The Riddle - Alison Croggon [112]
Zara returned with a pair of buskins made of sheepskin for Maerad’s feet, and a tray on which was a bowl of hot stew and a piece of unleavened bread covered with some kind of black seed, still warm from the oven. Maerad’s mouth immediately filled with water. She was relieved that she would be eating alone, and she thanked Zara and laid the tray on the chest, which was high enough to use as a table. Zara disappeared, and Maerad devoured her late breakfast, or early midday meal, with indecent haste: she suddenly felt as if she had not eaten for days. The stew had a gamey taste, like goat, and was flavored with sour cream and fennel, and a duck egg had been broken into it, a combination Maerad found unusual but surprisingly pleasant. She ran the bread around the bowl to soak up every last drop.
The meal and the warm room made her feel very tired. She lay down on the bed, intending just to have a short rest while she awaited a summons. She wondered how Sirkana could have known she was the One, and what that meant in Pilanel lore, and even more uneasily, she wondered what else was known. She had thought her identity easy to conceal once she was north of the mountains, but clearly it was not so, and if she was as recognizable as she seemed to be, then she was certainly in peril. . . . worrying vaguely around these thoughts, she drifted into a deep sleep.
She woke with a start and immediately sat up, instantly alert. The room was much darker; she must have been asleep for hours. She sent out her hearing, wondering what was happening. People moved in the house speaking in Pilanel; somewhere in the distance, outside perhaps, somebody was singing and she could hear the sounds of animals and children. She sighed and rubbed her eyes. Well, there was nothing to do but wait. She did not want to creep around the house like a thief. And, for the moment, she was quite content to stay where she was.
Before long, Zara poked her head around the door. Maerad smiled and nodded, and Zara came and inspected her, taking her chin and turning her head from side to side as if she were making sure she was properly clean. She adjusted Maerad’s robe fussily, as a mother would a small child’s, and made clicking noises with her tongue until Maerad put on her buskins. Then she took her arm and led her downstairs, back to the hall.
This time Sirkana was not alone. There were three others: two men, one of whom was Dorn, and a woman. The two Pilanel Maerad did not know stared at her as she walked toward them, not bothering to hide their curiosity.
“Welcome,” said Sirkana in Annaren. “You have given us the name Mara to call you by.” Maerad blushed, ashamed of her deception, and opened her mouth to say something, but Sirkana held up her hand to silence her. “I think it is not your usename, but it will do for now,” she said. “There are ready reasons for discretion in these dark days. Let me present to you my friends, whom I trust with my life itself. They are Tilla à Minatar,” (here the woman, who was almost as tall as Sirkana, nodded) “and Vul à Taqar. Dorn à Hadaruk you have already met.”
Maerad bowed to each of the Pilanel, and then Zara, who seemed to have taken on Maerad as a personal responsibility, pushed a chair toward her, indicating that she should sit down. Maerad sat and looked inquiringly at Sirkana,