The Riddle (25 page)

Namaridh stared at Maerad with horror and backed away, throwing a shield of protection around himself, before he ran to check the fallen Bard. He listened for her heart, and then picked up her body, holding it to his breast.

Cadvan swung Darsor violently around to face Maerad.

“That was not well done,” he said with cold fury. “That was not well done at all.”

Maerad stared back at him, her face a mask of shock. “She was going to kill us,” she said.

“She would not have killed us. And she did not deserve death.” Maerad had never heard his voice so implacable, and she flinched. But now Cadvan was speaking to the other Bard, his voice steady and full of compassion.

“Namaridh,” he said. “This was needless and wanton. I have no desire to harm you further. Let us pass; my errand now is of such urgency that if I do not succeed, all of Annar will fall.”

Namaridh looked up at him, shaking with contempt and grief and rage, his face wet with tears.

“I know I have not the power to stop your fell deeds,” he said. “I am not so powerful a Bard. But, by the Light, if ever there is justice in this world or the next, Cadvan of Lirigon, I will avenge Ilar of Desor’s death. She was worth six of the likes of you. Now, get your monster to do her worst. I suppose I too must die.”

He stood up, staring steadily at Cadvan with a defiant courage. Cadvan spread his hands in a gesture of peace and regret. “Nay, Namaridh. I would for all the world this had not happened. There is nothing that will compensate. I beg your forgiveness.”

Namaridh spat on the ground.

Cadvan bowed his head. “This is how the Dark works, riving friend from friend,” he said. “One day, I hope, the full text of this story will be known. Perhaps then you will forgive me, although nothing can forgive the wanton murder of a Bard.”

The other Bard said nothing. He just stood, breathing heavily, glaring at them both.

Cadvan sighed. “I am sorry, Namaridh. I must now work a charm on you. One day, perhaps, you will know it is for all our sakes.”

He stretched out his hand, saying some words in the Speech, and Namaridh’s eyes closed briefly, and then opened, staring sightlessly ahead. He sat down quietly by the side of the road, as if nothing were amiss, and Cadvan turned to Maerad, urging on Darsor. “Go!” he said.

They left the scene at a full gallop, slowing to a canter a few leagues down the road, when they had left the beech wood far behind. Cadvan did not speak a word to Maerad for a long time. She cast furtive glances his way, but his face was hard and closed.

Maerad still felt shocked. The Bard’s insults and then the blow — which was not, as Cadvan had said, meant to kill, only to stun — had released a deep, uncontrollable anger. She was terrified of what she had done, but Cadvan’s anger was almost as frightening. She heard his words echoing in her head, icy with contempt:
nothing can forgive the wanton murder of a Bard.

So, she was a murderer now, although she had only sought to protect them. Cadvan had himself killed Bards: yet he had forgiven himself more easily than he seemed to forgive her.

Other arguments stirred within her. The forces against them were ruthless, and they must be as ruthless if they were to achieve anything. Then she thought of what Nerili had said, ages ago it seemed, about the ethics of the Balance, and her own doubts about them.
We remember that if we did not try to adhere to the Balance, even in our extremity, we would become like them. And that would be the greater defeat.
Well, perhaps Bards could not afford such niceties, if they were to survive against the Dark.

She fiercely regretted killing Ilar, but she felt she did not deserve Cadvan’s anger. Her shame mingled with resentment at his lack of understanding. She did not deserve Cadvan’s absolute censure. She had not meant to kill; it had just come out of her, in the same way as when she had destroyed the wight. He had not been so keen to judge her then. She pushed down her knowledge that, at the instant of the blow, she had wanted to utterly destroy the Bard. She bit her lip, hardening herself, and concentrated on keeping up with Darsor, which was not easy. Cadvan was pushing the great horse almost as fast as he could go.

It was not until they struck camp that night that Cadvan spoke about what had happened that day. They had eaten in silence, and Maerad was about to wrap herself in her cloak and curl up to sleep. She now felt nothing at all: neither grief nor regret nor anger. She was just too exhausted.

“Maerad, we must talk,” said Cadvan. He looked at her over the fire, its flames casting his eyes into deep shadow. “Today’s task was ill done, and I hope you feel the weight of your crime. You have killed a Bard needlessly. We were not in threat of our lives, and we did not need such violence.”

Maerad flinched and looked away. His words hurt, as if they scraped her in some raw place. She tried to turn the subject.

“What did you do to that other Bard?” she asked.

“I emptied his mind. He will be perfectly calm until the morning, and then he will take Ilar’s body back to Lirigon, to be attended to by those who love her.”

“I’m surprised there’s anybody, the way she spoke.” The words came out of Maerad, vindictive and ugly, before she could stop herself, and then it was too late to draw them back. For a moment, Maerad quailed as cold anger flared again in Cadvan’s face, before he mastered himself.

“It does not do to speak ill of the dead,” he said softly. “It is singularly graceless when her death is on your conscience. Ilar was a Bard of great honesty and worth. If she was mistaken, it does not make her worthy of your sneers. I do not doubt that you are shocked, and I know you are very young, but that does not excuse you.”

Maerad smarted at his rebuke; he was treating her like a child. She folded her lips tightly and turned away, saying nothing.

Cadvan waited for her to answer, and then sighed and continued. “Your failure is also my failure, as I am your teacher. I have not taught you as I should. And I have not had the strength to meet your need over the past days. I am deeply sorry for that; it has led to disaster. I hope it doesn’t lead to further ruin.”

“Meet my need?” Maerad looked up at him. “What do you mean? How do you know what I need?”

“I know you are troubled, Maerad. And it seems that at the moment I am unable to help you, and I have failed to teach you how to use your powers as a Bard should. That is what I mean. Ilar’s death lies on me as heavily, as it should on you.”

“I do feel sorry for it,” said Maerad sharply. “Why do you think I don’t? But it was me who did it, wasn’t it? You don’t need to get all noble and take it upon yourself as well. I did it. I killed a Bard. She was going to deliver us to the Dark, but no matter, I shouldn’t have killed her. I shouldn’t have killed the wight, either.”

“I was not saying that.” Cadvan looked to the sky, as if summoning patience. “It should not have even occurred to you to kill Ilar. Bards of the Light do not kill each other. They were not Hulls, nor even corrupt Bards. They would not have wantonly killed us, even if we had attacked them: only in the last resort, ever, would one Bard kill another human being. If you had been taught properly, you would have known that. Your power is frightening, Maerad. Misused, it is a monstrous power.”

Maerad saw Namaridh’s face, twisted with fear and grief, calling her
monster.
Was that what she was? Was that what Gahal had seen, when he had tried to warn her in Ossin: that she was a monster? She suddenly felt like weeping. Deep inside, she understood the enormity of what she had done, but she couldn’t face it, and it could not be undone.

She almost overcame her resistance and unburdened herself to Cadvan. But something kept her back: pride, perhaps, or a shadow of the fear of Cadvan that she had felt since the voyage from Thorold. Oh, she was wrong, she knew she was wrong. But she was not wholly wrong. Cadvan was still being unjust. She drove her tears back with an iron effort of will.

“I’m not a monster. I made a mistake. You made a mistake, too, didn’t you? But nobody calls you a monster.”

“Some do, in fact,” Cadvan responded dryly. “That is not the point. Maerad, I know what it’s like to misuse power. It is a terrible thing. Out of all the terrible things that have happened to me, my own actions have been the worst. They scarred my life as nothing else has.”

Maerad stirred at the urgency in his voice, but said nothing. If she broke now, she would break into pieces. She did not want to break. She felt herself hard and stern, and something in her rejoiced at her resistance.

“Maerad,” said Cadvan. “Listen to me. If you do not learn how to control these powers you have, I fear for you. I fear for all of us.”

Then
be
afraid,
said some inner voice. She looked steadily across the fire into Cadvan’s eyes. “There’s nothing to be frightened of,” she said. “I am sorry I killed the Bard. I won’t do it again.”

Cadvan held her gaze; she felt herself faltering, and her eyes dropped. She knew it was not so simple, but she pushed that thought away. She was no longer a young girl, who could be easily chastened. She was not a naughty child, to be scolded for playing with fire. She was Maerad, Elednor, the Fire Lily of Edil-Amarandh. Without speaking, she pulled her cloak around herself and rolled over, her back turned to Cadvan, preparing herself for sleep. But she did not sleep for a long time.

After a while, she heard Cadvan begin to sing in a soft voice, a chant that she knew was a lament for the dead Bard. He sang low, so she couldn’t hear the words, but the melody burned her heart like a rain of fire. She turned over, covering her ears, and her eyes grew hot with unshed tears.

Cadvan sighed and poked the fire with a stick. Its flames flared up briefly, a frail light in the empty darkness that filled the world.

The following day, they left the North Road and forded the Lir River into the Rilnik Plains of western Lirhan, the most northern of the Seven Kingdoms. Maerad was glad to be out of Annar; she had felt cursed as soon as they had entered that land. They bore northeast, following a track, little more than a well-beaten path wide enough for a single cart, which meandered across the plains, occasionally crossed by others.

The light possessed a diamond clarity: every detail seemed to have a heightened solidity and luminosity, as if the landscape were some marvelous carving of precious stones, run through by silver rivers. They passed into wide, empty plains of grass and sedges, now yellowing and sere beneath tangles of blackthorn and gorse. The plains were punctuated by stands of ash and larch, and aspens and willows crowded the many small streams that ran down to the Lir. Before them on the horizon, faint and distant, but visible in every detail as if inscribed in ink by a master penman, loomed the Osidh Elanor, the mountains of the dawn.

It was a beautiful countryside, but its loneliness intensified the breach that had now opened between Cadvan and Maerad. The silence between them was now almost complete; they spoke only at absolute need, and then as briefly as possible. It seemed the breach even extended to the horses, who bickered uncharacteristically; Imi once nipped Darsor on the flank, and received a kick in the belly for the liberty. It was only enough to wind her, to Maerad’s relief, but the Bards attended to their horses separately, rebuking and comforting them without speaking to each other. Maerad was also privately worried about Imi, whose coat was beginning to look rough and dull; she was as tough and stubborn as a mule, but this unrelenting journey was beginning to tell on her.

Western Lirhan, Maerad knew, was largely devoid of towns and villages, which tended to cluster closer to Lirigon. In the summer months it was inhabited by the southern clans of the Pilanel people, nomad horse breeders and traders who grazed their herds on the sweet grasses of the plains and moved with the seasons and their need. She saw a clan in the distance, a gathering of brightly painted caravans drawn in a circle around the rising smoke of a large fire, and she saw herds of horses grazing on far hills, but they went nowhere near the Pilanel and passed no one on the road. The desolation felt like a cruel mercy, since it left Cadvan and Maerad to each other, and that was cold comfort for both of them, but after their last encounter, she dreaded meeting any other wayfarers.

They were traveling as fast as before, both of them sure that pursuit must not be far behind, but despite this, Maerad’s exhaustion abated slightly. Lirhan did not erode the soul as Annar had, and perhaps that had been the greater part of her fatigue. She was very fit, after three weeks of hard riding, and her natural toughness reasserted itself.

She began now to feel the loss of Cadvan’s company; although he always tended to the taciturn, his silence was now an impenetrable wall. Her only company was Imi, who sensed her unhappiness and would lie close at night to comfort her. She was grateful for the beast’s simple understanding, but it only slightly eased the ache within her. She felt somehow exiled from humankind.

She bitterly regretted her killing of Ilar of Desor, and she also felt contrite about her words to Cadvan that night. But both were equally impossible to undo. Her contrition was somewhat tempered by a certain resentment at Cadvan’s withdrawal, which felt like a punishment. She was too proud to ask for forgiveness, although she would have welcomed any softening from him. And underneath, Maerad was simply afraid: afraid of her quest; afraid of whoever pursued them; afraid, perhaps most of all, of herself.

Their ride was uneventful, except that the mountains grew slowly closer and closer and the plains lifted into highlands, growing hillier and colder. The weather held, each day dawning into clear skies in which rode huge clouds, purple beneath and gold and white above, but the sun now held little warmth and the chill of the fading year was palpable.

Cadvan had reckoned it would take about a week to ride to the Osidh Elanor. The Elanor was one of the two major ranges of Edil-Amarandh, supposed to have been formed in the devastating Wars of the Elementals many eons before, and it was by far the highest. There were only two ways through: the Gwalhain Pass, which the southern clans of the Pilanel used in their migrations from their winter fastnesses in Zmarkan to their summer grazing grounds in West Lirhan, and the Loden Pass farther east, just north of Pellinor. The Gwalhain Pass had been Gahal’s main objection to their plans to travel by land: he argued that if anyone knew Maerad and Cadvan were heading north, they would simply have to wait there and ambush them.