The Naming Page 20

  "It will, in its own good time. In the meantime, the Speech is hidden within you."

  "What happened when you found the Speech? How old were you?"

  For a second Cadvan's face brightened, and Maerad had a brief vision of how he must have looked as a child. "I remember it well," he said. "I was a very little boy then, about five years old. I was swimming in the river with my brothers and sisters on a hot summer day, and suddenly a fish spoke to me. I was so surprised I jumped out of the water and ran screaming to my mother."

  "What did the fish say?" asked Maerad curiously.

  "It said, 'You swim like a frog on a stick. Get some fins, leggy one!'"

  "And then your mother knew you were a Bard?" said Maerad, laughing. "Was she a Bard?"

  "Yes, to your first question. And no, she wasn't." Cadvan's face closed, as if the subject pained him, and Maerad asked no further questions. "So," he continued, "at the center of the Knowing is the Speech. I can teach you some of the Knowing, but it will not make proper sense until you have the Speech. However, you are at an advantage because you do have music, and it is said that at the center of the Speech is the Silence of Light, and that music is the only possible expression of that mystery. Which is why music is so revered among Bards."

  Cadvan threw another branch on the fire and poked it, so a trail of sparks flew up to the roof of the cavern. A moth flew in, drawn by the light, and circled clumsily around the cave, throwing huge winged shadows over the stone as Cadvan spoke.

  "The Knowing is divided into the Three Arts, all of which are of course interconnected and are, in reality, the one stream. They all serve the Balance, the equipoise of the world, which was determined when time itself was an egg: but these are mysteries that we can talk about later, and are not fully understood even by the wisest. We call the Three Arts the Reading, the Making, and the Tending. The Reading is the knowledge of the High Arts, the histories, the languages, the song, the lore, the tracing of the high forces that shape and bend this land. It's what is most commonly thought of as magic, but it is also as simple as reading and writing. The Making is exactly what it says: it means the making of music, painting, building, jewelery smithing, writing, dancing. The Tending is the knowledge of growing, husbandry, forestry, childcraft, wilding, herbs, healing, bird lore, and so on." He paused and stared at the ceiling. "There are sometimes debates on where a particular branch of Knowing belongs in the Three Arts. For example, a Bard who makes a thing of power draws on two of them: the Making and the Reading, and if it is a healing thing, a stone, for example, it might draw on all three. But myself, I am not interested in such debates."

  Maerad listened, staring into the fire, fascinated. "And what are you?"

  "I am skilled in the Reading," he said. "Most Bards find out early what most interests them, what draws them. The Reading is the most dangerous, for it is where a Bard is most easily corrupted. Therefore Bards are required to know about all three; for a Bard who counts power and learning as the highest skill, refusing to understand how all of the Arts inform and nourish each other, is a poor Bard. In the reckoning of Bardlore, all Three Arts are given equal honor."

  "And Malgorn is of the Tending? And Silvia, I suppose. . . . And Dernhil, he was of the Reading?"

  Cadvan's face hardened again. He looked deep into the fire and was silent for a long time, and Maerad was sorry she had said Dernhil's name. But then Cadvan began to chant:

  "Sweet fall the rains on the mountains of Innail

  Leaping like children down through the pinewoods

  With voices of ice like melodious laughter

  Seeking the harping of Dernhil of Gent.

  But he cannot hear them, his music is ended.

  Where has he gone? His chamber is empty

  And bright are the tears in the high halls of Oron

  Where once he stepped lightly, singing deep secrets

  Out of the heart-vault and into the open.

  Dark are the Gates that opened and beckoned

  And closed on his steps, in the gray twilight fading,

  Folding in silence the weft of his barding.

  No more will he sing in the glory of autumn

  Gilding the birches of Lowen and Braneua:

  The groves of Ileadh will wait him in vain.

  He enters the meadows of music no longer

  To gather us mirth-sheaves and harvests of pleasure.

  His harp is unstrung, his sweet voice is silenced:

  Sad now the streams in the Valley of Innail."

  He fell silent, and then he covered his face with his hands and wept. Maerad turned aside, feeling the tears welling in her own eyes, and she let them fall. They sat for an unmeasurable time, each privately mourning, as the fire burned lower.

  Cadvan finally sat up and threw more wood on the flames. He glanced over at Maerad. "It is hard to lose such a friend," he said. "Dernhil helped me out of a dark place many years ago. He taught me much about humility. And friendship. And now... the Dark has had its revenge. I should have realized the dangers," he added bitterly. "If I had not asked him to teach you, no Hulls would have sought him."

  "Perhaps not," said Maerad, remembering what Cadvan had told her earlier that day: it's not your fault there is evil in the world. "But I think he might have done the same, even had he known the risks. And I think he did know."

  "Dernhil was no fool, but he knew little more about you than that you were my pupil," said Cadvan.

  Maerad suddenly remembered the parchment that Dernhil had given her. "No, he guessed more," she said. "He gave me something. I'd forgotten all about it until now, but he said to show it to you."

  She rummaged through her pack until she found the parchment, telling Cadvan what Dernhil had told her. Cadvan scrutinized it intently, turning pale as he did so. "Do you know what it says?" he asked.

  "Dernhil translated it for me," said Maerad. "But I don't know what it means."

  Cadvan read the parchment once more and then gave it back to her. "Hide it!" he said. "I am not certain that we shouldn't burn it, but I wish Nelac to see it."

  "Nelac? Who's Nelac?" said Maerad, forgetting that he was Cadvan's old teacher in Norloch; but Cadvan did not answer her at first. His face was dark with thought.

  "Maerad," he said at last, "if the Dark knows what Dernhil knew, we are in worse trouble than I thought. By the Light, I wish I knew what happened last night."

  "But what does it mean?" asked Maerad stubbornly. Cadvan gazed at Maerad earnestly, as if he were seeing her for the first time. She met his gaze and held it, and at last he laughed gently and relented.

  "Maerad, I think you are the Foretold, the one who will come, the Fated One," he said. "Lanorgil was one of the great Seers, and he foresaw you. Seek then one who comes Speechless from the Mountains, a Bard unSchooled and yet of this School. He meant you. The riddle is scarcely hard to answer, and Dernhil was right: it is not chance that it turned up at just this time. The Foretold, in the Lore, is the one who will defeat the Nameless One in his darkest rising. It is an ancient tradition, although now mostly forgotten, except by the Wise, who do not forget."

  Maerad listened in tense silence, her heart thumping wildly. Cadvan's words filled her with a strange panic, the same panic she had felt when Dernhil had first shown her the parchment.

  "It can't be talking about me," she said, laughing nervously to cover her confusion. "I'm not... I'm not important...."

  "It's a lore that is not forgotten by the Dark," said Cadvan, staring at her somberly. "They clearly already suspect you are the One, they know your name, and by now they will know what you look like. They do not know for sure, but that mere suspicion is enough to ensure your death, if ever you came into the clutches of the Dark. But if it is still only a suspicion, they might not seek us so urgently—unless the Hulls were able to steal Dernhil's mind. Or unless they know something that we do not."

  "But why? Why would they suspect me?" asked Maerad. "How would they know? It's nonsense, Cadvan." She began
to feel angry. "A ... a silly dream on a piece of paper, and anyway, it doesn't say it's me."

  "It might. I think it might." Cadvan paused. "I think Lanorgil, when he speaks of the Fire Lily, means the Name of the One who will come." He quoted Lanorgil's words: "Seek and cherish the Fire Lily, the Fated One, which blooms the fairer in dark places, and sleepeth long in darkness: from such a root will blossom the White Flame anew. The lily is of course the sign of Pellinor. But they use the arum lily. The Fire Lily, Elednor in the Speech, that is a different flower."

  "But my Name's not Elednor!" Maerad stood up in her agitation. "My Name is, my Name is ..."

  "Maerad, you don't know your Name. No one will, until your full instatement as a Bard. And if your Name is Elednor, then you are most certainly the One, as foretold by Lanorgil." Cadvan was speaking with great gentleness, and his eyes were full of a strange compassion.

  "What if I'm not? What if you've got it all wrong? What then?"

  Cadvan shrugged. "As I said before, then I am simply wrong." He was silent for a while more, and then started to speak slowly.

  "You don't realize, Maerad, the greatness of your Gift, nor how unusual it is for a Bard to spring from nowhere in such power, wholly untutored," he said. "I began to wonder soon after I scried you. And no doubt our little adventure with the Landrost alerted others. Even with that power you are dangerous, and better silenced before you come into your own. Until you are instated, it is only a suspicion, a suspicion that in my mind grows stronger all the time. Obviously Dernhil entertained the same thought. And if the Hulls know what Dernhil knew, then our plight is darker still. But I wonder, how could the Hulls even suspect so quickly? What is their interest?"

  "Dernhil would not have betrayed us," said Maerad uncertainly. She stood still in the flickering light, her arms crossed. A vivid image of Dernhil's face rose before her, and she saw anew the resolve that underlay its gentleness.

  "It's not a question of betrayal," said Cadvan. "You don't know..." A spasm of pain passed over his face, and for a while he was silent. "Dernhil was strong, and a pure Bard. And I think the Hulls would have wanted to use him, rather than kill him; they would have sought to make him their puppet, their spy in Innail, the better to get to you. A murder would only alert the School to their presence; they cannot stay there now. Even Hulls cannot face the likes of Malgorn and Oron." He paused in thought.

  Maerad looked at Cadvan's shadowed face, and finally sat down again by the fire.

  "I think it is likely," said Cadvan at last, "that Dernhil killed himself so they could not enter his mind, and I think it is not only my hope speaking." He shuddered. "Believe me, Maerad, there are many worse things than death."

  He stared deep into the fire. "According to Lord Kargan, they tried Malgorn and Silvia's house. I made a doorward, a spell of protection on the house, shortly after we arrived there, and that was no bad thing, clearly. It not only drove them back, but it would have also told Malgorn and Silvia who it was who tried the door. It may be that they believe we are still at the School. But I don't know."

  Maerad was silent, absorbing what Cadvan had said. It was true that Dernhil was dead. Perhaps it was true that the Dark was seeking her, as Cadvan thought. She felt a black fear roiling in her innards.

  "How can we know?" she said at last. "I mean, if I have a Name, how do I know it?"

  "None of us knows anything," said Cadvan gently. "Which is the beginning of wisdom." He paused. "You must be instated, Maerad, and as quickly as we can manage. That is why we go to Norloch: in no other place can we bypass all the Charges, which would otherwise take years of study. This has always seemed clear to me, but now I see it is imperative."

  "What, they'll just instate me?" said Maerad disbelievingly. "As a Full Bard? I can hardly read...."

  "In special circumstances they will, yes," Cadvan answered. "And these seem very special to me." He sighed. "If you are the One, Maerad, it is a hard destiny, and one you could only take up willingly And yet if you did not, if you refused it, or tried to escape it, it would haunt you anyway."

  "Some choice," said Maerad dryly. She picked up a twig and pushed one end into the fire, watching until it burst into a little tree of flame. She thought suddenly of her mother. Did Milana know more about Maerad than she had told her? Sometimes she had talked of destiny, but Maerad had never known what she meant; she had been too young. . . . The flame burned down the twig until it almost reached her fingers, and she dropped it back on the flames. "Cadvan, what are Hulls?"

  "Hulls." Cadvan hunched forward, and seemed to speak reluctantly, as if against his will. Long shadows thrown by the flames haunted his face. "Hulls are—or were—Bards. They have the powers of Bards. They serve the Nameless One."

  He stopped, and in the silence Maerad heard the breathing of the horses outside, the rustle of the trees, and a night bird calling. "The Nameless One, as you know, was once a Bard himself, and in order to conquer death, cast out his Name. That is a great crime, and a crime only Bards can commit. The Hulls are bound to his will, although, unlike many of his slaves, they have wills of their own. They too do not die in the ordinary way, but with this difference from the Nameless One: they can be killed. No one knows what happens to them afterward. They have bodies like ours, but after several lifetimes they become abhorrent to behold, although they can disguise themselves as we can and pass for mortals."

  He fell silent, looking into his own memories, and then spoke with a vehement anger that took Maerad aback. "I hate them. They betray everything that makes us what we are, and destroy everything that is worthy of love. I hate them more than the Nameless One himself." Then he recalled himself, and continued more calmly. "No one knows how many there are. It is thought that no Bards have turned Hull in living memory, not since the Silence. But I have my doubts about that."

  "What do you mean?" Maerad picked up another twig and set it alight. A feeling of horror was beginning to creep up the back of her neck.

  "I mean that I think there are Hulls we have not yet recognized," Cadvan answered. "I've spoken of my fears to very few. Some of the problems of the Schools can be put down to petty vices like folly and greed; but I think not all of them. More often than we like, Bards are seduced by the Dark Arts, which does not mean they become Hulls. Think of your friend Mirlad; it seems likely that he was thrown out of the Schools for practicing the Forbidden Lore, but he was most certainly not a Hull. Hulls are thought to look evil, so people do not question the semblance of Bard, but I have sometimes wondered. ... So, Maerad, place your trust with care! If there is doubt in your heart, listen to it, even over the voices of reason."

  Maerad shuddered, and thought of Usted of Desor. He had seemed merely an unpleasant man, but could he be worse? And how could you tell? She had thought Bards free from evil, even if they were imperfect, but now it seemed no one was. For a wild moment she thought of Annar as a larger version of Gilman's Cot, where no one at all could be trusted; but she remembered Silvia and Dernhil and Malgorn, and Cadvan himself, and quietened her fears.

  "Why can't the Nameless One be killed?" she asked.

  "He made a binding spell," said Cadvan. "Bards have been trying for centuries to decipher that spell. All that is known is that such an enchantment has never been made before or since, and that its power binds him to the earth so that his soul may not depart through the Gates after death, and may reform itself in another body. It is said that the torment was so great when he said the spell that his cry echoed from the realm of Indurain over the ranges of the Osidh Annova all the way to the Isle of Thorold, from the wastes of Zmarkan even down to the Lamarsan Sea. It is held among the wise that he feels this torment still. For no human body can withstand that agony, and it seems he takes only the shapes that have the will to bear it, and they are all abominable and dreadful to the eye."

  Cadvan sighed heavily. "And so the Great Silence came to Annar. But for myself, I think I have spoken too long tonight, and we are both tired. It's time to make a little silence o
f our own."

  Maerad wrapped herself in her blanket, trying to find a comfortable spot on the floor. For a while she was restless, and random thoughts flickered unbidden through her mind: Dernhil's murder, her Name, the great raven settling on Cadvan's forearm, the One, the Hulls

  None of it makes any sense, she thought exhaustedly, no sense at all. It was like a bad dream, but a dream from which she couldn't wake up.

  Fear stirred in her belly like a cold snake.

  XIII

  ELIDHU

  IN the dark hours after midnight, Cadvan shook Maerad urgently awake. He pressed his forefinger to her mouth so she would make no noise. She was instantly alert and sat bolt upright.

  She sent out her hearing and heard at once what sounded like a large animal trampling through the forest, breaking branches as it passed. It was, she judged, perhaps a mile off, and in the direction from which they had come. Cadvan had already cloaked the sleeping horses with a charm, so they would make no sound; and noiselessly as mice she and Cadvan sat and listened as the trampling came closer and closer. Whatever it was stopped every few minutes, as if it were casting about for a scent. Maerad felt uneasily for her sword. It seemed to be following their path, and she wondered what it was—too large, too lumbering for a wolf, and a single animal, not a pack.

  It came to within a hundred yards of where they sat, and stopped. Maerad could hear its breathing, a rattling inhalation, and a horrible sound of slavering. She and Cadvan sat absolutely still, caught in breathless suspense. Then the creature lunged forward, away from the glade, and it was as if the blood rushed suddenly in a flood through all of Maerad's veins, and she went limp with relief. They listened as it trampled through the forest, the noise receding farther and farther away from them until they could hear it no more.

  "What was that?" she whispered, when the night noises of the forest began to reassert themselves over the unsettling silence.