The Gift by Alison Croggon Read Free Book Online Page B

today,” he said. “I have decided to vary my course somewhat, and go to a place I know about sixty miles hence. At a good pace, and all being well, we will make it in about a week. We need supplies, and you need some clothes. Bards are not welcome everywhere these days, and we will have to disguise ourselves. But I think they will not turn away travelers in need.”
    Then he paused, as if he were uncertain. “Now, I wish to ask of you a favor. Maerad, you are a sore puzzle to me, and such is the importance of my errand. . . . I want to ask if I can scry you.”
    “Scry me?” said Maerad. “What does that mean?”
    “It’s hard to explain, if you don’t know,” he said. “But I must tell you, that if you refuse, I will respect your decision and will attempt to place no weight on it. Scrying is a hard thing, and no Bard performs it lightly. It means that I wish to look into you and see what you are.”
    “Oh,” said Maerad. She still had no idea what he was talking about. Doubtfully, she asked, “Does it hurt?”
    “Well. Yes, it does, in a way. It’s a little like my asking if you would take all your clothes off and stand in front of me while I pore over you with a seeing glass.”
    Maerad stared at him, nonplussed. Cadvan’s eyes were frank and open, and there seemed to be no guile in his request. Still, she felt misgivings stir within her. “It sounds like you want to magic me,” she said suspiciously. “Don’t you trust me? Is that it?”
    He sighed. “It’s not a spell, not as such. At least, I would do nothing
to
you, apart from look.”
    Maerad still said nothing.
    “I don’t like to ask,” Cadvan said. “I brought you out of that place in good faith, and I would not ask if all that were at risk were myself.”
    “What if I don’t agree?” she asked.
    “Then I won’t do it,” said Cadvan. “And we shall continue with our journey.” His face was suddenly inscrutable, and he bent to pick up his pack.
    “What do you have to do?”
    Cadvan paused.
    “I look into your eyes. I see into your mind. That’s all.”
    “That’s
all
?” Maerad considered for a short time. It seemed important to Cadvan. And she didn’t believe he would hurt her; he had had plenty of opportunity already, if that was what he wished to do. “All right, then,” she said, shrugging. “If it makes you feel better. What do you have to do?”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Do you want to do it, or not?” she said.
    Cadvan dropped his pack again. “Then stand square in front of me, like you did in the byre. And place your hands on my shoulders.”
    She did so, and he put his hands on her shoulders. They stood face-to-face, and Cadvan looked into her eyes. Maerad had a sudden desire to giggle.
    “Don’t laugh, Maerad,” said Cadvan softly. “Empty your mind.”
    He spoke words in the Speech, very rapidly so Maerad couldn’t catch them. It seemed to Maerad that the light around them darkened, and that all she could see were Cadvan’s eyes. They were a very dark blue and burned with an inner fire that seemed at first cold, but then, she realized, was hot at the center, hot enough to burn. And what was that sadness in them? A deep sadness, a wound . . . a face much loved, she could almost see it . . . and something else, a darkness, like a scar. . . . But then suddenly she was overwhelmed with memories of her own life: memories she had forgotten, or pressed into the back of her mind. They came in a flood, in no particular order, almost as if her whole life were occurring in a single second; but some stood out.
    Memory after memory of Gilman’s Cot, numbing exhaustion and boredom and pain, the humiliations of the riots and beatings, playing with Mirlad when she was a child, and listening to his dour teaching . . . Her mother, and an old woman, blue-eyed, holding her, and a garden full of sweet-scented flowers . . . Singing and music and laughter in a great hall filled with men and women and children in fine clothes