The Riddle (5 page)

As they were speaking, they stopped in front of a house and turned in to the porch. Maerad was blinded in the sudden shade, and Cadvan led her blinking through two large bronze double doors into a huge atrium flagged with marble. Orange and lemon trees and flowers were planted in big glazed pots, giving off a delicious perfume, and jasmine climbed around the slim columns. In the center, in the middle of an intricate mosaic of birds and flowers, played a fountain. Maerad relaxed in the coolness and looked around. The atrium seemed to be deserted.

Cadvan rang a brass hand bell that stood on a small plinth, and then sat down on a wooden bench and stretched out his legs.

“Someone will come in a moment,” he said. “Sit down.”

“It’s lovely,” said Maerad. She sat next to him, content to do nothing. She felt again how tired and grimy she was, and how much she longed to wear clean clothes and to sleep in a proper bed. Was it only yesterday they had driven off the ondril? It seemed like last year.

“Do you think we could stay here awhile?” she asked.

“That is my plan,” said Cadvan. “I’m tired of travel myself. And Busk has a very good library, one of the oldest in all Edil-Amarandh; I am hoping there might be some ancient writings there that refer to the Treesong. It would help if we knew what it was we’re searching for.”

Maerad turned to look at the fountain. The sunlight struck off the droplets in little prisms, and its murmurous music sank into her hypnotically, as if it were a song of which she almost understood the words. She didn’t notice the old man who stepped out of the shade at the other end of the atrium until he was only a few paces away.

Cadvan stood up, extending his hand in greeting. “Elenxi,” he said. “Greetings.”

“
Samandalamë,
Cadvan,” said the old Bard, smiling widely. He had strong, white teeth. “Welcome.”

Maerad looked at him wonderingly; he must have been a giant in his youth, and still towered over Cadvan. His hair and beard were utterly white, and his dark eyes were sharp, the eyes of a much younger man. Like Cadvan, he used the Speech, the inborn language of Bards, and not the common tongue of the Thoroldians. It was much more than a courtesy to strangers: to use it was an offering of trust as much as a practicality. It was said to be impossible to lie when using the Speech.

“My companion is Maerad of Pellinor,” said Cadvan. Maerad bowed her head, and Elenxi, bowing his head in return, gave her a swift, piercing glance, but made no comment. “We are here seeking refuge, fleeing peril on land and sea, and bring news of great import.”

“You are always welcome, Cadvan,” said Elenxi. “And I have heard somewhat of Maerad of Pellinor.” Again he directed that sharp, disconcerting gaze at her. “Nerili will no doubt wish you to join her for dinner; she is detained at present. In the meantime, I will arrange rooms, and I expect you will want to refresh yourselves and rest.”

So almost as quickly as she had desired, Maerad found herself in a graceful room with cool stone walls decorated with embroidered silk hangings, and a huge bed draped with a white net, which Cadvan told her later was for keeping out stinging insects at night. On one side were wide, windowed doors, with white shutters both inside and out. These were now open and led out, past a veranda, to a shady garden. Fresh clothes — a long crimson dress in the Thoroldian style, with a low neck, well-fitted sleeves, and a wide brocaded belt — were laid out for her, and Maerad earnestly requested to be shown the bathing room. The chatty Bard whom Elenxi had assigned to show her around finally left her to her own devices.

Maerad was addicted to baths. For most of her life, the years of drudgery in Gilman’s Cot when she had been a low slave, she had never even heard of bathing. But since her introduction to Bardic ideas about cleanliness in the School of Innail, Maerad couldn’t get enough of them. This bathroom was especially pleasant: it was painted a cool blue and opened out on a tiny courtyard where finches hopped in the potted trees. The bath itself was tiled with a mosaic of dolphins and other sea creatures, and the water was hot and plentiful. When it was deep enough to come up to her neck, Maerad dropped a bunch of lavender and rosemary into the water and stepped down into the fragrant bath with a sigh. She emerged much later, dressed herself leisurely, wandered to her room, and unpacked.

Unpacking had become a ritual, a kind of reckoning of her life. First she took out her wooden lyre, freeing it from the leather carrying case, stamped with the lily sign of the School of Pellinor, which had been a gift from Cadvan. The lyre had been her mother’s, and of everything she owned it was the most precious to her. But she knew that, despite its humble appearance, the lyre was precious in other ways: it was an ancient instrument of Dhyllic ware, made by a master craftsman, and was engraved with runes that even the wisest Bards could not decipher. She brushed her fingers gently over its ten strings, simply to hear its pure tone, before she leaned it carefully in the corner. She put all her clothes aside for washing, unpinning the silver brooch from her cloak and laying it on the table. She unpacked the light chain mail and helm that she had been given in Innail, and put them alongside her sword, Irigan, in the cabinet. She put various other items in one of the drawers: a small leather kit containing a hoof pick and brushes for horses, a pen and a small pad of paper, a leather water bag, a clasp knife, and a blue bottle of the Bard drink medhyl, brewed to combat tiredness, which was almost empty.

Then she took out a number of objects, which she placed carefully about the room, for they too were precious to her. She unpacked a reed flute, given to her by an Elidhu in the Weywood, who Maerad alone knew was also the Queen Ardina of Rachida, and who had, in her other incarnation, given Maerad the exquisitely wrought golden ring that she wore on her third finger; and a black wooden cat that might have been carved as a toy for a child, retrieved from the sacked caravan the day they had found her brother, Hem. Last, she unwrapped from bound oilskin a small but beautifully illuminated book of poems given to her by Dernhil of Gent. She looked at it sadly. She had not had much time to read it, and reading was, in any case, a slow business for her, but she knew most of the poems in it by heart. Dernhil’s death still weighed on her heavily, a regret and a grief.

She shook her head, clearing her thoughts, then picked a golden pear out of the bowl on the table and stepped outside. All the rooms on this side of the house had doors that opened onto the garden. The shadows were now beginning to lengthen and a fresh breeze had sprung up, smelling faintly of brine. Maerad walked barefoot onto the cool grass and sat on the ground in the shade of a trellis overgrown with pale-yellow roses. She ate the pear slowly, letting its sweet juice fill her mouth, her head entirely empty of thought, utterly content. Somewhere a bird burbled unseen in the bushes, but otherwise all was quiet.

As night fell and the lamps were lit, Cadvan knocked on Maerad’s door and they wended their way through the Bardhouse to the private quarters of Nerili, First Bard of Busk. Nerili’s rooms were on the other side of the Bardhouse, and they had to pass through the atrium again on their way there. Maerad dawdled through it, feeling that she would rather sit there all evening than meet any Thoroldian Bard, let alone the most important Bard in the School. The fountain bubbled peacefully in the twilight, murmuring its endless song, as the white stars opened above it in a deep blue sky.

They left the atrium and entered a labyrinth of corridors, turning again and again until Maerad had completely lost her sense of direction. The Bardhouse was enormous. But Cadvan led her unerringly, and at last they stood outside a tall door faced with bronze like the front door of the house, and knocked. It opened, and a slim woman stood in the doorway and greeted them, smiling.

“Cadvan of Lirigon! It is long since your path has led this way.”

“Too long,” said Cadvan. “But, alas, such has been my fate.”

“I regret that the charms of Busk could not draw you here more often,” said Nerili. There was a sharpness in her tone that made Maerad look again, but now the woman was smiling and stretching her hand toward Maerad. Cadvan cleared his throat and introduced her.

Nerili of Busk was not quite what Maerad had expected. She seemed too young to be a First Bard, although among Bards age was always difficult to guess. Maerad thought she looked about thirty-five years old, which given the triple life span of Bards meant she was perhaps seventy or eighty. She was not much taller than Maerad, but her authority and grace, and the challenging glance she gave Cadvan as they entered, gave her an illusory stature. She was strikingly beautiful, with the gray eyes, black hair, and olive skin of a Thoroldian, and her gray silk dress fell softly about her, shimmering like a waterfall. Her hair was piled up on her head and held in place by silver combs and a length of silk, in a style worn by many Busk women, and she wore no jewelry apart from long silver earrings. Maerad was a little dazzled, and stammered as Cadvan introduced her. It seemed to her that even Cadvan was uncharacteristically awkward. She glanced at him curiously; surely he wasn’t shy?

Her rooms, like Nerili herself, were elegant: she eschewed the usual silk hangings, ubiquitous in Busk, and instead the stone walls were painted a pale blue, with a faint stenciling of birds in a deeper shade. The only other decoration was a series of exquisite glazed blue-and-white tiles around the doors and windows and fireplace, each painted with a different scene from Thoroldian life: fishermen, silkweavers, goatherds, children playing. It was a calm, beautiful room. Through a half-open door Maerad could see what she supposed must be Nerili’s study, from the chaos of manuscripts, scrolls, and books she glimpsed piled on a table, and on the far side of the main room she could see a dining table set with candles in glass holders and a generous meal — flat rounds of unleavened bread, little bowls of pickled vegetables and sauces, cold meats and cheeses. There was a plate of round black spiky things that looked like strange fruit, and a large bowl of shells with orange lips. Her mouth started to water: she was very hungry.

Nerili invited them to sit down and poured out a light red wine. “So,” she said, glancing at Cadvan with an unusual directness. “Elenxi tells me you have news? Serious, important news. And he said you were seeking refuge. Refuge from what? Though I see you have suffered some battles.” She was looking at the whip scars on Cadvan’s cheek.

Maerad suddenly thought: she’s a Truthteller, like Cadvan. She couldn’t have said how she understood this; she simply knew. It was a gift some Bards possessed: as Silvia had told her, Truthtellers could bring the truth out of a person, even if they didn’t know it was there. It was impossible to lie to them. She examined Nerili with new interest.

Cadvan raised his glass. “Good wine, Neri. It’s been a while since I tasted Thoroldian grapes; I had forgotten how excellent they are.” Nerili smiled briefly, and Cadvan leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath.

“I will tell you the worst news first.” His voice hardened. “Maerad and I are seeking refuge from Enkir of Norloch, who has betrayed the Light. We fled the citadel only four days ago; it was then in flames. I fear civil war in Annar and I know that the Nameless One returns, the Dark moves on Annar, and even as it rises, the White Flame collapses from within. The First Circle of Annar is broken.”

Nerili swallowed hard and was silent for a few moments as she studied Cadvan’s face.

“I see that you say no untruth,” she said quietly. “But I can scarce credit it. Norloch burns? The First Bard betrays the Light?”

“It’s true,” said Maerad. A sudden image flashed into her mind of Enkir’s face, cold and vicious with rage, and she felt a bitter anger rising within her. “He has long been a traitor. The First Bard Enkir sent my mother to be enslaved, and betrayed Pellinor to the Dark. I was only a little girl when it happened, but I recognized his face. He knew he was discovered, and he tried to imprison half of the First Circle for treachery. He sent soldiers for us, and we only just escaped, with Owan d’Aroki’s help.”

“He sent an ondril to pursue us,” added Cadvan. “And no ordinary ondril either.”

Nerili shook her head in bewilderment and put up her hand. “Let’s go back to the beginning,” she said. “You are saying that Enkir caused Pellinor to be sacked? That is a grim accusation.”

“He did. He wanted me.” Maerad looked up at Nerili, her jaw jutting out. She was tired of having to explain her story. “He knew the Fated One would be born to my parents. We don’t know how he knew. But he took my brother, Hem, instead of me; he thought only a boy could be the Fated One.”

Nerili gave a small, barely audible gasp.

“My father was killed with everyone else. My mother died later, in slavery.” Maerad stopped suddenly, twisting her fingers around the glass. This stark narration caused all her old sadnesses to rise up inside her, choking her throat.

“The One? You are sure?” asked Nerili softly, looking across at Cadvan.

Cadvan nodded. Nerili leaned forward and took Maerad’s chin in her hand, looking at her intently. Maerad stared back into her eyes without fear or surprise; a few Bards had searched her this way before, not quite scrying her, but feeling her out. She felt a delicate touch in her mind, a light like music. Then Nerili sat back and passed her hand over her face.

“I shall need some time to absorb this.” She picked up her glass and drained it. “Maerad, I do not know what you are.”

“Neither do I,” Maerad answered, a little forlornly.

“You have great power. But it is a strange power, a wild power, unlike anything I have felt before.”

“There are many riddles in this tale,” said Cadvan. “But I have no doubt that Maerad is the greatest of them all. None of us knows what she might be capable of.”

Both Bards stared gravely at Maerad until she shifted under their gaze, suddenly glowering. Seeing her discomfort, Nerili refilled her glass and turned urgently to Cadvan.

“And what of Nelac?” she asked. “Is he still in Norloch? Or did he flee as well?”