"Remember what?" asked Maerad.
Cadvan grinned. "I was young and vain, and I rather fancied myself as a poet then. He was visiting Lirigon for some reason I forget, and he was already famous. He was very young, very talented.... I challenged him to a duel, a competition where we both had to improvise poems. I made such a fuss about it, practically the whole School was there."
"And what happened?"
"I lost. For obvious reasons, if you read this book."
Maerad felt a bit taken aback. How was she to know that Dernhil was famous? "But he said they were simple poems."
"So they seem. But what appears simple is often the hardest to understand. Anyway," he continued, "that's not what I came here to say. We are invited to dinner with Malgorn and Silvia tonight, at the next bell. Silvia wants to know how you are, and how you are finding your teaching. She still disapproves of me mightily, but will overlook it for your sake. There's a little time beforehand. Perhaps we could walk to the courtyard?"
"I'm supposed to practice reading tonight," Maerad said uncertainly.
"Dernhil will understand if you can't manage it. I expect you're very tired. In the meantime, you and I should take the air."
Maerad glanced curiously at Cadvan as they made their way to the courtyard in the balmy evening air. Perhaps it was just the growing darkness, which threw shadows across his face; but it seemed to her that he looked strained and even, perhaps, a little upset, although with Cadvan it was hard to tell. He was certainly hurrying her along. They sat down on the bench and Cadvan took a deep breath in and out, as if he were expelling something other than air, and looked up at the sky. One by one, the stars were beginning to open.
"It's peaceful here," he said, and was silent for a few moments, listening to the water trickling from the fountain into the pond and the chirping of birds settling to sleep in the eaves. "Maerad, time is very pressing over the next few days. I've arranged some basic lessons so you can learn at least something of the things you need to know. I wish with all my heart we could stay a few months, so you could get some proper grounding, but we can't. If I could, I'd be off tomorrow."
"Do we have to go so soon?" Maerad asked.
"Yes, the sooner the better. I find myself chafing at this delay, although it can't be helped. I have business in Norloch, and nothing can be done or decided about you until we get there. It's a long journey, and I wish you were better prepared. But need makes the naked man run, as they say." He paused. "I've spent my time better than today, arguing with Bards. It's wearisome and wasteful."
"So it's not going well?" Maerad studied Cadvan covertly; what was bothering him?
"No," he said shortly. It seemed he was going to say nothing else, but then abruptly he added, "Maerad, there is a mort of gossip about my request to be your sole teacher. I thought I should warn you."
"Gossip?"
"I seem to have scandalized half of Annar. Even Malgorn is dubious. They all think I've lost my head over a pretty face." He gestured impatiently. "I guess that if the mean-minded speak ill, perhaps it's all to the good: it conceals any other purpose. But I confess I have no patience with such pettiness; I feel smirched...."
Maerad was staring at him with bafflement, but then she suddenly grasped what Cadvan was saying. "Oh!" she gasped, and then she blushed scarlet.
"It doesn't matter, Maerad," Cadvan said, giving her a satirical look. "It just annoys me; Bards should be above such trivial rumor. What matters is that you do your lessons as well as you can over the next few days and don't let any malicious comments upset your studies. I think you are talented; it's certainly what Dernhil told me, and Indik thought so, even if he wouldn't tell you. I must attend the Councils; the more news I hear the better, especially if we are traveling by hidden paths. I won't leave before it ends. In any case, if we did leave earlier, secrecy would be impossible. So just trust me for the moment; things will be clearer once we leave here. Don't think I've suddenly deserted you!"
"All right. It's fun studying anyway," Maerad said. She looked straight at Cadvan. "I just wish I knew what is really happening. There's so much I don't know, and all this fuss about me, and it all seems very strange."
"I will tell you, or at least as much as I know," said Cadvan. "I'm sorry to be so at sixes and sevens, and in such a rush. It needs time, for partly telling is no telling at all. There'll be plenty of time on our journey"
There was a short silence. "I had a strange dream last night," Maerad said abruptly. "I've been thinking about it all day."
Cadvan was leaning back, staring into the sky. "We all have strange dreams," he said.
"Yes, but this was... It was odd, Cadvan, not like any dream I've had before. It felt, it felt.. ." Maerad gestured helplessly and fell silent.
"Well, what was it, then?" Cadvan sat up and gazed at her attentively.
Slowly, trying to find the right words, Maerad told him of her dream. As she spoke on, Cadvan became very still, listening more and more intently. When she had finished, he said nothing for a while.
"How I wish you had the Speech!" he said at last. "I think it must have been the Speech you heard there, that tongue you did not understand. At least, it is likely."
"What do you think?" asked Maerad curiously.
"Dreams are strange messengers, Maerad," Cadvan answered. "Some say they come from beyond the Gates, where all that is and has been and shall be is known, for time does not exist there. But we all have different types of dreams, for different purposes."
"So what do you think mine is?"
Cadvan hesitated. "I can't be sure. But I think it was a foredream, a dream telling of what is to come."
Maerad shuddered. "I hope not," she said. "It was horrible. But why would I have a foredream? I've never had one before."
"It's a Gift of some Bards. Not many Though a good many Pellinor Bards were foredreamers and seers. Lanorgil of Pellinor was probably the most famous, but there have been a few others."
"Do you have foredreams?"
"No," said Cadvan. "Though like all Bards I have a measure of foresight. But foredreams are perilous riddles to unravel; there are many stories of those who seek to avoid their prophecies, only to bring about what they most fear. But this seems to send both warning and hope. Look to the North!" He stooped to pluck a blade of grass and chewed it thoughtfully. "What could that mean?"
Maerad shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know," she answered. "That's why I asked you."
"It makes me more certain that I am right to think the Dark would pursue you, if they knew of you," he said. "Perhaps news has reached them already."
With a flash of perception, Maerad realized that Cadvan's complaint about gossip was not the whole reason for his air of strain. She had a uneasy sense, like a boatman who has floated unawares into the deep ocean, of suddenly discovering opaque depths sliding beneath her feet, where she expected to see sunny shallows.
Cadvan stood up, throwing away the leaf of grass. "Now I chafe the more at lost days! But, for the moment, we are stuck here." He checked the sky. "It's almost time for the bell," he said. "We should go in."
Chapter X
LEAVETAKING
THE next few days were taken up with the same routine: Dernhil in the morning and grimly comic sessions with Indik every afternoon, which ended with Maerad's jaw jutting with mutiny, when she wasn't on the verge of tears. Indik confined himself to pitiless witticisms on her martial stupidity although by the third day Maerad no longer dropped her sword when she tried to parry his thrusts, and once almost made it through his defense. On that occasion, he merely doubled his sarcasm, and Maerad's lips set in a grim line. She wished she had the swordcraft to make a fool of him, but he could disarm her as easily as if she were a five-year-old child. Although she always enjoyed her hour's ride on Imi, Maerad much preferred her mornings with Dernhil, which were opening a new and exciting world.
Dernhil was delighted by her quickness; within a few days she could read a short passage or poem with rela
tive ease. It was as if, he said, he were merely reminding her of something she had forgotten, rather than teaching her something she didn't know. He was a very different teacher from Mirlad: not nearly so stern, and more apt to encourage with praise. Maerad blossomed under his tutelage. She would look around his study and sigh. So many books in so many languages, and she could scarce read the smallest of them!
"Maybe I can come back, after we get to Norloch, and learn more," she suggested hungrily to Dernhil the next day. "There's so much I don't know...."
Dernhil looked up from some work he was correcting. "That would be a happy chance," he said. "If you did, I would love to teach you." He smiled, but there was something in the smile that made Maerad's heart constrict; his eyes lingered on her face. . . . She put her head down and drove away the feeling with work.
She didn't see Cadvan at all. In the evenings she ate with Silvia and Malgorn, or in the Hall with the other students, who looked at her either askance or with exaggerated awe. Sometimes she spent an hour or so watching the gis players at the table in the corner of the Hall. She was intrigued by the complex beauty of the game, which was played with black and white counters on a hexagonal table of many squares, but she could never work out the rules. Gis was, she was told, a lifetime's study: at once a game of tactical intelligence and aesthetic judgment. Maerad followed the strange patterns the counters made, how they evolved and vanished in the flow of the game, with fascinated incomprehension.
There was always music, but Maerad didn't play again for an audience, only alone in her room at night, when she needed to. She didn't feel lonely; she was too busy, and at night simply too exhausted. Within two days she had the odd feeling that she had lived there always. The School no longer seemed grand or strange to her, and she wondered at times at how easily she had slipped into this life, as into familiar clothes.
On the second day the clear spring weather broke, and for three days after that it rained almost continuously. Maerad's swordcraft lessons moved to an impressive indoor arena obviously built for this purpose, but the riding continued without concession to the weather. Maerad sometimes felt, wiping her wet hair out of her eyes, that she hated Indik, although underneath her resentment she realized his sternness was impersonal and, in a way, a quality to respect. The lessons did strengthen her determination to learn swordskills, if only to scotch the smug smile that appeared on Indik's face whenever she made a mistake. "That was your throat, young lady," he'd say with satisfaction. "You might as well lie down and offer me your neck, for all the use that would be." And Maerad, sweating underneath her helm, would bare her teeth, quietly cursing him as he walked back to battle position. "Don't think I can't hear that!" Indik would say, without turning around. "I can, see. Curses won't do any good if your swordwork's flabby. Now, again!"
Her relationship with Dernhil was quite different, and deepened into friendship. At the end of their lesson on the fourth morning, Dernhil pushed his hair out of his eyes and asked if she was busy that evening. "No," she answered; she was to dine in the Hall that night.
"Would you like to dine with me, then?" he asked. "I could show you some of those books I was telling you about...."
"I'd love to!" Maerad said warmly. She dreaded dining in the Hall; she still couldn't cope very well with crowds.
After the chaos of his study, Dernhil's rooms were surprisingly neat. They were in much the same style as the rooms in Silvia and Malgorn's house, finely furnished with stenciled decorations on warm yellow walls. The dining room was filled with curious objects he had collected on his travels: intricate ivory carvings from the Suderain and silk hangings made by the weavers of Thorold, statuettes of alabaster by unknown Annaren artisans, a huge crystal sphere, strange and intricate metal lamps.... The walls, of course, were lined with books.
He served a simple and delicious meal: grilled cuts of spiced meat with tender spring vegetables, and cheeses, nuts, and wine. Then they sprawled on the comfortable cushioned chairs in front of the fire, sipping wine, and Dernhil brought down book after book, pointing out details of the scripting and illumination and reading her poems, and they chatted amiably about many things. Maerad asked him about the duel with Cadvan. Dernhil threw back his head and laughed.
"You should have seen Cadvan then!" he said fondly. "That was before . . . well, when he was younger. He was handsome, charismatic, already a Mage of great power—everyone said he was sure to be First Bard one day, even perhaps First Bard of Norloch—and he was no mean poet, either."
"But not as good as you."
"No," said Dernhil, throwing her an amused look. There was no vanity in his statement. "And Cadvan couldn't bear to play second fiddle. Of course I won. He was furious."
Maerad hadn't missed that Dernhil had edited what he was going to say. "What happened to Cadvan?" she asked curiously. "I mean, why didn't he become First Bard?"
Dernhil's face darkened with sadness. "I think Cadvan himself should tell you that," he said at last. "As no doubt he will, one day. He has indeed become a great Bard. Few can match him. But life seldom turns out as one would expect when one is young and full of hope." There was a short silence, and then he turned to Maerad. "Forgive me for asking such a personal question, but are you and Cadvan ... are you lovers?"
Maerad blushed, thinking of the gossip Cadvan had mentioned. "No," she mumbled. "No, nothing like that." She looked up and caught Dernhil's unguarded glance. In his eyes was an unvoiced invitation, a tender supplication, something more than admiration; but Maerad went cold. Her life had taught her that male desire meant only violence, and an instinctive, primitive fear overwhelmed any other response. She scrambled to her feet in a sudden panic, her heart pounding.
"I should go," she said. "I must be up early tomorrow."
"Yes," said Dernhil. He stood up also, sighing. "Well, in the morning, then."
"Yes," said Maerad.
She glanced again at Dernhil, but that disturbing look was gone. She took his proffered hand and bowed her head, and left swiftly.
On the sixth day of her lessons, Dernhil told her the following day was a feast day and she need not show up. By now she was able to read her way haltingly through the book of poems, and Dernhil gave it to her. "Come and say good-bye before you go," he said.
"I will," said Maerad, clutching the book. "And thank you, thank you so much." All the things she wanted to say, how a shining new world had opened for her under Dernhil's gentle tutoring, how it filled her with joy and excitement, gathered in her throat and choked her.
Dernhil cleared his throat. "I've enjoyed teaching you," he said. "Cadvan will be able to build on what you've already learned. You can help yourself, also, by practicing reading." He paused. "There are so many things to show you. All the great texts of Annar and the Seven Kingdoms, the stories and songs that make up the Knowing. And that's just the beginning. It seems criminal not to teach them to you." He shook his head regretfully. "You'd make an excellent scholar, with your aptitude and application. All it would take is time."
"I suppose it's not to be," said Maerad. "And we cannot always choose our own paths."
Dernhil looked slightly startled. "No, I suppose not," he said. There was a short, slightly uncomfortable silence. "Well, don't forget to look in before you go." He sat down abruptly at his desk, and Maerad realized she was dismissed.
Indik was more abrupt. "At least you can hold your sword," he said. "Which is something. More, I can't say. You'll just have to practice, and hope that you're lucky."
Maerad stared back at him expressionlessly. She didn't feel like thanking him, although she felt she should. To her surprise, Indik chuckled.
"Nevertheless, a brave heart might prevail where skill is wanting," he said. "Here, give me your sword." She handed it over. "What did you name it? Irigan? A good name. . ." He drew it and inspected it closely. "A fine weapon." He breathed on the blade and then rubbed the condensation in slowly with his fingers, speaking low as he did, so that Maerad couldn't hear the words. The
n he sheathed it again and gave it back.
"A charm to aid accuracy, and check breakage or harm," he said. "It will last as long as the blade does. It might help."
Maerad was surprised by a sudden flood of gratitude. She looked up into Indik's eyes, and for the first time saw there an unexpected kindness. To the astonishment of both of them, she flung her arms around Indik's neck and kissed him on his scarred cheek.
"Thanks for putting up with me," she said. "I'll do my best not to disgrace you!"
"You can only do your best," he said gruffly. "Now, off you go."
She bumped into Cadvan at the Street of Makers. He was looking drawn, but smiled when he saw her. "Hail, young warrior maiden!" he said.
Maerad had forgotten she was still wearing her mail, and involuntarily looked down. "Just call me Indik's Despair," she said. "Though he allowed that I might take my sword out if attacked, rather than just run away."
"Then you've passed with flying colors," said Cadvan, laughing. "I've already spoken with Dernhil; he desperately wants you to stay and finish your studies. Not for entirely unmixed reasons, I think somehow. He's clearly quite struck with you."
"Oh, rubbish," said Maerad. "Stop teasing, Cadvan. Although he did give me his book."
"A definite sign of favor," Cadvan countered lightly, but he looked grave again. "But he has a point. As does Silvia. It's not fair to drag you away from this, which should be yours by right."
"Are you having doubts?" Maerad scanned his face, as they fell into step together.
"No. But I'm wondering if you are."
"No," said Maerad slowly. "No, I feel surer. I don't know why, because I really love it here, and I've loved learning with Dernhil, and even Indik. He charmed my sword today, you know."