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Authors: Alison Croggon
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reminds me of the waif you were then. You barely dared to open your mouth."
"It was terrifying. I thought they'd throw me out when they discovered I wasn't a proper Bard."
"You're not a proper Bard," Cadvan said, smiling. "You're something altogether strange."
"I suppose I am." Maerad picked up some straw and twirled it around her finger meditatively. "I can't help wishing I was a normal Bard, though. I can think of nothing better than staying here, learning the Three Arts properly, reading all the lore of Annar, just being ordinary ..." She couldn't keep the raw longing out of her voice, and Cadvan was silent for a time.
"I wish all that for you, Maerad," he said at last. "You don't know how much. And I begin to think, too, that I am tired of my restless life. I wonder how many steps I've walked since my youth. I suppose I never felt that I had the right to stop anywhere for long."
Cadvan had never said anything like that before, and Maerad glanced at him, surprised. He was staring at the floor, his face reflective and a little sad. In the dim light of the stables he seemed younger, not much older than she was.
"You probably earned the right years ago," she said.
"It's never a question of what others think," Cadvan answered, with an edge of harshness in his voice. "The hard thing is always to forgive oneself."
"Then you're simply being selfish."
"Do you think so?" A smile quirked the edge of Cadvan's mouth. "A little self-indulgent, perhaps?"
"I think so. Definitely. If others forgive you, what right have you not to forgive yourself? It's just vanity."
Cadvan almost looked offended, but then he started to laugh. "Ah, Maerad," he said. "I think I will keep you as my conscience. I fear that you're painfully right."
"I've had quite a bit of time to get to know you," she said, smiling. "They're not wrong, those who accuse you of pride."
"Or arrogance. No, they're not wrong. Maybe only you know how hard I work to keep these things at bay."
"But you wouldn't be you without them, all the same."
"It's a question of the Balance. As always. I wish it were not the case that our faults are so often the other side of our virtues." He stood up and stretched. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'm hungry."
"I just broke my fast," said Maerad. "But I only had a pastry. I wouldn't mind eating again."
"We could go to that tavern. The food looks like good Innail fare."
Over their meal, they discussed their immediate plans. Cadvan thought they should leave Innail the following day, heading south. "I think our best bet would be to make for Til Amon," he said. "If Hem and—I hope—Saliman have fled
Turbansk, they would, I imagine, have gone there. And—I suppose—we'll just follow your nose."
"I hope it's working properly," Maerad said dryly. "Obviously Malgorn thinks we've taken leave of our senses."
"Maybe we have," said Cadvan, grinning. "Perhaps not. The Way of the Heart is not, after all, so mad; and it's something the Dark does not understand. I think we follow that way now. Although I do not know where it will lead us."
"No." Maerad turned her face away, and Cadvan, sensing her discomfort, began to talk of practical things: the food they would take, whether it would be safe to stay in inns in the valley, how dangerous the road might be.
Early the next morning, they bid their friends farewell and trotted through the main gate of Innail. The rain had stopped, leaving in its wake a biting wind straight off the mountainside; Maerad had dressed in several layers of clothes to ward off the cold, and still felt the chill. Their leavetaking had been quick and somber: Maerad had embraced her friends, feeling as if she were about to jump into an abyss. Suddenly all sense of urgency had vanished: she just wanted to stay where it was safe and warm, amid the beauty of Innail. But she knew better, and bit down the tears that threatened, turning her face determinedly to the road.
They set off at a leisurely pace. It was still
"It was terrifying. I thought they'd throw me out when they discovered I wasn't a proper Bard."
"You're not a proper Bard," Cadvan said, smiling. "You're something altogether strange."
"I suppose I am." Maerad picked up some straw and twirled it around her finger meditatively. "I can't help wishing I was a normal Bard, though. I can think of nothing better than staying here, learning the Three Arts properly, reading all the lore of Annar, just being ordinary ..." She couldn't keep the raw longing out of her voice, and Cadvan was silent for a time.
"I wish all that for you, Maerad," he said at last. "You don't know how much. And I begin to think, too, that I am tired of my restless life. I wonder how many steps I've walked since my youth. I suppose I never felt that I had the right to stop anywhere for long."
Cadvan had never said anything like that before, and Maerad glanced at him, surprised. He was staring at the floor, his face reflective and a little sad. In the dim light of the stables he seemed younger, not much older than she was.
"You probably earned the right years ago," she said.
"It's never a question of what others think," Cadvan answered, with an edge of harshness in his voice. "The hard thing is always to forgive oneself."
"Then you're simply being selfish."
"Do you think so?" A smile quirked the edge of Cadvan's mouth. "A little self-indulgent, perhaps?"
"I think so. Definitely. If others forgive you, what right have you not to forgive yourself? It's just vanity."
Cadvan almost looked offended, but then he started to laugh. "Ah, Maerad," he said. "I think I will keep you as my conscience. I fear that you're painfully right."
"I've had quite a bit of time to get to know you," she said, smiling. "They're not wrong, those who accuse you of pride."
"Or arrogance. No, they're not wrong. Maybe only you know how hard I work to keep these things at bay."
"But you wouldn't be you without them, all the same."
"It's a question of the Balance. As always. I wish it were not the case that our faults are so often the other side of our virtues." He stood up and stretched. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'm hungry."
"I just broke my fast," said Maerad. "But I only had a pastry. I wouldn't mind eating again."
"We could go to that tavern. The food looks like good Innail fare."
Over their meal, they discussed their immediate plans. Cadvan thought they should leave Innail the following day, heading south. "I think our best bet would be to make for Til Amon," he said. "If Hem and—I hope—Saliman have fled
Turbansk, they would, I imagine, have gone there. And—I suppose—we'll just follow your nose."
"I hope it's working properly," Maerad said dryly. "Obviously Malgorn thinks we've taken leave of our senses."
"Maybe we have," said Cadvan, grinning. "Perhaps not. The Way of the Heart is not, after all, so mad; and it's something the Dark does not understand. I think we follow that way now. Although I do not know where it will lead us."
"No." Maerad turned her face away, and Cadvan, sensing her discomfort, began to talk of practical things: the food they would take, whether it would be safe to stay in inns in the valley, how dangerous the road might be.
Early the next morning, they bid their friends farewell and trotted through the main gate of Innail. The rain had stopped, leaving in its wake a biting wind straight off the mountainside; Maerad had dressed in several layers of clothes to ward off the cold, and still felt the chill. Their leavetaking had been quick and somber: Maerad had embraced her friends, feeling as if she were about to jump into an abyss. Suddenly all sense of urgency had vanished: she just wanted to stay where it was safe and warm, amid the beauty of Innail. But she knew better, and bit down the tears that threatened, turning her face determinedly to the road.
They set off at a leisurely pace. It was still
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