The Gift by Alison Croggon Read Free Book Online

kind is a double-edged blade, and its possession can damage you if used wrongly. You are a puzzle.”
    He smiled at her, but Maerad sat gloweringly and would not smile back. There was a short silence.
    “May I look at your lyre?” he asked. “It caught my eye. . . .”
    Maerad picked up her instrument, unconsciously stroking it, and passed it to him. He took it and examined it closely, his interest quickening, his long slender fingers testing its weight and balance. He drew his hand across the strings in a gentle chord. The notes rang out sweetly and hung in the air. Cadvan whistled softly.
    “This lyre,” he said. “Was it your mother’s?”
    Maerad nodded. Cadvan sat thoughtfully, turning it over in his hands, running his fingers over the carved script.
    “Have you ever had to tune it?” he said. “I suppose you have never replaced the strings?”
    “No,” said Maerad. “Should I have? I didn’t know. . . . Mirlad never said . . .”
    Cadvan laughed, startling her. “Oh, Maerad,” he said, when he regained his breath. “Should you have strung it?” He laughed again, softly, wonder palpable in his voice. “This is a thing precious beyond the ransom of kings. What would Gilman have done, had he known such a treasure lay hidden in his small cot? It is worth ten times, no, a thousand thousand times, the worth of everything in it. Such lyres have not been made for many a long age, not since the days of Afinil. It was carved by a great craftsman. I don’t know this script at all, and I know many that are long fallen into disuse; no doubt it tells the name of who made it. Instruments like these are known as Dhyllic ware, and a great potency is woven into their making. The virtue on its strings is one now long lost. I have read of these instruments, but I have never seen one. It was thought they were all lost. What a riddle you are!” He looked at her, still smiling.
    Maerad had no idea how to answer him. She was staggered. Her humble lyre, a thing out of legend? But, suddenly serious, Cadvan reached out and patted her hand.
    “We shall have to be friends, if we are to travel together,” he said. “And we must trust each other. Don’t mind my teasing. Nevertheless, we must decide what to do.”
    Maerad looked uneasily down at her hands and said nothing. She didn’t know what to say to this man: did he mean her ill? How could she tell?
    “In any case, we won’t leave here tonight,” continued Cadvan. “I am still weary, truth be told. And I need to think. Here we are safe, for the time being. Rest will harm neither of us. And there is a long road ahead, whatever we decide.”
    He opened his pack and drew out a lyre. “Of less noble lineage than yours, but noble enough to keep it company,” he said. “And still true, and my first love.” He struck some chords, tuning it, and then plucked a cascade of notes that pierced Maerad’s heart. It was a song she knew well, the beginning of the tragic lay of Andomian and Beruldh, which Mirlad had taught her many years before. Cadvan began to sing the part of Andomian in a clear, beautiful voice:
    “Speak to me, fair maid!

Speak and do not go!

What sorrows have your eyes inlaid

    
With such black woe?”
    He paused, plucking the melody, and Maerad realized he was waiting for her to respond. She was still holding her lyre, and began to play the antiphon, singing the answering verse. She hadn’t played a duet since Mirlad died. They continued to sing the alternate verses of the ancient lay, Cadvan’s baritone and Maerad’s contralto filling the grove with music. Maerad had the odd feeling that the trees were listening, bending inward the better to hear them.
    “My dam is buried deep

Dark are my father’s halls

And carrion fowl and wolves now keep

    
Their ruined walls.”
    “Stay and heal your hurt

Lay down that brow of stone

From this day forth my hidden heart

    
Will be your own.”
    “The curse of Karak binds me

My brothers