The Gift by Alison Croggon Page B

na!”
answered Cadvan, winking at Maerad as he did so. Maerad smiled back uncertainly.
    “Langrea i,”
said the voice, and the window banged shut.
    “Will they let me in?” asked Maerad.
    “Oh, yes, eventually,” said Cadvan. “But they must be careful these days, especially after dark. He goes to tell our names.”
    After about five minutes, the shutter opened again, and another man thrust out his head.
    “Cadvan?” he said. “Is that you?”
    “The same,” said Cadvan. “Traveling on hard roads, by dark ways, and begging for succor from the Bards of Innail, by the old laws of courtesy.”
    “What are you doing in this part of the world?”
    “Malgorn!” Cadvan threw back his head and shouted. “Come down and let us in!”
    “And
who
of Pellinor? I thought they were all dead! By the Light! But wait, I’ll get the gate.”
    He banged shut the window, and Cadvan turned to Maerad. “We are safe now,” he said.
    “Do you know him?”
    “It’s Malgorn. I’ve known him since childhood, and he was sent here some twenty years ago. They were having trouble in this part of the world and needed someone of his abilities. He is a good man. One of the best.”
    Then the gate was flung open and a fair, solidly built man came out, his arms wide. “Cadvan!” he said, and gathered him into a bearlike embrace. “How good to see you! How long is it?”
    “Too long, old friend,” said Cadvan. “And I can’t say how glad I am to see you!”
    Malgorn stood back, studying his face. “You look somewhat the worse for wear,” he said. “I can see there’s a tale to this. What have you been doing? But come in, come in.”
    “This is Maerad of Pellinor, my fellow traveler,” said Cadvan, stepping back to include her. “Maerad, this is my old friend Malgorn, a rogue and a scoundrel, and the worst cardplayer in the Seven Kingdoms. But he has his good points.”
    Malgorn, smiling, took her hand and bowed over it, suddenly grave. “I am honored to meet you, Maerad of Pellinor,” he said. “I thought none of your School yet lived. It has a place in my heart like no other, and was one of the most beautiful in Annar.”
    Maerad looked up into a pair of warm brown eyes and swallowed. She made an awkward little bob, and Malgorn released her hand. He ushered them through the gates and a small cloister and then into the first courtyard of the School of Innail. There Maerad would have stopped and stared in astonishment, had Malgorn’s shepherding permitted her. The moonlight fell on well-tended gardens bordered by huge, smooth flags, and in the center a fountain trembled, a glittering veil. Men and women walking through the courtyard looked at them with cool curiosity. Someone was playing a flute somewhere far off in another building, and from another direction Maerad could hear voices joined together in song. Something within her leaped in recognition.
    She had no time to stare, as Malgorn hurried them through curving streets of graceful buildings and across more courtyards to a great stone house with high, narrow windows from which spilled light as yellow as butter. Malgorn flung open the richly chased double doors and strode into the entrance hall, shouting, “Silvia! Silvia! We have guests!” And that was all Maerad saw, before a blackness came rushing over her and she slid to the ground in a dead faint.



MAERAD opened her eyes and blinked away the black spots. Her head was humming, and it was a few seconds before her vision focused and she could see where she was. Someone had lifted her onto a chair, and Cadvan was leaning toward her, holding a small glass full of a golden liquid.
    “Drink,” he said. She had never touched glass before, and she took it gingerly as if it would shatter; it was cool and light against her fingers. The drink went down her throat like a smooth flame, burning her palate, and she choked as an aftertaste glowed in her mouth like a soft explosion of fruit. Warmth thrilled through her body