for more.”

“No, indeed!” said Cadvan “And now we must find our places. Will you sit with us?”

Saliman’s face lit up. “With pleasure!” he said. “I know few here.”

Maerad now was looking around the hall in wonder, sorting through her confused first impressions of color and movement and sound. The hall was very high, and its plain white walls were pierced with long arched windows with small diamond-shaped panes like those in Malgorn and Silvia’s house, only bigger. Through its center marched two rows of tall black columns carved like trees, whose outspread branches held the arched roof. The black polished stonework at the corners of the room and around the window was cunningly carved with twining patterns of fruits and flowers: vines, apples, pears, lilies, plums, roses, and blossoms that gleamed in the twinkling light of the tapers.

Long tables were set in rows the length of the hall, each covered with rich cloths of a deep red and set with fine blue-glazed bowls and plates, and glass and silver. Huge, finely wrought silver candelabras festooned with high tapers stood on each table, and more candelabras hung from the high ceiling, filling the hall with a soft illumination. Every table was adorned with spring blossoms arranged in curiously blown blue glass bowls, and there were bowls heaped high with fruit and nuts, and fresh breads of different shapes and colors, some herbed, some white, some rich and dark; and fragrant cheeses and pickles; and sliced meats, some freshly roasted, some smoked, some minced with herbs and spices; and there were pies and tarts and preserves and condiments. Maerad had never seen so much food.

At the far end burned a fire in a huge stone hearth, and before that was a raised dais where sat three musicians, one with a lyre and two others playing instruments Maerad had not seen before, a long wooden flute and a dulcimer. She had never heard such music, an intricate play of complex harmonies and counterpoints, and paused involuntarily, enraptured even more by the music than by the sensual shock of entering the hall, until Cadvan jogged her elbow and started her out of her trance.

“We sit over there,” he said, nodding toward a table. By now most people were seated, and only a few stragglers were still at the door. They sat, to Maerad’s pleasure, not far from the musicians, and Maerad and Cadvan leaned their instruments against the wall. She saw Malgorn and Silvia on the table nearest the dais, and Silvia smiled and waved.

“They are on the high table, being of the Circle of the School,” explained Cadvan. “Now, this wine is very good. I believe Malgorn organized the wines, so I would expect nothing less.” He poured for Maerad and Saliman, and then himself. As he did so the music stopped and the musicians left the dais and sat down. A tall woman wearing a plain white robe stood up at the high table, and a hush fell over the hall. Iron-gray hair swept back from her stern face, and in her right hand she bore a long staff, which she stamped on the floor three times. “That’s Oron, First Bard of the Circle,” Cadvan whispered in Maerad’s ear.

“Welcome and thrice welcome,” she said, in a voice that effortlessly rang over the whole hall. “To those dear to us and to strangers, to those who return and those who enter this hall for the first time, I drink the welcome cup!”

She lifted a silver goblet high in the air, and everyone stood and held their cups high, Maerad scrambling to copy them.

“Let us drink to fellowship. May the Light bless us all, friend and stranger, and make true our tongues, and truer our hearts, and truest of all our deeds.”

“May the Light bless us!” the Bards returned, as with one voice, and then all drank from their cups.

Oron stamped her staff three times again and sat down, and it seemed the formalities were over. The talk began again, rising loudly, and people reached for fruit and bread. Cadvan and Saliman were deep in conversation about affairs to the south, and Maerad felt reluctant to interrupt.

“Are you Maerad of Pellinor?”

“Yes.” Maerad turned and faced a small, dark-haired woman with blue eyes.

“I thought you must be, when you came in with Cadvan,” said the woman. “I am Helgar, here from Ettinor for the Meet. Forgive my forwardness: I heard of your adventures from Silvia. I must say, you don’t look like you’ve been scrambling over the mountains.”

“That’s thanks to Silvia,” said Maerad. “Where’s Ettinor?”

“A week’s ride west, and more,” she said. “I come with tidings, and to seek counsel, like most here, I think. We live in difficult times. All news, these days, seems to be bad news.”

“Yes,” said Maerad. Again she felt her lack of knowledge keenly; she had been so cut off from the world, she knew nothing. “What news do you bring?”

“You’ll hear at the Council,” said Helgar, turning the question. “But tell me about yourself. That’s more interesting.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Maerad. “Why is everyone interested in me? I don’t know anything. I don’t know anything about Meets. What do Bards do?”

Helgar shrugged. “We talk, mainly.”

“Yes, but about what?”

“Matters of the Light. What affects the Balance. Matters of policy that affect the Schools. That kind of thing.”

“But what is the Balance?” Maerad was beginning to feel a little frustrated with Helgar, whose eyes, she noticed, flickered past her shoulder, as if she were only half listening. She was evasive in a different way from Cadvan, and something in Maerad bristled with distrust, although she couldn’t have said why.

Helgar cross-examined Maerad about her adventures, but Maerad answered warily, saying as little as possible about herself and nothing at all about Cadvan. She had noticed that Cadvan swiftly checked her interlocutor, before returning to his huddle with Saliman. Despite this, the dinner passed pleasantly enough. At last, when Maerad thought she could not, to save her life, eat another thing, the plates were removed. Then to her surprise Cadvan stood and strode to the dais, amid clapping.

“Cadvan is accounted a great singer,” said Helgar. “I have not heard him, myself. Still, I’m surprised he has first place.” But Cadvan was speaking.

“By your leave, tonight I sing a lay of the ancient days, in the first years of the lost kingdom of Lirion, when the Ice Witch yet troubled the world:
Mercan’s Quest.
” He struck a chord and began to chant.

“A strange choice,” whispered Helgar as Cadvan began, but Maerad sat spellbound. She didn’t know the lay, which told the story of Mercan’s long search for his love Tirian, stolen by the minions of the Ice Witch. She was found in the snow halls of the north and brought home, but Tirian’s heart had become a splinter of ice, and she spoke no more. Mercan’s despair broke his heart, and when she saw that he was dying, Tirian’s heart melted with pity. She wept, and a tear fell on Mercan’s face; his eyes opened and life returned to him, and the frost melted in the land, and blossoms leaped to the starved trees, and the long winter was broken. Cadvan’s voice rose and fell, and as Maerad listened she saw visions of a fair city, of ships setting sail from a white harbor under a cold sky bright with stars, and the harsh shores of a far country. The music fell in Maerad’s mind like a sweet rain, and she sighed with happiness, as if she were the damp earth sighing out the joy of spring. Then the singing stopped and there was clapping, and Maerad blinked, released from the spell, and found to her surprise that her eyelashes were wet with tears.

The Bards were calling for more, and Cadvan looked at Maerad and beckoned. She shook her head, appalled, but Cadvan insisted, and at last, pushed on by Saliman, she reluctantly picked up her lyre and walked to the dais. She stared blindly out on the crowd and swallowed. Cadvan looked to her for timing and then struck the chords for
The Lay of Andomian and Beruldh
that they had sung together, years ago it seemed, in the glade of Irihel. Maerad responded automatically with the antiphon. As soon as the first notes rang out, her nerves disappeared; in the sanctuary of music, she could be herself without fear. They sang only the ballad that introduced the story, and then left the dais amid cheers.

“Leave them hungry, eh?” said Cadvan as they made their way back to their seats. “And you acquitted yourself charmingly. You have, I might say, an individual style. I expect it will be all the rage in Innail now, given the response.”

“You were horrible to get me to come up there,” said Maerad hotly. “I wanted the floor to swallow me up.”

“Now you have done your duty by your hosts, and need worry no further,” said Cadvan, unperturbed. “And you have proved yourself to be a true Bard of Pellinor. It will be hard to dispute that now.”

When she reached her seat, Saliman was still clapping. “Where is this cot?” he said. “I must get some lessons there.”

Helgar, Maerad noticed, had left her chair and was talking to some people farther away. As Maerad glanced at her, she turned away. Saliman noticed. “Your friend distrusts Southerners,” he said.

“Oh,” said Maerad. “Why?”

“There are not many like me so far north, so I am a curiosity.” Saliman spoke lightly, but Maerad saw a hardness in his eyes and a curl in his lip. “And these are distrustful days.”

“Take no notice,” said Cadvan. “I saw Helgar was pummeling you hard for information. You did well, I thought, under such impertinence.”

“She said she was a friend of Silvia’s,” Maerad said.

“That’s using the term loosely,” said Cadvan. “I think she was not happy that you sang so well and pleased so many.”

“Do you know her?” asked Maerad.

“Let us say there is a history between us. But you are looking a little pale. This will go on all night, but I dare not keep you up late, or Silvia will have my hide.”

And indeed, Silvia was coming to their table, her eyes shining. “Well done, Maerad!” she said. “I am proud of you: your playing honored this hall. Are you tired? You look pale.”

Maerad admitted that she was tired, and Cadvan led her out of the hall. It took some time: people were smiling and wishing to talk to both her and Cadvan; but Cadvan politely refused to be caught in conversation. When they reached her chamber, Cadvan said, “I know I made no mistake, bringing you here. You did me honor tonight.” He kissed her on the cheek, and Maerad, uncertain how to respond, bowed awkwardly and then slipped hurriedly through her door. She put her lyre carefully on the chest, threw off all her clothes, undid her hair, and fell gratefully into bed.

Despite her tiredness, she didn’t fall asleep immediately; her head buzzed with wine and the excitement of the evening. She stared up at the ceiling, and images flickered randomly before her mind’s eye: Cadvan singing on the dais, and Helgar’s displeasure at Maerad’s own playing, and Silvia’s pearl-sewn dress, and the soft, lovely bloom of the tapers glancing off the pillars of that beautiful hall . . . but above all, Saliman’s dark face, angered by Helgar’s rudeness. Maerad’s skin prickled with some innate animal wariness when she thought of Helgar. “Not all Bards are to be trusted,” Cadvan had told her, and now she thought she knew what he meant.