"I'm thirsty, Mummy," he said. "I want something to drink." He looked shyly at Cadvan and reached out his arms for his mother.
"He'll be all right now," said Cadvan, handing him over. "Give him some of the tea, when it has cooled down; it will clear his lungs. If he starts to get like that again, let him breathe the vapors of the coltsfoot before he gets this bad. And keep him in a warm room."
There was complete silence in the kitchen.
"I thought he was dying," said the innkeeper's wife.
"Children forget pain quickly," said Cadvan. "I've often seen it."
Now that his terrible fear for his son had abated, Dringold almost looked as if he were angry. "That was Bard stuff, that was," he said, a little too loudly.
"Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't," Cadvan answered. "Like I said, I learned a few tricks when mine was a little boy."
"Only Bards are allowed to do the Healing," said Dringold. "A midwife was drove out of town last month for making simples."
"That's not the law where I come from," Cadvan said, and Maerad saw a flash of anger in his eyes. "If someone is sick, someone should heal, if they can. Anyway, the boy is safe now."
They stood in the kitchen watching the little boy, who was now acting as if he had never suffered a day's illness in his life and was nagging his mother for a biscuit.
"So, what do we owe you?" said the innkeeper. Cadvan looked as if he had been insulted, and Dringold blushed.
"You owe me nothing," said Cadvan. "I'd appreciate it if you kept it under your hats, is all. I'd not like to be chased by Bards, if I've done the wrong thing."
"You haven't done the wrong thing," said the innkeeper's wife impulsively. Her eyes were now wet. "Oh, Ewan, I was so frightened. He's never been like this before. I thought of Medelin's little one that was took ill last week, and I couldn't have borne it."
"It's all right, Rose," said Dringold gruffly. "Thank you, then, Mr. Mowther, if Mr. Mowther you be." He gave Cadvan and Maerad a sharp look. "I owe you greatly. That little boy is all the world to me and Rose." He pulled out a large red kerchief and blew his nose.
"Well, me and the boy had better get to bed," said Cadvan. "And so had you." He nodded good night, and he and Maerad left the kitchen and made their way to their rooms.
"Was that wise?" asked Maerad, as soon as they were in the privacy of their sitting room.
"Wise?" Cadvan shot her a piercing glance.
"I mean, if we're trying to hide that we're Bards. . ." She trailed off. "I mean, Mr. Dringold obviously suspects us...."
"If that is all that matters: no, it was not wise," said Cadvan. "However, what is wisdom, if it means allowing that little boy to die?"
"Would he have?" said Maerad.
"Yes," answered Cadvan shortly. "He would by now be dead." He hunched his shoulders and sat down, brooding. "Maerad, sometimes there are choices that lead to ill, but that nevertheless have to be made. I could not stand by idly, knowing I could save him. That is not the way of Bards."
Maerad thought regretfully of the washing. "I guess we'll have to leave early tomorrow, then," she said.
"I think not," said Cadvan. "I think Mr. Dringold and his wife will stay quiet about us. We'll wear the risk, for now." Even through his disguise Maerad could see the shadows of exhaustion on Cadvan's face. She thought of the maid and wondered if he was making the right decision. But she too was tired, and was glad of the prospect of rest.
When they emerged from their beds the next day, the sun was high. They breakfasted generously on spiced sausage and beans and bacon; Mr. Dringold's menu even ran to fried mushrooms, which pleased Cadvan. Dringold also arranged for their washing to be taken to the launderers, where it would be ready by that night. Cadvan and Maerad then made their way to the Fort market.
Maerad had never been in a market before and was fascinated. It was alive with colors and smells. There were huge orange pumpkins and green and gold squashes, and streaky yellow apples, sweet and slightly wrinkled from their winter storage; and she saw greens of all kinds, early spring lettuces and leeks, and dried bunches of parsley and mint and marjoram and nettles, and the purple-green of huge winter cabbages, slashed in half to reveal their intricate white innards. There were piles of dried beans and peas, and yellow lentils and brown grains, and bunches of garlic and onions, and sacks of hazels and walnuts and almonds, stippled the colors of autumn; and great round white cheeses wrapped in leaves or blue wax, plumped fatly on the wooden trestles. Over everything drifted the smells of freshly baked breads and roasting chestnuts, and sausages and onions frying on a brazier, and everywhere were the sounds of donkeys braying and cows lowing and goats bleating in stalls and dogs barking and the chatter of townspeople bargaining.
On the edge of the square two minstrels played pipes and a fiddle, with a hat laid on the ground before them for coins. They were dressed in bright clothes, with scarlet scarves around their necks, and they wore blue felt hats with bells that jingled as they danced. They sang about foolish farmers and lovelorn lassies, and a haunting ballad of a man who fell in love with a river sprite, and a funny song about a drunk blacksmith falling into a well. Maerad stood before them enraptured, until Cadvan told her she looked exactly like the idiot she pretended to be and dragged her off to do some shopping.
He drifted in a leisurely fashion around the market, chatting with the stallholders, and Maerad followed him silently, admiring again his ease with people, how he could make even the most reserved open up and talk. He bought a supply of dried fruits and meats, barley flour and grain, a little oil and vinegar, some tough bread that would keep for up to two weeks, and a small sack of oats for the horses. What struck her most forcibly was the fear that arose at any mention of Bards or Barding; stallholders would look around as if they thought someone listened and would say no more, or loudly change the subject. When Cadvan had finished making purchases, they went back to where the minstrels had been playing, because Maerad wanted to hear more, but there was an argument going on. A woman who was clearly a Bard—she wore the cloak and the clover leaf brooch of Ettinor—was shouting and confiscating the minstrels' instruments. When they protested, she froze them both with a gesture of her hand. Then, with a look of contempt, she scooped up the coins from their hat and left them there, unable to move. Cadvan watched the scene with distaste.
"There is too much that is illegal here," he said.
"What will happen to them?" asked Maerad.
"They will be uncharmed, eventually," said Cadvan. "But they might be left there all night, as a punishment."
After that Maerad didn't want to stay at the market any longer, and they returned to the Brown Duck, where they packed their baggage. Cadvan decided they should eat in their room that night and arranged for a meal to be brought to them. "We'll leave before dawn tomorrow," he said.
"And what then?" asked Maerad.
"If anyone is asking questions, there is beginning to be a trail that the ill-minded could follow," said Cadvan. "We're going to disappear."
"What does that mean?" Maerad lifted a dubious eyebrow; clearly there were going to be no more inns for a while.
"It means we go into the wild," said Cadvan. "For the next eighty leagues west the country is empty and pathless. It will be hard to find us, if anyone is looking in this direction."
"But in such places live the creatures of the Dark," said Maerad.
"Not only those," Cadvan said. "It seems to me less risky than taking the roads, nevertheless. No way is without peril."
There was a knock at their door and Dringold entered, carrying their dinner. He placed it on the table, and then lingered.
"I should tell you," he said. "There were questions asked this evening."
"Were there?" said Cadvan, seemingly indifferent.
"A Bard came. She was inquiring about any travelers seen coming this way. I said there was a traveling cobbler staying. There weren't no point in saying otherwise," he added hastily, "because they always know already; there's a
lways those happy to run to the Bards. I said you'd already gone, in any case. Then she said she had heard rumors that my son was sick and was healed. I laughed it off. I told her Rose was always panicking about that boy and it weren't nothing serious. She gave me a funny look. Then she said, had I seen the Bard Cadvan, traveling with a young girl. I told her I knew Lord Cadvan as well as any Bard, and would always be pleased to welcome him into my inn; but I hadn't seen him these three years. And then she left."
He paused. Cadvan looked at him expressionlessly. "I am certain the Bard Cadvan is always pleased to stay in such a fine inn," he said. "And is always grateful for discretion."
"So it's not a bad plan to stay in your rooms tonight," said Dringold. "If you take my meaning. I've let the maid know you've gone."
"We plan to leave before light," Cadvan said. "It shouldn't be a problem." He gave Dringold a sudden warm smile, and surprised, the innkeeper grinned back and then bowed.
"I'm sure it won't be, Lord Cadvan. I'm mighty grateful you came," he said. And then he left.
As the door closed, Maerad's stomach churned with anxiety. She had briefly forgotten their present danger, lulled by the small pleasures of the day, and now her fears returned doubly; she remembered the deathly white hands of the Hull and the red coals of its eyes.
"Shouldn't we leave now?" she asked.
"We could, but I doubt it would profit us much," said Cadvan. "Our guise will last until sundown tomorrow. The Ettinor Bards don't know what they're looking for; at the moment they still seek Cadvan."
"Can we trust the innkeeper?" Maerad stood up and walked around the room. "Couldn't the Bards find out from him that we're here, even if he doesn't want to say?"
"It depends how suspicious they are. I think they'll be looking in many directions; there's no special reason why we should be here. I wish I knew what was happening in Innail. . . . There is danger, but I don't fancy entering the wild with short sleep; we'll have enough of that later. I think we must take this risk."
But Maerad leaped to another question. "What about Dringold? Won't he be in danger, if he's covering for us?"
"You're full of anxieties tonight," said Cadvan, frowning. "I think Dringold has enough guile to handle the questions of the Ettinor Bards. Remember their arrogance. It is very easy to underestimate a common innkeeper if you think yourself above him. If we stay quiet tonight and leave tomorrow, they should be safe. But I will make a charm of protection before we leave, to make sure."
Cadvan's answers allayed Maerad's fears a little, but she lay awake long that night, unable to rid herself of the menacing image of the Hulls; and when finally she slept, her dreams were full of black horsemen reaching toward her with pale, bony hands.
Maerad woke in the blackness before dawn to the sound of rain drumming on the roof, and she sighed. Reluctantly she dragged herself out of her warm bed and dressed, shivering in the cold. Especially cold seemed the mail as she dragged it on over her clothes, and she shuddered: it was like putting on a shirt of ice. She and Cadvan made a hasty breakfast, standing up in the kitchen with Dringold and his wife. Rose shyly pressed on them some cold meat pastries for their lunch; she argued briefly with Cadvan about paying for his services for the boy, but he refused point-blank to take anything. Just before they left, Cadvan stretched out his hands before the couple, muttering some brief words; Maerad saw them blink, and then they turned to their work as if Cadvan and Maerad were not there.
"They will remember only what fits Dringold's story," explained Cadvan in the stables as they led out the horses. "Bards usually know when someone is dissembling."
"Wouldn't a Bard sense the charm?" asked Maerad.
"Only if he scried them," said Cadvan. "If they are scried, neither I nor anyone else can help them. But I doubt either Bard or Hull would deign to do such a thing. I hope not, for their sake."
He sat still on Darsor for a moment, listening; but he neither heard nor sensed anything in the night, and led them out into the cobbled streets of Fort. A rainy blackness covered them, and Maerad shivered. The full moon westered slowly in long bands of dark clouds, but gave little light. She looked back at the windows of the inn, glowing golden and welcoming through the darkness, and thought of the little family they had left. The idea of such gentle people in the hands of Hulls did not bear imagining.
The sun was beginning to tinge the horizon with dull reds and ochers as they passed through villages and towns to the border of the Ettinor Fesse. By the time the rain stopped and the sun climbed over the horizon, shedding a cheerless light over the damp landscape, they were riding through a less-inhabited region, dotted only with solitary farms. After a couple of hours the road wound into a wood. There they slowed down and trotted through the dripping trees, hearing only the sound of birdsong and the dull clop of the horses' hooves.
Maerad was daydreaming, musing abstractedly on some of the things she had seen and heard in the past few weeks. None of her thoughts led anywhere, and she let them drift through her mind, one after the other, as unformed images: the Elidhu in the Weywood; Cadvan still and silent, astride Darsor; the minstrels frozen in the marketplace in Fort; Silvia's merry face, graven with sadness; Dernhil...
She was jolted out of her contemplations by a strange noise, a whirring sound like a large bee, and a thock, as if something hit wood. She had time to reflect that she had heard such a sound before and knew she didn't like it, when she heard it again; and then she felt as if she had been punched in the back, and was flung forward on her saddle. Without command the horses plunged into a mad gallop, and Cadvan was shouting, "Down! Arrows! Lay your head down! Down!"
She obeyed instinctively, hiding her head against Imi's neck, and hung on desperately as Imi bolted wildly, trying to keep up with Darsor. She realized she must have been hit by an arrow, and was grateful for her mail, so reluctantly donned that morning. She dared look back once and saw nothing through the trees; the road had already wound in a loop and hidden their attackers. The horses slowed down to a canter, and then, as they reached a place where a large rocky shelf butted out of the woods, Cadvan halted them with a signal of his hand, his face grave and alert. He led them to the rock, and they stood there, their backs to the stony wall, which stretched upward for about twenty feet with a slight overhang. Maerad could hear the sound of horsemen pursuing them, approaching both along the road and through the trees, cutting through the loop of the road.
"We cannot race on wildly, with such pursuit," said Cadvan. "We will have to stand here. I think there are not many, two or three."
"Who are they?" asked Maerad fearfully.
"I don't know," said Cadvan. "Bards, I guess, who noticed us in one of the villages. There is only one road through this part of the Fesse. I have been careless, as I should not have been. I thought the rain would cover us. At least here they cannot come from behind."
Maerad gulped and sat unmoving on Imi, feeling for her sword, and stared at the bend in the road until her eyes started to water. Cadvan waited patiently, as still as stone. It seemed that their pursuers would never come, but nevertheless, sooner than she liked, a figure came trotting around the bend, and then another. They bore arrows set to the bow, and were cloaked in black.
"Hulls," muttered Cadvan, and Maerad heard the sharp intake of his breath.
The Hulls did not see them at first and looked around into the trees, going slowly now as they hunted. Another horseman came over the rise through the woods and joined them. Then the foremost looked up and sighted them and laughed, waving its fellows over. They let down their bows and trotted at their leisure toward them. Maerad began to feel terror screwing up inside her like a vice, and her heart pounded painfully.
When they were about thirty yards away, Cadvan shouted indignantly, in the accent of northern Annar: "What were you shooting for? You could have killed us. I'm going to complain to the authorities, I am."
The leading Hull halted. "We are the authorities," it said, and its voice could have been the voice of a dea
d man. The hair rose on Maerad's neck. "You could go squeaking, little man, like a ghost on the wind, for all the good it might do you. No man may set foot in these woods, by order of the Bards."
"I don't know about any law," said Cadvan. The two Hulls behind put their arrows to the string, and Maerad looked desperately at Cadvan, whose face was expressionless. "I can go into the woods if I want, without being chased by Bards and murdered, like as not."
"Death is the price of insolence," said the Hull. "But we will be merciful, and give you a choice. You can come with us, and try the justice of Ettinor." It laughed again, and the Hulls moved closer to them.
"I'm not going anywhere," said Cadvan. "Just on my own business, is all. I'm not doing no harm."
"Everything here is our business," said the leading Hull. It laughed and lifted its bow. "But your time of choice is over."
It loosed an arrow straight at Cadvan, and Maerad's heart almost failed her. Before she knew what had happened, the arrow had exploded in flame and fell to smoldering ashes on the ground before them. Immediately the semblance of the cobbler and his son dropped from Cadvan and Maerad.
Cadvan seemed to Maerad taller and more lordly, his face stern and grim, and he was illumined by a strange light. The Hulls stopped in surprise, and in that second Cadvan stretched his hands out before him and a bolt of white flame arced from his fingers to the heart of the leading Hull. It made a strangled noise and fell from its horse to the ground. At that, one of the other two Hulls spurred on its horse and charged them. Cadvan lifted his hands again, crying out as he did so, and there was a blast of light. The Hull fell, and both riderless horses bolted wildly off through the trees.
The Gift Page 24
