The Riddle (20 page)

She looked up at Cadvan, who was listening gravely. “As soon as I looked it in the eye and it looked at me, I felt different. I knew it was a monster, and that it wanted to break us all into little pieces and drown us. But it was
innocent,
a wild thing. It wasn’t like the wight, or the Hulls, or even the Kulag or the ondril. When you’re near them, all you feel is —” She paused, shuddering, as she remembered these encounters. “All you feel is their malice. They are full of the malevolent will to destroy life, I mean, all that is beautiful and loving about life. But the stormdog wasn’t like that.”

“It bloody wanted to destroy
us,
” said Owan.

“Yes, I know, but it wasn’t deliberate. We were just in its way, and it could just as easily have gone on to destroy something else, or not destroy anything at all. Like a storm would.”

Cadvan nodded thoughtfully.

“And as soon as I realized that it was innocent, I remembered my mother singing me to sleep when I was little, oh, such a long time ago. And the song was the first thing in my head. So I started to sing it.”

“It’s a lovely song,” said Owan reflectively. “I haven’t heard that one.”

“It certainly worked.” Cadvan gave Maerad an inscrutable glance. “I would never have thought of stormdogs as innocent before, I must say. I shall have to contemplate this new wisdom.”

“Well,” Maerad returned, slightly annoyed. “You didn’t think Enkir could be of the Dark, either.”

“No, that’s true,” he said, and then he laughed, and the somberness vanished completely from his face. “It seems that all my certainties are doomed to crumble to dust.” There was a short pause. “Well, I for one need some breakfast,” said Cadvan. He pulled up the trapdoor and disappeared down the gangway.

Maerad sat down on the deck, suddenly too exhausted to move. Owan, with the discipline of long habit, began to coil up the littered ropes.

Soon Cadvan returned with a flask, some plates, a cloth, a loaf of bread and some cheese. “It’s a mite wet down there,” he said. “But these escaped the general drenching.” He spread the cloth out on the deck and laid out their meal. “Leave that, Owan. I’ll help you later. Have some of this.”

He passed him the flask. Owan took a long swig, wiped the neck of the bottle, and passed it to Maerad before he sat down to join them. She took a large gulp, blinking: it was laradhel, a liquor Bards used as a restorative. It went down into her belly like fire, and its warmth spread instantly through her body, driving out the chill that lay deep in her bones.

They ate for a while without speaking, all of them realizing suddenly how hungry they were. The cheese was good Thoroldian goat’s cheese, but it had an extra edge this morning, Maerad thought, or perhaps it was simply that she paid more attention to its taste. Despite her weariness, all her senses seemed sharpened.

Maerad scanned the sea as she chewed, and saw a long, low smudge on the horizon. “Is that Ileadh?” she asked, pointing with her bread.

Owan squinted. “Yes, it is. And that’s the west coast of Annar there, to the east. We weren’t blown off course as much as we might have been. We’ll be there by eventide, I guess.”

There was a short silence, interrupted only by munching.

“I was right glad you Bards were here last night,” he added.

“Well, if you hadn’t had us Bards onboard, you might not have met such a peril,” said Cadvan dryly. “So we’re a mixed blessing. Have you ever heard of stormdogs this far south?”

Owan paused for thought before he answered. “There was tell of stormdogs during the Great Silence,” he said. “But never since. And I hear that farther north, up around the coast of Zmarkan, they do appear, at least recently. But this far south, no.”

“It seems like a bad sign to me,” Maerad said. “As if it were pursuing us.”

“That’s how I read it,” Cadvan answered. “They will have guessed we are heading for Ileadh. I think, Owan, we should not put in at Genthaven.”

“I was not planning to, at any rate,” said Owan. “For that reason. There is a hamlet not far from Gent, up the Argent River, called Ossin. We are expected there.”

Cadvan nodded, pleased with the arrangement, and turned to Maerad.

“Stormdogs are Elemental spirits. I suppose that’s why you had that idea of singing to it, Maerad.” He smiled at her tiredly. “Only an Elidhu would be crazy enough to think of something like that. The stormdog could have been sent only by Arkan, the Winterking. They are his creatures; he used them in the Elemental Wars, and also during the Great Silence. I have long suspected there is league between the Nameless One and the Winterking, and that Arkan wakes from his long sleep, but this is close indeed.”

“It means that they know where we are,” said Maerad, shivering. “And they’re not far behind.”

They reached Ossin at nightfall, after Cadvan agreed to Owan’s entreaty for a charmed wind. They had sailed up the long bay of the Nathe of Gent, and Maerad gazed at the green-purple hills sloping gently up on either side in the distance. In a hollow at the far end of the Nathe, she caught a glimpse of Gent itself: white walls overtopped by a cluster of onion-domed towers gleaming silver and gold and copper in the lowering sun. She inwardly sighed that she would not be visiting the School; even from a distance it looked beautiful.

Instead, they sailed a league or so west and turned into the wide mouth of the Argent River. A deep channel ran through its middle, but otherwise it sprawled its shallow waters, which flashed dazzlingly silver, over gravelly shoals. A blustery, cold wind sprang up, blowing inland, and under sail they pushed upstream past steep, deeply forested banks, the treetops gilded with the last rays of the sun, their shadows falling on the surface of the water. The gentle scents of leaf and grass and flower floated over them, and they could hear the hubbub of birds settling to their roosts, and the occasional quarrels of ducks. When the sun had set and a waning moon swung high in the sky, they pulled in to a stone jetty that jutted out into the river, enclosing a tiny stone harbor built around a kind of natural lagoon. It was big enough to hold half a dozen boats at most.

All three left the
White Owl,
Maerad giving the railing a farewell pat as she stepped over the gangplank. She would never be, she knew, any sort of seawoman, but she felt a warm obligation to the boat nevertheless; it had held together despite the worst that sea and wind and monster could do and had carried them safely back to shore.

They walked in silence along a small leaf-strewn track, which led up the banks and then broke out of the trees into open fields. Maerad saw a cluster of lights glowing through the darkness. Shortly afterward they arrived at a hamlet of about a dozen buildings; Owan paused in the street, looking up and down, and led them at last to the biggest. It was a double-story house made of wood and daub and painted all over with intricate murals of Bards and townsfolk at work.

“This is the First Bard’s country house,” said Owan, smiling, as they reached the front door and banged the silver knocker. “I’ve only been here a couple of times, but I warn you, he is famous for his hospitality.”

The door opened, revealing a big, dark-haired man. He flung out his arms in welcome and ushered them inside. “Cadvan! Owan! Come in, my friends. It is overlong since last we met. And you are Maerad of Pellinor? My name is Gahal, Gahal of Gent. Come in, come in. Dump your packs here. Look, let me take that cloak. First, some food and drink, yes? Nothing makes you as hungry as sailing, I believe. No, don’t worry about that; I’ll show you your rooms soon. Now, here we are.”

He hadn’t stopped talking all the way up the hallway, Maerad thought in wonder.

She gasped as she entered the sitting room; she had become used to fine rooms, but this was especially beautiful. The long casements were shaded with floor-length curtains, made of embroidered silk from Thorold, which glowed with a rich sheen of gold, and the low couches were covered in the same fabric. But it was the walls and ceiling that made her stop in wonder. The walls were paneled with pale cedar, each panel delicately carved and framing a painting of a different bird. The ceiling itself was painted with a riot of birds in flight, all flying in a spiral toward the center of the room.

Maerad was momentarily struck speechless and automatically accepted the glass of wine thrust into her hand. She felt far too filthy to sit down in such a room, but Gahal almost pushed her onto a couch and then, still chatting amiably, handed around sweetmeats and drinks. Maerad contented herself with examining the room, craning her neck to see the painting on the ceiling. The birds were of dozens of different kinds, all meticulously rendered in every detail on an azure sky with rose clouds scudding across it. It darkened to evening colors toward the casement, and there between the clouds twinkled a single star. Maerad was sure it was Ilion.

“You like my birds?” said Gahal, startling her out of her reverie.

“Oh, yes,” said Maerad. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a beautiful room.”

Gahal looked pleased. “It took me six years,” he said. “Gent keeps me so busy, you see. But every chance I got, I came down here until all the panels were completed. And now I can sit among the creatures I love, even when they fly south.”

Maerad glanced at the Bard with new respect. His loquaciousness, which was not what she had expected from the First Bard of Gent, had at first made her wonder privately if he were not a little foolish, but the loveliness of the paintings, and a certain sharpness in Gahal’s regard, dispelled her suspicion. He was clearly not a man to underestimate. “You obviously know a lot about birds,” she said.

“Birds are my passion,” said Gahal. “They are the most beautiful creatures on earth; the sky is their element, and they live in it with such grace. All my life I have watched them, and loved them, and learned from them.”

“If you need to know anything about birdlore,” said Cadvan, “Gahal is the first authority.” He lifted his glass. “And this room is one of the masterpieces of Edil-Amarandh. We are lucky to be able to see it.”

“But it’s comfortable as well,” said Maerad. “In Norloch there were lots of beautiful rooms, but somehow they felt too grand, as though you couldn’t just sit down and enjoy them.”

“I thank you for that,” said Gahal. “Well, I am happy that you are here.”

“So are we,” said Owan. “We almost didn’t get here. We were attacked by a stormdog on our voyage.”

Gahal looked at him in astonishment. “A stormdog? They haven’t been seen around here since the Great Silence.” He shook his head. “It is not even winter. How did you survive it?”

“Maerad sang it a lullaby,” said Cadvan dryly. “And it went away.”

Gahal was sipping his wine, and at this he spluttered. “You are joking, of course,” he said when he had recovered himself. “I mean, really.”

“No, I’m not joking. Maerad has — ah — some original solutions to such things. I must tell you of how she turned a Hull into a rabbit. But that is, in fact, what happened, and it is why we are here, and not dashed to the bottom of the Ileadh Straits.”

Gahal grunted and gave Maerad a very sharp glance indeed. “You are pursued, then, and by the Winterking himself, it seems.”

“I believe so,” said Cadvan. “I also think we daren’t go farther north by sea, as we had planned.”

“Annar is dangerous for you, as well,” said Gahal. “There is a price on both your heads, on Norloch’s orders, and many eyes will be seeking you. I wonder which is the worst risk.”

No one responded, and he sighed and poured them all another glass of wine. “Well, we will talk more seriously over dinner, when you have refreshed yourselves. Meanwhile, I have heard from Thorold, of course, and I assume you know of the situation here?”

“We know of the ultimatum from Norloch, and what your response has been, if that is what you mean,” said Cadvan.

“It is the worst news for a long time. I have been disturbed these last fifty years, as you know, Cadvan. Something is deeply wrong. But it is no satisfaction to be proved right.”

“No, none at all.”

“Nerili tells me you are going north, on a quest I don’t fully apprehend. And I am given to understand that Maerad of Pellinor is the Fated One?”

“So we believe.”

Gahal looked her over with a cool curiosity that belied his former manner altogether. Maerad bore his examination with patience, wishing she were cleaner.

“I see.” Gahal put his glass on the table, linked his hands behind his neck, and leaned back into the couch, contemplating his ceiling. “That is news of greater significance than the happenings at Norloch. The Light stirs at need, it is said.” He leaned forward suddenly and to Maerad’s surprise took her hand in his. “You are very young. Overyoung, I would say. Much rests on your shoulders, young Bard. I had heard of your extraordinary powers before tonight, but I do not doubt you will need any help you can get.”

“There is much I do not understand,” said Maerad. “But I am learning.”

“Gent you can count on. But Annar is split.” Gahal let go of her hand and glanced at Cadvan. “There are those who remain loyal to Enkir — allies of the Dark or those who believe that as First Bard he must be acting against the Dark — and there are those who are deeply troubled or in deep disagreement, yet fear to be called rebels by Norloch. Even in Gent, I cannot be sure there are no spies. And the Dark is on your very heels. It will not be easy to pass through Annar.”

“Still, I think it would be less perilous than stormdogs,” said Owan. “There was only one, and it nearly sank us.”

“As always, we have to choose between bad and worse,” said Cadvan. “There are no safe paths.”

“No,” said Gahal. “Well, I have warned you of the perils of Annar, so I must consider my duty done. You must make your own choices.”

“Everything tells me that time runs short for us,” said Cadvan. “You have heard of the Rite of Renewal in Busk?”

Gahal sighed heavily. “Yes,” he said. “It will not surprise you to hear that in Gent it almost failed. Almost. But I do not doubt that across Annar there will be Schools where the Rite has failed completely. Something draws out the Dark within us all. This is not just a war of arms and martial strategies, Cadvan.”