darkness.
The delegation from Norloch had returned from Gent and been given the answer decided on by the council. Igan was not, by all accounts, well pleased, and had left frostily for Norloch; Nerili expected a response within a month or so. Bards from Thorold had been sent secretly by swift routes to all the Schools of the Seven Kingdoms for counsel, and Elenxi had been busy traveling the isle, consulting with the village mayors on possible resistance to an invasion from Norloch. He had a double purpose in guiding Maerad and Cadvan, for he was also planning to visit several isolated villages in the very middle of Thorold.
Nerili advised Maerad and Cadvan that they should stay until the traveling Bards returned from the Seven Kingdoms, in order to get fresh information on what was happening elsewhere. She calculated it would be a month at most. “Then,” she said, “I think you ought to leave, and swiftly. It would make sense to go to Ileadh first, and then north up the coast to Zmarkan. Annar is too dangerous to cross, I judge; the Light seeks you now, as well as the Dark. I think that the only safety is in movement. But for the moment, I think you will be protected enough in the mountains.”
Cadvan had spent long hours in the library before they left, but had still found nothing. And Maerad had continued her lessons, gloomily wondering what good her snatched knowledge would be once they were on the road and in danger again.
And then had come the necessity of farewell. My whole life is just one long farewell, Maerad thought. I begin to make friends and then I must leave, probably never to see them again. At a dinner held at the School to drink the parting cup, Honas, who had indeed tried to kiss her on Midsummer’s Night, had been downcast. Although Maerad had pushed him away that night, laughing, it was a wrench saying goodbye; she had become fond of him, and in the short time they had known each other, he had taught her to play the
makilon,
an instrument she liked very much. It was the same with all her new friends in Thorold — Owan, Kabeka, Nerili, Intatha, Oreston, and the many others. As she climbed the rocky slopes on her sure-footed Thoroldian mount, she felt that everything she had found in Busk — the merriment, the joyous defiance — was all dropping away, and now she was returning to her usual dour self, that the wild dancing girl she had been was nothing but a dream, and now she was waking up again, in a dark room full of foreboding shadows.
After a while, the path they were following took a sudden dip, leading them down into one of the unexpected valleys folded into the deep creases of Thorold. The silk makers lived in these valleys, near the bitterly cold mountain streams, and tended the orderly orchards of mulberry trees that fed the silkworms. It was the waters of Thorold, the silk makers said, that was the special secret of their skill and gave the dyes their famous brilliance and purity.
Shade fell over the riders, and the vegetation became more lush as they moved downhill, until it seemed they were moving through a dappling canopy of green, humidly hot and hushed, but with the promise of cool water burbling in the distance. They trotted through groves of mulberries, the fruits red and dark purple among the green leaves, or fallen on the ground, staining it like wine. The air grew steadily cooler, and the sweat dried gently on Maerad’s skin. At last, they reached a small village of stone buildings, rather like the buildings in the School of Busk, only smaller; each was entwined in vines and flowering plants. There was only a single road through its center, and a river of clear water ran singing beside it.
“This is Iralion,” said Elenxi. “And there is the tavern. I shall leave you two there while I see Mirak, the mayor, and speak with him.”
They tethered their horses outside the tavern by a water trough, and with relief Maerad followed Cadvan into the cool interior. It was crowded
The delegation from Norloch had returned from Gent and been given the answer decided on by the council. Igan was not, by all accounts, well pleased, and had left frostily for Norloch; Nerili expected a response within a month or so. Bards from Thorold had been sent secretly by swift routes to all the Schools of the Seven Kingdoms for counsel, and Elenxi had been busy traveling the isle, consulting with the village mayors on possible resistance to an invasion from Norloch. He had a double purpose in guiding Maerad and Cadvan, for he was also planning to visit several isolated villages in the very middle of Thorold.
Nerili advised Maerad and Cadvan that they should stay until the traveling Bards returned from the Seven Kingdoms, in order to get fresh information on what was happening elsewhere. She calculated it would be a month at most. “Then,” she said, “I think you ought to leave, and swiftly. It would make sense to go to Ileadh first, and then north up the coast to Zmarkan. Annar is too dangerous to cross, I judge; the Light seeks you now, as well as the Dark. I think that the only safety is in movement. But for the moment, I think you will be protected enough in the mountains.”
Cadvan had spent long hours in the library before they left, but had still found nothing. And Maerad had continued her lessons, gloomily wondering what good her snatched knowledge would be once they were on the road and in danger again.
And then had come the necessity of farewell. My whole life is just one long farewell, Maerad thought. I begin to make friends and then I must leave, probably never to see them again. At a dinner held at the School to drink the parting cup, Honas, who had indeed tried to kiss her on Midsummer’s Night, had been downcast. Although Maerad had pushed him away that night, laughing, it was a wrench saying goodbye; she had become fond of him, and in the short time they had known each other, he had taught her to play the
makilon,
an instrument she liked very much. It was the same with all her new friends in Thorold — Owan, Kabeka, Nerili, Intatha, Oreston, and the many others. As she climbed the rocky slopes on her sure-footed Thoroldian mount, she felt that everything she had found in Busk — the merriment, the joyous defiance — was all dropping away, and now she was returning to her usual dour self, that the wild dancing girl she had been was nothing but a dream, and now she was waking up again, in a dark room full of foreboding shadows.
After a while, the path they were following took a sudden dip, leading them down into one of the unexpected valleys folded into the deep creases of Thorold. The silk makers lived in these valleys, near the bitterly cold mountain streams, and tended the orderly orchards of mulberry trees that fed the silkworms. It was the waters of Thorold, the silk makers said, that was the special secret of their skill and gave the dyes their famous brilliance and purity.
Shade fell over the riders, and the vegetation became more lush as they moved downhill, until it seemed they were moving through a dappling canopy of green, humidly hot and hushed, but with the promise of cool water burbling in the distance. They trotted through groves of mulberries, the fruits red and dark purple among the green leaves, or fallen on the ground, staining it like wine. The air grew steadily cooler, and the sweat dried gently on Maerad’s skin. At last, they reached a small village of stone buildings, rather like the buildings in the School of Busk, only smaller; each was entwined in vines and flowering plants. There was only a single road through its center, and a river of clear water ran singing beside it.
“This is Iralion,” said Elenxi. “And there is the tavern. I shall leave you two there while I see Mirak, the mayor, and speak with him.”
They tethered their horses outside the tavern by a water trough, and with relief Maerad followed Cadvan into the cool interior. It was crowded
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