The Riddle - Alison Croggon [111]
“I mean none either,” said the woman. “I have waited for you for a long time.”
In her confusion, Maerad forgot her formality. “For me?” she asked. “How did you know I would come here?”
“It is said in the lore,” said Sirkana, as if that explained everything. “It has long been known that the Riddle would begin its answer here. Our songs do not lie, and the past years have brought all the signs. It was time. Besides, your destiny is written in your face.”
Maerad was speechless, and felt herself blushing.
Sirkana laughed at her discomfiture. “Your destiny is not visible to everyone,” she said. “Only to those gifted with both Sight and Voice. And there are not many of those. Only myself, perhaps. Well, you have traveled far, and must be footsore and hungry. You may stay in my house; there is room aplenty. Come, we will talk more later.”
She snapped her fingers, and a woman Maerad hadn’t noticed stepped out of the shadows under the galleries. Sirkana spoke to her rapidly in Pilanel, and the woman nodded and then beckoned Maerad out of the hall. Maerad followed her, puzzled by both her interview and her swift dismissal. She felt as if she had stepped into the middle of a conversation she was expected to understand, and was left gaping like a fish, trying to catch up.
At least she was warm, for the first time in days. And maybe she could have a proper wash.
Maerad was taken to a small chamber that led off the highest gallery. The woman who took her there spoke no Annaren, but with gestures they managed some communication: Maerad found out that her name was Zara, and Zara, who was clearly a practical woman, established that, yes, Maerad would like to wash herself, and also would like something to eat. She disappeared, and Maerad finally put down the pack she had carried for two weeks from the Osidh Elanor. She rubbed her shoulders, and sighed.
She felt too tired to unpack; now that she had arrived, it was as if a leaden weight of weariness had settled on her shoulders. She yawned hugely and looked around the chamber. It was comfortable and snug, being just near the chimney of the fire downstairs, and like the main hall was entirely paneled in wood, here painted with murals of wolves and foxes and owls in a snow-covered forest of spruce. The painted animals were abstracted in a way that caught Maerad’s attention: there was no mistaking what they were, but the artist had made no attempt to make them appear real, and their forms owed much to the geometric patterns with which the Pilanel adorned their clothes and caravans. There was a narrow bed, draped with furs, and a stool and a tall, plain cedar chest, but no other furniture.
Zara silently returned, bringing with her silver ewers of water smelling of roses, one boiling hot and one cold, a large silver basin and some cloths, and before she left, she carefully draped on the bed some warm woolen robes like those Sirkana had been wearing. They were dyed a purple-red; even in Thorold, she had never seen dye of that color. The respectful way that Zara had handled the raiment alerted Maerad that the robes were precious, and when she stroked them, she realized they were made of some very soft, fine wool she did not recognize. They had clearly been woven with great care: even when Maerad looked at them closely, she could see no sign of any seam and thought that they had either been stitched with marvelous skill or been woven in one piece. She touched the soft material, feeling sensible of an honor of which she did not understand the full significance, and then poured water into the bowl and, with intense relief, washed herself properly for the first time in weeks. There was some soft soap in the bowl, and with it she washed her hair. She didn’t know what to do with her dirty clothes, and folded them up on the floor so they should not soil the bed.
Then she drew the robes over her head. As well as being softer than any fabric she had touched, they were also warmer. She sat down on the bed and inspected her feet. They had held up quite well through