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.
Innail
Glad was the world, and golden the greenwood
In dawndays of Ulnar, unstained and undarkened
When strode Mercan Goldhand singing in sunlight,
Lord of a proud people, fearless and prescient,
Singers of Maldan, matchless in magecraft,
But master of all was Mercan the Maker:
Deepest in lore among lordly Loresingers,
Arestor's firstling, the archmage of artists,
Tongued with the star speech, speller of seasons,
Singing the spring on Lir's silver waters.
Long were the days then, and bright laughter lingered
Long in the halls where the high people harkened,
Lost now in legend, lamented by Loremen
Reckoning ruins to raise the remembering.
Great grew the houses, gilded with glory
Over the mere where the melt waters murmured.
High then the heart-home, where held Mercan hearth-feast,
Golden the light on the lost land of Lirion.
From Mercan's Quest
VI
A BLUE DRESS
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 all the way down to her toes, and for a second she wondered if she was about to be sick. Even feeling as she was, she couldn't have stood the humiliation; but then it passed.
"Another," said Cadvan.
"What is it?" she asked. Despite its initial sting, the liquor was as different from the harsh voka that Gilman's men drank as anything she could imagine.
"It's laradhel, a specialty of the house," said Cadvan, grinning. "Distilled out of selected herbs and fruits, especially apricots, yes, Malgorn?" He lifted an inquiring eyebrow at Malgorn, who nodded. "By this particular connoisseur of the table, no less. Malgorn has a great interest in the arts of brewing and distilling, for pleasure as well as medicine."
She drank again, and didn't choke this time. Sip by sip shefinished the glass, and handed it back to Cadvan. She felt less dizzy now, if a little lightheaded, and she looked around the room.
She was in a chamber that, to her confused perceptions, seemed like a vision or something from a dream. It was high-ceilinged and gracefully proportioned, with a carved mantel on one wall where a fire flickered in the grate. From the ceiling hung a silver lamp shaped like a lily, which diffused a gentle light. The walls were pale yellow, and the ceiling and carved cornices were painted with a pattern of stylized lilies and ivy leaves stenciled in black and subtly colored. Comfortable wooden chairs, heaped high with dark red cushions, were arranged around a huge fireplace, and musical instruments of all kinds were stacked casually against the walls and
*
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.
Innail
Glad was the world, and golden the greenwood
In dawndays of Ulnar, unstained and undarkened
When strode Mercan Goldhand singing in sunlight,
Lord of a proud people, fearless and prescient,
Singers of Maldan, matchless in magecraft,
But master of all was Mercan the Maker:
Deepest in lore among lordly Loresingers,
Arestor's firstling, the archmage of artists,
Tongued with the star speech, speller of seasons,
Singing the spring on Lir's silver waters.
Long were the days then, and bright laughter lingered
Long in the halls where the high people harkened,
Lost now in legend, lamented by Loremen
Reckoning ruins to raise the remembering.
Great grew the houses, gilded with glory
Over the mere where the melt waters murmured.
High then the heart-home, where held Mercan hearth-feast,
Golden the light on the lost land of Lirion.
From Mercan's Quest
VI
A BLUE DRESS
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 all the way down to her toes, and for a second she wondered if she was about to be sick. Even feeling as she was, she couldn't have stood the humiliation; but then it passed.
"Another," said Cadvan.
"What is it?" she asked. Despite its initial sting, the liquor was as different from the harsh voka that Gilman's men drank as anything she could imagine.
"It's laradhel, a specialty of the house," said Cadvan, grinning. "Distilled out of selected herbs and fruits, especially apricots, yes, Malgorn?" He lifted an inquiring eyebrow at Malgorn, who nodded. "By this particular connoisseur of the table, no less. Malgorn has a great interest in the arts of brewing and distilling, for pleasure as well as medicine."
She drank again, and didn't choke this time. Sip by sip shefinished the glass, and handed it back to Cadvan. She felt less dizzy now, if a little lightheaded, and she looked around the room.
She was in a chamber that, to her confused perceptions, seemed like a vision or something from a dream. It was high-ceilinged and gracefully proportioned, with a carved mantel on one wall where a fire flickered in the grate. From the ceiling hung a silver lamp shaped like a lily, which diffused a gentle light. The walls were pale yellow, and the ceiling and carved cornices were painted with a pattern of stylized lilies and ivy leaves stenciled in black and subtly colored. Comfortable wooden chairs, heaped high with dark red cushions, were arranged around a huge fireplace, and musical instruments of all kinds were stacked casually against the walls and
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