Meri (25 page)

She came to her feet. “Gwenwyvar?”

A-aye....

She moved to stand at the edge of the pool and waited.

What have you brought me,
Meredydd? Have you brought me a jewel of great value
?

Meredydd swallowed painfully. “No, mistress. I have not.”

What have you brought me,
Meredydd
?

“I have brought a little girl. From the village.” She took a
deep breath and rushed on. “Her name is Gwynet and she’s been beaten very
badly. She’s very ill, mistress. Can you help her?”

Can you help her
?
returned the curl of mist.

“I’ve tried. I did a Healweave and tried some cold
poultices, but I had to carry her so far from the village....”

Bring her to the water
.

Meredydd obeyed, for once, immediately, moving back to the
fire and lifting the limp Gwynet from the grass. The child seemed to weigh no
more than a leaf. At the water’s edge she stopped and waited, once more, for
instruction.

The water is healing. Do you
believe
?

Do I believe
? thought
Meredydd and answered from her own certainty. “Yes, mistress.”

Give the girl into the water.
Give her to me
.

Meredydd allowed the cold, dark pool only a momentary
glance, but she had to own a fleeting doubt and knew it would haunt her. Then,
she tightened her grip on Gwynet and stepped from the shore. The water was as
chill as it looked, but as Meredydd moved out to hip’s depth, it seemed to
warm. Steam continued to rise from it in great, silvery wisps until a host of
wraiths looked on.

Into the water
.

Meredydd set her teeth and lowered her limp burden beneath
the ripples.

What have you brought me,
Meredydd
? asked the Gwenwyvar’s wind-sough voice.

“A-a girl,” answered Meredydd, puzzled at the repetition of
the question.

Why have you brought her here
?

“She would have died. I had to bring her.”

You saw no choice
?

Meredydd gritted her teeth against all her doubts and fears.
You could have been more obedient
, they
said.
You could have had more faith
.

“No, mistress. I saw no choice.”

What have you brought here,
Meredydd
? the Gwenwyvar asked again.

Meredydd felt the hot tears well up from the depths of her
heart and overflow her eyes. “A little girl.”

No...a jewel of great virtue
.

It took Meredydd a heart-still moment to realize her arms
were empty. Not even Gwynet’s dirty rags remained in her grasp.

It was as if she had melted away into the water, leaving
behind only a sigh.

Suddenly bereft, Meredydd gave vent to a cry of anguish and
disbelief. “Gwynet! No!” Her arms thrashed at the water, searching. Perhaps she
had been so rapt in the Gwenwyvar she had allowed the girl to slip from her
grasp. Perhaps—

“Meredydd. Here.” It was man’s voice, soft and sweet and
very familiar. It penetrated the sound of her cries and her splashing and
stilled her.

Trembling, sobbing, she turned back to the shore. Osraed
Bevol stood there, looking neither old nor tired. Beside him on the shore was a
young girl—a pale haired, pale eyed creature with skin the color of moonlight
and a gamin smile that—

“Gwynet?” But no, it couldn’t be, because she was healed of
every cut and bruise and her long hair lifted, shining and clean into the
gleaming mist.

The Osraed Bevol smiled. “Yes, Meredydd—Gwynet. A jewel of
great value—of great virtue.”

“Then, it wasn’t the crystal—from the Cirke window?”

The Osraed shook his head. “Meredydd, think. Feel with the
heart you were given. You understand. Let yourself understand.”

Meredydd found she did understand. “The jewel
was
the virtue. In a foul and dark place, Gwynet’s
purity
was the jewel.” How right it seemed.
How dull of her not to have seen it.

“And you found it.” Bevol said. “Ultimately, you valued it
more than what your physical senses
told
you was the jewel. Value the jewels, Meredydd. Wherever you find them.”

Gwynet, looking like one waking from sleep, glanced from
Bevol to Meredydd, then held out her hand toward the pool.

“Won’t ye come up and be dry, Meredydd? It must be raw cold
in tha’ pool.”

Meredydd realized, suddenly, that she was still standing,
hip-deep, in the water. Chill flooded her limbs and she climbed out as fast as
they could carry her. Skeet was beside her in an instant, wrapping her in a
blanket and leading her to where her Master stood waiting.

Teeth chattering, she blinked up at him. “What now, Master
Bevol?”

“You will continue your Pilgrimage, of course. You will
tread the path to the Sea.”

“And Gwynet?” She turned her eyes to the younger girl, who
was listening, now, with every ounce of herself.

Bevol put a hand on Gwynet’s shoulder. “Why, I will take
this jewel home and set her in a place where she will be warm and safe and
happy. And we will wait for you together.”

Gwynet’s eyes grew as big and round as coins. “You mean I’ll
not go back to Blaec-del?”

“No, Gwynet. You will have a new home. The home where
Meredydd was raised. And you will go to the school where Meredydd was schooled.
And you will become one of the bright jewels of Halig-liath.”

“A home?... A school?” Gwynet turned her glorious smile and
moist eyes to Meredydd. “Oh, ye were so right when ye said I should love him,
for he’s tha’ kind. I’ll work hard for ye, Master,” she said to Bevol. “I’ll
cook and clean and—”

Bevol was shaking his head. “No, child. You will not. At
least, you will do no more than your share. The hard work I will ask of you
will be in the classroom. You will not be my servant, you will be my
daughter—just as Meredydd is my daughter. And you will not cook the meals, you
will learn the Art.” He looked to Meredydd, his eyes a dark, unreadable bit of
night sky. “Does this make you happy, anwyl?”

Shivering, Meredydd could only nod and smile so broadly she
thought her cheeks would crack. Exhaustion staked its claim on her, then, and
began to pull her suddenly heavy body toward the ground. She felt supporting
hands gently ministering to her needs, but she hadn’t the will or the strength
to thank their efforts.

A last moment of consciousness brought her to an awareness
that the pool of the Gwenwyvar was now dark and empty. The White Wave was gone,
her waters silent beneath the scattering of light from Skeet’s fire.

Tomorrow
, she thought.
Tomorrow I will tread the path of Taminy
.

To enjoy the benefits of the Divine is Wisdom; to bring others to that enjoyment is virtue. One cannot be uncaring of the welfare of others and deserve to be called human. The best worship is in the easing of another’s distress and the improvement of their condition. This is true religion.

— The Corah, Book II, Verse 41

The pool looked different with the light of dawn falling
across it through the encroaching forest. Different, but no less magical. The
greenery still wore its emeralds and the water its sapphires and diamonds, with
a few topazes thrown about for good measure.

Meredydd found she had developed an attachment to the place.
It was hard for her to turn her back on it and walk away. She wanted to see the
Gwenwyvar’s face again and hear her sweet whisper. But only the birds called to
her this morning.

A deep, honest part of her envied Gwynet, who would go home
with Osraed Bevol. She wanted him to complete her Pilgrimage with her; she
wanted to go home with him. But good-byes had to be said and Meredydd managed
not to cry except for Gwynet, who would be happy—Gwynet, who would take her
place at the Osraed’s side.

“I think I am jealous of Gwynet, Master,” she said to him
privately. “I’m ashamed, but it’s true. She’s taking my place—”

Bevol’s arms were around her in a breath. “No one, anwyl,
will take your place. Not in my house. Not in my heart. No one can. Gwynet will
make her own place there, most certainly. And I know you would not begrudge her
that.”

Meredydd shook her head. “No. I would begrudge her nothing
in the world, Master. She
is
a jewel.” She glanced
to where Gwynet, fresh and vibrant and sparkling, helped Skeet pack up their
goods.

The Osraed Bevol held her at arm’s length then, and placed a
finger on the tip of her nose and said, “Remember what I told you about jewels,
anwyl. Value them, wherever they are found. And remember, too, to let nothing
distract you from your goal.”

He kissed her forehead and moved away.

A second later, she was netted in Gwynet’s eager embrace.

“Thank ye, Meredydd. And I thank the First Being It saw fit
t’send ye t’Blaec-del. I am indeed blessed. My ma were wise t’give me tha’
name.”

Meredydd returned the embrace, any last vestiges of jealousy
melting. “Be happy, Gwynet. I know you will be happy. And pray for me. I know
the Meri will hear your prayers.”

Gwynet stood back and favored her with a bemused look. “Why
the Meri hears all prayers, Meredydd. She’s just peculiar in the way She
answers them.” She smiled brightly and gave Meredydd a last, swift hug. “Be
home soon, then. I’ll be waitin’ to hear your Tell.” She skittered back three
steps, hugging her own frail body and giggling. “Ah, home! What a grand word
that is! I’m going t’say it ’til the Master tells me to be silent.”

Meredydd followed Gwynet with her eyes—followed her to Bevol’s
side and waved them on their way east. Then she looked to Skeet. “Time for
leave-taking.”

He nodded, grinning, holding out her pack. “Aye. Off then.”

And they were on their way, their backs to the rising ball
of flame, while Meredydd tried to calculate when they might reach the Western Sea.

“Skeet,” she said finally, “I make the Sea two day’s
journey. Is that right, do you think?”

“Aye,” he agreed, “that seems right. Two days. We should see
it tomorrow.”

“We’ll be short of food by tonight.”

“Aye.”

“I wonder if there are any other villages along here. Maybe
a homestead.”

He glanced at her. “Maybe.”

She was silent for a time, rubbing her amulet between thumb
and forefinger. Then she said, “I wish Osraed Bevol could be with us. I know
that’s selfish of me, but...I’ve never been away from him before.” Skeet knew
that better than anyone.

“Nor me. Not since I come to him, I mean.”

“How did you come to him?” Meredydd asked, for Skeet, though
younger than she, had been with Osraed Bevol longer. He was a mystery of whom
the Osraed would only say when asked, “He’s such a fixture, I can scarcely
recall.” And, when pushed, might be persuaded to add, “He was a gift, you might
say.”

“From whom, Master?” Meredydd had asked once, aghast at the
idea that anyone would give their child away.

“Well, from the Meri, I can only suppose.”

Meredydd had accepted that. Certainly no one else seemed to
know where Skeet had come from, although one Prentice concocted the theory that
he was a golem, fashioned by Osraed Bevol out of clay and animated by runeweave
and duan—after all, his given name did mean “earth.” Meredydd had credited that
only for the two hours it had taken for her to be done at Halig-liath and ask
the Osraed what a golem was, and could an Osraed make one.

He’d laughed so hard, that she gratefully relegated the
theory to the dustbin and developed, in its place, the simpler theory that
Skeet had been abandoned in Bevol’s precincts and that the Osraed had simply
not wanted his young Prentice to know the cruel truth.

Skeet’s next words confirmed that long-held theory. “Well,”
he said, “Maister tells me I was left to him by someone.”

“I thought that must be it. Would you answer something else,
then?”

Skeet eyed her almost suspiciously. “Aye, if I can.”

“You’ve been with Osraed Bevol longer than I have. He’s tutored
you in all aspects of runelore and plain learning and you’ve lived down-country
since you were a babe. Why, then, do you talk like an up-country urchin?”

Skeet doubled over and cackled until he was red in the face.
“Mercy!” he cried, at last. “Mercy, mistress Meredydd. You’re after my secrets
and mysteries now.”

“Well, why do you then? You’re as well educated as I am. And
you’re not slow. Scandy-a-Caol has reason for such a manner—being raised up in
Eada—but not you.”

“I do because it suits me and serves me. People say what
fronts their minds before an urchin. They speak what they think, because they
don’t expect to be understood. I learn more that way.”

“What do you learn?”

“I learn that Aelder Prentice Wyth is all over mad-heart for
you.”

Meredydd flamed. “Where did you learn that?”

Skeet tapped his ear. “Open ears, closed mouth, silent
feet—that’s Skeet.” He paused. “I know that Leal is likewise smitten.”

“Leal?” She stared at him.

“Some Osraed-to-be you are, not even to have read
that
open book. It’s all in his eyes.”

“So you think Leal is only my friend because I’m a girl.”

“Ha! I think he is your friend in spite of it. Think on it,
Meredydd, how it must feel to a fellow to have his best friend suddenly up and
turn into a girl—someone he might think to marry, to set up family with—no more
to play or jolly about with. Ah, pure agony.” He looked completely disgusted.

“But I’ve
always
been a
girl!” Meredydd protested.

“Not to Leal. You’ve been his friend—that’s different. And
as to the poor Aelder—well, you’ve been his student all along, right?—and all
at once—poof!—a cailin. That’s singularly difficult.”

“Not for me. I don’t understand this, Skeet. Leal being a
boy doesn’t make anything different. And why couldn’t Aelder Wyth just keep
treating me the way he’s always treated me? I don’t understand.”