The Gift (21 page)

Dernhil was delighted by her quickness; within a few days she could read a short passage or poem with relative ease. It was as if, he said, he were merely reminding her of something she had forgotten, rather than teaching her something she didn’t know. He was a very different teacher from Mirlad: not nearly so stern, and more apt to encourage with praise. Maerad blossomed under his tutelage. She would look around his study and sigh. So many books in so many languages, and she could scarce read the smallest of them!

“Maybe I can come back, after we get to Norloch, and learn more,” she suggested hungrily to Dernhil the next day. “There’s so much I don’t know. . . .”

Dernhil looked up from some work he was correcting. “That would be a happy chance,” he said. “If you did, I would love to teach you.” He smiled, but there was something in the smile that made Maerad’s heart constrict; his eyes lingered on her face. . . . She put her head down and drove away the feeling with work.

She didn’t see Cadvan at all. In the evenings she ate with Silvia and Malgorn, or in the Hall with the other students, who looked at her either askance or with exaggerated awe. Sometimes she spent an hour or so watching the gis players at the table in the corner of the Hall. She was intrigued by the complex beauty of the game, which was played with black and white counters on a hexagonal table of many squares, but she could never work out the rules. Gis was, she was told, a lifetime’s study: at once a game of tactical intelligence and aesthetic judgment. Maerad followed the strange patterns the counters made, how they evolved and vanished in the flow of the game, with fascinated incomprehension.

There was always music, but Maerad didn’t play again for an audience, only alone in her room at night, when she needed to. She didn’t feel lonely; she was too busy, and at night simply too exhausted. Within two days she had the odd feeling that she had lived there always. The School no longer seemed grand or strange to her, and she wondered at times at how easily she had slipped into this life, as into familiar clothes.

On the second day the clear spring weather broke, and for three days after that it rained almost continuously. Maerad’s swordcraft lessons moved to an impressive indoor arena obviously built for this purpose, but the riding continued without concession to the weather. Maerad sometimes felt, wiping her wet hair out of her eyes, that she hated Indik, although underneath her resentment she realized his sternness was impersonal and, in a way, a quality to respect. The lessons did strengthen her determination to learn swordskills, if only to scotch the smug smile that appeared on Indik’s face whenever she made a mistake. “That was your throat, young lady,” he’d say with satisfaction. “You might as well lie down and offer me your neck, for all the use
that
would be.” And Maerad, sweating underneath her helm, would bare her teeth, quietly cursing him as he walked back to battle position. “Don’t think I can’t hear that!” Indik would say, without turning around. “I can, see. Curses won’t do any good if your swordwork’s flabby. Now, again!”

Her relationship with Dernhil was quite different, and deepened into friendship. At the end of their lesson on the fourth morning, Dernhil pushed his hair out of his eyes and asked if she was busy that evening. “No,” she answered; she was to dine in the Hall that night.

“Would you like to dine with me, then?” he asked. “I could show you some of those books I was telling you about. . . .”

“I’d love to!” Maerad said warmly. She dreaded dining in the Hall; she still couldn’t cope very well with crowds.

After the chaos of his study, Dernhil’s rooms were surprisingly neat. They were in much the same style as the rooms in Silvia and Malgorn’s house, finely furnished with stenciled decorations on warm yellow walls. The dining room was filled with curious objects he had collected on his travels: intricate ivory carvings from the Suderain and silk hangings made by the weavers of Thorold, statuettes of alabaster by unknown Annaren artisans, a huge crystal sphere, strange and intricate metal lamps. . . . The walls, of course, were lined with books.

He served a simple and delicious meal: grilled cuts of spiced meat with tender spring vegetables, and cheeses, nuts, and wine. Then they sprawled on the comfortable cushioned chairs in front of the fire, sipping wine, and Dernhil brought down book after book, pointing out details of the scripting and illumination and reading her poems, and they chatted amiably about many things. Maerad asked him about the duel with Cadvan. Dernhil threw back his head and laughed.

“You should have seen Cadvan then!” he said fondly. “That was before . . . well, when he was younger. He was handsome, charismatic, already a Mage of great power — everyone said he was sure to be First Bard one day, even perhaps First Bard of Norloch — and he was no mean poet, either.”

“But not as good as you.”

“No,” said Dernhil, throwing her an amused look. There was no vanity in his statement. “And Cadvan couldn’t bear to play second fiddle. Of course I won. He was furious.”

Maerad hadn’t missed that Dernhil had edited what he was going to say. “What happened to Cadvan?” she asked curiously. “I mean, why didn’t he become First Bard?”

Dernhil’s face darkened with sadness. “I think Cadvan himself should tell you that,” he said at last. “As no doubt he will, one day. He has indeed become a great Bard. Few can match him. But life seldom turns out as one would expect when one is young and full of hope.” There was a short silence, and then he turned to Maerad. “Forgive me for asking such a personal question, but are you and Cadvan . . . are you lovers?”

Maerad blushed, thinking of the gossip Cadvan had mentioned. “No,” she mumbled. “No, nothing like that.” She looked up and caught Dernhil’s unguarded glance. In his eyes was an unvoiced invitation, a tender supplication, something more than admiration; but Maerad went cold. Her life had taught her that male desire meant only violence, and an instinctive, primitive fear overwhelmed any other response. She scrambled to her feet in a sudden panic, her heart pounding.

“I should go,” she said. “I must be up early tomorrow.”

“Yes,” said Dernhil. He stood up also, sighing. “Well, in the morning, then.”

“Yes,” said Maerad.

She glanced again at Dernhil, but that disturbing look was gone. She took his proffered hand and bowed her head, and left swiftly.

On the sixth day of her lessons, Dernhil told her the following day was a feast day and she need not show up. By now she was able to read her way haltingly through the book of poems, and Dernhil gave it to her. “Come and say good-bye before you go,” he said.

“I will,” said Maerad, clutching the book. “And thank you, thank you so much.” All the things she wanted to say, how a shining new world had opened for her under Dernhil’s gentle tutoring, how it filled her with joy and excitement, gathered in her throat and choked her.

Dernhil cleared his throat. “I’ve enjoyed teaching you,” he said. “Cadvan will be able to build on what you’ve already learned. You can help yourself, also, by practicing reading.” He paused. “There are so many things to show you. All the great texts of Annar and the Seven Kingdoms, the stories and songs that make up the Knowing. And that’s just the beginning. It seems criminal not to teach them to you.” He shook his head regretfully. “You’d make an excellent scholar, with your aptitude and application. All it would take is time.”

“I suppose it’s not to be,” said Maerad. “And we cannot always choose our own paths.”

Dernhil looked slightly startled. “No, I suppose not,” he said. There was a short, slightly uncomfortable silence. “Well, don’t forget to look in before you go.” He sat down abruptly at his desk, and Maerad realized she was dismissed.

Indik was more abrupt. “At least you can hold your sword,” he said. “Which is something. More, I can’t say. You’ll just have to practice, and hope that you’re lucky.”

Maerad stared back at him expressionlessly. She didn’t feel like thanking him, although she felt she should. To her surprise, Indik chuckled.

“Nevertheless, a brave heart might prevail where skill is wanting,” he said. “Here, give me your sword.” She handed it over. “What did you name it? Irigan? A good name . . .” He drew it and inspected it closely. “A fine weapon.” He breathed on the blade and then rubbed the condensation in slowly with his fingers, speaking low as he did, so that Maerad couldn’t hear the words. Then he sheathed it again and gave it back.

“A charm to aid accuracy, and check breakage or harm,” he said. “It will last as long as the blade does. It might help.”

Maerad was surprised by a sudden flood of gratitude. She looked up into Indik’s eyes, and for the first time saw there an unexpected kindness. To the astonishment of both of them, she flung her arms around Indik’s neck and kissed him on his scarred cheek.

“Thanks for putting up with me,” she said. “I’ll do my best not to disgrace you!”

“You can only do your best,” he said gruffly. “Now, off you go.”

She bumped into Cadvan at the Street of Makers. He was looking drawn, but smiled when he saw her. “Hail, young warrior maiden!” he said.

Maerad had forgotten she was still wearing her mail, and involuntarily looked down. “Just call me Indik’s Despair,” she said. “Though he allowed that I might take my sword out if attacked, rather than just run away.”

“Then you’ve passed with flying colors,” said Cadvan, laughing. “I’ve already spoken with Dernhil; he desperately wants you to stay and finish your studies. Not for entirely unmixed reasons, I think somehow. He’s clearly quite struck with you.”

“Oh, rubbish,” said Maerad. “Stop teasing, Cadvan. Although he did give me his book.”

“A definite sign of favor,” Cadvan countered lightly, but he looked grave again. “But he has a point. As does Silvia. It’s not fair to drag you away from this, which should be yours by right.”

“Are you having doubts?” Maerad scanned his face, as they fell into step together.

“No. But I’m wondering if you are.”

“No,” said Maerad slowly. “No, I feel surer. I don’t know why, because I really love it here, and I’ve loved learning with Dernhil, and even Indik. He charmed my sword today, you know.”

“Did he?” said Cadvan in surprise. “I was going to do that myself, but he could spell it better than I ever could. It’s his special skill, and people travel far to ask him that favor. Sometimes he won’t, no matter what they offer him. He’s a keen judge of souls, and will help no dark purpose. I’m glad you have no doubts, though. It bears on me that we have little time.”

They walked for a while in silence, Maerad turning over Cadvan’s words. In the past few days she had forgotten all the dark forebodings of their conversation in the courtyard, and now her feeling of dread returned.

“I want to leave tomorrow night,” said Cadvan. “Only the Bards of the Circle here know for certain that we are leaving so soon, and secrets are safe with all of them. The Leavetaking Feast is tomorrow night, and I think we should attend and leave early, so that none will follow us. Otherwise we’ll be riding out with close to a hundred Bards, which is not a way to keep close counsel, or be forced to wait another week, which I dislike.”

Maerad sensed that, as much as anything else, Cadvan itched to be free of the demands of society. She felt a little of the same urge. However private she kept herself, there were always clutches of people whispering as she passed or pointing her out in the street, and she didn’t like her celebrity; it puzzled and disturbed her. All the same, she felt a pang of regret.

“Dernhil wanted me to say good-bye before I left,” she said.

“You’ll have time tomorrow,” Cadvan said. “I’ll come tonight and check your pack; I’m dining with Silvia and Malgorn.” He pressed her hand in farewell and hurried off down another street. Maerad thoughtfully made her way home.

Back in her room after a long bath, she placed all her new possessions on her bed. She now owned a small book of poems, a helm, a sword, a suit of mail, a satchel, a pen, and a pack Silvia had given her that she hadn’t even had time to open. It was made of black leather, soft but surprisingly tough, and had curious buckles and straps, which she later found meant it could be carried on her back or slung from a saddle. Inside was a leather water bottle, a bottle of medhyl, a stoppered blue vial of the elixir Silvia had used to stay her period pains, and two sets of clothes: soft leather trousers and warm woolen shirts and jerkins, well-made and practical, cunningly woven so they took up very little space when folded. Silvia had also packed some underclothes made of thick silk. Maerad had just opened a package containing the same tough-looking biscuit she remembered eating on her way to Innail when Cadvan knocked and entered.

“Excellent,” he said, as she showed him the contents of her pack. “And enough room for your own treasures. I too have a present for you.” He handed her a leather cover for her lyre, to protect it as she traveled. It was tooled with a design of flowers like those in the music room downstairs, and in the center was a lily shaped like a slender trumpet, picked out in gilt and silver. “It’s the sign of Pellinor,” he said. “You should have a brooch, but I didn’t have time to get one made.”

Maerad sat down on the bed, holding the leather cover in her hands. She felt more overwhelmed by this gift than anything she had yet received, and found herself unable even to stammer her thanks. Suddenly, to her surprise, she found tears prickling her eyes. She turned away ashamed, but Cadvan sat on the chair and waited for her to gather herself.

“Cadvan, I’m sorry,” she said at last. “It’s just that, it’s just . . .” She shook her head. “It’s just that no one’s
ever
given me anything before. And suddenly I have all these
things.
And it feels so strange!” She sniffed, and Cadvan silently handed her a kerchief. “I almost wish someone would beat me or call me names,” she continued. “I mean, of course I don’t really, but this doesn’t feel quite real. And I tell myself it is real, and it is, but I can’t quite believe it, and I don’t know
me
anymore. I feel so
odd.
” She stopped, and lifted her hands helplessly. “I can’t say what I mean. I’m glad we’re going away. I feel sorry at the same time, but glad.”