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Authors: Alison Croggon
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it wasn’t – hard – to come back,” said Dernhil. “When I came over Veanhar Hill and first saw the School, I almost turned around and went home. I swear, Nelac, just that glimpse brought it back; it was like it happened all over again. I didn’t expect that.” He took a long gulp of wine. “But I had to see you. I’ve been longing to talk to you this past month, you don’t know how much. There was no one else I could think of speaking to.” His voice cracked, and he stopped.
Nelac leaned forward and gently patted Dernhil’s shoulder. “My friend, be easy. You are here now, and there is plenty of time. But perhaps I am not so astonished that you are here after all.”
Dernhil, who had been staring into the fire, looked up swiftly. “Is it the dreams with you too?” he asked.
“Dreams? No, not dreams,” said Nelac. “I have reasons to worry.” He waved his hand impatiently. “I’m right in thinking, though, that this has to do with Cadvan?”
“Yes. Yes, it has, but I don’t know why. But, yes, we have to find Cadvan, wherever he has gone. If he’s dead, then … well, I don’t know what we will do.”
“I would know if Cadvan had died,” said Nelac. His eyes unfocused, and for a few moments he seemed to be seeing into a far distance. “No,” he said at last. “He’s not dead: but he is far away, in thought as well as in body.” There was a short silence, and then Nelac noticed Dernhil’s empty glass, and refilled it. “But we will talk of this later. For now, my friend, I want to hear how things are in Gent.”
Nelac kept the conversation to trifles until after they had eaten dinner, when most of the strain had left Dernhil’s face. He knew Dernhil as the most private of people: he wasn’t given to showing his deeper feelings, even to his closest friends, preferring to hide behind a mask of levity. It was one of the things that had enraged Cadvan, who read Dernhil’s lightness as a studied insult.
Had Cadvan been in his right mind and disposed to be fair, Nelac reflected, he might have considered that, for all his apparent confidence, Dernhil was very shy. He might also have read Dernhil’s poems with more attention: they contained all the feeling and thought that Cadvan claimed was missing in Dernhil’s character. But Cadvan had not been in his right mind.
Nelac studied the young Bard in front of him. Deep shadows were carved under his eyes, and even now he gave off a sense of inner tension barely held in check. When he had first arrived at Nelac’s door, he had seemed to be at a breaking point. At least now the brittleness that had so disturbed Nelac had subsided.
“So tell me, Dernhil,” said Nelac, breaking a comfortable silence. “Why are you here?”
Dernhil paused, gathering his thoughts. “It’s difficult to say,” he said. “It so easily sounds foolish…”
“Be sure that I don’t believe you are a fool.”
Dernhil glanced up swiftly, smiling, and then studied his glass thoughtfully. “Well. Begin at the beginning, I suppose. It won’t surprise you to know that since – since that night, I’ve suffered from regular nightmares. When I left Lirigon, I wanted to forget, I never wanted to think about what had happened here again. I know it’s not the Bardic way, but even knowing that, I couldn’t go near those memories without the most awful pain. I still can’t. Physical pain, I mean; the scar hurts, and when the memories possess me, as they sometimes do, I feel the wound almost as if it were still raw. The body and the mind are not two things, as some Bards say, but one thing together, however they might seem divided: if nothing else, this experience has taught me that.”
“I expect you’ve always known that,” said Nelac. “You are a poet, after all.”
“I suppose so. In any case, as poets are commonly supposed to do, I began to drink too much. It helped to blunt the memories, and if I was very drunk, I slept too heavily to have nightmares.
Nelac leaned forward and gently patted Dernhil’s shoulder. “My friend, be easy. You are here now, and there is plenty of time. But perhaps I am not so astonished that you are here after all.”
Dernhil, who had been staring into the fire, looked up swiftly. “Is it the dreams with you too?” he asked.
“Dreams? No, not dreams,” said Nelac. “I have reasons to worry.” He waved his hand impatiently. “I’m right in thinking, though, that this has to do with Cadvan?”
“Yes. Yes, it has, but I don’t know why. But, yes, we have to find Cadvan, wherever he has gone. If he’s dead, then … well, I don’t know what we will do.”
“I would know if Cadvan had died,” said Nelac. His eyes unfocused, and for a few moments he seemed to be seeing into a far distance. “No,” he said at last. “He’s not dead: but he is far away, in thought as well as in body.” There was a short silence, and then Nelac noticed Dernhil’s empty glass, and refilled it. “But we will talk of this later. For now, my friend, I want to hear how things are in Gent.”
Nelac kept the conversation to trifles until after they had eaten dinner, when most of the strain had left Dernhil’s face. He knew Dernhil as the most private of people: he wasn’t given to showing his deeper feelings, even to his closest friends, preferring to hide behind a mask of levity. It was one of the things that had enraged Cadvan, who read Dernhil’s lightness as a studied insult.
Had Cadvan been in his right mind and disposed to be fair, Nelac reflected, he might have considered that, for all his apparent confidence, Dernhil was very shy. He might also have read Dernhil’s poems with more attention: they contained all the feeling and thought that Cadvan claimed was missing in Dernhil’s character. But Cadvan had not been in his right mind.
Nelac studied the young Bard in front of him. Deep shadows were carved under his eyes, and even now he gave off a sense of inner tension barely held in check. When he had first arrived at Nelac’s door, he had seemed to be at a breaking point. At least now the brittleness that had so disturbed Nelac had subsided.
“So tell me, Dernhil,” said Nelac, breaking a comfortable silence. “Why are you here?”
Dernhil paused, gathering his thoughts. “It’s difficult to say,” he said. “It so easily sounds foolish…”
“Be sure that I don’t believe you are a fool.”
Dernhil glanced up swiftly, smiling, and then studied his glass thoughtfully. “Well. Begin at the beginning, I suppose. It won’t surprise you to know that since – since that night, I’ve suffered from regular nightmares. When I left Lirigon, I wanted to forget, I never wanted to think about what had happened here again. I know it’s not the Bardic way, but even knowing that, I couldn’t go near those memories without the most awful pain. I still can’t. Physical pain, I mean; the scar hurts, and when the memories possess me, as they sometimes do, I feel the wound almost as if it were still raw. The body and the mind are not two things, as some Bards say, but one thing together, however they might seem divided: if nothing else, this experience has taught me that.”
“I expect you’ve always known that,” said Nelac. “You are a poet, after all.”
“I suppose so. In any case, as poets are commonly supposed to do, I began to drink too much. It helped to blunt the memories, and if I was very drunk, I slept too heavily to have nightmares.
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