The Naming Read online

  "Make sure he doesn't eat all the rations," Silvia said to Maerad, smiling sadly. "You still have some weight to gain."

  "Now, be fair," said Cadvan. "I can hardly force them down her throat!"

  "Good-bye!" said Silvia, and she stood alone at the door and watched them until they vanished completely into the darkness.

  They walked quickly through the night streets of Innail to the stables, wrapping their cloaks around them to keep out the cold. It was beginning to rain, a light shower that slowly grew heavier. Their footsteps echoed back from the black walls of the houses, and raindrops glanced off the wet cobbles like flecks of cold light. When they saw a few Bards straggling home from the feast they withdrew into doorways, covering their faces with their hoods. Otherwise they saw no one and passed unnoticed through the shadows.

  Already Maerad felt exiled from the life of Innail. Even ten minutes ago she had been part of it, one glowing thread in its complex tapestry. Now sadness dragged her steps. Would she ever come here again? Here she felt safe and at ease. Before her lay hardship and flight, certain danger and an uncertain fate. But a hardening will answered the obscure dread stirring within her; she couldn't say in words why she should leave Innail but, in some deeper part of her mind, she was certain she could do nothing else.

  Cadvan helped Maerad strap her pack to the saddle, and then, leading their horses, they followed Malgorn through dark, narrow lanes Maerad had not seen before, until they reached the School wall. He led them to a small, heavily bolted iron door just big enough to admit the horses. Malgorn took out an iron key and opened the door soundlessly. A last hasty embrace and they passed through. The door shut behind them with a dull thud.

  Maerad heard the key turn in the lock and the bolts shoot home, and then only the heavy patter of the rain.

  RACHIDA

  And from his icy throne a king

  Rose from his spellbound sleep and saw

  A vision of the banished spring,

  A form so fair and luminous

  That from his frosted eyes the hoar

  Ran down like tears and, marveling,

  He felt the chains of winter thaw

  And years of thraldom ruinous.

  Between them stood the wall of ice

  And round them barren winter waste,

  But each saw in the other's face

  The light of summer lingering:

  And then like thunder broke the frost,

  The chill wall fell, and morrowless

  Immortal maid and man embraced,

  Their light and shadow mingling.

  From The Lay of Ardina and Ardhor

  XI

  INNAIL FESSE

  THEY rode through the night in almost total darkness. The heavy clouds meant that little moonlight aided their way, and all Maerad could see was the dark shape of Cadvan, the darker shapes of trees on either side, and the faint glimmer of the road ahead of them. Imi was sure-footed and never stumbled. After an hour the rain lifted, and shortly after that they reached a fork in the road. Cadvan took the western road, and they had ridden for another hour when the dulled sound of the hoofbeats on a track changed to a sharp ring of cobbles, and Maerad saw the black outlines of houses around them. They slowed to a walk and Cadvan leaned toward her, pointing to one of the buildings.

  "We're in Stormont now," he said. "That's the Chequers, one of the best inns in Innail Valley. Grall will rise for late travelers, and it's comfortable enough."

  Maerad was numb with cold and tiredness, and was grateful for a respite from the rain. It wasn't long before Cadvan had roused the innkeeper, who looked curiously at Maerad but admitted them cheerfully and, after stabling their horses, showed them to a small pair of low-eaved rooms linked by a comfortable sitting room, in which he hastily lit a fire.

  "Too late for dinner, by some hours, begging your pardon," said the innkeeper. "You're lucky you came tonight. After tomorrow I'm all booked up with Bards."

  "I'd be grateful if you kept quiet about our stay," said Cadvan. "Some are a little too nosy for my liking."

  Grall looked sideways at Maerad and put a finger along his nose. "Secrets are safe with me," he said conspiratorially. "As you well know, Lord Cadvan. Can I get you some spiced wine, perhaps? And for the young lady? You look half frozen."

  He bustled out, and Maerad burst into giggles. Cadvan threw his cloak on a chair and leaned toward the fire.

  "Perhaps it is no bad thing, having a ready reason for discretion," he said, looking at Maerad with amusement. "Grall is a good man; I have reason to know I can trust him. Otherwise, we'd be making camp underneath some dripping trees, with no fire!"

  Before long Grall was back with clay cups of hot spiced wine, and Maerad sipped it dreamily, staring into the fire, feeling the warmth thrill down to her toes. The wind threw more rain against the window and howled through the trees outside, and she felt intensely grateful she wasn't out in the night. As soon as she finished her wine, she roused herself and went to bed, yawning.

  It seemed only a minute later that Cadvan was knocking at her door. "Time for breakfast!" he said. "I want to get moving straightaway; the Bards from Innail won't be far behind." Maerad realized she was ravenous, and, after a spartan wash, joined Cadvan in the sitting room. Grall brought in a huge breakfast of sausages, chops, black beans, mushrooms, and fresh bread, fussing about Maerad with so much exaggerated tact she had trouble keeping a straight face. It was still dark, but soon a dim gray wash began to lighten the windows. Although it had stopped raining, outside looked bleak and dreary. The last thing Maerad felt like was a long ride, though she wondered hopefully if Cadvan was planning inn stops all the way to Norloch; it mightn't be so bad if he was.

  In less than an hour they were mounting their horses. A watery sun was now struggling to push through the clouds, but with little success. Grall held their bridles while they mounted. "No word, mind, Grall," Cadvan said. "I shouldn't like to hear of my own movements."

  "You know me, mum as an egg," said Grall. "Though I'm sorry you're not staying longer. I was hoping to get some news from you, and I know what Lord Cadvan says is more reliable than what comes from some others, if you know what I mean."

  "I'm sorry too, and not only for that," said Cadvan. "You've always run one of my favorite stopping places."

  Grail's face brightened. "We have a reputation, and that's a fact," he said. "And there's no gainsaying that my beer's been especially good since last you were here. I could wish you visited more often. The Chequers's cellars are famous around these parts now." Then he looked worried again and leaned forward, whispering hoarsely. "I just keep hearing bits and pieces, bad news, and no mistake. Things are out of whack, if I'm not mistaken. I'd sorely like your advice."

  "Yes, things are out of whack, Grall," said Cadvan seriously. "May it not touch you! Be sure the Bards are doing what they can. But now, we really must go. A blessing on your house!"

  Grall at last let go of the bridles, and they were off.

  Stormont was a village of perhaps a dozen houses, all low-windowed and whitewashed and thatched with dark river reeds. Maerad looked around her with wonder; she had never seen such a village before, and in truth it seemed to her as exotic as Innail, although Cadvan was riding through it with scarcely a glance. It was still early and no one was on the road, but she saw rushlights fluttering in the paned windows. Cocks were crowing and dogs barking, and far in the distance she could hear a farmer calling in his cows and the clank of pails. Beyond the village the hills were shrouded in fog, but as the sun rose, it began to disperse and there was even some sunshine, although it brought no warmth, and heavy gray clouds coming in over the mountains portended more rain.

  When they were well out of the village, Cadvan turned to Maerad and said, "I might as well disguise us a little. I'm known around here." He simply passed his hands, and Maerad blinked and looked around. She saw no difference.

  "You're Bard-eyed, so it doesn't work on you," said Cadvan. "It's only a glimmerspell.
But to any casual farmhand ambling along the road, I look like a fat northern farmer from Milhol riding along with his wife. There are many such hereabouts, taking their wares to market or coming to buy. So take care to call me husband, if you need to call me anything."

  They continued the rest of the morning at a fast pace, speaking little. They passed a few people on the road, and Maerad looked at them curiously; they were fair-haired and fair-skinned, and dressed in the same fine woolen cloth of which Maerad's clothes were made. They nodded to the strangers with a reserve that was not unfriendly but invited no conversation.

  Although she had been in Innail for more than a week, it was Maerad's first real sight of the valley, or the Fesse, as the district surrounding the Schools was often called. When they had first entered it, it had been night, and for the rest of the time she had been enclosed in the School, behind walls, as she had been for most of her life. But the walls of Innail, she reflected, were very different from the walls of Gilman's Cot: Innail protected her and offered freedom, while the cot had been a prison.

  Innail Fesse was an almost self-contained region, a thickly populated valley of fertile green hills suspended between two mountainous spurs split from the Osidh Annova, which almost met at their tapering to make a natural sheltered enclosure of perhaps twenty leagues at its widest and not much longer. It had been settled since time immemorial, and its inhabitants regarded themselves as somewhat apart from Annar, though they had acknowledged the Monarch when the High Seat was reestablished in Norloch. They prided themselves on their self-sufficiency and independence, and were famous for their spinning and weaving and for their cuisine. The valley boasted two major towns: Tinagel, where the Steward lived, and the Innail School. There were also many villages like Stormont, of perhaps a couple of dozen houses, and hundreds of small, prosperous farms. The Imlan River ran through its center, fed by many streams that leaped down, fresh and cold, from the mountainsides.

  Maerad rode on gravel roads through fields hedged with well-cut rows of hawthorn just now beginning to leaf. She frequently saw farmhouses of the same yellow stone as the buildings of the Innail School, many surrounded by orchards of trees heavy with pink and white blossoms. The flowers of early spring, crocuses and daffodils and bluebells, pushed through the wet grass, and occasionally whiffs of scent blew in Maerad's face on the cold air. It was as if they were riding through a huge bowl; the green hills swept up on either side of them to the sheer walls of the mountains in the distance, which now were hidden in heavy cloud. Even the piercing wind couldn't stop Maerad riding through the valley in a daze of wonder.

  They stopped briefly in a copse of ash and had a quick, cheerless lunch. The horses ambled about cropping grass, and seemed as little inclined as they to stop for long. They were soon off again.

  "Are we staying in an inn again tonight?" Maerad asked hopefully as they mounted.

  Cadvan smiled. "This weather is a bit hard for spring," he said. "Though it is often like this here, being so close to the mountains."

  "It would be a sight more pleasant," Maerad said. "And nicer for the horses too."

  "I agree," said Cadvan. "We'll have enough of comfortless camps after we leave the valley. Be of good cheer: we're heading for another inn I know, at a place called Barcombe. This time we'll be in disguise. After that, prepare yourself for tree roots!"

  Toward dusk the road began to bend into a combe that hid another small village. They clattered past the common to an inn called the Green Toad. This time the innkeeper, a portly man named Halifax, looked at them with suspicion.

  "There ain't no market this week," he said. "You got your timing wrong."

  "Market was last week," said Cadvan with a heavy northern accent. "We've been seeing my wife's cousin up in Innail. What's it to you, anyway?"

  "Pardon me for asking," said Halifax. "I can't be too careful. Strangers come to these parts and are off quick as winking, forgetting the bill, if you know what I mean. Taking us for wetherheads."

  "Payment in advance, Mr. Halifax, and I hope that does you," said Cadvan, handing over some coins. "I'd like to see the rooms. My wife and I've had a hard day, and it will be a long road tomorrow."

  Slightly mollified, the innkeeper led them to a room with a sitting room. Maerad looked around it, discomforted; clearly she and Cadvan would have to share a bed.

  "Dinner, if you please," said Cadvan. "And an early night, my love?" Halifax left, calling for his porter, and Cadvan sat down and took off his boots. He winked at Maerad, and despite herself she blushed.

  "I'll be happier when we're out of settled parts," he said. "Then, perhaps, we'll be able to start your lessons. Don't think I've forgotten!" He stretched out his legs to the fire.

  Maerad took off her cloak and sat down heavily. She felt sore and exhausted after the day's ride. At the thought of the one bed, she began to feel a panic rise up in her throat again, but she pushed it away.

  "There's only one bed," she whispered.

  Cadvan glanced up quickly, and Maerad understood that he knew or guessed more than she realized about her doubts and fears.

  "That's easily solved," he said. "I'll sleep on the couch. Luxury for a man like me."

  "A hard man of the wild," she said, suddenly feeling lighter. "No doubt a stone floor is a king's sleep."

  "The finest swans-down. But of course, you are welcome to such comfort, if you desire."

  Maerad laughed, her anxiety dissipated. A little later Halifax brought in their dinner on a tray, a thick beef casserole fragrant with herbs and topped with a chewy layer of melted cheese, with fresh bread and a fine local wine. "There's apple tart for afters, if you want," he said. "My wife makes a clotted cream that's famous in these parts."

  Cadvan lifted an eyebrow at Maerad, whose mouth was watering at the thought, and when they had finished the casserole they ate the tart, hot and fresh from the oven, crisscrossed with a lattice of pastry so light it dissolved on the tongue, with the clotted cream melting yellow through the caramelized apple.

  "That was a lord among tarts," said Cadvan, with an expansive sigh. When Halifax came to take away their plates, Cadvan told him so, and he looked pleased.

  "Marta will be grand happy to hear that," he said. "She takes a lot of care over her cooking, so she does, even if some don't care or notice."

  "Things have got worse over the past few years, that's for sure," said Cadvan. "My cousin runs an inn near Ettinor, and can scarce keep body and soul together."

  "I hear the Bards is demanding up in Ettinor," said Halifax. "And they leave scarce little for the people to make a life with, living high on the sweat of others with nary a thank-you. Not like our School here, where they run things fair, if you know what I mean. They do the Barding proper here, they do. They're here every Springturn and harvest, and the little 'uns hereabouts all know their letters. And I remember when my daughter had the witchfever, back when she was a babe, and she looked like dying, and Oron herself came and laid her hands on her."

  "You can't ask fairer than that," said Cadvan. "But others is not so fair."

  "That's the truth, and no mistake," said Halifax. Maerad, who hadn't dared open her mouth during any conversation with the innkeeper, saw with alarm that he looked as if he were settling in for a long chat. "Just the other night, we had a pair here, two shifty types," he went on. "Which was why I was a bit sharp with you, begging your pardon. They left before dawn, and not a farthing did they part with for all they ate and drank. Northerners, they were, and on no good business, if you ask me."

  "That's bad," Cadvan said, his interest quickening. "But not all are like that. Some folks are still decent. Where were they heading?"

  "They didn't say, not with casting nasty looks around them like we was so much dirt," said Halifax. "But after, I thought they were like Bards; gave me a windy feeling, though. Couldn't look them in the eye."

  Cadvan shook his head. "Dark days, Mr. Halifax. Well"—he stretched and yawned—"dark days or no, I have to get some sleep."<
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  "And I've my own business to be getting to, instead of yammering here like an old woman," said Halifax. "A good night to you!"

  After he left, Cadvan stood up and locked the door. He looked thoughtful.

  "What was he talking about?" asked Maerad curiously.

  "Maybe nothing, maybe not," said Cadvan. "I think we did well to leave Innail when we did. I don't like hearing of shifty people like Bards. Heading to Innail, no doubt. Innkeepers are not stupid, they are used to meeting many kinds of people, and their intuitions are often more practiced than most."

  "Do you mean corrupt Bards, or something?" Maerad asked. But despite her probing, Cadvan would say nothing more of his thoughts.

  That night the wind swept the sky clear, whipping the clouds from the moon and letting her silver light fall over the sleeping fields and towns of the Innail Fesse. The river glimmered softly, winding like a silver cord through the gray, dew-heavy fields, and the wind rushed through the trees, making a sound like the sea. Underneath the wind there were only small creaturely noises: the call of an owl, the stirring of sleeping cattle, the lonely cries of water birds, the shriek of a small animal surprised by a hunter in its nightly wanderings.

  Maerad stirred uneasily in her sleep and began to dream.

  Far away in the School of Innail, a ray of moonlight slipped through the casement and fell on Silvia's cheek. She lifted her hand to her face, murmuring something inaudible, and turned over. In the street below, the cobbles were white with moonlight but pooled with black shadows. It appeared peaceful, but anyone watching for any length of time—a bird, say, on a roof— might have thought, blinking in the deceptive moonlight, that their eyes were playing tricks. For sometimes it seemed that the shadows swelled and distorted, as if something black moved stealthily against the buildings, but then, when you shook your head, there was nothing there. If the watcher had been patient, after a time it would have become clear that two darkly cloaked figures moved furtively below, keeping always out of the light, slinking from doorway to doorway.