"And a bath!" said Cadvan "I crave a bath above all else!"
But Maerad was already being guided out of the room into a long hallway, Silvia's arm around her shoulders. "Are you very hungry, Maerad?" she asked.
"No," she mumbled. "Well, not at the moment."
"If you're not starving, there's a bath being prepared for you. And we'll find you some clothes. These can go in the fire! What has Cadvan been doing with you? Gadding about the wilderness, chasing monsters no doubt. What was he thinking? You're too young for all that business. You should be safe in a school, learning scales and suchlike. Really!" She clicked her tongue impatiently.
"It wasn't his fault!" Maerad said hotly, feeling Cadvan was being blamed unfairly. "Really, it wasn't. He rescued me! I was a slave in Gilman's Cot, and he took me out of there, and I never had enough to eat beforehand anyway...."
"Did he, now?" Silvia stopped and took Maerad's chin in her hand, looking into her eyes with a disconcerting seriousness. "Don't take our jesting seriously, Maerad. Cadvan is a good friend, an old friend, and one of the most honorable men I ever met. There are not many Bards like him. Be sure we know that."
Maerad nodded, feeling foolish again; she hadn't encountered this kind of gentle mockery before, and she found it hard to read. Silvia continued her bustling and chatting, and before she knew it Maerad found herself in a steaming room smelling of lavender, with a stone bath sunk in the floor already full of hot water. Maerad had never even seen a bath before. She halted in the doorway, her eyes wide. Silvia looked at her swiftly, and said: "Would you like me to stay? I can leave you, if you like. But it sometimes helps to have someone scrub your back."
"I... I don't know," whispered Maerad, almost overcome. "What do you normally do?"
"This time, my sweet, I will stay and help you," said Silvia decidedly. "I should not like it if you fainted in the bath. And you look too exhausted to bathe alone."
Gently she helped Maerad peel off her stinking clothes, throwing them into a basket, and helped her into the bath, pouring into it a sweet-smelling oil from a blue bottle. Then she scrubbed her with a soft cloth and lavender-scented soap, and washed her hair. Maerad was ashamed when she saw how filthy the water was, but Silvia seemed unfussed, and simply tut-tutted over the cut on Maerad's forehead and the bruises and scars on her body. When she was satisfied that Maerad was clean down to the last fingernail, she helped her out, dried her, and draped a soft, warm robe around her shoulders. She smeared a balm on the cut and then took a wide-toothed comb from a cupboard, made her sit down on a low wooden stool in the corner of the room, and patiently combed all the knots out of her hair. It took some time. Maerad leaned back against her, sleepy and luxurious. She had never felt such ease in her body; her skin felt delicious, as if it were made of silk.
"Now, your room should be ready," said Silvia. "Let's go."
She led her down more corridors and up a flight of stairs and opened the door on a small bedchamber. A fire flickered in a grate, and through an arched window Maerad could hear the bubbling voice of the fountain in the courtyard. A bed draped with a brocaded cover stood in the corner, and on it were laid bright clothes. She saw that someone had placed her lyre in the corner. Maerad stood hesitantly by the door, abashed by the rich colors. "Is all this for me?" she whispered.
Silvia looked at her with an unfathomable compassion. "It is, Maerad. All for you. Now, shall I help you to dress? Some of those buttons can be tricky."
Maerad nodded dumbly. She had never seen dresses like this either, of such soft cloth in rich colors, made for comfort and beauty as well as warmth. She felt ignorant and coarse. Silvia chose a simple blue robe with silver embroiderings on the neck and sleeves. "You'll be going to bed very soon," she said practically. "And you don't want to be fussing about. But you must have something to eat first. Are you feeling all right? Do you think you'll faint again?"
Embarrassed, Maerad shook her head. The more kindness Silvia showed her, the less she felt able to speak. She felt as if there were some mistake; soon someone would find out that she wasn't a proper Bard and would throw her out. Silvia picked out some woolen underclothes and passed them to Maerad, who wondered at their softness. She felt that she was dreaming. She sat down on the bed, lost in thought, stroking them with her fingers, and Silvia gently took them from her and, loosing her bathrobe, slipped the shift over Maerad's head. It was like dressing a child, or a doll. Maerad said not a word.
When she was dressed, Silvia led her to a mirror. "Do you think that suits?" she said, leaning her chin over Maerad's shoulder. "You should wear blue, it brings out your eyes. How pretty you are!"
Maerad blinked and stared. There had been no mirrors in Gilman's Cot, apart from the polished metal of a shield or the still face of a pail of water. She couldn't recognize the image in the mirror as herself; only the faint white line on her neck, a hairline scar from some old injury she couldn't remember, seemed at all familiar. Suddenly there came into her mind, at once very vivid and immeasurably distant, a memory of her mother's face bending toward her, perhaps to kiss her. She realized with a slight shock that she looked very much like Milana. It made her feel desolate, and perceiving this, Silvia said quickly: "It's time to eat, before you drop on the floor with exhaustion. I'm sure Malgorn and Cadvan are waiting for us; we should hurry."
She led her down the stairs, which Maerad negotiated hesitatingly, looking around in wonder. She found the house bewildering: there were too many chambers, too many doors, too many passages leading to unguessed-at destinations. She was used to buildings of one room, with beasts down one end and people at the other and no stairs anywhere. Even the Great Hall had been only one big room, with the sleeping quarters attached to one side as lean-tos.
At last they reached a small dining room, where there was a dark wooden table set with candles and fine, plain plates. In the center were dishes piled high with vegetables, and a plate heaped with carved meats. Maerad suddenly realized she was ravenous. Cadvan and Malgorn were already seated, and glanced up as they entered. For a second Cadvan looked a little startled, and Maerad faltered, feeling awkward and selfconscious in her new clothes, but then the men stood and bowed their heads courteously. Silvia bowed her head in answer, and Maerad, looking out the corner of her eye, copied her, and they all sat down.
"Roast beef, Maerad!" said Cadvan, settling in next to her. "Didn't I promise you? And all the carrots and turnips you could possibly want. And they even rustled up some mushrooms, at my urgent request!" He served her generously, and then piled food on his own dish. "Malgorn has told me sternly that I can't keep you up late, and that you mustn't eat too much, for fear you will be ill. I told him it's nothing to do with me!" He smiled, and Maerad began to relax a little.
"I am tired," she said. "I can see why you like baths! But it's made me feel so sleepy."
"Have some of this," said Cadvan, holding up a glass decanter filled with a wine as pale as straw. "Malgorn's pulled out a good wine for us, and we can't let it go to waste. Then you'll sleep like a baby!"
He filled her glass, and Maerad sipped cautiously, remembering the laradhel. To her surprise, the wine ran lightly over her tongue, crisp and sweet. Then she concentrated on eating while the others talked. Neither Silvia nor Malgorn were eating, and Maerad guessed they had dined earlier and were simply keeping them company. The food was delicately flavored, as far from the rough cooking she was used to as everything else in this marvelous place; the meat was stuffed with herbs and garlic, roasted so tenderly it dissolved on her tongue, and the carrots were sweet, as if they had been flavored with honey Cadvan glanced at her, and helped himself to more mushrooms. "You haven't tried these," he said. "You'd better hurry, or there'll be none left."
"I told you he took all the rations," said Silvia, smiling.
Maerad looked doubtfully at the mushrooms, darkly piled on the dish, dripping yellow streams of melted butter. "I don't like fungus," she said.
"But you haven't tasted these," said Cad
van. "Try a little. Just a taste." He put a portion on her plate. Maerad poked it dubiously, picked up the smallest piece she could find, and put it in her mouth. The taste on her palate was pungent and rich, the flavor of woodlands and dark earth simmered in sunshine. "Oh!" she said in surprise. "It's delicious!"
"I told you," said Cadvan. "And nothing tastes so well as a meal well earned. Have some more! But you'd better be quick!"
The conversation was light; for the moment no one mentioned their recent adventures or asked any further questions about where they had been. Although Cadvan had deep hollows under his eyes and his face still bore traces of strain, he seemed wide awake and merry, jesting and teasing with Malgorn and Silvia. Maerad saw the fondness with which they treated him and felt reassured.
Silvia and Malgorn removed all the dishes, and they moved to comfortable chairs arranged around a fire. Malgorn returned with a glass decanter full of cherry cordial, gleaming like a huge ruby, and a platter of sweets. He poured them all a small glass each. Maerad had never seen sweets, but emboldened by her experiment with the mushrooms, she took a candied chestnut. As she chewed it her eyes widened, and she reached for another.
"You won't stay bony for long, if you keep eating those," said Cadvan lazily. He was leaning back in his chair, his long legs stretched before him. "Those are a specialty of Innail, as well. The valley here prides itself on its cuisine."
Maerad felt content just to sit and say nothing, and continued to sip her cherry cordial, which she decided was completely delicious. She made no objection when Malgorn refilled her glass. She was warm and well fed and clean, all completely novel sensations, and the day's weary walk settled slack and heavy in her limbs. Sleepily she listened as the conversation moved to other topics.
"Your timing is impeccable, as usual," Silvia was saying.
Cadvan cocked an eyebrow. "How so?"
"I thought you'd come for the Meet," Silvia said. "But perhaps you have not had news of it?"
"A Meet?" Cadvan sat up and looked a little more alert. "No, I haven't heard. Messengers don't usually visit the Landrost."
"The Landrost?" Silvia's eyebrows arched in surprise. "What were you doing there?" Cadvan made a vague gesture, dismissing the question, and she returned to the subject of the Meet, shrugging her shoulders. "Yes, the biggest in recent memory," she said. "There are Bards here from almost every School in northern Annar. Some from as far away as Gent, and an envoy even from Turbansk, in the south. The Welcome Feast is tomorrow night."
"And what is the occasion?"
Malgorn stirred and leaned forward. "You know as well as I do that rumors of the Dark are increasing in Annar," he said. "Well, you probably know more than I do about all that. Certainly sightings of wers and other creatures are more common, and there's famine and banditry and sickness in many regions. Some say these are but part of the Balance, and will soon right themselves. Others say not. And more than that, there are problems in the Schools: nothing concrete, but a definite unease."
"We've known that for years," Cadvan said. "So why the Meet now?"
Malgorn leaned forward, almost speaking in a whisper. "Some Schools, it is said, are corrupt."
Cadvan smiled grimly. "My friend, that is no news to me either. Not all Schools are as noble as Innail, or as faithful to the Light."
Malgorn's brow creased in slight annoyance. "I think you should not make light of these things. There are even rumors..."
He hesitated, looking around as if he feared someone might overhear, and lowered his voice again. "I have even heard there are fears that the Speech itself is poisoned. The wellspring and source of our power! I know, I know, it is unthinkable. But still it is said, though I don't believe it myself."
"Oron thinks that in the past two or three years these rumors have become much more troubling," said Silvia. Kindly, she turned to Maerad and explained: "Oron is the First of the Circle of the Innail, and of great rank in Annar by virtue of her power and learning." Maerad nodded, surprised that they spoke of such things in front of her. But Silvia continued. "Some say that the Dark is gaining on the Light, and that the days of peace are over. And some even say that the Nameless is rising again. Oron has called this Meet to gather together and consider all the rumors and news, to attempt to consider what the situation actually is, and if possible to decide on some action, if it is indeed as bad as people think."
"Which is doubtful," interrupted Malgorn. "Gossips are frogs, they say; they drink and talk. And all fish grow in the telling."
"It's bad," said Cadvan shortly, as if he could say more but would not. He frowned down at the table. Silvia looked at him inquiringly, but did not ask him to elaborate, and changed the subject.
"Maerad, Malgorn tells me you're from Pellinor. That's astonishing news!" she said. "We thought no one survived the sacking. I used to know Milana, First of the Circle there, and her husband, Dorn."
Taken by surprise, Maerad looked straight up into Silvia's eyes.
"Milana was my mother," she said unemotionally, and she heard a slight catch of surprise in Silvia's breath. "We didn't die. We were captured and sold as slaves. Milana died . . . afterward." There was a short silence.
"There was a little boy, wasn't there?" asked Malgorn. "Maybe I remember wrongly—Cai? Carin?"
"Yes, I had a little brother, Cai," said Maerad. "He was murdered, like my father." Involuntarily she shut her eyes; the memory of her father being cut down before her flashed across her mind.
"Well, you have the Gift, that's clear, which would not be surprising from such a family," said Malgorn, after a slightly uncomfortable pause. "But of what kind? How strange that Cadvan should stumble across you...."
"How do you know I have the Gift?" Maerad stared at them almost belligerently.
"It's a sense that Bards have," said Silvia slowly. "It's hard to explain. . . . You learn over the years. You can tell by a certain light... in a person's being. You have that light, Maerad; it's unmistakable."
Cadvan roused himself. "And some Gift it is!" he said. He told them of the power Maerad had revealed when they were escaping the Landrost, and Silvia and Malgorn listened with sudden serious attention. "I've never felt anything like it," he finished. "Not so wholly untutored. It's astonishing!"
Malgorn was looking dubious. "It seems," he said slowly, "a rather neat coincidence. Rather too neat. Think you not, Cadvan?" He looked meaningfully at Cadvan.
"I did wonder." Cadvan reached forward and poured himself another drink. He held the glass before his eyes, admiring the color. "I scried her. I have no doubt she is who she says she is."
"You scried her!" cried Silvia, horrified. "Cadvan, how could you?"
"I felt at the time I had no choice but to ask," said Cadvan, glancing swiftly at Maerad. "I was at my wits' end, wondering what to do. But that's only half the story: she almost scried me, and came close to wiping me out. I am serious about her Gift. What's more, she has a lyre, of Dhyllic ware."
"No!" said Malgorn and Silvia simultaneously.
"Indeed, she has. It must have been the greatest treasure of Pellinor; and there it was, hidden in a miserable cot, as undistinguished as any peasant's harp."
"Are you sure, Cadvan?" said Malgorn doubtfully. "There are none, after all, with which to compare it—how can you know?"
Cadvan looked across at Malgorn. "I did not study the secret lore of the Dhyllin for so many years without learning the signs," said Cadvan. "Even if they are lost to most knowledge. I have no doubt of it." There was a brief silence. "And there is something else," Cadvan added slowly. "Something has been nagging me—something fated—I think it was not chance that we met...."
He withdrew suddenly into an abstracted silence. "Anyway," he said at last, "I think she's too important to stay here; I think she's a key, somehow. I think she should come to Norloch. I'd like to know what Nelac thinks."
"You can't drag her all over the countryside!" said Silvia, scandalized.
"Nevertheless, I think it might be mor
e dangerous to leave her here than to take her with me," Cadvan replied.
"Dangerous?" said Malgorn sharply. "She'll be safer here than almost anywhere else. Forgive me for saying this, Maerad; but we're talking about a young girl, not a great mage."
Cadvan suddenly grinned. "Why can they not be the same thing?"
Maerad listened silently, feeling slightly resentful. What were they talking about? What would she be a key to? It was as if she weren’t there.
Malgorn leaned forward, his face intent and serious. "You're talking nonsense, Cadvan, old friend," he said. "Beware the snares of the Dark!"
"You should know me better," said Cadvan softly. "I know the snares of the Dark better than almost any in the whole of Annar and the Seven Kingdoms."
Malgorn settled back in his chair. "For all that, she's a child," he said stubbornly. Maerad stirred as if to protest, but said nothing. "And perhaps she ought to be permitted to grow into her own fate, if fated she is, in her own time."
There was a short silence. A gloom descended on the company, a palpable sense of foreboding.
"If times were different, perhaps it would be easy to know what to do," said Silvia sadly. "But alas, many things these days cannot grow in their own time, and will be cut down in the full flower of their promise." She shivered and stared into the fire, her face troubled, and Malgorn reached for her hand and held it.
"I think all of us will soon know more of the Dark," she said. "The world shrinks, and a bitter winter is coming."
VII
THE WELCOME FEAST
IT WAS late afternoon the following day before Maerad woke. She was so warm and comfortable that at first she didn't want to open her eyes. She thought she still dreamed, and that beyond her closed eyelids waited the grim world she was used to; but then she remembered where she was and sat up, tousled and still half-awake, rubbing her eyes. The late sunlight shafted through the open casement, touching all the objects in the room with a still, golden light, and she could hear the various voices of the fountain and behind that, strains of music. Outside she could see the top branches of a tree burdened with puffs of pink blossom, and a gentle breeze bathed her cheeks with a delicious smell. The gloomy premonitions of the night before seemed like a bad dream.
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