The Riddle - Alison Croggon [107]
On the tenth day of her trek, Maerad at last began to see signs of other human beings; in the distance she would occasionally see a Pilanel caravan or sole herders with horses. She began to think hopefully that she was indeed on the correct road and had not been, as she had feared, simply wandering into the heart of the plains.
She kept herself unseen — out of caution, she told herself, but it was also shyness. If she had been heading to a School, she might not have felt so nervous. She wished, not for the first time, that she were not so ignorant. She often fingered the token that Mirka had given her, wondering what it meant and if it would help her, as the old woman had promised.
On the thirteenth day, she saw a smudge of smoke rising before her and guessed that she was at last close to Murask. Encouraged, she sped up, and by nightfall it was in clear view: still a few leagues off, but unmistakably a settlement of many people, since the smoke from numerous fires rose into the sky. She was puzzled because she couldn’t see any buildings, only what appeared to be a low hill.
She could have continued and reached Murask just after dark, but she decided against that, feeling unprepared. Instead she made camp again by the river, planning to arrive early the next day. Despite her weariness, she slept badly; the moon was now at the full and burned brilliantly in the frozen sky, throwing sharp black shadows over the sedges. Looking at it through the tangled branches of the withies, Maerad shivered; it was a powerful moon, dragging up feelings she had thought dead, but they were distorted and unrecognizable, turning strange faces toward her. I no longer know who I am, she thought; I never really knew in the first place. A terrible desolation seized her heart, and she lay on her back, shivering with cold, unable to find any comfort in either her body or her mind.
She woke when it was still dark from troubled dreams that she did not remember. There had been no frost, but she was drenched with a freezing, heavy dew, and the gray world around her seemed bleak and empty. She sniffed the air; the wind was changing, bringing a colder blast from the north, and the sky was heavy with yellowish clouds. She ate her humble breakfast hastily, watching the massing clouds, and then washed briefly in the river’s freezing water: as always when there was a full moon, her period had arrived, and she longed to take a bath. She cursed the timing; she felt more fragile than usual, as if she were made of glass, and now more than ever she needed to be strong. She tried to comb her hair, but it was so tangled after days of sleeping in the open that she almost broke the comb, and she gave up. At last, finding no other reason to procrastinate, but with a heavy reluctance, she began to walk to Murask.
The closer she came to the settlement, the more it puzzled her. It did not look like a town at all. Now she frequently passed grazing herds of ponies, attended by herders in bright Zmarkan jackets, but she could see no caravans. The green hill grew bigger and bigger as she approached it; it was the only high ground in these huge, flat plains. She began to realize that Murask must be inside the hill. She grew more and more apprehensive, and part of her played with the idea of just turning around and walking away. Where to? she thought despairingly. You have no choice — if they don’t let you in here, you’ll freeze to death. As if in answer to her thoughts, a few stray flakes of snow started whirling idly from the sky. She put her head down, postponing all further speculation, and concentrated on walking.
She arrived at the gate to Murask by midmorning. The countryside around her was already white with a thin layer of snow, and