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lesson.
    “The story of the downfall of the Nameless One is long and hard and desperate, and many parts of that tale never returned from darkness,” he continued. “Suffice it to say that he was at last defeated. After his fall, the Bards made the Schools, which keep and teach the Knowing of the Light throughout Annar and the Seven Kingdoms. The center of all high knowledge is now Norloch, a fair place of gardens and high halls and learning. But in one way it differs from Afinil: for Norloch is walled and provision is made for a great garrison, and the innocence that was the downfall of Afinil will not be its weakness again. And this perhaps is the greatest loss caused by the Nameless, although some argue it is not so, and that in its greatness Norloch surpasses even the ancient citadel.”
    “Have you been there?” asked Maerad, when he said no more.
    “Yes,” said Cadvan. “Many times. For I am no longer part of any School, and travel between them as I must. The Light once more is under attack. And Bards now are sent on dangerous and secret ways to spy out the tracks of the Dark, rather than singing the leaves of spring in the old ways and bringing increase.”
    “Was that why you were near Gilman’s Cot?” asked Maerad.
    A shadow of pain passed over Cadvan’s face. “It is a little close to speak of that,” he said. He was silent then for a long time.
    In the quiet Maerad again felt the oppressiveness of their surroundings. It was now some three hours since sunset, and the moonlight illuminated the sheer edges of the mountains with a white dew, casting the ravines into impenetrable shadow. In the distance she thought she heard faint howls and shrieks. She thought also that Cadvan’s face held traces of some great strain, although his voice had betrayed nothing. Maerad remembered his exhaustion only that morning, and that he had said he was wounded. She saw no sign of a wound.
    At last she ventured another question. “Do you think that I might be a Bard?”
    “Didn’t you hear anything I told you?” said Cadvan shortly. Maerad cast him a glance of dislike. Her feet were beginning to throb with pain, and she marched on in silence, wondering if they would ever leave this cursed valley. Cadvan halted then and gasped, and Maerad saw that sweat stood out on his forehead.
    “Maerad,” he said. “I must ask your patience. I contest the will of the spirit of this place, which would not have us leave here. It bears down on me, and it gets worse the farther we go.”
    After a short time he walked on again, but more slowly, as if he were pushing through deep water. Maerad saw with anxiety they still had a long way to go before they passed out of the valley. She could feel nothing herself, apart from an increasing sense of dread. She didn’t dare to speak. It was difficult walking, as now they picked their way through broken boulders and piles of scree slipped from the sides of the mountain, and at times the track almost vanished altogether. Her boots were ragged, and her feet felt bruised and sore. And, for the first time that night, the cold began to trouble her. It seemed to creep into the marrow of her bones, forming crystals in her joints that made it hard to move. She gradually descended into a dull nightmare of exhaustion, and finally was concentrating only on putting one foot in front of the other. The mouth of the valley drew closer and closer, but as they neared it, so the cold increased and Cadvan’s steps became slower.
    At last he stopped altogether. Now sweat ran in runnels down his face, and the edges of his mouth trembled. “Maerad,” he said hoarsely. “I must rest, just briefly.” He collapsed slowly to the ground.
    Instinctively Maerad reached out and clasped his hand.
    All at once she felt it: a cold, cruel will that crushed her mind like a vice. She dropped his hand as if the touch scorched her.
    “What
is
it?” she whispered.
    Cadvan looked at her in amazement.
    “You can feel it?”