"I fear the Owl might be swamped," said Cadvan.
"My beauty won't sink," said Owan with certainty. "Not unless she's broken to bits." He began to steer steadily back into the eye of the maelstrom, where the ondril was beating the ocean into a tumult.
Maerad shared none of Owan's confidence, but said nothing. She drew a long breath and then took her place by Cadvan on the prow of the boat, her sword raised in readiness.
They were tossed wildly as they neared it, and but for the fastening charms would surely have been thrown into the ocean. It was much more difficult now to see where to strike; all was a seething chaos of scales and water. Maerad did not understand how they could avoid being smashed to pieces, but for the moment fear had left her, to be replaced with a steely resolve. She squinted fiercely, scanning her side of the boat.
Suddenly, no more than ten paces from the rail, the head broke the surface of the water, rearing up before them, the mouth opening wider and wider and wider. Time seemed to slow almost to a halt as the ondril reared high, towering monstrously above them. Maerad cried out, and she and Cadvan struck for its one remaining eye. Both bolts hit their mark, and a black torrent of blood burst out and splattered onto the deck. The monster roared and fell back, drenching them all with a huge rush of seawater that washed over the deck and fell in streaming torrents down the sides, and Owan was guiding the tiny Owl so it darted away, slipping as nimbly as a minnow evading the rush of a pike.
This time they kept running. Cadvan put a swift wind in the sails, and they scudded westward over the waves. Owan lashed the tiller and silently disappeared below decks, and Cadvan and Maerad both sat down heavily, looking behind them at the sea, still boiling with the ondril's fury, which now dwindled fast behind them.
Owan shortly reappeared with the small brown bottle of liquor, and they all took a swig. Maerad studied the deck; there was no sign of their ordeal anywhere. The ondril's blood had all been swept away by the water, and around them was a calm, blue sea, in which it seemed impossible such monsters could exist.
Cadvan toasted Owan and Maerad tiredly "A brave bit of sailing, Owan," he said. "And well marked, Maerad. That was a great stroke, behind the head; I missed that one. I should not have liked to have gone down that gullet."
"By the Light, I think not!" said Owan.
Maerad looked away over the sea, feeling nothing but a vast emptiness. She had no sense of triumph, nor even relief. All she felt was a returning wisp of nausea. The only good thing about being frightened half to death, she thought, is that it makes me forget all about being seasick.
Chapter II
BUSK
FROM the sea, the town of Busk seemed to have been scattered along the cliffs of the Isle of Thorold by some idle giant. Its roads and alleys scrambled around the steep hills in a crazy but picturesque disorder, and its whitewashed buildings gleamed like blocks of salt amid the dark greens of cypresses and laurels and olives. Busk was a busy trading port, its harbor well protected against both storm and attack by a maze of reefs and currents, and by the arms of its encircling cliffs. These had been extended by tall crenelated breakwaters that ended in two harbor towers.
As the White Owl neared the towers, Maerad began to feel apprehensive. The entrance was very narrow, and the tower walls loomed over their small craft and cast a chilly shadow over the water. The echoes of the waves slapping on stone seemed unnaturally loud, even threatening. The ancient stone, green with slime and encrusted with barnacles and limpets, was uncomfortably close. She wondered if anyone watched their approach through the slits she saw high up in the walls.
She breathed out heavily when they sailed through into the sunlight again and entered the bustling haven of Busk. The buildings on the harborside were plain and whitewashed, casting back the bright summer sunshine with a blinding glare, but any sense of austerity was offset by the activity going on around. The quay was crowded with rough woven baskets full of blue-and-silver fish packed in salt, giant coils of rope, piles of round cheeses coated in blue-and-red wax, lobster pots, barrels of wine and oil, huge bolts of raw silk, and dozens of people.
As she stepped onto the stone quay, it seemed to Maerad's startled perception that everyone was arguing. Many traders were bargaining, scoffing in disbelief at the prices offered, talking up the inimitable value of their wares. Elsewhere fishers were bringing in their catch, shouting orders at each other, and sailors were working on their boats or greeting friends, laughing and swearing. The teeming, noisy harborside was a shock after the silence and solitude of their days at sea, and she glanced back at her two companions, momentarily discomfited.
Cadvan and Maerad fondly took their leave of Owan, promising to meet him soon, and headed up the steep streets to the School of Busk. Cadvan picked his way through the tangle of tiny streets and alleys, and Maerad looked around eagerly, her tiredness forgotten.
The people of Busk seemed to live outside on their vineshaded balconies; it afforded them the pleasures of chaffing passing friends, minding each other's business, and exchanging gossip. She saw them washing, eating, dressing children, and cooking, all in the open air. Cadvan noticed her staring.
"Thoroldians are a people apart," he said, smiling. "They think Annarens are cold and snobbish. Annarens, on the other hand, think Thoroldians are impertinent and have no sense of privacy."
"I think I like it," said Maerad. "It seems very ... lively. But I don't know that I'd like to live like that all the time."
"Perhaps not," said Cadvan. "But, of course, it's different in winter: everybody moves inside."
The School of Busk was set above the main town, surrounded by a low wall that served as a demarcation rather than a barrier. Here the ubiquitous whitewashed houses and twisting alleys gave way to wide streets lined with stately cypresses and olive trees. The road, like the roads in the town, was flagged with stone and threw back the sunlight blindingly. Behind the trees were Bardhouses built of marble and the local pink granite, fronted by wide porticos with columns ornately decorated in bright colors and leafed with gold; many were entwined with ancient vines, their fat fruit purpling in the sun. Maerad glimpsed the dark tops of conifers behind high walls and thought longingly of cool private gardens.
Unlike Innail and Norloch, the only Schools Maerad knew, Busk was not planned in concentric circles—the geography of the island, steep and irregular, made this impossible. And, as Cadvan said, the Thoroldians liked to do things their own way in any case. The streets were laid in terraces, with flights of broad steps to connect the different levels, and it was very easy to get lost until you knew your way about, because they seemed to follow no rational order. There were no towers in Busk, apart from the small ones guarding the harbor; the grander buildings were simply broader and built with higher roofs.
For all its impressive architecture, the School was as lively as the lower town. It was now midafternoon, when, as Maerad would discover later, Thoroldians put the business of the day aside for pleasanter pursuits. The streets themselves were deserted; the sun was really too hot for going out. As they walked through the School, Maerad saw that some of the wide, shady porticos were populated with Bards. Like everyone else in Busk, they all seemed to be involved in lively conversations and disputes. They looked up curiously when Cadvan and Maerad passed, and some waved a greeting. Cadvan smiled back.
Maerad stopped shyly, lingering outside one of the houses, burning with curiosity. The Bards lounged in comfortable wicker chairs arranged around low wooden tables, most of which were laden with platters of fruit and carafes of wine and water. She watched a woman, who was sprawled in a chair, declaiming a poem to a small group of Bards. They listened intently until she finished and then broke into a furious argument. The woman, who was tall and heavy-boned, with a bright scarf wound about her head and long green earrings, stood up and argued back fiercely, finally throwing her arms up in the air in frustration and cuffing her most vocal critic, to the cheers of half the table.
The Bards alarmed Maer
ad more than the townsfolk; she was not, after all, a Thoroldian, and could be expected to be different. But in the School she was a Bard: one of them. She could not imagine being comfortable among such people.
Maerad looked sideways at Cadvan. "Are the Bards of Busk always so loud?" she asked.
Cadvan gave her an amused glance. "Pretty much, Maerad. But it's more lively than Norloch, don't you think?"
"Well, yes," she answered feelingly, thinking of the stern Bards she had met there. "But, you know, they seem just as frightening, in a different way."
"You'll get used to it," he said. "In a way, you're a Thoroldian yourself."
"I am?" Maerad turned to him open-mouthed.
"Of course you are. I told you," he said with the edge of impatience he always had when he had to repeat himself, even if it was something he had only mentioned in passing two months before. "The House of Karn fled to Thorold during the Great Silence. Thorold was always one of the most independent of the Seven Kingdoms, and was a chief point of resistance to the Nameless One. I suppose it's eight hundred years or so since last your family was here, so you can be excused for feeling a little strange. But the Thoroldians are true bastions of the Light. The only real problem will be keeping up with their consumption of wine. I don't know how they do it."
As they were speaking, they stopped in front of a house and turned in to the porch. Maerad was blinded in the sudden shade, and Cadvan led her blinking through two large bronze double doors into a huge atrium flagged with marble. Orange and lemon trees and flowers were planted in big glazed pots, giving off a delicious perfume, and jasmine climbed around the slim columns. In the center, in the middle of an intricate mosaic of birds and flowers, played a fountain. Maerad relaxed in the coolness and looked around. The atrium seemed to be deserted.
Cadvan rang a brass hand bell that stood on a small plinth, and then sat down on a wooden bench and stretched out his legs.
"Someone will come in a moment," he said. "Sit down."
"It's lovely," said Maerad. She sat next to him, content to do nothing. She felt again how tired and grimy she was, and how much she longed to wear clean clothes and to sleep in a proper bed. Was it only yesterday they had driven off the ondril? It seemed like last year.
"Do you think we could stay here awhile?" she asked.
"That is my plan," said Cadvan. "I'm tired of travel myself. And Busk has a very good library, one of the oldest in all Edil-Amarandh; I am hoping there might be some ancient writings there that refer to the Treesong. It would help if we knew what it was we're searching for."
Maerad turned to look at the fountain. The sunlight struck off the droplets in little prisms, and its murmurous music sank into her hypnotically, as if it were a song of which she almost understood the words. She didn't notice the old man who stepped out of the shade at the other end of the atrium until he was only a few paces away.
Cadvan stood up, extending his hand in greeting. "Elenxi," he said. "Greetings."
"Samandalame, Cadvan," said the old Bard, smiling widely. He had strong, white teeth. "Welcome."
Maerad looked at him wonderingly; he must have been a giant in his youth, and still towered over Cadvan. His hair and beard were utterly white, and his dark eyes were sharp, the eyes of a much younger man. Like Cadvan, he used the Speech, the inborn language of Bards, and not the common tongue of the Thoroldians. It was much more than a courtesy to strangers: to use it was an offering of trust as much as a practicality. It was said to be impossible to lie when using the Speech.
"My companion is Maerad of Pellinor," said Cadvan. Maerad bowed her head, and Elenxi, bowing his head in return, gave her a swift, piercing glance, but made no comment. "We are here seeking refuge, fleeing peril on land and sea, and bring news of great import."
"You are always welcome, Cadvan," said Elenxi. "And I have heard somewhat of Maerad of Pellinor." Again he directed that sharp, disconcerting gaze at her. "Nerili will no doubt wish you to join her for dinner; she is detained at present. In the meantime, I will arrange rooms, and I expect you will want to refresh yourselves and rest."
So almost as quickly as she had desired, Maerad found herself in a graceful room with cool stone walls decorated with embroidered silk hangings, and a huge bed draped with a white net, which Cadvan told her later was for keeping out stinging insects at night. On one side were wide, windowed doors, with white shutters both inside and out. These were now open and led out, past a veranda, to a shady garden. Fresh clothes—a long crimson dress in the Thoroldian style, with a low neck, well-fitted sleeves, and a wide brocaded belt—were laid out for her, and Maerad earnestly requested to be shown the bathing room. The chatty Bard whom Elenxi had assigned to show her around finally left her to her own devices.
Maerad was addicted to baths. For most of her life, the years of drudgery in Gilman's Cot when she had been a low slave, she had never even heard of bathing. But since her introduction to Bardic ideas about cleanliness in the School of Innail, Maerad couldn't get enough of them. This bathroom was especially pleasant: it was painted a cool blue and opened out on a tiny courtyard where finches hopped in the potted trees. The bath itself was tiled with a mosaic of dolphins and other sea creatures, and the water was hot and plentiful. When it was deep enough to come up to her neck, Maerad dropped a bunch of lavender and rosemary into the water and stepped down into the fragrant bath with a sigh. She emerged much later, dressed herself leisurely, wandered to her room, and unpacked.
Unpacking had become a ritual, a kind of reckoning of her life. First she took out her wooden lyre, freeing it from the leather carrying case, stamped with the lily sign of the School of Pellinor, which had been a gift from Cadvan. The lyre had been her mother's, and of everything she owned it was the most precious to her. But she knew that, despite its humble appearance, the lyre was precious in other ways: it was an ancient instrument of Dhyllic ware, made by a master craftsman, and was engraved with runes that even the wisest Bards could not decipher. She brushed her fingers gently over its ten strings, simply to hear its pure tone, before she leaned it carefully in the corner. She put all her clothes aside for washing, unpinning the silver brooch from her cloak and laying it on the table. She unpacked the light chain mail and helm that she had been given in Innail, and put them alongside her sword, Irigan, in the cabinet. She put various other items in one of the drawers: a small leather kit containing a hoof pick and brushes for horses, a pen and a small pad of paper, a leather water bag, a clasp knife, and a blue bottle of the Bard drink medhyl, brewed to combat tiredness, which was almost empty.
Then she took out a number of objects, which she placed carefully about the room, for they too were precious to her. She unpacked a reed flute, given to her by an Elidhu in the Weywood, who Maerad alone knew was also the Queen Ardina of Rachida, and who had, in her other incarnation, given Maerad the exquisitely wrought golden ring that she wore on her third finger; and a black wooden cat that might have been carved as a toy for a child, retrieved from the sacked caravan the day they had found her brother, Hem. Last, she unwrapped from bound oilskin a small but beautifully illuminated book of poems given to her by Dernhil of Gent. She looked at it sadly. She had not had much time to read it, and reading was, in any case, a slow business for her, but she knew most of the poems in it by heart. Dernhil's death still weighed on her heavily, a regret and a grief.
She shook her head, clearing her thoughts, then picked a golden pear out of the bowl on the table and stepped outside. All the rooms on this side of the house had doors that opened onto the garden. The shadows were now beginning to lengthen and a fresh breeze had sprung up, smelling faintly of brine. Maerad walked barefoot onto the cool grass and sat on the ground in the shade of a trellis overgrown with pale-yellow roses. She ate the pear slowly, letting its sweet juice fill her mouth, her head entirely empty of thought, utterly content. Somewhere a bird burbled unseen in the bushes, but otherwise all was quiet.
As night fell and the lamps were lit, Cadvan knocked on Maerad'
s door and they wended their way through the Bardhouse to the private quarters of Nerili, First Bard of Busk. Nerili's rooms were on the other side of the Bardhouse, and they had to pass through the atrium again on their way there. Maerad dawdled through it, feeling that she would rather sit there all evening than meet any Thoroldian Bard, let alone the most important Bard in the School. The fountain bubbled peacefully in the twilight, murmuring its endless song, as the white stars opened above it in a deep blue sky.
They left the atrium and entered a labyrinth of corridors, turning again and again until Maerad had completely lost her sense of direction. The Bardhouse was enormous. But Cadvan led her unerringly, and at last they stood outside a tall door faced with bronze like the front door of the house, and knocked. It opened, and a slim woman stood in the doorway and greeted them, smiling.
"Cadvan of Lirigon! It is long since your path has led this way."
"Too long," said Cadvan. "But, alas, such has been my fate."
"I regret that the charms of Busk could not draw you here more often," said Nerili. There was a sharpness in her tone that made Maerad look again, but now the woman was smiling and stretching her hand toward Maerad. Cadvan cleared his throat and introduced her.
Nerili of Busk was not quite what Maerad had expected. She seemed too young to be a First Bard, although among Bards age was always difficult to guess. Maerad thought she looked about thirty-five years old, which given the triple life span of Bards meant she was perhaps seventy or eighty. She was not much taller than Maerad, but her authority and grace, and the challenging glance she gave Cadvan as they entered, gave her an illusory stature. She was strikingly beautiful, with the gray eyes, black hair, and olive skin of a Thoroldian, and her gray silk dress fell softly about her, shimmering like a waterfall. Her hair was piled up on her head and held in place by silver combs and a length of silk, in a style worn by many Busk women, and she wore no jewelry apart from long silver earrings. Maerad was a little dazzled, and stammered as Cadvan introduced her. It seemed to her that even Cadvan was uncharacteristically awkward. She glanced at him curiously; surely he wasn't shy?