The Gift (25 page)

When they were well out of the village, Cadvan turned to Maerad and said, “I might as well disguise us a little. I’m known around here.” He simply passed his hands, and Maerad blinked and looked around. She saw no difference.

“You’re Bard-eyed, so it doesn’t work on you,” said Cadvan. “It’s only a glimmerspell. But to any casual farmhand ambling along the road, I look like a fat northern farmer from Milhol riding along with his wife. There are many such hereabouts, taking their wares to market or coming to buy. So take care to call me husband, if you need to call me anything.”

They continued the rest of the morning at a fast pace, speaking little. They passed a few people on the road, and Maerad looked at them curiously; they were fair-haired and fair-skinned, and dressed in the same fine woolen cloth of which Maerad’s clothes were made. They nodded to the strangers with a reserve that was not unfriendly but invited no conversation.

Although she had been in Innail for more than a week, it was Maerad’s first real sight of the valley, or the Fesse, as the district surrounding the Schools was often called. When they had first entered it, it had been night, and for the rest of the time she had been enclosed in the School, behind walls, as she had been for most of her life. But the walls of Innail, she reflected, were very different from the walls of Gilman’s Cot: Innail protected her and offered freedom, while the cot had been a prison.

Innail Fesse was an almost self-contained region, a thickly populated valley of fertile green hills suspended between two mountainous spurs split from the Osidh Annova, which almost met at their tapering to make a natural sheltered enclosure of perhaps twenty leagues at its widest and not much longer. It had been settled since time immemorial, and its inhabitants regarded themselves as somewhat apart from Annar, though they had acknowledged the Monarch when the High Seat was reestablished in Norloch. They prided themselves on their self-sufficiency and independence, and were famous for their spinning and weaving and for their cuisine. The valley boasted two major towns: Tinagel, where the Steward lived, and the Innail School. There were also many villages like Stormont, of perhaps a couple of dozen houses, and hundreds of small, prosperous farms. The Imlan River ran through its center, fed by many streams that leaped down, fresh and cold, from the mountainsides.

Maerad rode on gravel roads through fields hedged with well-cut rows of hawthorn just now beginning to leaf. She frequently saw farmhouses of the same yellow stone as the buildings of the Innail School, many surrounded by orchards of trees heavy with pink and white blossoms. The flowers of early spring, crocuses and daffodils and bluebells, pushed through the wet grass, and occasionally whiffs of scent blew in Maerad’s face on the cold air. It was as if they were riding through a huge bowl; the green hills swept up on either side of them to the sheer walls of the mountains in the distance, which now were hidden in heavy cloud. Even the piercing wind couldn’t stop Maerad riding through the valley in a daze of wonder.

They stopped briefly in a copse of ash and had a quick, cheerless lunch. The horses ambled about cropping grass, and seemed as little inclined as they to stop for long. They were soon off again.

“Are we staying in an inn again tonight?” Maerad asked hopefully as they mounted.

Cadvan smiled. “This weather is a bit hard for spring,” he said. “Though it is often like this here, being so close to the mountains.”

“It would be a sight more pleasant,” Maerad said. “And nicer for the horses too.”

“I agree,” said Cadvan. “We’ll have enough of comfortless camps after we leave the valley. Be of good cheer: we’re heading for another inn I know, at a place called Barcombe. This time we’ll be in disguise. After that, prepare yourself for tree roots!”

Toward dusk the road began to bend into a combe that hid another small village. They clattered past the common to an inn called the Green Toad. This time the innkeeper, a portly man named Halifax, looked at them with suspicion.

“There ain’t no market this week,” he said. “You got your timing wrong.”

“Market was last week,” said Cadvan with a heavy northern accent. “We’ve been seeing my wife’s cousin up in Innail. What’s it to you, anyway?”

“Pardon me for asking,” said Halifax. “I can’t be too careful. Strangers come to these parts and are off quick as winking, forgetting the bill, if you know what I mean. Taking us for wetherheads.”

“Payment in advance, Mr. Halifax, and I hope that does you,” said Cadvan, handing over some coins. “I’d like to see the rooms. My wife and I’ve had a hard day, and it will be a long road tomorrow.”

Slightly mollified, the innkeeper led them to a room with a sitting room. Maerad looked around it, discomforted; clearly she and Cadvan would have to share a bed.

“Dinner, if you please,” said Cadvan. “And an early night, my love?” Halifax left, calling for his porter, and Cadvan sat down and took off his boots. He winked at Maerad, and despite herself she blushed.

“I’ll be happier when we’re out of settled parts,” he said. “Then, perhaps, we’ll be able to start your lessons. Don’t think I’ve forgotten!” He stretched out his legs to the fire.

Maerad took off her cloak and sat down heavily. She felt sore and exhausted after the day’s ride. At the thought of the one bed, she began to feel a panic rise up in her throat again, but she pushed it away.

“There’s only one bed,” she whispered.

Cadvan glanced up quickly, and Maerad understood that he knew or guessed more than she realized about her doubts and fears.

“That’s easily solved,” he said. “I’ll sleep on the couch. Luxury for a man like me.”

“A hard man of the wild,” she said, suddenly feeling lighter. “No doubt a stone floor is a king’s sleep.”

“The finest swans-down. But of course, you are welcome to such comfort, if you desire.”

Maerad laughed, her anxiety dissipated. A little later Halifax brought in their dinner on a tray, a thick beef casserole fragrant with herbs and topped with a chewy layer of melted cheese, with fresh bread and a fine local wine. “There’s apple tart for afters, if you want,” he said. “My wife makes a clotted cream that’s famous in these parts.”

Cadvan lifted an eyebrow at Maerad, whose mouth was watering at the thought, and when they had finished the casserole they ate the tart, hot and fresh from the oven, crisscrossed with a lattice of pastry so light it dissolved on the tongue, with the clotted cream melting yellow through the caramelized apple.

“That was a lord among tarts,” said Cadvan, with an expansive sigh. When Halifax came to take away their plates, Cadvan told him so, and he looked pleased.

“Marta will be grand happy to hear that,” he said. “She takes a lot of care over her cooking, so she does, even if some don’t care or notice.”

“Things have got worse over the past few years, that’s for sure,” said Cadvan. “My cousin runs an inn near Ettinor, and can scarce keep body and soul together.”

“I hear the Bards is demanding up in Ettinor,” said Halifax. “And they leave scarce little for the people to make a life with, living high on the sweat of others with nary a thank-you. Not like our School here, where they run things fair, if you know what I mean. They do the Barding proper here, they do. They’re here every Springturn and harvest, and the little ’uns hereabouts all know their letters. And I remember when my daughter had the witchfever, back when she was a babe, and she looked like dying, and Oron herself came and laid her hands on her.”

“You can’t ask fairer than that,” said Cadvan. “But others is not so fair.”

“That’s the truth, and no mistake,” said Halifax. Maerad, who hadn’t dared open her mouth during any conversation with the innkeeper, saw with alarm that he looked as if he were settling in for a long chat. “Just the other night, we had a pair here, two shifty types,” he went on. “Which was why I was a bit sharp with you, begging your pardon. They left before dawn, and not a farthing did they part with for all they ate and drank. Northerners, they were, and on no good business, if you ask me.”

“That’s bad,” Cadvan said, his interest quickening. “But not all are like that. Some folks are still decent. Where were they heading?”

“They didn’t say, not with casting nasty looks around them like we was so much dirt,” said Halifax. “But after, I thought they were like Bards; gave me a windy feeling, though. Couldn’t look them in the eye.”

Cadvan shook his head. “Dark days, Mr. Halifax. Well”— he stretched and yawned —“dark days or no, I have to get some sleep.”

“And I’ve my own business to be getting to, instead of yammering here like an old woman,” said Halifax. “A good night to you!”

After he left, Cadvan stood up and locked the door. He looked thoughtful.

“What was he talking about?” asked Maerad curiously.

“Maybe nothing, maybe not,” said Cadvan. “I think we did well to leave Innail when we did. I don’t like hearing of shifty people
like Bards.
Heading to Innail, no doubt. Innkeepers are not stupid, they are used to meeting many kinds of people, and their intuitions are often more practiced than most.”

“Do you mean corrupt Bards, or something?” Maerad asked. But despite her probing, Cadvan would say nothing more of his thoughts.

That night the wind swept the sky clear, whipping the clouds from the moon and letting her silver light fall over the sleeping fields and towns of the Innail Fesse. The river glimmered softly, winding like a silver cord through the gray, dew-heavy fields, and the wind rushed through the trees, making a sound like the sea. Underneath the wind there were only small creaturely noises: the call of an owl, the stirring of sleeping cattle, the lonely cries of water birds, the shriek of a small animal surprised by a hunter in its nightly wanderings.

Maerad stirred uneasily in her sleep and began to dream.

Far away in the School of Innail, a ray of moonlight slipped through the casement and fell on Silvia’s cheek. She lifted her hand to her face, murmuring something inaudible, and turned over. In the street below, the cobbles were white with moonlight but pooled with black shadows. It appeared peaceful, but anyone watching for any length of time — a bird, say, on a roof — might have thought, blinking in the deceptive moonlight, that their eyes were playing tricks. For sometimes it seemed that the shadows swelled and distorted, as if something black moved stealthily against the buildings, but then, when you shook your head, there was nothing there. If the watcher had been patient, after a time it would have become clear that two darkly cloaked figures moved furtively below, keeping always out of the light, slinking from doorway to doorway.

They moved up the street until they reached the steps of Malgorn and Silvia’s house. There they stopped, mounted the steps, and tried the door. There was a brief, intolerably bright flash of light, and they fell back into the road. Swiftly they picked themselves up and vanished into the darkness.

A little while later, Dernhil was sitting in his room as Maerad had sometimes imagined him, his chin propped on his hand, deeply absorbed in a book. The fire was almost crumbled to ash, popping sleepily in its embers, and the light from the lamp fell peacefully across the tumbled books and parchments on his desk. Suddenly he looked up warily, like a deer scenting a wolf, and almost immediately afterward there came a knock on his door.

Dernhil sat very still in his chair and did not get up to open it. There came another knock, as if the door were being struck with a heavy staff, and then the door burst open. Two figures stood in the dark hallway beyond.

Dernhil stood up as the figures walked into the light. They were heavily cloaked and booted in black, and their hoods obscured their faces, although he could see their eyes burning red. A chill, like that of the tomb, entered the room with them and Dernhil lifted his hands as if to fend them off.

“You cannot ward against us!” said one of the figures sharply, making a strange motion with his hands.

Dernhil was suddenly stilled, as if he were frozen.

“We are come for a little information, Dernhil of Gent. Help us, and our master will reward you richly.”

There was a long silence. “I know who you are,” Dernhil said at last. His speech was thick, as if he were in pain. “I’ll not have any dealings with you or your kind.”

His interlocutor lifted his finger, and Dernhil grimaced.

“Speak not so hastily,” he said. “You know not what you will do in this world or the next one, Bard. Think again. We hear you are teaching a girl. We want to know about her.”

This time Dernhil said nothing, but stared at them steadily, and an aura of light, recalling the luminosity of sunlight on summer trees or the radiance of a fountain, seemed faintly to outline him. The other figure hissed, drawing its breath in quickly, and both of them stepped back. The first spoke again through his teeth, his voice tight with anger.

“You will not easily survive such impertinence,” he said. “But what is not freely given can be taken.” He drew close to Dernhil, who was still unable to move, and took his chin in his hand. Dernhil’s eyes widened in disgust and fear as the hand mercilessly forced him to look the figure in the face. He could not shut his eyes nor turn his head, and it seemed the two figures, the Bard and the cloaked one, stood there an age, engaged in a desperate, silent battle. At last Dernhil let out a great cry and collapsed on the floor. The first figure turned, making a contemptuous gesture.

“There was nothing there,” he said. “Nothing.”

“It’s useless now,” said the other, and kicked Dernhil as if he kicked the corpse of an animal.

They turned and left the room. Dernhil lay unmoving on the floor where he had fallen, his eyes glassy and wide with horror.

Maerad woke with a start.

It seemed to her that she heard a cry, that from a deep abyss a voice called her name in an extremity of anguish. She sat up in the dark, her flesh goose-pimpling, grasping at the cry; but it had vanished as if it were part of a dream ill-remembered. All she could hear was the wind rattling the shutters. She sat and listened, her heart hammering, struggling with an overpowering sense of despair and loss, but she neither heard nor felt anything more.