The Gift (27 page)

“The Speech is a lifetime’s explanation,” Cadvan answered, taking food out of his pack. “As for Lord Kargan, you understood him because he spoke your language. They are the only beast that can speak thus to humans, and so are revered. The ravens of Innail are of ancient lineage, and wise as Bards. But first,” he said, tossing her a meat pie, “eat!”

They munched in silence, listening to the crackling of the fire and the sounds of the horses grazing and whickering to each other as the night darkened. Then Cadvan leaned back against the wall of the cave, his eyes following the shadows as they danced on the stone. He looked tired and strained, but his voice betrayed no inner turmoil.

“First, Maerad, is the Knowing. At the center of the Knowing is the Speech, which all Bards carry within them as their birthright. They say that some Bards are born speaking it, and learn human speech only later, in the normal way; but usually a Bard comes into the Speech as a young child. It is not always so, and you are one of the exceptions. Each Bard comes to the Speech in her own way, and in her own time. It cannot be taught.”

“Oh,” said Maerad, feeling slightly disappointed. She had thought vaguely that Cadvan might make some incantation, or that she would have to undergo some kind of ritual, and then, all of a sudden, she would be gifted with the Speech. “Then I just have to wait? What if it doesn’t happen?”

“It will, in its own good time. In the meantime, the Speech is hidden within you.”

“What happened when you found the Speech? How old were you?”

For a second Cadvan’s face brightened, and Maerad had a brief vision of how he must have looked as a child. “I remember it well,” he said. “I was a very little boy then, about five years old. I was swimming in the river with my brothers and sisters on a hot summer day, and suddenly a fish spoke to me. I was so surprised I jumped out of the water and ran screaming to my mother.”

“What did the fish say?” asked Maerad curiously.

“It said, ‘You swim like a frog on a stick. Get some fins, leggy one!’”

“And then your mother knew you were a Bard?” said Maerad, laughing. “Was she a Bard?”

“Yes, to your first question. And no, she wasn’t.” Cadvan’s face closed, as if the subject pained him, and Maerad asked no further questions. “So,” he continued, “at the center of the Knowing is the Speech. I can teach you some of the Knowing, but it will not make proper sense until you have the Speech. However, you are at an advantage because you do have music, and it is said that at the center of the Speech is the Silence of Light, and that music is the only possible expression of that mystery. Which is why music is so revered among Bards.”

Cadvan threw another branch on the fire and poked it, so a trail of sparks flew up to the roof of the cavern. A moth flew in, drawn by the light, and circled clumsily around the cave, throwing huge winged shadows over the stone as Cadvan spoke.

“The Knowing is divided into the Three Arts, all of which are of course interconnected and are, in reality, the one stream. They all serve the Balance, the equipoise of the world, which was determined when time itself was an egg: but these are mysteries that we can talk about later, and are not fully understood even by the wisest. We call the Three Arts the Reading, the Making, and the Tending. The Reading is the knowledge of the High Arts, the histories, the languages, the song, the lore, the tracing of the high forces that shape and bend this land. It’s what is most commonly thought of as magic, but it is also as simple as reading and writing. The Making is exactly what it says: it means the making of music, painting, building, jewelery, smithing, writing, dancing. The Tending is the knowledge of growing, husbandry, forestry, childcraft, wilding, herbs, healing, bird lore, and so on.” He paused and stared at the ceiling. “There are sometimes debates on where a particular branch of Knowing belongs in the Three Arts. For example, a Bard who makes a thing of power draws on two of them: the Making and the Reading, and if it is a healing thing, a stone, for example, it might draw on all three. But myself, I am not interested in such debates.”

Maerad listened, staring into the fire, fascinated. “And what are you?”

“I am skilled in the Reading,” he said. “Most Bards find out early what most interests them, what draws them. The Reading is the most dangerous, for it is where a Bard is most easily corrupted. Therefore Bards are required to know about all three; for a Bard who counts power and learning as the highest skill, refusing to understand how all of the Arts inform and nourish each other, is a poor Bard. In the reckoning of Bardlore, all Three Arts are given equal honor.”

“And Malgorn is of the Tending? And Silvia, I suppose. . . . And Dernhil, he was of the Reading?”

Cadvan’s face hardened again. He looked deep into the fire and was silent for a long time, and Maerad was sorry she had said Dernhil’s name. But then Cadvan began to chant:

He fell silent, and then he covered his face with his hands and wept. Maerad turned aside, feeling the tears welling in her own eyes, and she let them fall. They sat for an unmeasurable time, each privately mourning, as the fire burned lower.

Cadvan finally sat up and threw more wood on the flames. He glanced over at Maerad. “It is hard to lose such a friend,” he said. “Dernhil helped me out of a dark place many years ago. He taught me much about humility. And friendship. And now . . . the Dark has had its revenge. I should have realized the dangers,” he added bitterly. “If I had not asked him to teach you, no Hulls would have sought him.”

“Perhaps not,” said Maerad, remembering what Cadvan had told her earlier that day:
it’s not your fault there is evil in the world.
“But I think he might have done the same, even had he known the risks. And I think he did know.”

“Dernhil was no fool, but he knew little more about you than that you were my pupil,” said Cadvan.

Maerad suddenly remembered the parchment that Dernhil had given her. “No, he guessed more,” she said. “He gave me something. I’d forgotten all about it until now, but he said to show it to you.”

She rummaged through her pack until she found the parchment, telling Cadvan what Dernhil had told her. Cadvan scrutinized it intently, turning pale as he did so. “Do you know what it says?” he asked.

“Dernhil translated it for me,” said Maerad. “But I don’t know what it means.”

Cadvan read the parchment once more and then gave it back to her. “Hide it!” he said. “I am not certain that we shouldn’t burn it, but I wish Nelac to see it.”

“Nelac? Who’s Nelac?” said Maerad, forgetting that he was Cadvan’s old teacher in Norloch; but Cadvan did not answer her at first. His face was dark with thought.

“Maerad,” he said at last, “if the Dark knows what Dernhil knew, we are in worse trouble than I thought. By the Light, I wish I knew what happened last night.”

“But what does it mean?” asked Maerad stubbornly. Cadvan gazed at Maerad earnestly, as if he were seeing her for the first time. She met his gaze and held it, and at last he laughed gently and relented.

“Maerad, I think you are the Foretold, the one who will come, the Fated One,” he said. “Lanorgil was one of the great Seers, and he foresaw you.
Seek then one who comes Speechless from the Mountains, a Bard unSchooled and yet of this School.
He meant you. The riddle is scarcely hard to answer, and Dernhil was right: it is not chance that it turned up at just this time. The Foretold, in the Lore, is the one who will defeat the Nameless One in his darkest rising. It is an ancient tradition, although now mostly forgotten, except by the Wise, who do not forget.”

Maerad listened in tense silence, her heart thumping wildly. Cadvan’s words filled her with a strange panic, the same panic she had felt when Dernhil had first shown her the parchment.

“It can’t be talking about
me,
” she said, laughing nervously to cover her confusion. “I’m not . . . I’m not important. . . .”

“It’s a lore that is not forgotten by the Dark,” said Cadvan, staring at her somberly. “They clearly already suspect you are the One, they know your name, and by now they will know what you look like. They do not know for sure, but that mere suspicion is enough to ensure your death, if ever you came into the clutches of the Dark. But if it is still only a suspicion, they might not seek us so urgently — unless the Hulls were able to steal Dernhil’s mind. Or unless they know something that we do not.”

“But why? Why would they suspect me?” asked Maerad. “How would they know? It’s nonsense, Cadvan.” She began to feel angry. “A . . . a silly dream on a piece of paper, and anyway, it doesn’t say it’s me.”

“It might. I think it might.” Cadvan paused. “I think Lanorgil, when he speaks of the Fire Lily, means the Name of the One who will come.” He quoted Lanorgil’s words: “
Seek and cherish the Fire Lily, the Fated One, which blooms the fairer in dark places, and sleepeth long in darkness: from such a root will blossom the White Flame anew.
The lily is of course the sign of Pellinor. But they use the arum lily. The Fire Lily,
Elednor
in the Speech, that is a different flower.”

“But my Name’s not Elednor!” Maerad stood up in her agitation. “My Name is, my Name is . . .”

“Maerad, you don’t know your Name. No one will, until your full instatement as a Bard. And if your Name is Elednor, then you are most certainly the One, as foretold by Lanorgil.” Cadvan was speaking with great gentleness, and his eyes were full of a strange compassion.

“What if I’m not? What if you’ve got it all wrong? What then?”

Cadvan shrugged. “As I said before, then I am simply wrong.” He was silent for a while more, and then started to speak slowly.

“You don’t realize, Maerad, the greatness of your Gift, nor how unusual it is for a Bard to spring from nowhere in such power, wholly untutored,” he said. “I began to wonder soon after I scried you. And no doubt our little adventure with the Landrost alerted others. Even with that power you are dangerous, and better silenced before you come into your own. Until you are instated, it is only a suspicion, a suspicion that in my mind grows stronger all the time. Obviously Dernhil entertained the same thought. And if the Hulls know what Dernhil knew, then our plight is darker still. But I wonder, how could the Hulls even suspect so quickly? What is their interest?”

“Dernhil would not have betrayed us,” said Maerad uncertainly. She stood still in the flickering light, her arms crossed. A vivid image of Dernhil’s face rose before her, and she saw anew the resolve that underlay its gentleness.

“It’s not a question of betrayal,” said Cadvan. “You don’t know . . .” A spasm of pain passed over his face, and for a while he was silent. “Dernhil was strong, and a pure Bard. And I think the Hulls would have wanted to use him, rather than kill him; they would have sought to make him their puppet, their spy in Innail, the better to get to you. A murder would only alert the School to their presence; they cannot stay there now. Even Hulls cannot face the likes of Malgorn and Oron.” He paused in thought.

Maerad looked at Cadvan’s shadowed face, and finally sat down again by the fire.

“I think it is likely,” said Cadvan at last, “that Dernhil killed himself so they could not enter his mind, and I think it is not only my hope speaking.” He shuddered. “Believe me, Maerad, there are many worse things than death.”

He stared deep into the fire. “According to Lord Kargan, they tried Malgorn and Silvia’s house. I made a doorward, a spell of protection on the house, shortly after we arrived there, and that was no bad thing, clearly. It not only drove them back, but it would have also told Malgorn and Silvia who it was who tried the door. It may be that they believe we are still at the School. But I don’t
know.
”

Maerad was silent, absorbing what Cadvan had said. It was true that Dernhil was dead. Perhaps it was true that the Dark was seeking her, as Cadvan thought. She felt a black fear roiling in her innards.

“How can we know?” she said at last. “I mean, if I have a Name, how do I know it?”

“None of us
knows
anything,” said Cadvan gently. “Which is the beginning of wisdom.” He paused. “You must be instated, Maerad, and as quickly as we can manage. That is why we go to Norloch: in no other place can we bypass all the Charges, which would otherwise take years of study. This has always seemed clear to me, but now I see it is imperative.”

“What, they’ll just instate me?” said Maerad disbelievingly. “As a Full Bard? I can hardly read. . . .”

“In special circumstances they will, yes,” Cadvan answered. “And these seem very special to me.” He sighed. “If you are the One, Maerad, it is a hard destiny, and one you could only take up willingly. And yet if you did not, if you refused it, or tried to escape it, it would haunt you anyway.”

“Some choice,” said Maerad dryly. She picked up a twig and pushed one end into the fire, watching until it burst into a little tree of flame. She thought suddenly of her mother. Did Milana know more about Maerad than she had told her? Sometimes she had talked of destiny, but Maerad had never known what she meant; she had been too young. . . . The flame burned down the twig until it almost reached her fingers, and she dropped it back on the flames. “Cadvan, what are Hulls?”