"You don't know what you're talking about," she said bitterly. "There are things you don't know, Cadvan. You don't know what it's like to be me."
"No, I cannot know that," he said gently "Nor can you know what it is like to be me."
"I don't care what it's like to be you," Maerad said, suddenly possessed by a desire to hurt Cadvan, who was always so reasonable, always so fair. "That's got nothing to do with what I'm talking about."
Cadvan sat silently, his faced shadowed. Maerad lifted her eyes, still burning with tears, to his face, but he did not meet her gaze. She looked away, through the willows into the darkness beyond. Her heart was full of an anger and pain she could not express, even to herself, but she did not want Cadvan's compassion. It made things worse: it raised a fear within her, over which she had no control. She couldn't tell if she had hurt him or if he was just thoughtful.
"I am sorry," he said at last.
Maerad nodded, accepting his apology, but did not offer one of her own. She was taking first watch, so a little while later Cadvan rolled himself into his blanket and fell asleep.
Chapter XI
ENCOUNTER WITH BARDS
AFTER that night, the constraint between Cadvan and Maerad became a constant thing. They traveled as had now become habit and superficially things seemed much as they always had; they joked, and talked in the evenings, although they did not bring out their lyres. Cadvan taught Maerad how to use the blackstone, which had lain forgotten in her pack since Thorold, and Maerad developed some skill with it although it was tricky to use, as difficult to bend to the will as it was to sight or to touch. But even the brief resumption of Cadvan's teaching role could not quite drive away the shadow that now lay between them, the more powerful because it remained unspoken.
Maerad didn't really know how this had happened. She still trusted Cadvan as she always had, but she couldn't resist whatever it was within her that rebuffed him. And the less able she was to speak to Cadvan, the harder it became to find a way back to their earlier friendship. Cadvan, reserved at the best of times, was now mostly silent. She resented this as well, feeling guiltily that it was her fault, and at the same time feeling that his silence was being used as a weapon against her.
They pushed the horses as hard as they could, although after days of fast riding, an unremitting fatigue was settling deep in their bones. The weather had turned, and often they beat on through driving gales, their hoods pulled down over their faces, the rain pelting straight into their eyes, and their camps were cold and cheerless. The horses had lost the glossy condition they had gained in Gent, and began to look lean. But an obscure sense of urgency pushed them all on past their limits. They began with the dawn, and if the moon, which was now just pass full, let down enough light to illuminate their way, they often continued until well after dusk. It took them only two days to ride more than twenty leagues to the Caln Marish, where the road turned north again, and another three to reach the Usk River, thirty leagues farther on.
Maerad remembered that it had taken them more than ten days to travel the same distance, from the Usk to the Aldern, when they had ridden over the Valverras two months before. She was glad of the North Road, for all its cheerlessness. It stretched before them, a white unvarying course running straight to the horizon. The road was less well tended here, and in places it had almost completely crumbled, but despite that, it was, for the most part, in surprisingly good repair. On their right stretched the rocky wolds of the Valverras, and on the left the Caln Marish, with the same rattling stands of black reeds that they had seen before they entered Edinur. Many birds lived there, flying in great whirling flocks over their heads during the day or piping plaintively at night out of the still ponds and bogs. Maerad often saw eerie lights on both the Valverras and the marshes when she watched at night, but she knew better than to follow them; Cadvan had told her some of the stories of those misled by the fenlights. When the wind blew from the marshes, a foul reek of rotting vegetation tainted the air.
In all those days, they saw absolutely no one; this was not a well-traveled road. Most of the time neither Cadvan nor Maerad spoke, except to the horses, and the great silence around them seemed amplified by the clatter of the horses' hooves on the road. Maerad bit down on her loneliness, as if it were a caustic seed, with an almost perverse pleasure. She felt herself hardening, felt tempered by this punishing ride. I am stronger, she thought. And I will be stronger still.
They crossed the Usk, which ran loudly over the shallow pebbles of the ford, and continued north through country less bleak, if no less lonely. They were now in the far north of Annar, in the region known as Predan. Most of the northern parts of Annar were at best sparsely inhabited, and the North Road passed through some of the loneliest parts of Edil-Amarandh.
After the unrelieved flatness of the past week, it was a balm to look on purple hills forested with black stands of pine, or to see slopes tangled with briars just now swelling their rosehips, or sloe and elder letting their faint fragrances into the air, or to ride through woods of beech and larch and hornbeam that were losing their greens to the coppers and golds of autumn. The gales stopped, giving way to days of rainless but somber clouds, and the weather grew steadily colder. At night, despite her physical fatigue, Maerad slept restlessly, unable to escape the frost that nipped her feet and hands.
At noon on the third day after crossing the Usk, they came to a fork in the road, leading westward to Culain and east to Lirhan. They were not planning to go to Lirigon, Cadvan's School, but to continue until they struck the Lir River. At that point there was a ford, which they would cross into Lirhan. They did not resume their guises as messengers, despite the increased risk of meetings on the road: it was simply too exhausting, and they were both worn down after the past three weeks. And they had seen no travelers for days now.
The next day, just after they had paused for their midday meal, the road entered one of the many beech woods that dotted this part of Annar. The beeches were ancient and stately, their branches meeting over the middle of the road, which was littered with the first copper leaves of autumn, muffling their hoofbeats. The sun was out, and golden rays pierced the interlaced branches overhead, casting a vagrant warmth about their shoulders. Despite her gloom, Maerad's spirits lifted, and she sniffed the smell of the loam and the woods with pleasure, momentarily distracted, relaxing into her deep exhaustion. Cadvan too seemed similarly lulled. So it was that they did not see the Bards until it was too late.
There were two, a man and a woman, riding at a leisurely pace toward Culain. Cadvan saw them first, and turned back to Maerad.
"Bards!" he hissed.
Maerad looked up, jolted out of her reverie and stared down the road with a sinking heart.
"We have to do the courtesies, or they will become suspicious," Cadvan said. "By the Light, I hope neither of them knows me. Cover your face, and shield yourself."
Maerad did as Cadvan bid, mentally hiding the glow by which Bards identified each other, and drew her hood over her face. They slowed to a fast walk as they approached the other riders. Maerad loosened her sword in its sheath.
Cadvan put up his right hand, palm outward, in the traditional gesture of greeting, hoping that it would be sufficient and they could pass without comment. Maerad did likewise, looking out of the corner of her eye at the strangers; she saw with a sinking heart that the man wore a brooch that identified him as a Bard of Lirigon, while the other was of some School she did not know.
"Greetings, travelers," said the man, and then he drew up his horse in surprise. "Cadvan!" he said.
"Nay," said Cadvan, quickening his pace to pass them swiftly and making an odd gesture with his other hand. "You mistake yourself."
"It is Cadvan of Lirigon," said the woman, warding off Cadvan's charm. "Don't try to trick me with your wiles, Cadvan, lately of Lirigon; I've known you since you were a stripling." She turned to her companion. "It's the outlaws for certain, Namaridh. It was said Cadvan was traveling with a young woman."
The other Bard drew his sword, at the same time casting a freezing spell. Maerad and Cadvan both glanced it aside, but Darsor and Imi stopped fast in their tracks as if they were made of wood. Maerad struggled to undo the charm, but it held fast. There was a short, almost embarrassed silence.
"I mislike this, Cadvan," said Namaridh, looking at both of them apologetically. "It's not that I feel any enmity toward you. It breaks my heart that a man such as yourself has seen fit to betray the Light. But you will have to come with us. You are declared outlaw in this land, and you have no right to enter here. That is the law."
"My friend, you are wrong," said Cadvan. "I have not betrayed the Light."
"Some of us have longer memories, Bard," said the woman coldly. "I remember your little skirmish with the Dark. I would not trust such a man again. I never understood why you were not banned forever from all Schools. Well, the folly of that has become very clear now."
"It is not so, Ilar of Desor," said Cadvan calmly. "I would no more betray the Light than you. You do not know the full story of what is happening in this land. And I say to you that you cannot make us come with you and that it would be inadvisable to try. Let us pass."
"No one here has betrayed the Light, except those who cravenly obey the evil edicts of Norloch," added Maerad fiercely. "If you attack us, you are but a slave of the Nameless One."
"So speak all traitors, with tongues made slick by lies," said the woman contemptuously. "Take them, Namaridh. We can bind them and bring them back to Lirigon, to face what they deserve."
Cadvan signaled Maerad to be silent, but Namaridh had dismounted and now moved to take Darsor's reins. At the same moment, Maerad and Cadvan threw off the freezing spell from their horses, and Darsor and Imi reared back. But before she could collect herself, Maerad was hit with a stunning blast of light from Ilar that nearly knocked her off Imi.
She reacted with blind fury, without thought. She gathered up all the power she felt within her and directed it at the Bard in a bolt of White Fire. Ilar simply collapsed and slithered off her horse, which skittered sideways in alarm. She fell to the ground, motionless and completely white, the only sign of injury a small, black burn in the middle of her forehead. In that instant, Maerad knew she was dead.
Namaridh stared at Maerad with horror and backed away, throwing a shield of protection around himself, before he ran to check the fallen Bard. He listened for her heart, and then picked up her body, holding it to his breast.
Cadvan swung Darsor violently around to face Maerad.
"That was not well done," he said with cold fury. "That was not well done at all."
Maerad stared back at him, her face a mask of shock. "She was going to kill us," she said.
"She would not have killed us. And she did not deserve death." Maerad had never heard his voice so implacable, and she flinched. But now Cadvan was speaking to the other Bard, his voice steady and full of compassion.
"Namaridh," he said. "This was needless and wanton. I have no desire to harm you further. Let us pass; my errand now is of such urgency that if I do not succeed, all of Annar will fall."
Namaridh looked up at him, shaking with contempt and grief and rage, his face wet with tears.
"I know I have not the power to stop your fell deeds," he said. "I am not so powerful a Bard. But, by the Light, if ever there is justice in this world or the next, Cadvan of Lirigon, I will avenge Ilar of Desor's death. She was worth six of the likes of you. Now, get your monster to do her worst. I suppose I too must die."
He stood up, staring steadily at Cadvan with a defiant courage. Cadvan spread his hands in a gesture of peace and regret. "Nay, Namaridh. I would for all the world this had not happened. There is nothing that will compensate. I beg your forgiveness."
Namaridh spat on the ground.
Cadvan bowed his head. "This is how the Dark works, riving friend from friend," he said. "One day, I hope, the full text of this story will be known. Perhaps then you will forgive me, although nothing can forgive the wanton murder of a Bard."
The other Bard said nothing. He just stood, breathing heavily, glaring at them both.
Cadvan sighed. "I am sorry, Namaridh. I must now work a charm on you. One day, perhaps, you will know it is for all our sakes."
He stretched out his hand, saying some words in the Speech, and Namaridh's eyes closed briefly, and then opened, staring sightlessly ahead. He sat down quietly by the side of the road, as if nothing were amiss, and Cadvan turned to Maerad, urging on Darsor. "Go!" he said.
They left the scene at a full gallop, slowing to a canter a few leagues down the road, when they had left the beech wood far behind. Cadvan did not speak a word to Maerad for a long time. She cast furtive glances his way, but his face was hard and closed.
Maerad still felt shocked. The Bard's insults and then the blow—which was not, as Cadvan had said, meant to kill, only to stun—had released a deep, uncontrollable anger. She was terrified of what she had done, but Cadvan's anger was almost as frightening. She heard his words echoing in her head, icy with contempt: nothing can forgive the wanton murder of a Bard.
So, she was a murderer now, although she had only sought to protect them. Cadvan had himself killed Bards: yet he had forgiven himself more easily than he seemed to forgive her.
Other arguments stirred within her. The forces against them were ruthless, and they must be as ruthless if they were to achieve anything. Then she thought of what Nerili had said, ages ago it seemed, about the ethics of the Balance, and her own doubts about them. We remember that if we did not try to adhere to the Balance, even in our extremity, we would become like them. And that would be the greater defeat. Well, perhaps Bards could not afford such niceties, if they were to survive against the Dark.
She fiercely regretted killing Ilar, but she felt she did not deserve Cadvan's anger. Her shame mingled with resentment at his lack of understanding. She did not deserve Cadvan's absolute censure. She had not meant to kill; it had just come out of her, in the same way as when she had destroyed the wight. He had not been so keen to judge her then. She pushed down her knowledge that, at the instant of the blow, she had wanted to utterly destroy the Bard. She bit her lip, hardening herself, and concentrated on keeping up with Darsor, which was not easy. Cadvan was pushing the great horse almost as fast as he could go.
It was not until they struck camp that night that Cadvan spoke about what had happened that day. They had eaten in silence, and Maerad was about to wrap herself in her cloak and curl up to sleep. She now felt nothing at all: neither grief nor regret nor anger. She was just too exhausted.
"Maerad, we must talk," said Cadvan. He looked at her over the fire, its flames casting his eyes into deep shadow. "Today's task was ill done, and I hope you feel the weight of your crime. You have killed a Bard needlessly. We were not in threat of our lives, and we did not need such violence."
Maerad flinched and looked away. His words hurt, as if they scraped her in some raw place. She tried to turn the subject.
"What did you do to that other Bard?" she asked.
"I emptied his mind. He will be perfectly calm until the morning, and then he will take Ilar's body back to Lirigon, to be attended to by those who love her."
"I'm surprised there's anybody, the way she spoke." The words came out of Maerad, vindictive and ugly, before she could stop herself, and then it was too late to draw them back. For a moment, Maerad quailed as cold anger flared again in Cadvan's face, before he mastered himself.
"It does not do to speak ill of the dead," he said softly. "It is singularly graceless when her death is on your conscience. Ilar was a Bard of great honesty and worth. If she was mistaken, it does not make her worthy of your sneers. I do not doubt that you are shocked, and I know you are very young, but that does not excuse you."
Maerad smarted at his rebuke; he was treating her like a child. She folded her lips tightly and turned away, saying nothing.
Cadvan waited for her to answer, and then sighed and continued. "You
r failure is also my failure, as I am your teacher. I have not taught you as I should. And I have not had the strength to meet your need over the past days. I am deeply sorry for that; it has led to disaster. I hope it doesn't lead to further ruin."
"Meet my need?" Maerad looked up at him. "What do you mean? How do you know what I need?"
"I know you are troubled, Maerad. And it seems that at the moment I am unable to help you, and I have failed to teach you how to use your powers as a Bard should. That is what I mean. Ilar's death lies on me as heavily, as it should on you."
"I do feel sorry for it," said Maerad sharply. "Why do you think I don't? But it was me who did it, wasn't it? You don't need to get all noble and take it upon yourself as well. I did it. I killed a Bard. She was going to deliver us to the Dark, but no matter, I shouldn't have killed her. I shouldn't have killed the wight, either."
"I was not saying that." Cadvan looked to the sky, as if summoning patience. "It should not have even occurred to you to kill Ilar. Bards of the Light do not kill each other. They were not Hulls, nor even corrupt Bards. They would not have wantonly killed us, even if we had attacked them: only in the last resort, ever, would one Bard kill another human being. If you had been taught properly, you would have known that. Your power is frightening, Maerad. Misused, it is a monstrous power."
Maerad saw Namaridh's face, twisted with fear and grief, calling her monster. Was that what she was? Was that what Gahal had seen, when he had tried to warn her in Ossin: that she was a monster? She suddenly felt like weeping. Deep inside, she understood the enormity of what she had done, but she couldn't face it, and it could not be undone.
She almost overcame her resistance and unburdened herself to Cadvan. But something kept her back: pride, perhaps, or a shadow of the fear of Cadvan that she had felt since the voyage from Thorold. Oh, she was wrong, she knew she was wrong. But she was not wholly wrong. Cadvan was still being unjust. She drove her tears back with an iron effort of will.