The Riddle (11 page)

Nerili poured herself some wine, offering the decanter to Maerad and Cadvan. Maerad already felt lightheaded, since she hadn’t eaten since midday, but had a glass anyway.

“Well, Cadvan, maybe at last I begin to understand.” Nerili looked at him, smiling crookedly. “Maybe at last, after all this time . . . I confess, I didn’t know what you meant, all those years ago.”

Cadvan looked up, a deep sadness in his eyes, but he said nothing, and a long, deep look passed between the two Bards. Maerad, still perched on her chair on the other side of the room, felt as if she were intruding on a private conversation. She remembered Cadvan’s revelation in Norloch that he had been drawn to the Dark Arts as a young man, and had suffered greatly as a result; and she thought of his drivenness, his solitariness. No, she could see that he could not have stayed with Nerili, if that was what she had wanted. There was a sharpness in Nerili, a will not so much of steel as of adamant, Maerad thought; she had a feeling that, once crossed, Nerili would not forgive easily, nor forget. Maerad shifted uncomfortably in her chair, wishing she didn’t think these things.

“A coup in Norloch: that is bad, yes, even very bad, but it does not pierce the center,” Nerili said. “But this . . . this goes to the center of things, in a way I do not understand, nor did I expect. To feel that I was poisoning the Tree of Light — ah, that is a torment as bad as anything I have experienced.”

“Darkness lives in each of us,” said Cadvan. “But we are all creatures of choice. We can turn to embrace it — as Enkir has, as the Nameless One himself did all those centuries ago — or we can resist, even if that resistance seems futile. Neri, you resisted with all your strength; no one can do more.”

Nerili’s face relaxed, as if she were absolved, and then hardened. “I shall be more wary from now on,” she said. “It is true that here in Thorold, we are a wild and free people and we perhaps let the darkness in us play more than other Bards. But —”

“I do not think that a weakness,” said Cadvan, interrupting her. “Rather a strength.”

“Indeed,” said Nerili. “Nevertheless, today has shown me that it takes but a small doorway to let corruption in.”

“Do not shut it, nevertheless.” Cadvan spoke urgently. “That is the greatest mistake. It is the mistake Enkir made, I believe: to wall himself up, until he saw in himself everything that was right and he thought all else was wrong. It was but a small step from there to believing that power alone is truth and rightness, and a small step from that to what he now is. And, after all, joy bubbles on a fountain of doubt.”

Nerili sighed, and then laughed. “Oh, this is stuff for minor Bards,” she exclaimed. She glanced at Maerad and sat a little straighter, as if she had suddenly remembered that she and Cadvan were not alone. “It is the way of the Balance. After all.”

“Aye,” Cadvan answered. “It is all in the Balance. Perhaps we should all do beginner’s lessons again with Maerad.”

Maerad had been toying with her glass, wishing fiercely she were elsewhere. She was plagued by the same irritating jealousy as before, only worse now, full of conflicting emotions. She looked up when Cadvan mentioned her name.

“Perhaps,” said Nerili. “It does no harm to go back to beginnings now and again. But yes, I understand better, after tonight. And I think now that it is not such a good idea that you and Maerad remain in Busk.”

“Where will we go?” Maerad felt suddenly very tired. Not traveling again? She had hoped they might have more time here.

“We cannot stay,” said Cadvan. “But I have still found nothing about the Treesong in the Library of Busk. I have been searching as hard as I can, and I have found nothing. And how are Maerad and I to find the Treesong, as we must, if we have no idea what it is?”

“And I haven’t finished my lessons,” said Maerad quickly.

Nerili looked between them. “These are not minor matters,” she said. “Nevertheless, I feel a quickening sense of danger in your being here. Do you think that the hundreds of people in the square tonight will not wonder who made the Tree, and will not ask, and will not be told? I cannot see how your presence here can be concealed anymore: word will spread. I think perhaps you might stay in Thorold for a while, but not in the School.”

Cadvan bowed his head, accepting her argument. “I think Maerad is reluctant as I am to leave here, but of course we cannot stay if it endangers both you and us. Am I right in thinking you know of a place where we could go?”

“Yes, I do know a place, in the mountains.” Nerili placed her empty glass on the table. “I will send a messenger tomorrow. It will be impossible for anyone to find you there.” She smiled at Maerad. “It is not as comfortable as Busk, perhaps, but it is as beautiful, in its own way. I will continue to search the library, Cadvan. I will make it my first priority. I cannot believe there is nothing there that tells of the Treesong. And Cadvan is quite capable of continuing your lessons, Maerad.” She stood up. “I will advise you when I hear if it is possible; it will take a few days. In the meantime, I think it is time to eat. And Midsummer is supposed to be a time of celebration, after all.”

She smiled, dismissing them, standing straight and dignified: every inch a First Bard, Maerad thought, as they bowed and took their leave. There was no sign of the distressed and broken woman Nerili had been. As they left, Maerad stole a glance at Cadvan’s face; he looked both relieved and desolate, as if he had found something important, and at once had lost it. She didn’t want to think about what it meant; it gave her an ache somewhere in her middle.

BEHIND the School of Busk the mountainous interior of Thorold drew upward, peak after purple peak, until it reached the rocky pinnacles of the Lamedon, the highest mountain in Thorold. Even in summer, the crown of the Lamedon was white with snow.

From the mountains shelved down a wild country, with harsh ridges and peaks hiding green, sheltered valleys. Now it drowsed in the summer heat. On the slopes of the peaks clustered groves of myrtle, acacias, and olive trees, and there were clumps of scented mimosa and wild roses; bees murmured in the fragrant grasses where the goatherds and shepherds grazed their flocks. Through the haze of distance, Maerad could see dark forests of pine and fir growing on the higher lands, and the snowcapped peaks, bereft of all trees, towered behind them.

The landscape was beautiful to look at, Maerad thought, but it was a different matter altogether to ride through it. She pulled up her horse and wiped her brow, taking a swig from her water bottle. She was wearing silk trousers and a light tunic, and Cadvan had plonked a wide-brimmed straw hat on her head to prevent, he said, her going even sillier with the heat, but even so, the sweat ran down her back in runnels, and she was sure her face was puce.

Still, the view was spectacular. She, Cadvan, and Elenxi had been toiling up one of the hundreds of narrow roads, most of them barely more than goat tracks, which wound through the interior of Thorold. From here she could see over the knees of Thorold, right out to sea, although the town of Busk was hidden behind a ridge. Way off in the distance she could hear, on a flock of goats, the clinking of bells that floated down a distant hillside like a languid cloud; otherwise the only sound was the buzzing of bees and the shrill music of cicadas. It was still morning, not yet the hottest part of the day, but the sun beat down fiercely.

“The village of Iralion is not far,” said Elenxi, turning toward them on his horse, his eyes creased against the light. “And we will stop there until it cools. It has a famous tavern.” His teeth flashed in a smile, and Maerad dredged up a smile in return. She didn’t like the heat, or, at least, she liked it well enough from a shady balcony, with nothing to do and plenty of minted lemon water by her elbow. But Elenxi, who seemed as tough and unkillable as an ancient olive, appeared to be completely unbothered by it. She sighed, putting her water bottle back in her pack, and urged her horse onward. Any tavern Elenxi recommended was bound to be excellent, and, really, what was she complaining about? She had endured far worse. But she was still smarting at the necessity of leaving Busk.

They had trotted out of the School of Busk in the cool of that morning. Maerad had packed wearily before having a last bath in the glorious bathroom the night before, wondering, as always, when she would next enjoy this luxury. She was well tired of her fugitive life.

The week since the Midsummer Festival had been a blur. Nerili had been correct: it was all over Busk by the next morning that Cadvan of Lirigon had saved the Rite of Renewal from disaster. Although the Bards put it about that it was someone else, confusing the rumors, it was only a matter of time now before that news reached unfriendly ears. Maerad and Cadvan stayed hidden within the School, continuing with their routine as before, and when they ventured into town, they disguised themselves. Maerad began to feel hunted again, a feeling that had disappeared altogether those few weeks in Busk, and with it returned her dreams of Hulls, reaching out their bony hands toward her from the darkness.

The delegation from Norloch had returned from Gent and been given the answer decided on by the council. Igan was not, by all accounts, well pleased, and had left frostily for Norloch; Nerili expected a response within a month or so. Bards from Thorold had been sent secretly by swift routes to all the Schools of the Seven Kingdoms for counsel, and Elenxi had been busy traveling the isle, consulting with the village mayors on possible resistance to an invasion from Norloch. He had a double purpose in guiding Maerad and Cadvan, for he was also planning to visit several isolated villages in the very middle of Thorold.

Nerili advised Maerad and Cadvan that they should stay until the traveling Bards returned from the Seven Kingdoms, in order to get fresh information on what was happening elsewhere. She calculated it would be a month at most. “Then,” she said, “I think you ought to leave, and swiftly. It would make sense to go to Ileadh first, and then north up the coast to Zmarkan. Annar is too dangerous to cross, I judge; the Light seeks you now, as well as the Dark. I think that the only safety is in movement. But for the moment, I think you will be protected enough in the mountains.”

Cadvan had spent long hours in the library before they left, but had still found nothing. And Maerad had continued her lessons, gloomily wondering what good her snatched knowledge would be once they were on the road and in danger again.

And then had come the necessity of farewell. My whole life is just one long farewell, Maerad thought. I begin to make friends and then I must leave, probably never to see them again. At a dinner held at the School to drink the parting cup, Honas, who had indeed tried to kiss her on Midsummer’s Night, had been downcast. Although Maerad had pushed him away that night, laughing, it was a wrench saying goodbye; she had become fond of him, and in the short time they had known each other, he had taught her to play the
makilon,
an instrument she liked very much. It was the same with all her new friends in Thorold — Owan, Kabeka, Nerili, Intatha, Oreston, and the many others. As she climbed the rocky slopes on her sure-footed Thoroldian mount, she felt that everything she had found in Busk — the merriment, the joyous defiance — was all dropping away, and now she was returning to her usual dour self, that the wild dancing girl she had been was nothing but a dream, and now she was waking up again, in a dark room full of foreboding shadows.

After a while, the path they were following took a sudden dip, leading them down into one of the unexpected valleys folded into the deep creases of Thorold. The silk makers lived in these valleys, near the bitterly cold mountain streams, and tended the orderly orchards of mulberry trees that fed the silkworms. It was the waters of Thorold, the silk makers said, that was the special secret of their skill and gave the dyes their famous brilliance and purity.

Shade fell over the riders, and the vegetation became more lush as they moved downhill, until it seemed they were moving through a dappling canopy of green, humidly hot and hushed, but with the promise of cool water burbling in the distance. They trotted through groves of mulberries, the fruits red and dark purple among the green leaves, or fallen on the ground, staining it like wine. The air grew steadily cooler, and the sweat dried gently on Maerad’s skin. At last, they reached a small village of stone buildings, rather like the buildings in the School of Busk, only smaller; each was entwined in vines and flowering plants. There was only a single road through its center, and a river of clear water ran singing beside it.

“This is Iralion,” said Elenxi. “And there is the tavern. I shall leave you two there while I see Mirak, the mayor, and speak with him.”

They tethered their horses outside the tavern by a water trough, and with relief Maerad followed Cadvan into the cool interior. It was crowded with people taking their ease after a day’s work, and all of them turned to look. They greeted the Bards cheerily, some obviously hoping there was going to be music, but when the Bards just ordered drinks and something to eat, they turned back to their own conversations.