The Gift (55 page)

Saliman, who had been staring down at the table through all of Cadvan’s narration, now looked up. “I think that perhaps the Dark is more apt to move than we are, and perhaps quicker to recognize its own danger,” he said. “It would seem to me a serious misjudgment to forbid this. I too have heard the evidence, and I believe that Cadvan is correct. I urge you to consider his advice seriously.”

“The Nameless returns, the Winterking stirs, and the Foretold appears in the guise of a wretched girl?” Enkir’s eyes flashed with malice. “It is a pretty bundle of news you bring with you, and no mistake. You should be a troubador, Cadvan of Lirigon, and travel the hamlets, scaring the peasants. It will not do here.”

There was an uncomfortable pause, and Enkir cast Maerad another look of dislike. “Do not think I have not had separate word of this . . . discovery of yours,” he said. “You do not have a monopoly on information, Cadvan of Lirigon. If you think to surprise me, you are wrong. The only thing that surprises me is your temerity.”

A clear vision of Helgar gazing at her spitefully during the Council in Innail rose in Maerad’s mind. She felt suddenly certain that Helgar had sent word to Enkir of the Innail Meet. Perhaps Helgar, who was a Bard of Ettinor, was a Hull too? It was all so confusing. . . . And the force of the Light beating in that room seemed to be growing stronger again; it made thinking difficult. Her head began to pulse with an incipient headache.

Nelac spoke for the first time. “I am convinced of the truth of this argument,” he said. The other Bards turned to look at him, listening gravely. “It would risk little to instate her, and I fear what may happen if we do not. I too strongly counsel this action. I recommend that we instate Maerad of Pellinor with the greatest urgency.”

“The true treachery lies in those who seek to distract us with false fears, dispersing our proper vigilance,” said Enkir dangerously. “I must ask why you seek to present us with such arguments, at such a time?”

There was an electric silence.

“My fealty to the Light is without question, and I wonder that you impugn it,” said Nelac quietly. “I suggest you think again, Enkir.”

“It is not your fealty I question, Nelac,” said Enkir, unable to hide his spite. “I know you have a blind spot where Cadvan of Lirigon is concerned. Perhaps the soft partiality of a mentor for his former student might be excused, but we all know that Cadvan’s history is a little . . . checkered.”

At this, Maerad looked up. Had she been blind? Again and again people had hinted of something dubious in Cadvan’s past. Why had she so blithely taken no notice of them?

“I do not doubt Nelac’s good will,” said a dark-haired Bard next to Nelac. “Nevertheless, I think, like Enkir, that Cadvan’s tale beggars belief.” Several others nodded. “There are so many other explanations for the ills that beset our realm. This is only the most fantastic.”

Enkir glared at Nelac. “It is not so easy to become a Bard of the White Flame. It would be an insult even to consider instating a boy of this inexperience to such a height, let alone a girl. I forbid it. I will waste my time discussing this matter no more; my judgment has been given. We shall give thought to the other issues raised here, and make our doom known.”

He looked around the table and met the gaze of each Bard of the First Circle. Only Nelac, Caragal, Tared, and another Bard, whom Maerad had not heard speak, shook their heads.

“Five against four. You are outvoted, Nelac. The First Circle has decided.” Enkir looked to Nelac with a flash of triumph. “The petitioners are dismissed.”

Maerad had listened to the debate indifferently. It no longer mattered to her whether she was instated or not. She felt a bile rising in her throat, a hatred of all these men, a hatred of Enkir most of all — Enkir, the most treacherous. He was, she thought, out of place at a round table; he should be in a high seat with his minions at the level of his knees.

All the Bards stood and bowed, and wordlessly Maerad, Cadvan, and Saliman left the Crystal Hall. Behind her, Maerad heard the Bards sit down again, their voices rising in argument.

She paced dully through the streets of the First Circle, blind to the beauty around her. Her thoughts made her feel nauseous. If Cadvan was a traitor, she felt that she couldn’t bear it. But how could she trust him now?

“THAT was a total disaster,” said Saliman disgustedly. He unbuckled his sword and leaned it against the wall. “Well, first things first. I sorely need a drink.”

They had walked back to Nelac’s house in oppressed silence. Maerad was wrapped deeply in her thoughts; she was scarcely aware of the other two Bards.

“A glass of good ale would be very welcome,” Cadvan said to Saliman. “You’d probably get something in the kitchens, if you asked Brin.”

“I’ll see if I can find anything,” said Saliman, and he left the room.

“I’m sorry,” said Cadvan, smiling at Maerad crookedly. “I knew it would be a challenge to convince the First Circle; but I confess the depth of resistance to your instatement surprised me. I thought that there would have been room for some doubt there, given what we had to say.”

Maerad glowered at him, and he looked taken aback.

“It’s not the end of the world,” he said. “There are other alternatives. When Nelac returns, we’ll be able to discuss what to do. The best possible course would have been to have you instated in the sight of the Bards of Annar. That has now been strictly forbidden.” Cadvan settled into a chair by the fire, taking off his own sword. “Sit down, Maerad,” he said, waving his hand. “And look not so black; our failure is no reflection on you.”

Maerad lifted her eyes to his and stared into him. For the first time Cadvan realized the force of her fury, and for a second he looked staggered. He started out of the chair.

“By the Light, Maerad, what’s wrong?” he said. “We just failed to convince a few Bards. That’s a setback, I agree —”

“Where’s Hem?” Maerad’s voice was cold and hard.

“I don’t know. Probably in the kitchens.”

“I’ll go find him.” She turned to leave, but Cadvan took her arm and spun her around, earnestly examining her face. At last he spoke softly. “What’s wrong, Maerad? What’s happened to you?”

“Perhaps I have no need of you.” Maerad looked at him with hatred. No, she wouldn’t be taken in by his wiles this time.

“Have you gone mad?” Cadvan’s face was pale, and the whiplashes stood out starkly against it. For a second Maerad faltered.

“No.” She thought again of the Hull Likud at the Broken Teeth, and hardened herself. “Please let go of my arm.”

“What’s possessing you?” Cadvan said. “Where would you go by yourself? Do you think that you and Hem would have a chance, with Hulls all over Annar hunting you down?”

Maerad glared at him scornfully and shook herself free of his grasp. “I’ve managed before,” she said. “I might do better if I’m not traveling with a Hull in the first place.”

The blood drained out of Cadvan’s face, and his hand fell nervelessly to his side. For a few seconds he was speechless. Then he gazed intently into her eyes, and spoke softly in the Speech.
Il ver umonor imenval kor, dhor Dhillarearë de niker kor.

The words fell as gently as rain into Maerad’s mind, but she winced as if they bruised her. “By all we have suffered together, by the sworn bond you owe me as your teacher, and by the deeper bond you owe me as your friend, I bid you tell me now: what has happened to you, Maerad of Pellinor?”

She stood mutely before him, her overwhelming suspicion and fear warring with other memories: her first sight of Cadvan in the cowbyre, and her instinctive trust of him; their many days together, riding side by side; shared jokes; Cadvan’s face, innocent in the vulnerability of sleep, or stricken by the Hulls, or blazing with light, fearlessly standing against the Kulag and the wight. She turned her head away, feeling sick.

“You followed the Dark,” she said thickly. “You betrayed the Light. I can’t stay with you now.” She looked into Cadvan’s face, and he lowered his eyes. “Do you deny it?”

“No,” he said. “No, I cannot deny it.” Maerad had expected him to argue, and was momentarily at a loss. “I have never been a Hull, but I . . . did things I should not have done. I have paid for it, Maerad. And I have never betrayed you.”

“Then why did you hide it from me?” She stared at him with a hostile intensity, and he looked away.

There was a long, painful silence.

“Maerad,” said Cadvan at last. “I should by now have told you of this. I didn’t ever seek to hide it from you. But it’s painful for me to recall, and perhaps . . . perhaps I would like not to be always distrusted by those who don’t know me well. I have been remiss. For that, I apologize.”

“Then tell me now.” Maerad’s voice was as tense as a strung wire.

“Sit down,” he said gently.

“No.” She continued to stare at him, waiting for him to speak.

Cadvan shrugged his shoulders, glancing around the room as if he gathered his thoughts together, and then sat down. “It’s a simple enough story to relate,” he said, with an edge of bitterness. “I was a young Bard in Lirigon, newly fledged, arrogant in my powers, and despite my talent, ignorant of many things. There came another Bard there whose abilities almost matched mine, and we were rivals.” He paused, and sighed. “Or, to be more precise, I felt he was my rival. He didn’t think like that.”

“What was his name?”

“His name was Dernhil of Gent.” Maerad started, but Cadvan was not looking at her. “It happened that, in my pride, I brooked no rival, and I wondered how I could outdo him. In my spare time I had been studying the Black Arts, thinking as one does, when one is young and foolish, that I could take no harm from being merely interested. Warnings, I thought, were for those with punier abilities than mine. I had even been secretly in contact with a Bard who had been banned for practicing the Black Arts, although I didn’t know then that he was a Hull.”

“Likud,” said Maerad.

Cadvan glanced up at her. “Yes, Likud. When Dernhil beat me in the duel, my vanity was badly hurt. I wanted to do something that would prove once and for all that my powers were greater than his. I decided the only way was to perform some magery that he would never dare because, as I thought, he had less nerve than I did. I called him to a place we both knew, a grove outside Lirigon, and there I meant to give him a demonstration of my powers.” Cadvan stared at the floor, not speaking.

Unconsciously, Maerad had moved farther into the room, and she perched now on the edge of the chair farthest from Cadvan. “So, what did you do?”

“I summoned a creature from the Abyss.”

“What, what creature?”

“A Revenant.” Cadvan was now withdrawn, wrapped in an evil memory. “Like a wight, but not so powerful. I was not strong enough to hold it, and it broke my word of command.”

He fell silent, and Maerad waited for him to start again. When he did, it seemed to be a struggle for him to speak at all. “The Revenant nearly killed me. It wounded Dernhil badly. He has — had — a scar from his shoulder to his hip from that encounter. And it killed another Bard, a friend who was loyal, or foolish, enough to be there, even though she knew what I planned and had tried to persuade me not to do it.” He stopped, his face drawn and haunted.

“And what happened afterward?”

“I had to send the Revenant back. I did so, eventually. It took a long time, because I was injured, and first had to heal, and then I had to find it. After that, I was almost exiled. I was, for a time, banished from all Schools. It was Nelac and Dernhil who saved me from that. They argued long for me.” He fell silent again. “That is why . . .”

“Why what?” Maerad spoke more gently now.

Cadvan paused and then sat up, looking Maerad straight in the eye. “Maerad, these are black memories for me. I’ll tell you more, if you wish, but I would rather not dwell on them. This is the sum of my dealings with the Dark. I have spent myself since in service of the Light and the Balance, more than any other Bard I know. I swear that to you, by everything I hold sacred.”

Maerad nodded slowly. She turned from him and sat meditatively for some time, thinking over what he had told her. She now understood Cadvan’s solitariness, she thought. She pitied the young Bard he had been.

“Who was . . . who was the Bard who died?”

For a while she thought Cadvan was not going to answer. When he did, his voice was muffled.

“Her name was Ceredin,” he said. “She was very young, and very beautiful, and my love. She was a Bard of great quality. She might have been greater than me. She was certainly more wise.” Beneath the bitterness in his voice, Maerad heard the anguish of an undimmed grief. For a second, as if she were a burning glass, Cadvan’s emotion flashed through her, and she fleetingly saw Ceredin in her mind’s eye: a dark-eyed, slender girl, with the same proud straightness she remembered of Milana. “I shall wear that death always,” Cadvan said harshly, though Maerad heard a catch in his voice. “I cannot forgive it.”

Maerad turned and gazed into Cadvan’s eyes. For the first time, she used her Gift: she entered his consciousness, as she almost had that day, so long ago, when he had scried her. She felt Cadvan’s flinch at her sudden intrusion and then his acceptance, how he let down the inner shields that protected his private self. For a brief, intense moment it was as if she
was
Cadvan, with Cadvan’s memories and longings and regrets, and she felt his anguish as sharply as if it were her own. She looked as long as she needed to, no more; she could hardly bear such intimacy. Then she turned away and again stared out into the garden.