The Gift by Alison Croggon Read Free Book Online Page A

are his thralls

And I must turn all joy and flee

    
To his foul halls . . .”
    Maerad stopped, suddenly faltering. Cadvan ceased his play, and after the rippling chords of music there was a deep silence. “And so Andomian and Beruldh met, and wended their way to the dungeons of the Nameless, and there died, beyond hope or help of the Light,” he said. “But none of the legends speak of his regret.” He struck a sudden harsh, impatient chord. “You’re right, Maerad. This is no song for such a place, unhoused, in the dark, where wers howl in the distance. You play well: you’ve had some good teaching, clearly, although with some odd variants. I see you know more than you choose to show. I should have expected that. We’ll talk of this later.”
    He put away his lyre and spoke no more for some time, and now his brow was dark and troubled. Maerad sat disconsolate, wondering if she had been impertinent or coarse. This man was beyond her ken: he seemed to regard her with tolerant irony, and then, without warning, his mood would change and he would become distant and withdrawn. He was nothing like the men in Gilman’s Cot, who were moved only by coarse, violent impulses, nor like Mirlad, who had been brusque, but whose gruffness concealed a deep kindness. An instinct had told her Mirlad was deeply unhappy, and so she excused his disillusion and his odd moods. He had never spoken to her of the history of Annar, or the Lore, or the Speech, although he had taught her many songs, saying dismissively that they passed the time. Thinking back, she supposed he saw as little hope as she did of her escape, and so sought to protect her from dreaming, as perhaps he did, of another life. A life where Bards and Song were held in honor, and were not merely the entertainment at crude feastings.
    And he had died there. She felt a new compassion wash over her for the degradation of Mirlad’s life, and his lonely death.
    Cadvan, though, was quite different, and much less easy to feel out. He seemed more mercurial; his face was mobile, and his thoughts flowed over it like the sun rippling over water. Yet paradoxically he seemed more hidden, full of secrets beyond even those he hinted at.
Perhaps,
she thought,
all real Bards are like this, at once more present and more remote.
At least he had gotten her out of the cot — but she couldn’t think of what she should do now, unless she followed Cadvan. He said himself this was dangerous country, and she had no knowledge of any dangers, save those of being beaten, and fighting off the Thane’s men. She would be as vulnerable as a baby rabbit.
    Maerad leaned back against one of the birches and gazed up through its branches, which twined black against the deep blue of evening. A few early stars shone through, white jewels snared in an intricate net.
I cannot understand this pattern,
she thought tiredly.
But the stars, at least, remain the same.
    At last Cadvan said curtly that she should get some rest, and so she curled into the blanket. It didn’t take long for her to sleep, despite the disorder of her thoughts.
    Maerad woke with a start. For a moment she forgot where she was and wondered why there had been no bell; then a shaft of light striking through the branches shone in her eyes, and as she blinked, the events of the past two days came back with a rush. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, and saw that Cadvan was already up and had laid out breakfast. He had been to the stream, and his dark hair fell wet across his forehead.
    “Good morning,” he said, bowing. “The mistress of the house must forgive our fare, which, alas, is the same as last night. But wholesome, for all its monotony. Does my lady wish to wash first, or after she breaks her fast?”
    Maerad laughed. “Later, I think. It’s a better breakfast than I’m used to!”
    They ate in a companionable silence. Then Cadvan packed up. Maerad wrapped her lyre in its sacking, and Cadvan stowed it.
    “We must leave here