The Riddle (34 page)

Zara silently returned, bringing with her silver ewers of water smelling of roses, one boiling hot and one cold, a large silver basin and some cloths, and before she left, she carefully draped on the bed some warm woolen robes like those Sirkana had been wearing. They were dyed a purple-red; even in Thorold, she had never seen dye of that color. The respectful way that Zara had handled the raiment alerted Maerad that the robes were precious, and when she stroked them, she realized they were made of some very soft, fine wool she did not recognize. They had clearly been woven with great care: even when Maerad looked at them closely, she could see no sign of any seam and thought that they had either been stitched with marvelous skill or been woven in one piece. She touched the soft material, feeling sensible of an honor of which she did not understand the full significance, and then poured water into the bowl and, with intense relief, washed herself properly for the first time in weeks. There was some soft soap in the bowl, and with it she washed her hair. She didn’t know what to do with her dirty clothes, and folded them up on the floor so they should not soil the bed.

Then she drew the robes over her head. As well as being softer than any fabric she had touched, they were also warmer. She sat down on the bed and inspected her feet. They had held up quite well through her walk from the mountains, but her boots were looking the worse for wear; she thought they would not last another long trek. She wondered if she could get some new boots in Murask, and then realized that she had only a few Annaren coins with which to buy things, for Cadvan had carried the purse. In Schools they had never needed to buy anything; as Bards, they had been given what they needed. But here she was not in a School. She put that particular problem aside for another day, and began the long, slow business of untangling her hair. Perhaps she should wear it in braids, like Sirkana, she thought; it would be more practical. Some of it was almost matted like felt. She finally managed, by patient application, to rid herself of most of the knots.

Zara returned with a pair of buskins made of sheepskin for Maerad’s feet, and a tray on which was a bowl of hot stew and a piece of unleavened bread covered with some kind of black seed, still warm from the oven. Maerad’s mouth immediately filled with water. She was relieved that she would be eating alone, and she thanked Zara and laid the tray on the chest, which was high enough to use as a table. Zara disappeared, and Maerad devoured her late breakfast, or early midday meal, with indecent haste: she suddenly felt as if she had not eaten for days. The stew had a gamey taste, like goat, and was flavored with sour cream and fennel, and a duck egg had been broken into it, a combination Maerad found unusual but surprisingly pleasant. She ran the bread around the bowl to soak up every last drop.

The meal and the warm room made her feel very tired. She lay down on the bed, intending just to have a short rest while she awaited a summons. She wondered how Sirkana could have known she was the One, and what that meant in Pilanel lore, and even more uneasily, she wondered what else was known. She had thought her identity easy to conceal once she was north of the mountains, but clearly it was not so, and if she was as recognizable as she seemed to be, then she was certainly in peril. . . . worrying vaguely around these thoughts, she drifted into a deep sleep.

She woke with a start and immediately sat up, instantly alert. The room was much darker; she must have been asleep for hours. She sent out her hearing, wondering what was happening. People moved in the house speaking in Pilanel; somewhere in the distance, outside perhaps, somebody was singing and she could hear the sounds of animals and children. She sighed and rubbed her eyes. Well, there was nothing to do but wait. She did not want to creep around the house like a thief. And, for the moment, she was quite content to stay where she was.

Before long, Zara poked her head around the door. Maerad smiled and nodded, and Zara came and inspected her, taking her chin and turning her head from side to side as if she were making sure she was properly clean. She adjusted Maerad’s robe fussily, as a mother would a small child’s, and made clicking noises with her tongue until Maerad put on her buskins. Then she took her arm and led her downstairs, back to the hall.

This time Sirkana was not alone. There were three others: two men, one of whom was Dorn, and a woman. The two Pilanel Maerad did not know stared at her as she walked toward them, not bothering to hide their curiosity.

“Welcome,” said Sirkana in Annaren. “You have given us the name Mara to call you by.” Maerad blushed, ashamed of her deception, and opened her mouth to say something, but Sirkana held up her hand to silence her. “I think it is not your usename, but it will do for now,” she said. “There are ready reasons for discretion in these dark days. Let me present to you my friends, whom I trust with my life itself. They are Tilla à Minatar,” (here the woman, who was almost as tall as Sirkana, nodded) “and Vul à Taqar. Dorn à Hadaruk you have already met.”

Maerad bowed to each of the Pilanel, and then Zara, who seemed to have taken on Maerad as a personal responsibility, pushed a chair toward her, indicating that she should sit down. Maerad sat and looked inquiringly at Sirkana, wondering whether she should speak next, and what she ought to say. There was a short, slightly awkward silence.

“You are very young,” said Sirkana.

“I know,” said Maerad despairingly. Everyone said that; perhaps she looked even younger than she was. “But I have traveled far, nevertheless, to be here. I have a doom laid on me, a doom that concerns us all, and I seek your help.”

“Our help you shall have, once we know who you are,” said Vul. He was younger than Dorn, a heavy-boned man with a gentle face, and he spoke with a thick accent.

“I — I’m not quite sure how to answer that question.” There was another short silence, and Maerad felt again the lack of Cadvan, his ease with strangers. She felt shy and foolish, and angry with herself for feeling these things. “I am a Bard of Edil-Amarandh, Maerad of Pellinor. Until lately I was traveling with Cadvan of Lirigon, seeking this place. He died in the Gwalhain Pass, and since then I have walked here alone.”

The four Pilanel stirred at this news, exchanging shocked glances. “Cadvan was known to us,” said Sirkana. “You bring grievous news. What could have killed such a powerful
Dhillarearën
?”

“We were attacked by frost creatures. Iriduguls. There were three, and they brought down the side of the mountain on him. Not even the greatest of mages could have survived that.”

“Iriduguls?” Dorn stared at Maerad in disbelief. “What are iriduguls doing in the Gwalhain Pass — and in autumn? I can scarce credit this.”

“They were pursuing us.” Speaking of Cadvan’s death to others for the first time was like admitting finally that he was gone, and Maerad struggled with the pain rising inside her. “We were also attacked by a stormdog near Thorold. Cadvan thought it was the Winterking. We have been pursued for a long time.” She stopped, biting her lip hard enough to hurt. She did not want to break down in front of these grave, dignified strangers.

“If the pass is blocked, it would explain why the clans are late in coming from the southern plains,” said Vul. He looked intently at Maerad. “Is it blocked?”

“I think so,” said Maerad. “There was a landslide that filled up the whole road. It would take an army to clear it.”

“It seems our clans will not return from the Rilnik this year, then,” said Dorn. “That is sad news.”

“If you are young, you have seen much beyond your years,” said Sirkana. “We do not mean to distress you.” She waited until Maerad had composed herself, and then said, “I suppose, then, that Cadvan of Lirigon knew you to be the Chosen.”

“I am the One. The Foretold among Bards.” It was the first time Maerad had claimed this title before others, and she sat up straighter. I am the One, she thought, and I have to stop behaving as if I am not. “If that is what you mean by the Chosen, then you are correct. It is said that I will defeat the Nameless One in his next rising.” She looked down at her hands, suddenly an abashed young girl again. “The only problem is, I don’t know how. Or why it is me.” She finished in a whisper, not daring to look up. She heard Vul clear his throat.

“And how do we know this?” asked Tilla, speaking for the first time. “I do not mean discourtesy, Maerad of Pellinor, but perhaps you or others are mistaken.”

“I don’t know,” said Maerad humbly. “My Truename is as foretold. And I do have — I did have — an unusual Gift. I can do things that other Bards cannot.”

“She is the Chosen,” said Sirkana. “I knew as soon as I saw her.”

“But how did you know?” Maerad looked at Sirkana, suddenly forgetting everything in her desire to understand why everyone else seemed to know more about her than she did. “I’m not even sure myself. How can you
know
?”

Sirkana looked at her steadily. “You know, Maerad of Pellinor, that like you I am a
Dhillarearën.
In Annar, any with the Voice are sent to the Schools; even here many travel south to gather that learning. But not all do. There are other ways, and I have followed those, in the fashion of my people. I also have the Sight, which is not given to many among the
Dhillarearën.
I see what is hidden from others.”

Maerad looked up at the proud figure of Sirkana, a little shocked. Mirka had said the same thing, but Mirka fitted much better the usual idea of the unSchooled Bard: a tragic figure, whose Gift, left to itself, had turned against her, or had never developed in the way it should. But here was a woman who had never been instated into a School, and yet who held within her all the powers, and more, of a formally Schooled Bard. Perhaps Maerad’s lack of Schooling, which she regretted so fiercely, was not such a handicap after all.

But now Dorn was speaking. “If Maerad speaks true, as you say, then she is not Annaren after all.” He swept his gaze from her feet to the crown of her head, doubt clear in his face. “She should be Pilani, although she does not look as if a drop of Pilani blood runs in her veins. For that is also what the songs say, that one of our blood is the Chosen.”

“My father was Pilanel.” Maerad shut her eyes, suddenly overwhelmed; how was she to explain her whole life to these people? “He married Milana of Pellinor, the First Bard of that School, and they had two children — my brother, Hem, I mean Cai, and me. My father was killed when Pellinor was sacked, when we were small children.”

“What was your father’s name?” asked Dorn.

“I don’t know his full name.” Why, thought Maerad, had I never thought to ask? Since she had been given a full name, she had always carried her mother’s. “I know his usename was Dorn, but Mirka told me it is a common name among the Pilanel. I don’t know where he came from, or anything about him. My brother, Hem, looks like him; he is dark skinned, like you. But people tell me I look like my mother.” She met Dorn’s eyes. “I know very little about my family; I was taken as a slave after Pellinor fell, and until this spring I didn’t even know I was a Bard.”

There was a long silence. The four Pilanel seemed to be deep in separate contemplations, and Maerad sat still, trying to be patient. At last, Sirkana stirred, and glanced over to her companions. Maerad saw Dorn nod very slightly, as if Sirkana had asked him something. Sirkana then turned to Maerad and gazed at her for a moment, searching her face. Then her eyes became unfocused, as if she saw something very far away.

“I knew your father,” she said. “And we both knew the Chosen was to be born to him. It was a curse; even then he knew it would kill him.”

“And his name was Dorn?” asked Maerad, her voice very small. She had hardly known her father, and it seemed somehow unfair that Sirkana had. She wondered suddenly why Cadvan had not told her more about her father’s family; surely he would have known? It would be just like him not to tell me, she thought.

“Yes. Dorn à Triberi.” Sirkana breathed in hard, as if staving off pain. “He was my twin brother. He left me a long time ago, seeking the Schooling of the Annaren Bards. Missing him was a pain worse than I thought I could endure; I thought my heart would split in two. His death was a great grief to me. Well, then, you are my brother’s daughter. Do you not see why I knew you were the Chosen?”

Maerad shook her head, trying to clear it. This was very unexpected; she had thought that perhaps she would have had to explain her story, in order to find help, and had braced herself to be as persuasive as possible, but she had not thought to be recognized as soon as she entered Murask, and most certainly didn’t expect to find such close family. Sirkana, then, was her aunt, her father’s sister.

She studied Sirkana curiously, summoning her few, fugitive memories of her father. She remembered him whirling her around while she laughed and laughed, and a faint, spicy perfume, but she couldn’t make those memories match the stern woman who stood before her. But when she looked, she realized that Sirkana did remind her of Hem; there was something about the shape of her eyes, her nose, the line of her jaw. Maerad suddenly wished that Hem was with her now; perhaps it would not be so strange for him.

“How did you and — my father know that the One would be born to him?”

Sirkana fixed her dark eyes on Maerad’s face. The room seemed suddenly to dim around them, and she felt herself becoming dizzy, as if she were looking into a deep well.

“I dreamed,” said Sirkana in the Speech. “When I was ten years old, I dreamed of a great darkness. And my brother Dorn held up a child against the darkness, and the child was made of light. And I knew it was his child.” As Sirkana spoke, Maerad saw the dream vividly in her mind, as if it were her own. “When I was twelve, I dreamed again the same dream, but by then I had the Voice, and this time Dorn spoke and told me who the child was. And again when I was fourteen, and sixteen, always the same dream.

“I told my mother of the dreams. She knew I had the Voice, and she counseled me to tell the headman of the clan, which I did. But I did not tell Dorn until I was sixteen; it was the only thing I kept from him, ever. I feared what he might do if he knew. And I was right to fear. But at last I did tell Dorn, and that night he had a dream of his own, the only foredream he ever dreamed. In his dream a great darkness rose over the land, and he was swallowed inside it. He was frightened, but he said to me that he must learn what it meant. It was after that he left for the Schools of Annar, and I knew I would never see him again.”