The Riddle (37 page)

Sirkana told Maerad that a winter this early had not been heard of since the days when the Winterking held sway over Zmarkan. “His power waxes,” the headwoman said gravely. “I do not doubt it is him. I told Cadvan of Lirigon of this, when last he was in Murask.”

Maerad’s heart gave a little flip at the mention of Cadvan’s name. “Yes, he believed that the Winterking had arisen. And he said he had traveled within sight of his stronghold,” she said. “It seems all but certain now.”

Sirkana gave her a narrow look. “I do not fully understand your quest, my brother’s daughter. But if Cadvan of Lirigon was with you, then I do not doubt it is good. And I know you do not seek to deceive me; it is difficult to lie to me. Nevertheless, I am troubled. There is within you something that I do not recognize; it is not of the
Dhillarearën;
it is something else.”

“It’s the Elemental blood,” said Maerad.

“Nay, it is more than that.” Sirkana frowned. “Elemental blood, so it is said, is common among the Pilani. Still, I wonder greatly that you have spoken with such beings.”

“Oh, only one,” mumbled Maerad, suddenly embarrassed. “The Elidhu called Ardina has spoken with me once or twice.”

“Hmmm.” Sirkana’s face was unreadable, and Maerad wasn’t sure if she believed her or not. “There are tales that attend you, beyond your years; that is at least clear. Well, I see there are questions of high policy that are bound up with your quest, and I will not ask further. I trust you, and not only because you are my kin. I will give you what help I can.”

The warmth that flooded into Maerad’s breast when Sirkana said she trusted her surprised her. She blinked, feeling her eyes prickle. It seemed the first time that anyone had said such a thing to her, and since the killing of the Bard in the Rilnik Plains, and Cadvan’s death in the Gwalhain Pass, she had not even trusted herself. She turned away to hide her emotion.

“I thank you, Sirkana,” she said, her voice rough.

“Ah, little one.” Sirkana put her hand on her shoulder, and Maerad started at the intimacy of the gesture. “It is hard to bear such a burden as you bear, even for one much older than you. You are very young. We are all mistaken sometimes; sometimes we do wrong things, things that have bad consequences. But it does not mean we are evil, or that we cannot be trusted ever afterward.”

Maerad said nothing; she felt that if she said anything, she would burst into a storm of tears. Sirkana had guessed shrewdly at what tormented her.

“I loved my brother,” Sirkana went on softly. “And it has been a strange shock to me to meet you, my brother’s daughter. But as I have talked with you, I can see his face in yours. There is much in you that comes from him. And he was the bravest man I have ever known, and the most honest.”

Now Maerad did begin to cry. Sirkana patted her shoulder until she stopped, wiping her eyes with her hands.

“I don’t know,” she said despairingly. “I don’t feel brave. Everything’s been very hard for a long time. All my life, it seems. I wish I could remember my father better. All I can remember is —” She stopped, swallowing. “The clearest memory I have is of him being murdered. It doesn’t seem
fair.
”

“The world is not fair,” said Sirkana. “And there is nothing that can make its injustices easier to bear.”

They were silent for a while, and for that time Maerad felt closer to her than she had felt to any human being for a long time: she felt that someone saw her for who she was, and simply accepted her, in all her rightness and wrongness, as bone of her bone. Once, perhaps, her mother had looked at her like that. But she could barely remember it.

Finally Sirkana kissed her forehead and stood up. Her gentleness vanished behind her usual austere expression. “Well, I have a dispute that I must sort out between two clans, and they are awaiting me in the Hall,” she said. “I am already late.”

Maerad looked up, her lashes still wet with tears, and smiled. “Thank you, Sirkana,” she said.

“There is nothing to thank me for,” she said. “You will have what you need for your journey. If your quest succeeds, perhaps I will have to thank you.”

“Not for that. For —”

Sirkana’s face briefly softened again. “I know. Remember that my love will also go with you, and may it guard you well. For your sake, as well as your father’s.”

Dharin insisted that Maerad help him with gathering supplies and packing the sled for their journey. He said she should know what they were taking and where it was kept, and that she needed to be familiar with the sled before they left. She gladly assented; it gave her something to do.

Dharin had made the sled himself, and he knew every knot of it backward. The long runners were made from single lengths of ash that he had cut and carefully warped upward at one end so that the sled would ride easily over rocks and other obstacles. The runners were each about as thick as his thumb, and he had covered them beneath with a mixture of mud, moss, and (he told Maerad later, when they knew each other a little better) urine, which froze hard and slick, and protected the wood. Up from the runners ran six stanchions, also of ash, each one higher than the last, which were joined by two parallel rails. At the back end, behind the hindmost stanchion, was a little platform where Dharin stood to drive the sled. He told Maerad that she would be sitting in front of him, and he carefully made her a comfortable seat well padded with furs, which she could simply slip into, like a foot into a shoe.

The base of the sled was fashioned of thick wooden slats. At the front was a curved bow to protect the sled; it was made of stout wood and covered with rawhide. When he had taken the sled out of summer storage, Dharin had dismantled it entirely and freshly lashed it together, to ensure maximum strength and because mice had nibbled the hide. The hide kept the structure flexible and strong. Over the whole he had lashed two layers of cured skins.

Dharin explained every detail of the sled patiently, running his hands lovingly over each part of it, feeling for flaws and warpings in the wood that might have occurred during the summer. Maerad couldn’t imagine herself driving it, but then, she thought, there were a lot of things she had done that she wouldn’t have thought possible. Very slightly, her apprehension of the coming journey abated.

Together they packed onto the sled what seemed to Maerad an enormous number of supplies. There were extra furs to keep them warm at night and a sort of tent made of oiled hide and springy willow wood. They stowed a lot of a tough honey biscuit baked especially for long journeys through the cold. There were also bags of the usual traveling food — nuts, dried fruits, cured meat — and several large leather bags of drinking water. They took a supply of peat and fire-making tools, and a small traveling stove, of a kind Maerad had never seen: it was made of iron, with a stone base to prevent it burning the wood of the sled.

Maerad’s pack, which had often seemed so heavy in her travels, looked insignificant compared to everything else. And yet it contained everything she owned — her fighting gear, her treasures, her lyre. By far the most space was taken up by food for the dogs. Maerad was at first surprised by how much they were taking, but Dharin explained that while horses could usually feed themselves, everything dogs ate had to be carried.

“Unless they go hunting, but they might not catch anything, and it makes them wild,” he said. “And they eat a lot. They can keep running all day. It adds up to a lot of meat. I put it at the front: it will freeze there and so it will keep.”

They stood back, both admiring their handiwork. “It looks neat, well balanced,” said Dharin, his head tilted to one side. “Well, Mara, we’re ready to go anytime now. Just say the word.”

Maerad looked out through the open doors into the wide yard. She couldn’t see to the farther end; the view was white with snow.

“Do you think we ought to leave in this weather?” she asked dubiously. “Are you really as good a driver as you say?”

Dharin glanced at her. “We can wait,” he said. “Even the best driver avoids blizzards if he can.”

Maerad considered. “Let’s wait a day,” she said. “I don’t think I have a lot of time, so maybe if this snow doesn’t stop, we should think about going anyway. If you think it’s all right.”

“I await your word,” said Dharin, giving her an elaborate bow. Maerad pretended to be unamused by his foolery and waved him away, like an arrogant queen. He shuffled out of the shed backward, dangling his hat in his hands, and fell over in the snow.

Maerad laughed out loud, and Dharin came back inside, brushing snow off himself.

“Sorry, Queen Mara,” he said. “I’m not much good as a slave.”

Maerad laughed again, and brushed more snow out of his hair. “Neither was I,” she said.

THAT night, alone in her room, Maerad was afflicted by a terrible melancholy. In the few days she had been in Murask, she had found a part of her family she hadn’t known anything about. And although she felt a closeness to Sirkana that she could not deny — and even to Dharin — she also knew she was different from them in a way she was sure that Hem was not. Hem would have fit in seamlessly, right down to the endless meals. She smiled, thinking of Hem’s bottomless appetite. It was impossible to be in Murask and not to think of Hem; his vivid face came into her mind’s eye again and again. That afternoon she had seen a young boy whose lean, dark features were disconcertingly like her brother’s, and she had almost cried out his name, until he turned and she realized he was quite different. Hem would belong here, perhaps as she felt she belonged among the Bards. Or
had
felt, in the past, before . . . She flinched from the painful thought that her actions might have exiled her from the Schools forever.

She lay on her bed for some time, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Soon — tomorrow, perhaps — she would be starting another stage of her quest. She knew nothing of where she was going, and it was possible that she might not come back. And if she did not, Hem would never know of his family in Murask. . . .

She remembered her terrible foredream of the sack of Turbansk and felt a suffocating despair rising in her breast. What hope did she or Hem have of surviving their different perils? How could she know that Hem was not already dead? And yet, with some unshakable knowledge deeper than her doubt, Maerad was certain Hem was still alive. It was as if the two of them were connected by an invisible filament, immeasurably fine and delicate, which vibrated with his presence in the world. She was sure that she would know if Hem were dead. Hem was alive, then; she had to believe that. And while the heart beats, hope lingers, she said firmly to herself. She could not let her fear or hopelessness rule her actions; that way lay certain defeat.

Maerad reached a sudden decision. She got up from her bed and rummaged through her pack, looking for the writing materials she kept in there, wrapped carefully in oilskin. She spread the precious paper on the trunk, took out the pen, dipped it in black ink, and then paused for a moment, wondering how to begin. Then she started writing with a desperate industry.

My dear brother,

I am writing this letter in Murask, a Pilanel settlement in Zmarkan. I hope this finds you well, and that Saliman (greetings, Saliman!) has taught you enough script for you to be able to read this on your own. I am full of sad news: Cadvan, our dear friend, perished in the Gwalhain Pass on our journey here, with Darsor and Imi. There are no words to express my sorrow.

I reached Murask on my own and am now about to travel farther north with a Pilanel guide to find a people called the Wise Kindred, who may be able to tell me something about the Treesong. I hope I am right, and that this is not a mistake. I may not return, and there are some things that I want you to know, in case I am not able to tell you of them myself.

I have found our father’s family here. My guide is called Dharin à Lobvar, and he is our cousin: our father’s sister’s son. I have not been able to meet his mother, who is not in Murask at present, but the headwoman of the clans, Sirkana à Triberi, is another of Dorn’s sisters. She is a Bard like us and she is Dorn’s twin sister. I feel quite sure that if you came to Murask, you would feel completely at home; you already know that you are Pilanel, in a way that I am not, for all that we are kin. And the Bards among the Pilanel have other ways of using their Gifts than being instated to a School. If the School of Turbansk does not suit you, perhaps you might find a place among them. Whether you find yourself a Turbansk Bard or no, I believe that you must one day journey to Murask and speak to your kin here.

I write this with terrible sadness. I miss you more than I can say and every day I wish that we were together, and not separated by so many leagues. I have heard of war marching on Turbansk, and I fear for you. We are born into such dark times. But I also write this with hope and love, until one day I embrace you again, my dear brother.

Your sister,

Maerad

When she had finished, she read it through. It didn’t really say what she meant; she hadn’t the words for so many things, and she still found writing a difficult labor. But it would at least give Hem this knowledge, if she could not — if the letter ever reached him through the war-torn land. She sealed it with wax, pressing her Pellinor brooch into the seal, and then addressed it:
Hem (Cai of Pellinor), by way of the hand of Saliman of Turbansk, at the School of Turbansk, in the Suderain.
Then, possessed by urgency, she went to Sirkana’s room and knocked on the door.