The Riddle (31 page)

“Well, then.” The old woman leaned forward and poked the fire. “Well, then. You are not Pilani, and you wish to go to Murask.”

“My father was Pilanel,” said Maerad. “His name was Dorn.”

“Dorn? That’s a common enough name among the Pilani. Dorn of what?”

“I don’t know.” Maerad felt disconsolate. “He was a Bard. A
Dhillarearën.
I never knew him; he was killed when I was a little girl.”

“Dorn.” Mirka’s face creased up in thought. “I did know a Dorn. Dorn à Triberi, one of the southern Pilanel who winter in Murask. He was one with the Voice who went south. Perhaps it was him.”

“Maybe,” said Maerad. “He married a Bard, my mother.”

“Dorn à Triberi was a special child.” Suddenly Mirka was far away, as if she were speaking in a dream and had forgotten she was sitting next to Maerad. “A star child, one of the blessed. Not just because he had the Voice; he was born with the caul. I delivered him, and he came into the world blind and covered, and when the caul was taken away, he looked at me with his dark eyes, and he saw the whole world. Aiee, there are some babies like that, but not many in this world, not many. . . .” She trailed off into silence.

“Do you think he was my father?” asked Maerad, reflecting again on how little she knew of her own family. Scraps and rags: a few fragmented memories, the few facts she had been told. Cadvan might have known more, but if he had, he hadn’t told her.

“How can I know?” said Mirka irritably. “He might have been. He might not. There are many Dorns in the Pilani. He might be of a northern clan; they don’t go to Murask, and there are many
Dhillarearën
among those people.”

“Well, whether he came from Murask or not,” said Maerad, biting her lip to stave off her impatience, “I have to go there. And I’d better go soon, because before long autumn will be over, and it will be winter, and traveling will be hard.”

“
Na, na.
Well, you are bent on your road, my little chicken. I do not think it is a good road.” Mirka gave Maerad a disconcertingly penetrating glance. “There is a shadow on you. But I do not want to know about such things; no, I have enough darkness of my own. Well, Murask it is. It is not hard to find: you follow the road, and it will take you there.”

“But which road? And is it far?” asked Maerad.

“A week’s walk, maybe ten days. Not far, no. I will show you the road, when it is time. You have not the strength, my chick. Not yet. Your body is strong and you will get better, but not today, nor tomorrow.”

Mirka would say nothing more of Murask, although Maerad prodded her, and in the end, feeling frustrated, she went to her pack and took out her lyre. It had lain neglected since long before the attempt on the Gwalhain Pass, and Maerad felt a thrill of recognition as she took it out of its leather case; the lyre was her oldest friend, once her only consolation. And perhaps, now, her only consolation again. She inspected it closely for hurt, but its plain wood and silver strings were unharmed; she ran her fingers over the strange carvings, the ten runelike decorations that no one could read, and which were as familiar to her as her own skin. Finally she drew her hand across the strings, and a chord rang out through the hut. Maerad looked up, smiling, and saw with surprise that Mirka was staring at her with horror.

“What is that?” she said. “What is that thing?”

“This?” Maerad lifted it so Mirka could see it properly, but the old woman flinched back. “It’s only my lyre. My favorite thing. My mother gave it to me, and she had it from her mother, and so on back through the House of Karn. Haven’t you seen one before?”

“It is too big a thing for this house.” Mirka’s face was gray with dread. “It has seen too much grief. Aiee, it has seen the rending of the world; the moon is black inside it. Put it away!” She covered her eyes with her hands and started chanting something in Pilanel, her jaw trembling.

Astonished, Maerad looked down at her humble lyre, and then slowly packed it into its case. She knew her lyre was ancient, made by the Dhyllin people in the flower of their civilization, and that however humble it looked, it was an ancient and precious instrument made by a master craftsman. But although the few Bards who knew its heritage had responded with amazement and respect when they had seen it, no one had ever reacted as Mirka had. Maerad felt disturbed and disappointed; she was full of hunger for music. She wished that Mirka were not so mad.

The old woman peeked out between her fingers and saw Maerad had put her lyre away. She let down her hands and cackled at Maerad’s glum face, as if it had all been a big joke. “Did I frighten you, my chick?”

Maerad didn’t say anything. She did feel afraid, although she thought that Mirka was just crazy.

“I frightened you, didn’t I? I think you are not frightened enough.” Mirka laughed again.

“Frightened of what?” Maerad asked. Of everything, she thought tiredly to herself. Or maybe nothing. She didn’t know anymore.

“There are many things to fear,” said Mirka evasively. “Always is. Always was.”

Maerad sighed. Her longing for music flowered inside her, an unassuageable ache. “Perhaps,” she said, “we could just sing something. I know some songs.”

“Maybe you know only broken songs,” said Mirka, looking at Maerad with a strange slyness.

“Broken songs? What do you mean?”

Mirka didn’t answer for a long time. She shut her eyes hard and rocked, as if she were trying to hear something that was too far away. When she opened them again, her slyness had vanished and she seemed merely a bewildered old woman. “I don’t know what I mean,” she said. “You are like a dream that has already happened to me, you and that thing you carry. Aiee, a dream, but a good one or a bad one — I don’t know.”

“I don’t know either,” said Maerad miserably. “A bad dream, I think.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Who can tell? It is said all riddles are answered by the Wise Kindred.”

“The Wise Kindred?” Maerad wondered if this was some other figment of Mirka’s imagination. She looked up and the old woman was far away again, her eyes blank and unfocused.

“The Wise Kindred live on the ice, far in the north, where it is always night or always day.” She spoke in a monotone that sent shivers down Maerad’s spine, and for a moment she thought Mirka’s face blurred and she saw another face, much younger, in its place. “They are the Oldest and they remember much that was lost in the Black Days, aiee, when the evil lord held sway. They understand what is half and what is whole, what is made and half made.”

Maerad’s heart leaped into her mouth; she thought of Ankil’s story of the Split Song. Was this what her foredream meant, when the voice had said,
Look to the north
?

“Can they tell me about the Treesong?” she asked.

“They keep the Song,” the old woman said.

Maerad waited, holding her breath, but Mirka said nothing more; she was still staring into space, as if Maerad were not there. Maerad leaned forward and touched her shoulder, and the old woman blinked and looked up, as if she had just awoken from a dream. Her face collapsed into a grimace of pain, and she clutched her head.

“Are you all right?” asked Maerad.

“
Na, na,
child, I am just sore-headed. It happens when you are old. It will happen to you one day. . . .” Mirka started mumbling something that Maerad couldn’t understand, and Maerad thought with frustration about what she had just said.

“Can you remember anything else about the Wise Kindred?” she asked.

“The Wise Kindred?” said Mirka sharply. “What are you talking about, child? They are the stuff of children’s tales, no more. Why do you ask?”

“But you just said . . .” Maerad began, and then gave up. Perhaps Mirka really didn’t remember what she had said, but whether she did or not, it was clear she wasn’t going to tell Maerad anything more.

TWO nights later, Maerad dreamed of Hem. It had nothing of a foredream’s dreadful clarity; but she hoped it was some kind of true dreaming nevertheless. She was sitting somewhere in bright sunshine, next to her brother. Hem had a big, white bird on his shoulder and he was leaning back against a dark-leaved tree. He looked older than she remembered him, taller and rangier, and his skin was darker, but he gazed at her with the same blue eyes. In his hand he held a smooth orange fruit, which he was cutting with a small wooden-handled knife. They were laughing, although Maerad couldn’t remember why.

The dream passed into other dreams that Maerad didn’t remember, but she awoke with a small easing of the cold despair she had felt since she had found herself in Mirka’s house. Hem was still alive, and was thinking of her; she was sure of that. She was not entirely alone in the world. And it was time for her to leave.

She didn’t need to say anything to Mirka. The old woman merely looked at her and nodded.

“You are well now,” she said. “You will wish to go.”

“Yes,” said Maerad.

They said nothing further about it until after breakfast, and after Maerad had helped Mirka with her morning tasks. Then Maerad took out her pack and sorted through it. She still had some of the hard traveling biscuit, enough to last two weeks, and some dried fruit and nuts; the cooking gear had gone with Cadvan and Darsor, so there would be no hot meals. But it was autumn, and there would be wild berries and nuts and other things she could gather, perhaps, on her way. Her bottle of medhyl was almost full. She filled her water bottle from the stream and then packed everything away.

Experimentally, she swung the pack onto her back. It didn’t feel as heavy as she had feared it would after her illness. She put it down and looked inside the pack again. She drew out the little black wooden cat she had carried since that day, long ago, when she and Cadvan had found Hem, and swinging up her pack again, went outside to find Mirka.

Mirka was not far away, sitting on her favorite fishing knoll; Inka was at her feet, snoring. Already two trout lay in the basket beside her, their iridescent scales breaking up the sunlight; she was catching as many as she could, to smoke for the frozen winter months ahead. Maerad sat down beside her and Mirka grunted in acknowledgment, her eyes fixed on the shining line trembling over the water.

“I’ve nothing much to give you, for what you’ve done for me,” said Maerad. “You saved my life.”

Mirka turned to face her, her blue eyes sparkling and present. “I need nothing,” she said. “You were a gift from the mountains.”

“I’d like to give you something, all the same.” She held out the little cat, and Mirka took it. “I found this, a while ago. At the same time that I found my brother. It’s Pilanel, I think.”

Mirka took the little cat and inspected it. “Yes, it is a Pilani carving,” she said. “Some child loved this. And it will not make Inka jealous, will it?” She prodded the dog with her foot and it opened a sleepy eye. “Not like a real cat. Thank you, my chicken.”

“I think I shall start, while it’s still early,” said Maerad. “How do I find my way?”

Mirka fixed her rod in the ground and slowly stood up. She pointed to a winding path that led through the forest from her clearing.

“Follow that,” she said. “Soon you will find the road. Then turn away from the mountains and go north. You will find Murask.”

Maerad nodded, and said awkwardly, “Well, goodbye then.”

“Just wait a little. I have something for you.”

Mirka hobbled back to her hut. She was not gone long, and returned holding a small object in her hands.

“Take this,” she said. “It is a token of trust. If you show it, you will be admitted into Murask, even though you are a stranger.”

She gave Maerad a small disc carved out of yellowing bone. In the center was a beautiful relief of a running horse, perfect in every detail, except that a small crack ran through it.

Maerad was so taken aback that for a moment she was speechless. “I can’t take this,” she said.

“You can take it, my chicken,” said Mirka, patting her cheek. “And you will. Tell them Mirka à Hadaruk sends greetings and blessings.”

Maerad nodded, and then kissed the old woman on both cheeks. “May the Light shine on you!” she said.

“It will, my chick, or it will not, whether you will or no,” said Mirka. She smiled and stroked Maerad’s hair. “But now I have work to do. Off you go. And go well.”

She turned back to her fishing. Maerad watched her for a short time and then sighed and swung on her pack. She headed for the path and followed it through the trees. It wasn’t long before all trace of Mirka’s clearing had vanished from sight.

As Mirka had promised, the little path ran into a wide road of beaten earth that led straight downhill through the spruce and birches. Setting the mountains to her back, Maerad walked on. Lilac bushes, currant vines, wild strawberries, and low hazels grew in tangled clumps under the trees, their leaves already yellow and brown. The sky was a very pale blue with little warmth in it, good weather for walking, and she strode out, pulling the cold air into her lungs, listening to the birds squabbling unseen in the branches around her and the soft crunch of her footfalls on the ground. There was little other sound: for the first time in her life Maerad was completely alone, with no other human being in call. It was a strange feeling, but liberating; for some curious reason it made her feel less lonely.