The Riddle (9 page)

A terrible ache opened inside her. She longed to be able to tell Hem all these things face to face. A letter was no substitute; it made him seem even farther away.

She wondered whether to try writing her letter again, but couldn’t face it. With a deep sigh, she folded and sealed it, and took it to Elenxi to give to the emissary.

After the council meeting, Maerad felt completely safe in the School of Busk. Everyone in the School now knew of the threat from Norloch, but if it cast a shadow over their enjoyment of life, Maerad couldn’t see it. She discovered the truth of Cadvan’s comment that the only real problem with Thoroldians was keeping up with their consumption of wine: if it hadn’t been for how hard she was working, she would have thought that living in Busk was like being at a permanent festival. After one particularly bad morning, she learned a few survival techniques: thereafter she sipped her wine very slowly and drank lots of water whenever she was out with the Bards.

On feast days, when she didn’t have to do any lessons, Elenxi and his friends would sometimes take her into the town, where they would drink and dance all night in the gardens of the waterfront taverns under the glittering summer stars. Bards were always welcome in the taverns because Bards meant good music, and Thoroldians loved music with a passion.

The people she met in town were just like the Bards: fiery, passionate, argumentative, generous. The Thoroldians’ intensity was not always benign: to Maerad’s alarm, she witnessed a couple of brawls, once between two drunken Bards whom Elenxi literally lifted up by the scruffs of their necks and threw into the road, and once in a tavern between a number of fishers.

It was all very different from anything she had encountered before, but she found that she liked it very much. It wasn’t long before she was as argumentative and noisy as the best of them.

“Wild girl,” Cadvan teased her one night when she sat down, flushed and out of breath, after dancing. “I said you were part Thoroldian.”

“Well, if I am, maybe you are too,” said Maerad, laughing.

“Not as far as I know,” he answered. “But anything is possible.” It was true that Cadvan, usually so solitary and often so ill at ease when he stayed for any length of time in a School, was unusually relaxed in Busk.

Apart from Norloch’s ultimatum, the major topic of discussion among both Bards and townfolk was the Midsummer Festival, one of the high celebrations of the Bardic year: it was when the new year was welcomed in and the old farewelled. Maerad and Cadvan had arrived just under three weeks before the summer solstice, when the festival occurred, and this year’s was especially auspicious because it coincided with the full moon.

“There will be a procession,” said Kabeka, the tall Bard Maerad had seen declaiming a poem that first day. “Everyone comes to the procession — every man, woman, child, dog, and chicken in Thorold, and half of Thorold is in it.”

“It must be total chaos,” said Maerad, trying to imagine how such a crowd could fit in the narrow streets of Busk.

“It is!” Kabeka answered, grinning. “But it’s great fun. We look forward to it all year. The children wear masks and are allowed to steal sweetmeats from the stalls and to cheek their elders and get into all sorts of mischief, for they can’t be punished on that day.

“But the real event is the Rite of Renewal, which is always made by the First Bard. It is one of the most beautiful of the Bardic Rites; I have seen it so many times, and I never tire of it. The First Bard takes the Mirror of Maras, which holds the old year, and she smashes it. Then she remakes it, and from the Mirror grows the Tree of Light.”

Maerad remembered the glimmerspell Nerili had made in their first lesson, and her heart quickened.

“And afterward there is dancing and eating and drinking. And kissing,” Kabeka added wickedly, making Maerad blush. “You shall have to find someone to kiss.”

“I don’t want to kiss anyone,” said Maerad hotly, thinking suddenly of Dernhil.

“There are plenty who want to kiss you,” Kabeka answered, and Maerad’s blush deepened. “You’ll just have to work out how to stop them, then.”

One day, Maerad finished her lessons early and decided to go to the library to find Cadvan, who she knew would be searching through its archives for any mention of the Treesong. The Busk Library, off the central square, was a labyrinthine building that stretched back deep into the rocky hill behind it. It had been added to in a chaotic fashion in the centuries since it had been built, and it was now a bewildering honeycomb of rooms. Some were huge halls lit by long windows; others were tiny, dark chambers. But they were all lined from floor to ceiling with shelves, each of which was piled with scrolls or huge, leather-bound volumes or strange objects whose purpose she could not guess.

Maerad was quite happy to wander through the rooms, nodding to the Bards who sat reading at tables or stood on stepladders rummaging through the shelves. She wondered how anyone found anything, and after a while began to feel awed by the sheer weight of the knowledge she was walking past so lightly. Even if she spent her whole life doing nothing but reading, she would never get through it all. As she worked her way to the back of the library — she supposed Cadvan would be in the older rooms that were delved into the rock — she found more and more chambers that looked as if no one ever went there: the shelves were covered with thick dust, and they had a forlorn air. She picked up a lamp, for many of these rooms were dark, and continued her wandering.

At last she entered a long, narrow hall hung with intricately fashioned silver lamps that let down clear pools of light over a table that ran the entire length of the room. Underneath the light farthest from Maerad sat Cadvan, his head bent over a scroll spread open on the table. Opposite him, Nerili leafed steadily through a heavy book.

Maerad paused irresolutely at the threshold, wondering whether to enter and greet them. Neither Bard had noticed her presence; they were deeply absorbed in their work. There was a self-sufficiency in their silent companionship that she was too shy to disturb. In the end, she retraced her steps, trying to quell a small bitterness that had risen in her throat. In all their evenings of discussion, Cadvan had never mentioned that Nerili was helping him in his search of the library.

On Midsummer Day, the sun rose into a sky as perfectly blue as a robin’s egg. The winding alleys and small streets of Busk were packed with people, with the rest of the town seemingly out on their balconies, drinking and eating and waving and gossiping. Everyone had put on their best clothes, and the streets were a carnival of color, shimmering with the blazing silks woven and dyed in Busk: emerald green and crimson and gold and azure and turquoise.

The crowds made Maerad feel breathless; she’d never seen so many people squeezed into such tiny spaces. As they pressed through the narrow streets, she drew close to Cadvan, who was shouldering his way steadily toward the waterfront, where the procession was to take place later that day. The farther they pushed into town, the more crowded and noisy and hot it became. Children who wanted to get through simply wiggled their way between people’s legs. Some wore astounding masks made of dyed feathers and silk. Others simply had their faces painted, and were little foxes and cats and owls and flowers. Most of them clutched beribboned treasures: silk bags of sweets or toffee apples, especially made to be “stolen” from the market stalls.

Nobody was in a hurry, and Maerad and Cadvan were often stopped for conversation, or waved over to balconies to share a drink. They smilingly refused and pressed on. Eventually they reached their destination, the Copper Mermaid, the Bards’ favorite tavern, where they were meeting some friends who had sworn they would keep places for them. You could hear the Bards even over the noise of the crowd: a
makilon
player and a drummer were playing in the garden, and revelers spilled out, talking and laughing, over the garden and down to the waterfront.

Maerad looked with relief out to the sea, which was the only place not packed with people. A breeze played over the waves and cooled the sweat on her forehead.

“I didn’t realize there were so many people in the world,” she said, wiping her hair out of her eyes, once they had sat down.

“They’re not usually so close together,” said Cadvan. He poured her some minted lemon water. “Well, now that we’re here, we need not move until it’s time for the Rite of Renewal. We can just eat and watch the pageant.”

And it was some spectacle. They had prime seats, high on the balcony of the Copper Mermaid. Maerad and Cadvan agreed it was much better than jostling at the front, getting poked by old women with parasols and being trodden on. The gardens stretched before them in a series of terraces crowded with tables and chairs, down to the Elakmirathon, the harborside road bounded on one side by the long quay and on the other by rows of taverns and workshops and, farther on, by the open markets.

As the afternoon wore on, more and more people swelled the crowds along the Elakmirathon. Lamos, the proprietor of the Copper Mermaid, shut his gates so no one else could get in, and still people climbed over the walls. All the balconies and roofs along the waterfront, every available wall and window were festooned with people, all talking and laughing. Despite a cool breeze coming in off the sea, the press of people made it uncomfortably hot. Looking at the crowd, Maerad wondered aloud why nobody was crushed.

“We’re really quite orderly at this time of day, despite appearances,” Honas answered, grinning. “The real drinking starts later. During the day, it’s all eating. And by then all the crowds will have gone to their own celebrations. We’ve seldom had any trouble at Midsummer. A few brawls maybe, later. But shhh, it’s starting.”

Maerad craned her neck to see. She could hear a huge drum being hit in a solemn, commanding rhythm. Suddenly she saw an enormously fat man with a gilt-and-crimson drum hung around his neck. Where he walked the crowd parted miraculously, although it seemed impossible among those hundreds of people that any space should be available at all, and behind him came the procession.

First there were tumblers and jugglers, all dressed in bright primary colors. Some of the jugglers were throwing charmed balls that looked like fish or birds with wings of jewels and gold that flashed in the sun, or real stars, or blue and green and red flames. Maerad watched the acrobats with her mouth open: they leaped in impossible tumbling arcs onto each other’s shoulders, or walked on their hands or on stilts, or built themselves into human towers made of a dozen people. She clapped her hands with delight.

After them came a cavalcade of dozens of children — some riding stocky mountain ponies whose saddles and bridles were decorated with feathers and flowers. Maerad thought the ponies, which often walked backward or sideways instead of where they were supposed to go, looked less than enthusiastic about all the fuss. One dumped a tiny girl to the ground. Instead of bursting into tears, she scrambled up, her high headdress of dyed pink feathers sadly broken, whacked the pony on its rump, and swung herself up again to a cheer. All the children were dressed as fantastically as the Thoroldians could manage: dresses with several layers of flounces and lace, shirts and trousers with brilliant brocades, and masks made of feathers, glass, silk, and mirrors. They wore wonderful headdresses nodding with feathers, many of which looked rather unstable. Some had met the same sad fate as the little girl’s.

After the children came a series of floats representing the different guilds of Busk, drawn by gorgeously harnessed horses. There was clearly great competition between the guilds to see who could make the most spectacular float, and each one seemed more extravagant than the last. And last of all came the float for the School of Busk, with a dozen Bards working glimmerspells so it appeared to be floating in the air on its own. They had created an enchanted summer garden with colorful blooms six times their usual size, and a chorus of exotic birds singing
The Song of Making
in Thoroldian in unearthly voices. Maerad had known this song since she was a child, when she had been taught it by Mirlad, although he had told her nothing of what it meant. She recognized the melody, and her heart lifted.

In the middle of the garden grew the Tree of Light, just as Nerili had shown it to Maerad at her first lesson, but much bigger. It was in full flower. Above the Tree appeared to float a huge unhewn crystal, which Cadvan explained was an image of the Mirror of Maras, the stone used in the Rite of Renewal. As the float passed, a sweet perfume drifted up to the applauding Bards.

“Nerili has surpassed herself this year,” said Kabeka, clapping enthusiastically. “That was very well done.”

After the Bards’ float there were a few more musicians and tumblers, and then the parade was over. People whistled and cheered for a while, reluctant to leave, and then everyone began to wander off on their own business. In a surprisingly short time the huge crowd had dispersed, and Lamos reopened the gates. The
makilon
player and drummer began their music again and a few people started to dance.

Maerad sighed with sheer happiness. “That was the best thing I have ever seen,” she said, her eyes shining. “Oh, it was wonderful!”

“You just want to be an illusioner,” said Cadvan, laughing at her.

“I can think of worse things,” she said. “Look how much people enjoy it. And it must be so exciting to be able to make things like that, and to let people see them.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Cadvan. “Though there are not many places where they love the arts of illusion as much as they do here, and have brought it to such perfection. In most other Schools they are scorned as a minor part of Barding. Perhaps, one day, you will be the finest illusioner of them all. But now, alas, you walk a darker path.”

Maerad felt as if he had poured cold water over her. She wanted to kick Cadvan for reminding her of the shadows that pursued her, even here, and for popping her bubble of delight. She scowled at him, and turned to talk to Honas, and Cadvan looked reflectively into his glass and said nothing. Something was troubling him.