leave. There was no sign of the distressed and broken woman Nerili had been. As they left, Maerad stole a glance at Cadvan’s face; he looked both relieved and desolate, as if he had found something important, and at once had lost it. She didn’t want to think about what it meant; it gave her an ache somewhere in her middle.
BEHIND the School of Busk the mountainous interior of Thorold drew upward, peak after purple peak, until it reached the rocky pinnacles of the Lamedon, the highest mountain in Thorold. Even in summer, the crown of the Lamedon was white with snow.
From the mountains shelved down a wild country, with harsh ridges and peaks hiding green, sheltered valleys. Now it drowsed in the summer heat. On the slopes of the peaks clustered groves of myrtle, acacias, and olive trees, and there were clumps of scented mimosa and wild roses; bees murmured in the fragrant grasses where the goatherds and shepherds grazed their flocks. Through the haze of distance, Maerad could see dark forests of pine and fir growing on the higher lands, and the snowcapped peaks, bereft of all trees, towered behind them.
The landscape was beautiful to look at, Maerad thought, but it was a different matter altogether to ride through it. She pulled up her horse and wiped her brow, taking a swig from her water bottle. She was wearing silk trousers and a light tunic, and Cadvan had plonked a wide-brimmed straw hat on her head to prevent, he said, her going even sillier with the heat, but even so, the sweat ran down her back in runnels, and she was sure her face was puce.
Still, the view was spectacular. She, Cadvan, and Elenxi had been toiling up one of the hundreds of narrow roads, most of them barely more than goat tracks, which wound through the interior of Thorold. From here she could see over the knees of Thorold, right out to sea, although the town of Busk was hidden behind a ridge. Way off in the distance she could hear, on a flock of goats, the clinking of bells that floated down a distant hillside like a languid cloud; otherwise the only sound was the buzzing of bees and the shrill music of cicadas. It was still morning, not yet the hottest part of the day, but the sun beat down fiercely.
“The village of Iralion is not far,” said Elenxi, turning toward them on his horse, his eyes creased against the light. “And we will stop there until it cools. It has a famous tavern.” His teeth flashed in a smile, and Maerad dredged up a smile in return. She didn’t like the heat, or, at least, she liked it well enough from a shady balcony, with nothing to do and plenty of minted lemon water by her elbow. But Elenxi, who seemed as tough and unkillable as an ancient olive, appeared to be completely unbothered by it. She sighed, putting her water bottle back in her pack, and urged her horse onward. Any tavern Elenxi recommended was bound to be excellent, and, really, what was she complaining about? She had endured far worse. But she was still smarting at the necessity of leaving Busk.
They had trotted out of the School of Busk in the cool of that morning. Maerad had packed wearily before having a last bath in the glorious bathroom the night before, wondering, as always, when she would next enjoy this luxury. She was well tired of her fugitive life.
The week since the Midsummer Festival had been a blur. Nerili had been correct: it was all over Busk by the next morning that Cadvan of Lirigon had saved the Rite of Renewal from disaster. Although the Bards put it about that it was someone else, confusing the rumors, it was only a matter of time now before that news reached unfriendly ears. Maerad and Cadvan stayed hidden within the School, continuing with their routine as before, and when they ventured into town, they disguised themselves. Maerad began to feel hunted again, a feeling that had disappeared altogether those few weeks in Busk, and with it returned her dreams of Hulls, reaching out their bony hands toward her from the
BEHIND the School of Busk the mountainous interior of Thorold drew upward, peak after purple peak, until it reached the rocky pinnacles of the Lamedon, the highest mountain in Thorold. Even in summer, the crown of the Lamedon was white with snow.
From the mountains shelved down a wild country, with harsh ridges and peaks hiding green, sheltered valleys. Now it drowsed in the summer heat. On the slopes of the peaks clustered groves of myrtle, acacias, and olive trees, and there were clumps of scented mimosa and wild roses; bees murmured in the fragrant grasses where the goatherds and shepherds grazed their flocks. Through the haze of distance, Maerad could see dark forests of pine and fir growing on the higher lands, and the snowcapped peaks, bereft of all trees, towered behind them.
The landscape was beautiful to look at, Maerad thought, but it was a different matter altogether to ride through it. She pulled up her horse and wiped her brow, taking a swig from her water bottle. She was wearing silk trousers and a light tunic, and Cadvan had plonked a wide-brimmed straw hat on her head to prevent, he said, her going even sillier with the heat, but even so, the sweat ran down her back in runnels, and she was sure her face was puce.
Still, the view was spectacular. She, Cadvan, and Elenxi had been toiling up one of the hundreds of narrow roads, most of them barely more than goat tracks, which wound through the interior of Thorold. From here she could see over the knees of Thorold, right out to sea, although the town of Busk was hidden behind a ridge. Way off in the distance she could hear, on a flock of goats, the clinking of bells that floated down a distant hillside like a languid cloud; otherwise the only sound was the buzzing of bees and the shrill music of cicadas. It was still morning, not yet the hottest part of the day, but the sun beat down fiercely.
“The village of Iralion is not far,” said Elenxi, turning toward them on his horse, his eyes creased against the light. “And we will stop there until it cools. It has a famous tavern.” His teeth flashed in a smile, and Maerad dredged up a smile in return. She didn’t like the heat, or, at least, she liked it well enough from a shady balcony, with nothing to do and plenty of minted lemon water by her elbow. But Elenxi, who seemed as tough and unkillable as an ancient olive, appeared to be completely unbothered by it. She sighed, putting her water bottle back in her pack, and urged her horse onward. Any tavern Elenxi recommended was bound to be excellent, and, really, what was she complaining about? She had endured far worse. But she was still smarting at the necessity of leaving Busk.
They had trotted out of the School of Busk in the cool of that morning. Maerad had packed wearily before having a last bath in the glorious bathroom the night before, wondering, as always, when she would next enjoy this luxury. She was well tired of her fugitive life.
The week since the Midsummer Festival had been a blur. Nerili had been correct: it was all over Busk by the next morning that Cadvan of Lirigon had saved the Rite of Renewal from disaster. Although the Bards put it about that it was someone else, confusing the rumors, it was only a matter of time now before that news reached unfriendly ears. Maerad and Cadvan stayed hidden within the School, continuing with their routine as before, and when they ventured into town, they disguised themselves. Maerad began to feel hunted again, a feeling that had disappeared altogether those few weeks in Busk, and with it returned her dreams of Hulls, reaching out their bony hands toward her from the
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