Chapter Text
Maerad burst into her room with a clatter, allowing the door to swing shut behind her as she collapsed directly onto the bed. The soft sheets puffed around her in an excitement of lavender and some salty sea smell, making her smile.
It had been another busy, exhausting, alive day in the city of Busk. She had commenced her day's activities at dawn with swordsmanship, then back to her rooms for a break-fast so hurried that Maerad did more eating than talking, causing Cadvan in turn to do more teasing than break-fast-ing. Then, while Cadvan had still barely taken three bites of his first meal, Maerad was off again to the First Bard’s private rooms, where she laboured under Nerili’s guidance until the midday meal (and accompanying midday nap). Atypically, her afternoon lesson with Cadvan had been postponed to make way for some commitment of his own, so Maerad immediately used her free time to flock to one of the Barding houses with which she had become familiar.
Upon entering, she had found the atrium already bustling with several people of her acquaintance. Honas had immediately dragged her out into the garden where, under the shade of a lush orange tree, he schooled her in the basics of his makilon. Maerad had a fine mind and a quick ear, so by the time the sun had moved close to the horizon they had managed to fumble through a few simple duets. It had reminded Maerad of when she and Cadvan would play together while travelling; sweet memories that had an air of comfort, of homeliness, about them. At Gilman’s Cot, Maerad had so rarely chanced to play duets. But right there in the garden with Honas and a modest assortment of other lively Bards, she decided she liked them very much, and had soon wrangled Honas into agreeing to another lesson later in the week. It took no great persuasion; it was clear to everyone that he was rather sweet on the young Bard of Pellinor. If Maerad herself noted how he put his arms about her to illustrate how to correctly hold the makilon, or if his hands lingered on hers longer than necessary when adjusting her chord-grip, she said nothing.
As the sun dipped towards the sea, the makilon was torn from Maerad’s hands and she was dragged from the garden, through the house, and out into the street, where Thoroldians were already drinking and merry-making in masses about the city. Achilos – a young, tall, rather loud-voiced Bard with whom Maerad had no particular acquaintance, but who had joined their party as they left the house – had announced that they were far behind in the evening’s fun, and as such had to work (and drink) doubly as hard to make up the difference.
Thus hailed the deluge of what seemed to Maerad’s foggy recollection to be a dizzying quantity of fine, strong red wine. At some point Maerad had become aware that they were in a tavern, although she could neither remember which one nor identify which it might be by the interior. Her vision seemed streaky-fuzzy, her brain a little slower than usual. The effect was far from alarming. All Cadvan’s warnings about the iron livers of the Thoroldians – and the hard-come-by damage-management techniques Maerad had developed for herself to avoid wine-sickness – flew from her head like a scrap of paper in the wind. The goblet before her never dipped below half full before some obliging person would top it up for her, making exclamations about hospitality to guests. Maerad didn’t mind one jot. Soon she was obligingly holding her goblet up to be refilled, even though after a point all the wine started to taste the same, and after a somewhat later point it ceased to taste of wine at all.
If Maerad thought very hard, she could remember dancing and she could remember falling over, although the recollection was so untainted by the embarrassment or bodily discomfort associated with falling that it hardly seemed like falling over at all. It was merely another step in the dance. Hands would grip her elbows – she would be hauled to her feet – and without hesitation she would spin back onto the dancefloor as if nothing had happened. She could not think how often this had happened, or how many dances she had danced, or indeed anything at all that might indicate how much time had passed. Time seemed then to be a wobbly, flexible concept, more like trickling water than a sequential series of moments. She remembered flashes of faces, but could not connect them to much at all. The faces she knew were greeted warmly. She faces she did not were skimmed over and forgotten, slippery, one nose or pair of eyes morphing into another and another until she hardly knew who she was looking at.
Maerad did remember how she ended up outside the tavern. After dancing an energetic, leaping number, she had crashed down at the table with her friends to much foot-stomping and chugged the entirety of her goblet of wine, panting. She felt hot and sweaty – and, if she had cared to look, she would have found that she looked it, too. Her throat was sore and dry – had she been yelling? Or perhaps she was merely thirsty? Glancing down, she found that her goblet was yet again full to the brim, and she gulped away at it once more, thinking all the while how funny it was, how she would have sworn that it had just been empty. Oh, well. It wasn’t empty now, and she was so very thirsty.
The wine disappeared in moments, and Maerad gasped happily. But it was still so hot. Thoroldian nights in the summer remained balmy well into the black hours, but it was currently the tail end of Autumn. It ought not to be so hot. Maerad looked about her, each movement of her head making her vision swim, and found her eye drawn to the little windows in the tavern door, through which thick silver beams of moonlight shot like arrows.
Moonlight. How cool it looked! And now she concentrated, Maerad could hear the great rushing of the sea beneath the din and chatter of the tavern. Before she even realised what she was doing, the tavern door was swinging shut behind her, muffling the noise that had mere moments ago engulfed her entirely. Out on the quay – for, she thought dimly, on the quay she was – it was peaceful, almost quiet. The ever-present breeze rushing off the sea pushed her damp hair back from her head and cooled the sweat on her throat and brow. Maerad tried to close her eyes and take a deep breath, but found she was unable to remain balanced if she did. So she just stood there, staring out at sea, for an interminable time.
The tavern door opened again behind her. Hands gripped her shoulders, and she frowned, shrugging them away instinctively before turning to see who had broken into her solitude.
It was Honas, his face flushed and her eyes bright with some strange emotion Maerad could not place. He was gazing at her intensely and, for some reason, an image of Cadvan's steady face came to Maerad’s mind. She frowned deeper.
“Ah!” Honas cried good-naturedly “I can see from your face I am an unwelcome intruder. Yet intruder I remain. I wondered where you had gotten to.”
Maerad, still unable to place his mood, turned back to the sea. His words annoyed her. It seemed to her that he didn’t really have the right to worry about her.
“The moon is so beautiful tonight.” Maerad said. She found she had to concentrate very hard on the words, and her mouth, in order to make them come out clearly. The thought was not alarming, merely curious.
“Yes, it is,” Honas returned readily, although his eyes had not left her face “but not half so beautiful as you, Maerad.”
Ah. So that was the mood he was in. Maerad had become a seasoned enough drinker to know that wine took people in different ways. Some became thoughtful and quiet, others loud and merry. Honas became amorous. He attached his big dark eyes on the closest maiden and spent the rest of the evening chasing around her skirts like a lost child, begging for her name, a dance, a kiss. That his wine-fed mooning had of late been mostly directed at Maerad was annoying but not terribly disturbing, for she knew he meant nothing by it and, at any rate, he would not try anything with her. Her confidence in this latter fact had thus far seemed unassailable and, moreover, held mostly true. But not for long.
Maerad ignored Honas’ compliment, shaking her head. She quickly stopped when the quay lurched about her, holding her temples as if it would help stop the spinning.
“Maerad,” Honas repeated, more firmly “I must confess – truly – that I have long thought you to be the most beautiful woman I have ever met.”
Maerad did not see him advance closer to her, but he must have done, because suddenly she was clasped in his arms, his hot breath rushing over her face. It was neither entirely pleasant nor entirely unpleasant. Maerad wished he would go away so that she could turn back to the moon.
“It would please me beyond anything. . .” he continued passionately, although a little drawlingly “. . . if you would grant me one kiss. Just one kiss, sweet Maerad!”
Maerad’s mind sluggishly began to register some alarm, although the emotions felt very far away. Mostly, she was confused. She was pressed so firmly against Honas’ body that she could feel all the lumps and pumps of his person; the soft flesh of his chest and stomach, the metal of his belt, and the hard hilt of some weapon digging slightly into her hip. It was strange, for she had not noticed he was armed before. Casual carrying of weaponry was certainly not common among the people of Busk; in fact, Maerad had been so thoroughly mocked for going everywhere with her longsword that she had come to leave it within her chambers, carrying only a precautionary dagger concealed in her boot.
So caught up in this seemingly answerless conundrum, Maerad did not notice Honas’ face advancing to her own until his lips were practically upon hers. Clumsily, she jolted back, stumbling away with an admonishment on her tongue. But it was unnecessary. Honas, so caught up in his daring act of romantic bravery, had closed his eyes to fully enjoy this, his triumph, the moment his sweetest dreams came true. Now, being Thoroldian, Honas’ veins practically ran with wine-maker’s blood; he was well capable of draining bottles with practically no negative consequences. But, to aid his courage, he had drained somewhat more than just a few bottles, and although his hereditary alcohol tolerance protected him up to a point, that point had been passed some hours ago. Therefore, although he seemed among the more self-possessed of the tavern’s patrons that evening, he was in fact much the worse for drink than Maerad. So, when she had stepped so very suddenly from his arms, Honas’ natural equilibrium fled, and he lost his balance entirely, falling in a tangled heap upon the ground. He groaned and gently struggled to regain his feet.
Maerad did not offer him her aid. The event was over, and therefore it fled her mind entirely. The suddenness of her own movement had sparked a desire for exertion that was perhaps symptomatic of her own drunkenness. Within the tavern, it had been expressed in tireless, flamboyant dancing. But to venture back within the hot, noisy, crowded tavern seemed an impossibility now that Maerad had felt the cool night air and enjoyed the peaceful Busk streets. So, without even looking down at Honas, who had succeeded in crawling to his hands and knees (but, by the look on his face, seemed stumped as to were to go from there), Maerad turned on her heel and stepped lightly through the Busk streets.
And then she had found herself in her rooms. She could recall parts of the relatively long walk from the quay to the School of Busk, but mostly in vague, emotion-steeped impressions. Heart-lifting joy at walking alone through the streets, deserted but not abandoned, well-known enough to be familiar but strange enough to carry some sense of mystery, of possibility. A fleeting yet potent loneliness when she took a wrong turn and found herself in a closed-in, lightless square where a dried up old fountain sat, the rim cracked. And through it all came glimpses of the bright silver moon through the gaps between buildings, from which came a great sense of comfort, as if the moon were gazing down on her with the indulgent, protective eye of a parent.
Maerad turned her head, blinking the memories back. She was in her chambers and that very same moon was shining down on her still, seeping the bed on which Maerad was sprawled with steady silver moonbeams. Maerad wriggled happily, feeling every last muscle in her body flex. It was as if she was swimming in moonlight, anointing herself in it. She lifted her hands and watched her fingers ripple in it, turning them back and forth over and over again in wonder. The moon was so low to the horizon that the light came in at a near-horizontal angle through the windows, so bright that Maerad could read by it, if she wanted to. But she did not want to read. She did not want to move. The burst of gleeful energy that had propelled Maerad all the way through the city had drained away as soon as she landed on the bed. There would be time enough for reading tomorrow – or, rather, later today. Not much later; if the sky were any indication, it would be morning within a few hours.
With that thought, Maerad turned into her side with the full intention of falling asleep right there and then, fully clothed, and let the consequences be dealt with later. But no sooner had she closed her eyes, but a noise made them fly open again.
It was faint, far away, and so low that at first Maerad wondered if she had imagined it. She closed her eyes once more, but then after a few long moments the noise came again. Maerad sat up. It sounded like a cry, perhaps from a bird outside. Maerad squinted about and – there! – she had left the door leading to the patio outside wedged open. No matter. Maerad slid to a stand and padded over towards it. She would close it, and that would keep the over-eager bird from continuing to disturb her rest.
Maerad had just gripped the handle, ready to slam the door shut and hopefully scare the bird off entirely, when the noise came again, louder and clearer.
This was certainly no bird-cry. And really, what Thoroldian bird sung or cried or made any noise at all at night? No, this was no bird-noise.
Curiosity overcame Maerad. The wine still thrummed through her body, wrapping her brain in a big blanket and preventing much logical thought from swimming to the surface. Even the possibility of danger did not occur to Maerad. The noise came again, louder and slightly longer, this time joined by another low, quavering note. Without a second thought, Maerad stepped onto the patio and quietly closed the door behind her. The sound came from her left; she followed it, a-tip-toe, and found herself standing outside a set of windows that matched her own. No light came from within, but Maerad still instinctively crouched low, hearing the noise come again. It was much louder now, and there was no mistaking that it was human. Huddling close to the wall, Maerad peeked around a large-leafed plant and peered within.
The room on the other side matched her own almost identically. It was a bedroom, with a large moonlight-drenched bed dominating most of the space, its white sheets heaped about in a messy tangle. Like in Maerad’s room, the bed was positioned side-on, so that when the user turned to face the right they would see through the windows to the patio and, beyond that, a shimmering blue line where the sea met the horizon. On the far side of the room, the same wardrobe and chest-of-drawers configuration that stood in Maerad’s room was present, but there was a different painting above the chest-of-drawers. It was very odd, like looking at one’s reflection in moving water. The image seen was close enough to what you knew to be recognisable, but then the water would shift and, for a moment, the you looking back would be not-quite-you, a you with a different nose or wider jaw or further-apart eyes. This bedroom was not-quite-Maerad’s-bedroom, familiar and yet strange at once.
Something moved. Startled, Maerad gasped loudly, then clapped her hand over her mouth. Her eyes fell to the bed, where something was slowly, rhythmically shuffling. She had thought it empty, occupied only by an unmade heap of ghostly white sheets. But, looking closer, she discerned pale limbs amidst the tufted bedsheets.
Suddenly, rising as if materialised from the very air itself, a long arm extended luxuriantly up, fingers stretching in the thick moonbeams, then crashed elegantly back down again. The arm, as it collapsed back onto the mattress, took with it a high ridge of fabric, and all of a sudden two dark-haired heads were revealed, both attached to two tangled, naked bodies. A man and a woman.
The noise came again, a breathless cry, carried clear as a bell through the open window to where Maerad crouched. It had come from the woman, and as she made the noise, she turned her head towards the window.
Maerad bit her tongue hard. The woman’s face was scrunched up in an expression of intense pleasure and her thick, dark hair was splayed out in a fan across the pillow in an attitude Maerad had never seen before in her life. But there was no mistaking her. It was Nerili.
Maerad snapped away from the window, back slamming against the wall. Her heart was hammering in her chest. She couldn’t think properly. She couldn’t even tell what she was feeling or what she ought to do. She could only remain paralysed, one hand still clamped over her mouth, the other fisted within the fabric of her dress. She was shaking. But from what?
Another long, languishing moan came through the window, this time trailing off into a word. A word that sent a jolt through Maerad’s entire body. A word Maerad recognised.
“. . .Cadvan.”