The Gift by Alison Croggon
"I didn't know it would be like this," she said.
"One never knows how things will be," said Cadvan slightly dreamily as if he remembered something in his own past.
A little of the radiance of the flame still clung to Maerad's skin, so as she sat in the room she shimmered slightly. Cadvan looked at her in wonder; he thought he began to understand the kinship Ardina had spoken of.
"Not all Bards pass through the White Flame," said Nelac. "Not all Bards may. It was well done, Maerad." He stared at her gravely. "A true Bard! And if I may say so, truly your mother's daughter!"
There was no time for Maerad to absorb what had happened. Into the sitting room came the sound of shouting in the street, faint and far away, and the dim clash of weapons. Much closer, there was a hubbub in the hall. Nelac looked up sharply. "It's begun, my friends," he said.
Maerad sighed, and forced her mind to the present. They had to escape Norloch. Saliman and Hem must already be out of the citadel, heading south. She saw their figures in her mind's eye, as if from a great height, galloping through the night on the Meads of Carmallachen. Now she and Cadvan must leave.
Brin ran into the room, looking agitated. "Master!" he said. "Something is amiss. There's rioting in the streets! I saw soldiers from one of the high windows...."
"I know, Brin," said Nelac calmly. "I am just sending off these guests. Remember even the White Guard cannot force the outer doors; they're barred with more than iron. And please, if you could keep the students from panicking, we need to evacuate them down to the lower Circles. I'll be back soon. If need be, you know how to get to the Fifth Circle."
Brin nodded and left.
"Brin is my right hand," said Nelac, smiling wearily. He leaned for a second against the wall. For the first time since his return from the Council, he seemed old and tired. How old is he? Maerad thought suddenly. Three times the span of a normal lifetime, Cadvan had said. . . . But Nelac interrupted her musings. "Now it's time for you two to leave. I'll take you to the passage entrance—it goes straight from there, you can't get lost—and there I'll leave you. You two can defend yourselves. I have other urgent cares."
Cadvan and Maerad lifted their packs and followed Nelac. He led them along the great entrance hall, left into another wide corridor, and then through the huge kitchen, which was completely deserted. At the far end was a small, dark staircase, which they descended. Nelac made a light as they went down, and Maerad saw they entered a low-roofed vaulted cellar, which seemed to stretch endlessly around them. It was stacked to the roof with orderly rows of casks, glass bottles, barrels, and bulging sacks of grain. The walls were lined with shelves of fruit and vegetables: apples, turnips, carrots, and more. And from the roof hung strings of onions and garlic and long fragrant dried sausages. The air was cool and still, but dry. Maerad breathed in the pungent smells as they hurried through, reminded suddenly that they had not had time to eat.
Nelac led them to a low corridor on the other side, and here they went again downstairs and turned left into another passage, lined with a number of small, stout oaken doors. The walls here were more roughly hewn, and the air began to feel dank and stale, as if these passages were not often used. He stopped by the door at the far end, took a bunch of keys from his waist, and unlocked it. The Bard light wavered through the doorway, but all Maerad could see was a few gray stone steps, which vanished down into impenetrable darkness.
"Here it is," said Nelac. "This gives out on the cliff face far below, and from there it's a matter of picking your way over the rocks to the quayside. The tide is out for the next six hours, so you won't have to swim. I think Enkir does not know of this passage, but I certainly cannot be sure; there are others not so secret, leading out to the lower circles, which he may expect you to use. I don't believe the other opening will be locked; but I am not so sure of the quays. By now the citadel will be battened down, and I think Enkir will not have forgotten the sea. Be wary!"
He paused and wiped his hand over his brow. Cadvan looked at him intently. "Nelac, I wish you would come with us," he said. "I fear for you in this place."
"Nay, Cadvan," answered Nelac, and he smiled somberly. "I am too old for such ventures. I will not lie to you: my heart is full of foreboding. Now we are come to evil days. But I am needed here."
Cadvan did not argue, but the sadness in his face deepened.
"Now listen well," Nelac went on. "Owan's boat is called the White Owl. It has red sails, which bear the sign in white. You will know him; he is tall and dark after the manner of Thorold." As Nelac spoke, Maerad saw an image vividly in her mind: a dark, humorous face with eyes gray as the sea. "He said he would wait for you at the cliff end of the quay, and he knows your likenesses. Go there as quickly as you may. He is a man who may be trusted." He looked away from Cadvan and Maerad. "All my hope goes with you two. Do what you must. The Dark must not prevail."
Maerad brimmed suddenly with love for this old man, gentle and wise and human, yet stern and strong, she knew, as the very rock. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. Nelac looked slightly surprised, but smiled.
"Farewell, young Bard," he said.
"Goodbye, Nelac," whispered Maerad, still clinging to his neck. "Thank you." She released him and stepped back.
"What the Light wills, no frost can kill," Nelac said. "Remember that. The roots of the Treesong run very deep, and shoots emerge where you least expect them. Keep vigilant!" Maerad nodded. "Farewell, Cadvan." Cadvan embraced him without speaking. Then the two entered the passage and Nelac shut the door behind them. Maerad heard the key turn in the lock.
For a second it was completely dark. Slowly a pale silvery illumination blossomed in the blackness. The glimmer came from Cadvan, but he did not move. He was staring sightlessly ahead.
"I doubt I'll see Nelac again," he said flatly. "Though I would know—surely I would know—if he died. . . ." There was a strain in his voice, a pained doubt, and for a moment Maerad didn't answer.
"You don't know what will happen," she said at last, awkwardly. "And Nelac is strong."
"Yes." Cadvan sighed heavily, and thrust away his thoughts. "It would be easier if I had a staff to make the light," he said. "I don't use one much, but over long stretches of time it helps. Perhaps we can take turns; I don't wish to finish our journey too tired. I have no idea what we'll find at the other end."
Maerad looked ahead. The passage was roughly hewn in the rock, and before them the wall curved around, out of sight. The steps were steep and narrow, plunging down in a ceaseless spiral through the core of the cliff. There was a dampness in the air, and it was cold; she shivered and drew her cloak closer around her.
They began the long descent. There was no hand guide or banister in the wall, and Maerad felt a constant fear of toppling down the steps. As they went farther, it became damper, and trickles of water occasionally ran down the walls, making the stairs slippery and treacherous. After about half an hour, Maerad took a turn of making the light, and she began to see what Cadvan meant; it was tiring, in a deep part of her mind, to keep the illumination while concentrating also on making sure she didn't trip and fall.
They could hear distorted sounds vibrating through the rock, and once they passed what must have been a thin wall to a room or another passage, because they could hear the mumble of people speaking quite clearly on the other side.
"The pinnacle of Norloch is a maze of these tunnels," said Cadvan. "Many are used for storage, or for secret passage from one house or Circle to another. I don't think anyone knows all of them." Maerad wondered what was happening above their heads, in the citadel. Occasionally she could hear a faint boom, and when she sent out her hearing she could detect the echoes of men's shouts and the pound of feet on stone, but she could make no sense of what she heard.
The stairway seemed to go on forever, and Maerad's legs began to ache. The chill set in her bones, and she tired of the darkness and of the low roof of heavy stone, the oppressive sense it gave her of an increas
When at last the stairs stopped, her knees were trembling and her thighs burned with the unnatural strain of walking so many steps. She halted abruptly, looking at Cadvan.
"I've got to rest," she said. "Just for a little while ..."
"I've no argument with that," said Cadvan. "I hate stairs." He put his pack on the ground and sat on it. Here the ground was damp, and a little rivulet of water ran down the edge of the tunnel, which plunged ahead of them through the rock into darkness. Maerad did the same, stretching her legs out in front of her and massaging the muscles. Now she could smell something new; a faint briny scent leavened the dead air.
"We're almost there," said Cadvan. "Soon we'll be out of here."
They didn't stop for long. After barely five minutes Cadvan stood up again and heaved his pack onto his back. Maerad followed him down the straight tunnel, which ran very slightly downhill. Now the going was much easier and they moved fast, possessed by a sharpening sense of urgency. They had walked for about fifteen minutes when the smell of brine grew stronger. Maerad saw a very faint glimmer of starlight in the distance, although she couldn't see the mouth of the tunnel; and then she could hear the crash of waves and, behind it, the ceaseless soughing of the sea. The tunnel became much less like a passage and more like a natural cave; their footsteps were dulled by sand, and the walls narrowed dramatically as they reached the end. They were forced to stoop lower and lower until they were nearly bent double. Then it suddenly ran steeply upward and they climbed the last few feet, scrambling out of a narrow opening onto a tumbled mass of boulders slimy with weed.
A dozen feet below waves scumbled the shoreline, a littoral of black rocks shining, dimly wet. The night was clear and bright, and Maerad breathed in the salt air, relieved to be at last out of the close, dead atmosphere of the passage. The black basalt cliffs of Norloch soared high above, and she saw over the water before them the narrow heads of the harbor, a gap of starlight between lightless walls of stone.
Now it was a matter of picking their way carefully over the rocks, trying not to stumble in the shadows or fall into the pools of saltwater that filled every crevice. It was tedious and time-consuming, but slowly they made their way around the base of the cliff, and soon Maerad could see the great stone quay looming before her. More ominously, she could hear shouts coming over the water, and sounds of armed struggle, and then suddenly she saw a leap of red light. Flames.
"Fighting in the Ninth Circle," Cadvan murmured in her ear. "I hope Owan still awaits us!"
"Nelac said he'd trust him with his life," said Maerad, wondering what they would do if Owan had already gone, driven off by whatever was happening in Norloch. They continued their scramble until they were at the base of the quay. Steps jutted out from the side, and silently they crept up. Just before the top Cadvan put his hand out to halt her, and cautiously poked his head over the edge. Then he beckoned her after him, and they crawled over the lip of the quay.
Farther up the wharf knots of people were fighting, grotesquely lit by flames. Three boats moored at the farther curve of the harborside were on fire, and their reflections glittered like blood on the surface of the waves.
"They're burning the ships!" Cadvan muttered. "Enkir is being thorough."
Maerad couldn't see clearly what was happening on the quay, but she could hear swords clashing and terrible shouts and screams. She shut her eyes; it was too like her memory of Pellinor. She couldn't afford to think of that. Not now.
They were hidden in the shadow of a large bollard, and, for the moment, unperceived. Nearby a number of boats clinked softly at their moorings. Crouching, Cadvan scanned them, his face anxious. Which one was theirs? They all looked deserted. Not far away, but too far for Maerad's comfort, was one with red sails, but they couldn't see its name from where they were.
"I think that must be the one." Cadvan nodded toward the boat. "Maerad, you can make a glimmerspell now, yes? Make yourself invisible. We don't want to be spotted. I can't see any Bards, though it's hard to tell in this chaos." Maerad concentrated her mind for a moment; she had never done this before, but it was easy. Cadvan lifted his eyebrow, and she nodded; and then they both stood up and ran.
They were almost at the boat, close enough to see a flying owl painted in white on its sails and the gangplank shifting on the stone, when there was a shout. A Bard had seen them.
"Halt!" A tall man bearing a mace and a fiery torch came running up to them. "Halt! Who goes there? None are allowed on these wharves, by order of the First Bard!"
They were still too far away from the boat to risk a dash. Maerad heard Cadvan curse under his breath. The glimmerspell would not deceive a Bard, but perhaps there was still some hope of disguise. He turned to the man, his hand under his cloak on the hilt of his sword. "Mercy, sir!" he whined, in an accent Maerad didn't know. "Me and my boy are trying not to get ourselves killed." His hood shadowed his face, and Maerad shrugged hers farther over her head.
"You should have been off the quay an hour ago." Two other men were running up behind him.
"We didn't know," said Cadvan. "We were trapped...."
"They're Bards," said a voice from behind the first. The man thrust the torch closer toward them, peering into Cadvan's face. Maerad moved behind him, trying to conceal herself in its flickering shadows.
"Bards, sir?" said Cadvan.
"Get Enkir," said the voice. "I think it's them." The third man ran off.
It was clearly too late for concealment. The two remaining Bards strode forward to grab them, shouting for help. Cadvan swept out his sword, Arnost, and they jumped back. The first man dropped his torch and took his mace in both hands.
In that split second Maerad looked around desperately. Dozens of soldiers seemed to be on the quay fighting, but she couldn't see who was fighting whom. More soldiers were running up to them. She saw the white blur of a face peep through the railings of the boat and instantly disappear. Owan.
He hadn't abandoned them. Without thinking, she drew her own sword and stood shoulder to shoulder with Cadvan, and they moved back to a bollard, standing against it. The water glimmered blackly behind them.
"You would kill me, Gast?" said Cadvan to the first man. The edge of Arnost gleamed dangerously. "I'd think again, if I were you."
"Silence, traitor!" Gast cried. "Death is your doom now." He lifted his mace and lunged toward them. Cadvan and Maerad leaped aside and the blow fell on the bollard, striking sparks. Another blade flashed and Gast fell to the ground, blood running darkly from his neck and mouth. He convulsed and then did not move. Maerad stared for a heartbeat, appalled at this swift death, but someone else swung at her with a sword. She parried the blow and leaped toward Cadvan, who pushed the soldier back brutally and then, with his left hand, flung up a sudden wall of white flame around them. The soldiers vanished behind it, and Maerad and Cadvan were enclosed in a blazing semicircle.
Cadvan turned to her, his face lit weirdly by the fire, the whiplashes livid on his white skin. "It's only thirty feet to the boat," he said. "Our only hope now is to fight our way there, and we can't do that with swords; there are too many of them. If we both hold a wall around us, we might make it."
Maerad nodded, breathing in gasps. Beyond the silver flames she could hear the shouting of many soldiers. She took Cadvan's hand, joining her mind to his, and the flames leaped up, brilliant and cold. Then, step by step, she and Cadvan began to move along the edge of the quay toward the boat. They had not gone three paces when she began to feel the pressure of a counterspell; the flames thinned and lowered, and she could see the dim shapes of soldiers beyond them. She pressed harder, and the flames leaped up again.
"There are more than two Bards out there," said Cadvan. Sweat was b
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, they moved toward the boat. Maerad felt her whole body burning with the strain. She dared a look over her shoulder, and the fishing boat still bobbed serenely in the water, apparently deserted. Twenty feet, ten feet, they were almost there. Her head throbbed with the pressure of keeping up the wall, but they would make it.
Then, with a dreadful suddenness, the flames vanished. Maerad reeled with the shock; it was as if they had been stamped out by a giant foot. Cadvan clutched her hand, dashing the sweat out of his eyes, and threw out another force of resistance to buy them a few precious seconds. Maerad blinked, trying to see. There were the red blurs of torches and a boiling mass of dark shapes, but in front of them was something else, a new power that had not been there before.
"Enkir," said Cadvan, gasping. "It's Enkir! He feels like a wight!"
Like a wight, thought Maerad with the rapidity of fear, but not like a wight: this power had not the horror of the grave, but the same living malice she had felt in the Crystal Hall. She could see Enkir's figure barely fifteen feet away, no bigger than any of the soldiers who milled around him; but a power gathered around him like an abominable shadow, so that he seemed to loom gigantically above them, hideous and terrifying. The soldiers were now scattering, cowering before him, but Maerad was barely aware of them.
Cadvan's resistance was fading and she felt, like a savage blow to her face, the force of Enkir's will, cruel and implacable. She crushed Cadvan's hand in hers and sent out a bolt of fire in panic, wishing fiercely that she knew how to harness the powers she undoubtedly possessed.