The Riddle (21 page)

“No,” said Cadvan. “That has been clear for a while.”

Maerad shuddered. “I had an evil foredream in Norloch,” she said. “And also in Innail. And there was a voice that said,
I am again, but none shall find my dwelling, for I live in every human heart.
”

Gahal looked at her in surprise. “You are a seer as well?”

Maerad didn’t answer, and Cadvan stirred and said, “Yes, she is. Well, it was always a gift of the House of Karn. There is much to tell you, Gahal, and not just about Maerad. But I am glad to know that we can count on Gent. Not that I would have expected anything else.”

There was a short silence, and then Gahal drained his glass and rose. “Alas, my curiosity makes me discourteous. You will want to refresh yourselves,” he said. “Your rooms are waiting for you; I’ll show you to them. And then we will eat a dinner worthy of your exploits.”

Maerad woke the next morning with a feeling of complete luxury. Her skin felt soft and clean, instead of itchy and rough with brine, and all the aches of tiredness had vanished. After the discomforts of a hammock, a real bed felt wonderful. She stretched lazily, listening to the sounds coming through the casement: the cluck of chickens scratching in the road, a couple of men chatting in the rich dialect of Ileadh, the low of cattle drifting in from the distance, the
cark cark
of crows. A warm late-morning light shafted through the casement and tempted her out of bed. She wriggled her toes in the soft carpet, and looked out of the window.

From Gahal’s house she could see over the roofs of the hamlet all the way down to the river, which glimmered silver as it twisted between the hills. Close to the hamlet was a patchwork of fields with a white road winding through them that dived into the birch forests that stretched up to hills purpling in the distance.

Maerad had slept long and deeply, after a dinner as convivial as Gahal had forecast. At dinner, they had been joined by Gahal’s household, which counted about twenty people. There was his direct family: his wife, Rena, his two adult sons, Nik and Beljan, and his daughter, Lyla, who was about Maerad’s age. But there were also other Bards and laypeople who were not related to Gahal at all, but bore some other profound relationship of work or inclination. Lyla, for instance, seemed to regard the other adults as intimately as if they were second fathers or mothers. Maerad, whose family had been fragmented by disaster and who had, up until now, mainly stayed at Schools, did not remember the broader patterns of responsibilities and kinship that operated in Barding households, and it struck her for the first time.

Lyla had sat next to Maerad, and the two liked each other on sight. It was the first time that Maerad had met anyone her own age who wasn’t awed by her reputation or her association with Cadvan.

The conversation remained general, and Maerad had eaten her way through several courses of beautifully prepared food: a dish of fat yellow asparagus cooked to absolute tenderness, a salad of herbs and nasturtiums, fresh trout baked with almonds and honey, wood mushrooms seethed in milk and butter. Then Gahal had insisted she try his limonel, an apple spirit he made himself, which was more delicious (and stronger) than laradhel. It was no wonder she had slept so well.

She lazily watched a horseman trot up the road toward the house, dismount, and knock on the door.

Rena had lent her some of Lyla’s clothes, as her own were being laundered, and she had just decided she had better dress and see what was happening with the day when there was a knock on the chamber door.

“Yes?” said Maerad.

Lyla popped her head around the door. “Morning, Maerad! Papa wanted to know if you’d like breakfast.”

Maerad indicated her nightgown. “I’ve been a bit slow this morning,” she said. “I’m not even dressed.”

“Oh, he said to tell you there’s no hurry.” Lyla came shyly into the room. Like Gahal, she was dark-haired and dark-eyed, and her hair was tied in a long plait down her back. “He just wanted to know whether to put it all away yet. Cadvan and Owan aren’t up, either.”

“Well, I’m glad to know it’s not just me being so lazy,” said Maerad, laughing.

“Besides, Anhil’s arrived, and he wants to meet you.”

“Who’s Anhil?” asked Maerad, unselfconsciously pulling off her nightgown and dragging on some underclothes.

“He’s a Bard at Gent. I like him; he’s always lovely. And he’s
very
good-looking.” Lyla sat down on the bed. “Is this your lyre? It’s not very grand, is it? Papa’s has gold inlay and golden strings. But I suppose you can only get old ones when you’re young like us. Anhil is Dernhil’s brother, you know, the Bard who was killed at Innail. I didn’t know him so well — I only met him once, when I was three — but it was just awful. I was so sad for Anhil.”

Maerad was grateful that her dress was over her head, so Lyla couldn’t see her expression. Dernhil’s brother! She had known that Dernhil was from Gent, and it was, in fact, one of the reasons that she had wanted to go there, but the thought of meeting his brother keenly brought back her sorrow at his death. But the moment passed, and she shrugged the dress over her shoulders.

Lyla looked at her critically, her head on one side. “I like that dress,” she said. “But I think it looks nicer on me than on you.”

“I should wash first,” Maerad answered. “I’ll be downstairs after that.”

“I shall see you then,” said Lyla. “I’ll tell Papa.”

By the time she appeared downstairs, washed and brushed, Maerad had composed herself enough to greet Anhil. He was sitting in the dining room talking to Gahal, leaning back in his chair, one foot on the other knee. When Maerad entered, he stood up and Gahal introduced them. She felt a start of painful recognition: Anhil was both like and unlike Dernhil; his hair was light brown, and he was not quite so tall. But his eyes held the same mobile expressiveness as Dernhil’s, and she found it hard to look at him straight.

“I am glad to meet you,” Anhil said courteously, taking her hand. “My brother wrote to me about you, shortly before he died. You impressed him very much.”

A lump gathered in Maerad’s throat and she nodded, unable for a moment to answer.

“His death was a great grief,” she said. “I am very sorry. It must have been hard for you.”

“Yes,” answered Anhil. “He is a great loss to all of us, but most of all to those who loved him.”

Maerad had no idea how to respond, and simply nodded again, biting her lip, and at that moment, to her relief, Cadvan entered the room. Anhil turned to greet him, and Cadvan embraced him wordlessly. Maerad sat at the table, her heart thumping, feeling graceless and awkward.

Lyla leaned over to her and whispered, “See, I told you he was good-looking.” Maerad blushed scarlet. “I didn’t know you knew Dernhil.”

“Yes,” Maerad said. “For too short a time.”

“It was sad, what happened to him,” said Lyla. “His ashes are at Gent, you know.” Maerad mumbled something inaudible in reply, and Lyla at last worked out that Maerad was uncomfortable talking about Dernhil and changed the subject. “Anyway, have some of this honey; it’s very nice. Mama keeps the hives and she gives the bees plenty of sweet clovers to work with.”

Gratefully Maerad buried herself in the business of eating, and gradually her emotions settled enough for her to start listening to the conversation between Cadvan, Anhil, and Gahal. Anhil was one of the First Circle of Gent, and his visit was not prompted solely by Cadvan and Maerad’s presence. Another emissary had arrived from Norloch, demanding men at arms from Ileadh for Norloch’s campaign against the Dark.

“Naturally,” Anhil said to Gahal, “we have told him that we can make no decisions in your absence from the School, and that he will have to await your return from Damaroch.”

“Damaroch?” said Cadvan.

“We know how dangerous it is for you,” said Anhil, turning to face him. “And for us, if it is known that we are helping you. Only the First Circle knows where Gahal is, and why. Gahal sent a semblance of himself to Damaroch; it is actually Rhyd. Gahal rode here by circuitous means, and in disguise himself, as I have done. I doubt that either of us has been followed, though I fear Ossin is watched. It is as well you arrived under cover of night.”

Cadvan nodded, and Maerad felt her fear, which had retreated for a few precious hours, returning.

“I have put a ward about Ossin,” said Gahal. “We are all safe enough, for the meantime; no one can observe us here. But this is ill news, Anhil. I will not contemplate sending men at arms to Norloch. And it means that perhaps the fears of invasion in Busk are not ill-founded, if Enkir is gathering forces.” He knitted his brows. “My fears about you and Maerad traveling through Annar also increase fourfold.”

“I agree,” said Cadvan. “Nevertheless, I fear that three stormdogs at sea would be a certain death sentence. One came close to killing us. Even with armies pursuing us, Annar is the lesser risk.”

“I should tell you that two horses, Darsor and Imi, arrived at Gent a week ago,” said Anhil. “Darsor said you told them to meet you there.”

Maerad gave an exclamation of pleasure. Their horses had taken Saliman and Hem to Turbansk, and she missed her mare Imi almost as much as she missed Hem.

They stayed in Ossin another two days. Maerad spent most of her time with Lyla, with whom she struck up an easy friendship. In Lyla’s company, she could forget that she was the Fire Lily of Edil-Amarandh, the Fated One pursued by both Light and Dark, or that she was a Bard at all. She could pretend that she was just a young girl of sixteen, with not much more to worry about than the day’s lessons or tasks or gossip.

Although Lyla was not a Bard, her father had taught her many Barding skills: she was formidably well read — especially when compared to Maerad, who had hardly read any books at all — and knew most of the great lays by heart. She could play several instruments and even knew some basics of the Speech, although on her tongue it had no power. She was going to be, she told Maerad, a healer.

“I can’t do the Bard healing,” she said ruefully. “I wish I was a Bard. But I can help women in childbirth and cure many things, even without that, as long as I have the Knowing, and Papa says the more healers the better. And I like it.” She glanced at Maerad, as if daring her to disagree, but Maerad was privately too impressed to say anything; the fact was, Lyla was much better educated than she was.

“I’ve never thought about what I might do,” she answered reflectively. “It’s not as if I’ve ever had much choice. First I was a slave, and then Cadvan got me out of there, and now I’m a Bard and I have to — well, I have things to do. And that’s not a choice, either.”

Lyla looked at her with sympathy. “I wouldn’t like that much,” she said. “Mama always says I am far too willful, and she wishes I had been a boy, because they are much more biddable and do what they’re told. Whereas girls, she says, are stubborn as mules and as hard to train as magpies.”

Maerad laughed, a little enviously. The kind of freedom Lyla was talking of was completely alien to her; and her comments made Maerad acutely aware of her lack of family. She barely remembered her father at all, and her mother little better, and those memories were themselves riven by horror and grief. It made her wonder what she would do with her life, if she survived the quest that she and Cadvan had now begun; she realized she had no idea at all.

Maerad didn’t see much of Gahal, except at mealtimes, but although he was always friendly, she thought she detected a slight wariness in his manner. Once the Bard had taken her to see his tame blue wrens, which lived uncaged in a gnarled apple tree in the gardens. Maerad was enchanted by the tiny birds that flashed amid the green leaves like live jewels, and Gahal called one to come and sit on her finger, where it chirped and ate some seed from Gahal’s hand.

“Featherheads, they are,” said Gahal fondly as the bird fixed him with a bright eye and asked for more seed, and then flicked back into the tree. “There is not much space for brains in those little skulls. But I love them.”

“I can see why,” said Maerad. “They’re so beautiful.”

“Beautiful and fragile. Like much that is threatened by the Dark,” said Gahal, suddenly sober. Maerad glanced at him inquiringly, and to her surprise saw that he seemed to be embarrassed. They watched the tiny birds in silence for a little while, and then Gahal cleared his throat. “Maerad,” he said, and then stopped.

“What is it?” she asked.

Gahal scratched his head and stared at the apple tree. “I wanted to say that much hangs on this quest of yours,” he said at last. “And I wish to warn you, also. But I find that words fail me.”

“Warn me of what?”

Gahal looked her in the eye with a strange earnestness. “That is what I have no words for, young Bard. There is something in you that I do not understand, and I fear it.”

Maerad stared back, unable to think of any response because of a strange dread that rose inside her. Gahal sighed, and then laughed and patted her arm. “It is hard to say, beware of yourself! But I do say it. Take care, my young girl. I think of Lyla, and I think of you, no older than she is, and I would not countenance my daughter facing the perils you must survive.”

They walked back to the house, and Gahal seemed then his normal voluble self, but the conversation had troubled Maerad. She felt that she both did and did not understand what he meant. Was he speaking of the Elemental part of her? She knew that Bards distrusted the Elidhu.

Afterward she had felt disturbed, and she wandered down to the river to spend some time in the undemanding company of Owan. She had scarcely seen Owan since that first night; he had been busy at the river harbor. He had drawn the
White Owl
out of the water and painstakingly examined her, mending the broken rail, which was the main hurt she had sustained in their battle with the stormdog, and checking each plank for cracks or weaknesses.

Owan left for Thorold shortly afterward, and their parting had been warm and full of sadness. In their time together, Maerad had learned to perceive the deep feeling that lay beneath his taciturn nature and to respect his solidity, which held true and strong even in the most perilous circumstances, and she counted him among her closest friends. She wondered if she would ever see him again.