The Gift Read Free

leaned her forehead into the warm flanks of a dark-eyed cow, who stood patiently chewing cud as she kneaded its full udder. The milk splashed rhythmically into the pail. Maerad was on the brink of sleep when suddenly the cow almost kicked her and then tried to rear. Maerad started awake, rescuing the pail — spilled milk would mean a beating — and tried to calm the animal. Normally a word would do, but the creature kept snorting and stamping, pulling the chains that held her hind leg and head as if she were distressed or frightened.
    The hair on the back of Maerad’s neck prickled. She had a strange, taut feeling, as if there were about to be a storm and the air was crackling with imminent lightning. She looked around the byre.
    A man stood there, not ten feet away, a man she had never seen before. For a moment, shock stopped her breath. The man was tall, and his stern face was shadowed by a dark, roughly woven woolen hood. She stood up and reached for a rushlight, uncertain whether to shout for help.
    “Who are you?” she said sharply.
    The man was silent.
    She began to feel afraid. “Who are you?” she asked again. Was it a wer out of the mountains? A ghost? “Avaunt, black spirit!”
    “Nay,” he said at last. “Nay, I am no black spirit. No wer in a man’s skin. No. Forgive me.” He sighed heavily. “I am tired, and I am wounded. I am not quite — myself.”
    He smiled, but it was more like a wince, and as the rushlight fell past his hood and illuminated his features, Maerad saw that he was gray with exhaustion. His face was arresting: it seemed neither young nor old, the countenance of a man of perhaps thirty-five years, but somehow with the authority of age. He was high-cheekboned, with a firm mouth and large, deep-set eyes. He held her gaze. “And who are you, young witchmaiden? It takes sharp eyes to see the likes of me, although perhaps my art fails me. Name yourself.”
    “Who are you to ask me?” said Maerad pugnaciously. It occurred to her, with a pang of surprise, that she didn’t feel afraid — although, she thought in that split second, she ought to be.
    The man looked hard at her, searching her face. He staggered slightly and corrected himself, and then smiled again, as if in apology.
    “I am Cadvan, of the School of Lirigon,” he said. “Now, mistress, how do they name you?”
    “Maerad,” she said, almost whispering. She felt suddenly at a complete loss, confused by his politeness.
    “Maerad of the Mountains?” the stranger said with a wry smile.
    “Of . . . of Gilman’s fastness,” she said haltingly. And then with a rush: “I’m a slave here. . . .”
    “A slave?”
    Steps sounded outside and Lothar’s bulk darkened the door. “Where’s that milk? What are you doing there; have you lost your wits? Are you looking for the whip? If the butter doesn’t turn, we’ll know who to blame.”
    He was not pleased with her, after her rebuff that morning. But again Maerad caught her breath in shock. Although the stranger stood plain in his sight, Lothar seemed to look right through him.
    “I’m — I’m sorry,” she stammered. “The cattle are restless. . . .”
    She sat on her stool and leaned forward to the cow again, who now stood patiently. Lothar watched her while she milked. She willed him to go away. After a short time, she heard his steps leaving and she relaxed a little. She kept milking, because she needed time to gather her thoughts. The stranger still stood there, watching her.
    “Maerad,” said the stranger quietly. “I wish you no harm. I am tired, and I need to sleep. That’s why I’m here.” He passed his hand over his brow, and then leaned against the wall of the byre.
    “He didn’t see you,” she said blankly, still milking steadily to cover her amazement.
    “No, it is a small thing . . .” he said, almost abstractedly. “A mere glimmerspell. What is interesting is that you saw me.” He stared at her again, with that searching, disturbing gaze.