The Riddle - Alison Croggon [110]
“Perhaps the woman who gave it to me used Mirka’s name without cause, although I do not know why she would do so,” she said at last. “She is very old. But she is not dead, unless she has died since I last saw her, two weeks ago.”
There was a silence, and the man nodded. “Perhaps there is another story to be told,” he said. “I judge that you do not seek to mislead me. You may enter.”
He opened the door and beckoned Maerad in. Before she stepped inside, she hesitated.
“It is only courtesy to ask your name, so I may thank the one who invites me,” she said.
“My name is Dorn à Hadaruk,” he said.
“Dorn à Hadaruk?” Maerad said, taken aback. Dorn? Her father’s name? That’s a common enough name among the Pilani, Mirka had told her. . . . And he had the same last name as Mirka.
“Mirka is my mother’s mother,” he said, his dark eyes expressionless. “So you see, the question of her life and death holds a certain interest for me.”
“I see.” Maerad was silent for a while, thinking of the mad old woman who had been so kind to her. She had spoken of her daughter, and of her daughter’s death; she had never spoken of living grandchildren. She wondered if Mirka knew she had a grandson, or if she thought he was dead, just as he thought she was. Then she realized Dorn was waiting patiently, holding the door open. She tried to smile. “I thank you, Dorn à Hadaruk,” she said, and followed him into the house.
Dorn took her through a wide, dark passageway, which led, surprisingly, into a huge room that Maerad thought must have taken up the bulk of the house. Its height reached up the three stories to the roof, and at each level ran a gallery, off which Maerad could see other rooms. At the other end was a fireplace big enough to fit a whole tree, surrounded by a mantel carved with geometric Pilanel designs; inside it was burning some kind of fuel Maerad did not recognize, a kind of peat, which threw off a huge heat and gave a pleasant, earthy smell. Otherwise, the hall was lined with polished cedar wood, covered in some places with hangings whose brightness had faded with age.
By the fire, on a carved wooden chair, sat a tall woman. Although her hair hung in two simple plaits on either side of her face, and her robe, a rich purple-red, was plain and unadorned, Maerad sensed in her an aura of unchallengeable authority. And with a shiver of recognition, she understood that the woman was a very powerful Bard. She fixed her dark eyes on Maerad as she paced slowly across the room behind Dorn, her feet echoing on the wooden floorboards.
To Maerad’s exaggerated perceptions, it seemed to take a very long time to traverse that room. She was conscious always of the woman’s eyes upon her as she approached; it made her back prickle. At last, she stood in front of the chair, and the woman rose and turned her eyes to Dorn, who spoke in Annaren, out of courtesy to Maerad.
“Sirkana à Triberi, Headwoman of the Southern Clans,” he said. “I present to you a traveler, who comes here bearing a Pilani token of urgency and trust, and the greetings of Mirka à Hadaruk, who she says is alive. The traveler is Annaren, and gives her name as Mara.”
Maerad bowed, feeling very short. Standing up, Sirkana towered over her; she was taller than most men. “Thank you for greeting me, Sirkana à Triberi,” Maerad said, as formally as she could manage. “I have traveled far to see you.”
Instead of answering, Sirkana bent down so she could look straight into Maerad’s face. Maerad’s first instinct was to hide, but she blinked and bore the scrutiny. After a long pause, the headwoman straightened herself.
“It is she,” she said in the Speech. “The Chosen has arrived at last.”
DORN glanced at Maerad with a sudden amazement, and she became agonizingly aware of her filthy appearance.
“You are certain?” he said, answering in the same tongue, and Maerad gave him a swift look. The two Pilanel were staring at her solemnly, and she felt that she ought to say something.
“I am sorry to come before you in such disarray,” she said at last, using