The Naming by Alison Croggon Page B

escaped the cot. Every now and then she caught herself thinking idly that she should be performing some task—weeding the fields or churning butter or spinning the rough wool that made all their clothes—and then she would catch herself, with a tiny shock: perhaps she would never have to do any of those things again. Even with the increasing sense of watchfulness, a feeling that the very stones were spying on them, the present moment overwhelmed her. She couldn't imagine anything more amazing than the mere fact of her freedom. Where she was going, or why, were questions she couldn't even contemplate. And this Cadvan—who was he? Why did she have this strange feelingshe could trust him? She knew nothing about him. She had never trusted a man before, save Mirlad, and even that trust had taken years to establish. Why start now?
    They stopped for the midday meal beside one of the many streamlets that ran down from the mountains. Maerad's ankle was beginning to swell, and she eased it out from the boot and held it in her hands, massaging the muscles.
    "It hurts?" asked Cadvan. "Let me see." He took her foot in his hands and gently turned it. "It's a little swollen. Nothing very bad. Now, breathe in." He pressed his hand hard over her ankle and Maerad gasped with pain; then she gasped again, because the swelling and pain had vanished.
    "It's gone!" she said. "Are you a healer as well?"
    "All Bards are healers," said Cadvan softly, still holding her foot. "You should have shown me before." He smiled at her, and Maerad felt suddenly uneasy and withdrew her foot abruptly, wriggling her toes in relief.
    "What's happening?" she asked. "I mean, there's so much I don't understand. Maybe I could help?" She looked up at him from under her tangled hair. "You said you were wounded, but I can't see any wounds on you. Did you heal yourself too?"
    Cadvan stood up and squinted at the sun. "We should move on," he said. "I'll tell you things in time, Maerad. I was sent here on a secret task, and I am not at liberty to tell you everything. But yes, I was wounded, and no, I couldn't heal myself. It's not a wound you can see. I am weaker than I should be, here without protection in the wild."
    "But you can trust me," said Maerad, beginning to feel angry. "And if you're in danger, then so am I, if I am traveling with you. So you owe it to me."
    "I owe you nothing, Maerad." Cadvan's voice was even, but Maerad saw the flash in his eyes.

"You wouldn't have got out of the valley without me," she said. "You said so yourself."
    "Peace!" said Cadvan harshly, and his face closed against her. "Maerad, you are a child. Don't bother me with all these questions, at least not now. We have a long way to go."
    Maerad was suddenly furious. "And who are you?" She didn't care that she was shouting, although her voice echoed loudly in the empty land around them. "You turn up out of nowhere in rags and then expect me to believe you're some kind of grand person from the west, with your talk of Bards and magic? You could just be a tinker full of tricks, for all I know. And then you tell me I'm just a child, go sit in the corner and be quiet. Shut up, Maerad—you'll find out later! I'm not a child. I'm sixteen summers old!"
    "There are more important things than the vanity of a young girl," Cadvan said coldly. Maerad realized she was standing before him, her fists clenched, trembling with anger. She flushed.
    "I'm not a child," she said again, but with less conviction. All at once she felt very childish. Cadvan looked weary, but his eyes were hard. He turned and began to walk away. Maerad paused awhile and then followed him, afraid of being left behind in this eerie silence. He was walking very fast, and she had to run to catch up. When she did, she didn't draw even with him, but walked just behind. Her temper had ebbed as suddenly as it had appeared, but she didn't want to apologize.
    They walked in stubborn silence for more than two hours. The sun was warm on their