The Riddle - Alison Croggon [101]
She said nothing of these thoughts to Mirka, although they talked now in the evenings, and Maerad was well enough to help her with simple tasks. Mirka taught her how to fish, bringing out a precious second rod she kept stored in her roof, and they would sit on the banks of the stream, watching the glittering surface of the water. Maerad managed to catch a few trout, but she was by no means as skilled as Mirka: fishing was Mirka’s passion.
It took a few days before Maerad felt able to broach the subject of Murask again. She chose one evening, after they had shared a stew of herbs and turnips and were sitting together looking into the fire. This time, Mirka gave her a narrow look.
“Why do you want to go to Murask?” she asked.
“I have something to do,” said Maerad. “And I must go there.”
“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