The Riddle (39 page)

“Should we set a watch?” asked Maerad, ready to volunteer to be first. But Dharin laughed.

“We could not get a better watch than these dogs,” he said. “They will rouse us if anything stirs within a league. They have better ears than either of us.”

Possibly not, Maerad thought, thinking of her Bard hearing, but she did not demur. It was a relief to think that she would have unbroken sleep for a change.

They slept side by side in the sled. Ordinarily Maerad might have felt self-conscious about this arrangement, but Dharin was so casual about it that she didn’t feel bothered at all and he was, after all, kin. He simply settled himself among the furs, said, “Dreams of Light, then,” and was almost instantly asleep. It took Maerad a little longer to sleep, but not much.

In less than two days, Maerad felt that she had always lived this way, traveling in a sled through the snow. The landscape seemed endless and unchanging; they had left the river line behind and now swept over the heart of the Arkiadera Plains. She saw many birds — strange birds with feathered feet, which could run across the snow, and big crows, startlingly black against the whiteness. More occasionally, she spotted hunting eagles, circling on updrafts of wind. She also saw little white animals that Dharin told her were a kind of weasel called zaninks, which the northern Pilanel trapped for their warm fur. “The fur in your jacket is of this kind,” he said. “It is the best protection against the cold that you can find.”

Occasionally they saw herds of the shaggy deer, which Dharin told her were of a northern species the Pilanel called oribanik, and which were herded for their meat and milk. They were very big, sometimes standing higher than a horse, with dappled coats, and the males had huge branching antlers.

On the third day, the clear weather turned. The temperature dropped perceptibly as a bitter wind began to blow from the northwest. Dharin wrapped a cloth around his face to stop his nose from freezing, so all that was visible was the glint of his eyes. Maerad did the same. Dharin had been right; this was a different kind of cold. As the day continued, the wind picked up and a thin snow began to fall. “It will be a cold night,” said Dharin that evening. “And I think a blizzard tomorrow. It is a strange wind. A gift from the Winterking.”

Maerad looked up sharply. “Do you think so?” she said anxiously.

“Oh, that is a saying among my people, for weather from the northwest. It blows bitterly.”

“Still, you could be right,” said Maerad broodingly. “He has pursued me since Annar.”

Dharin was silent for a time, and then said, “Perhaps, Mara, you can tell me what it is that you are doing. Sirkana told me that you were on quest to see the Wise Kindred and that if I took you there, it could be perhaps the most important thing I had ever done. But she told me no more. I had guessed that it was something to do with the Winterking, but nothing else.”

Maerad studied Dharin’s face. He looked back earnestly, his gentle eyes inquiring and a little shy.

“You’re right,” said Maerad. “It is not fair to ask you to risk your life for me without knowing why. Well, it is a long story.”

Dharin settled back. “I like stories,” he said.

“First, Mara is not my real name,” said Maerad. “My proper name is Maerad of Pellinor, and I am a
Dhillarearën,
a Bard.”

Dharin’s eyebrows went up. “I did not guess that,” he said, “although I knew there was more to you than there seemed. But then, I’m surprised that you are frightened of the dogs. If you are a
Dhillarearën,
you can speak to them in a way I cannot.”

Maerad nodded, and then pondered the truth of what he said. She had not used this aspect of the Speech much, except with Imi, whom she still missed with a fierce ache. And she was not otherwise afraid of wild creatures.

“Fears don’t always make sense,” she said. “I have been too frightened to speak to them. Well, I have never seen dogs like yours before. Maybe I will try later.”

“So, your real name is Maerad.” Dharin did not look surprised, and Maerad supposed he had already guessed that Mara was not her real name. “And what is your story?”

“Well, actually, I am your cousin. My father was Dorn à Triberi, Sirkana’s brother. My mother was First Bard at the School of Pellinor. But I scarcely knew my father; he died when I was very little.”

Now Dharin did look surprised, but he smiled. “I should have known we were kin,” he said. “I felt as if I already knew you. Good, good. Well, Mara — I mean, Maerad — you must tell me everything.”

Even in their small tent, crouched over the stove, the air was cold. Outside, the wind was beginning to howl, and the thin skins flapped. Maerad shivered and drew her furs closer around her; she was glad even of this small shelter. She took a breath and began the story of her life, which she had told how many times now?

Dharin was a good listener; he sat in attentive silence for the whole tale. When she had finished, Maerad looked up at him. His eyes were downcast.

“Thank you, Maerad,” he said. “I think it is a very sad story, yours. Well, I understand a little now. And I understand why Sirkana said to me what she did.”

Maerad was grateful for his simple acceptance. She had felt guilty about deceiving him, and fearful that her deceit would harm the trust between them.

“I’m glad you’re my cousin,” she said. “I wanted to tell you before, but I felt I couldn’t.”

“There is no need to excuse caution, in days like these,” said Dharin. Despite herself, Maerad yawned, and he smiled gently. “We will have a tough day tomorrow,” he said. “We must sleep.” He put out the stove, storing it carefully by where their feet would be when they lay down. Then he kissed Maerad on both cheeks. “Sleep well, cousin.”

“Sleep well,” replied Maerad. That night she slept almost as soon as her eyes closed.

The next few days’ traveling was not as pleasant as it had been. It was not quite a blizzard, just endless snow and cold air. Dharin slowed their pace, watching anxiously for signs of trees or other obstacles. Maerad covered her face, and then tried to snuggle under the skins and sleep. She was mostly bored; there was nothing to look at, and it was very cold.

Living so closely with the dogs did much to allay Maerad’s fear of them; they were savage and half wild, but they did her no harm, treating her, she thought, with a kind of friendly contempt. She began to tell one from the other, and to see their different personalities. She could recognize Claw, with her black coat and dramatic white ruff. She was sober and responsible, and kept the team in line. There was also a young gray dog called Ponto, the youngest on the team, who often annoyed the older dogs by trying to chew their tails and wanting to play when they were all resting, and who somehow reminded her of Hem; and a big gray-and-black dog called Neck, for the strange white dapples around his throat. She still got the others more or less mixed up, but she was learning.

Since the beginning of their journey, Dharin had insisted that Maerad should learn to drive the sled, and one afternoon she gave in. She stood on the ledge at the back while Dharin sat in her usual place, and she took the harness in her hands. “Now, say,
Ot!
” said Dharin, giving her the Pilanel word for
go.
She said it, but nothing happened. “Say it again, but more firmly,” said Dharin. She tried again, but still the dogs took no notice. This time, Maerad felt a bit annoyed, and before Dharin could give her further instruction, she used the word from the Speech:
“Imil!”

The dogs all leaped forward. With a certain smugness, Maerad could feel their surprise, and she opened her hearing; as they ran they were complaining to one another.
Who is she?
And
You never told me she was a wolf tongue!
and
Shut your jaws, wooden teeth, and keep running.
Maerad laughed out loud, and Dharin looked up at her, impressed.

“That made them take notice,” he said. “Well, maybe I do not have to teach you anything. All the commands are by voice: you say, ‘right,’ ‘left,’ ‘stop,’ as you wish.”

“I know nothing of this land,” said Maerad. “Or where I am going. It’s no use being able to tell them to go if you do not know where you are going.”

Despite the team’s sudden obedience, Maerad found driving unnerving; she felt out of control. When it came time to disentangle their leads again, she handed the reins back to Dharin. “If you want a rest, and can tell me which way to go, then I am happy to drive,” she said. “But I don’t want to cause an accident.”

“I’ll take that offer,” said Dharin. “It’s easy through the Arkiadera; it’s just flat and there are no rivers in this part of the plains. All you have to do is keep driving straight.”

After that, Maerad took the reins at least once a day. The more she drove the sled, feeling the team’s responsiveness to her voice and hands, the more her fear of the dogs subsided, although she was always careful to remain respectful. In a few days, she was helping to feed them and could watch the dogs with equanimity as they snarled and snapped at each other and tore apart the frozen joints of meat.

The journey to Tlon was less than one hundred and twenty leagues northwest as the crow flies. Their route was slightly longer, as Dharin was skirting the river that curved north of Murask. They reached Tlon in five days, and it was only then that Maerad appreciated how fast they were traveling.

From the outside, Tlon looked very like Murask, a huge snow-covered hill in the otherwise flat plains, but Maerad never had a chance to look inside. Dharin had packed enough supplies in the sled for four weeks’ travel, and here he merely stopped to chat with the door warden to find news of conditions farther north. As he rang the bell, Maerad stood behind him, stamping her boots on the snow, her breath making ice on the fur of her hood. She thought that with such clothes, she had no need for disguise; no one could have told whether she was a man or a woman.

The door warden answered quickly, greeting Dharin enthusiastically by name. Unlike those at Murask, the door warden of Tlon was a fount of information. He whiled away his boring job by talking to anyone he could, trading tidbits of gossip, weatherlore, rumors, and news. Dharin clearly knew him well, and they chatted for a long time. Maerad couldn’t understand what they were saying, as they spoke in Pilanel, and she was getting colder and colder standing in the wind, so she walked around in circles, kicking at the snow.

Unlike the snow surrounding Murask, which had been soft and powdery, this was deeply packed and harder than earth; it had been snowing here for much longer than it had been down south. Dharin confirmed this when he stopped talking to the door warden and came back to the sled, where the dogs were lying down in their traces, snapping idly at the snow as it circled their heads.

“Nok was saying that they’ve never had a winter this early. Nearly ten clans are not home yet, and they have short supplies. And those that have come from the north talk of treacherous conditions, and Jussack raids, many more than in other years.”

“Jussacks?” said Maerad. “Mirka spoke of them.”

“The Pilani Howes were built long ago, long before Jussacks appeared in the north. But they have served us well,” said Dharin. “There were other enemies then, who have now passed beyond knowledge. The Pilani have always returned to the Howes — to tell our stories, to share, to court, and for the midwinter festivals. But for many years now, they also return for safety.”

“But Mirka said the Jussacks attack on horses,” said Maerad. “Surely they are not a threat in the winter?”

“In summer they use horses, which they steal from us. No Pilani clan goes out unarmed these days. But the winter settlements have rich stores, and if the Jussacks could conquer them, they could rid Zmarkan of all the Pilani peoples. They have tried more than once, but the Howes are strong. They will not rest until the Pilani are driven from the face of the earth.

“The Howes used to have only one gate, and that one was always open. Not anymore. Jussacks use sleds, and they are a danger in winter as well as summer. But we are stronger than they realize, and we are stubborn.” Dharin grinned, his teeth gleaming through the shade of his hood. “They will not defeat us.”

AFTER they left Tlon, their course changed, bearing more directly north. That night, as they crouched inside their tent, which shuddered under the pressure of the wind, Dharin explained that the Arkiadera Plains, which stretched over all Zmarkan, here met their northern border. “From now on, we will be journeying through Hramask, and we soon reach places where the snow never melts,” he said. “But no one lives in the center, as it is too harsh; the Hramask peoples all live on the coast.”

“Are we nearing the Winterking’s realm, then?” said Maerad.

“No. We are moving away from it,” Dharin said. “He rules the northeast, it is said. Well, there are those who say that the Winterking’s stronghold does not exist, even if it once did. But whether it does or no, no Pilani willingly travels far northeast.”

Maerad pondered this. “So who rules the northwest, then?” she asked.

“No one. Or no one that I ever heard of,” Dharin said. “The snow and ice is its own master.”