The Riddle - Alison Croggon [113]
“You are very young,” said Sirkana.
“I know,” said Maerad despairingly. Everyone said that; perhaps she looked even younger than she was. “But I have traveled far, nevertheless, to be here. I have a doom laid on me, a doom that concerns us all, and I seek your help.”
“Our help you shall have, once we know who you are,” said Vul. He was younger than Dorn, a heavy-boned man with a gentle face, and he spoke with a thick accent.
“I — I’m not quite sure how to answer that question.” There was another short silence, and Maerad felt again the lack of Cadvan, his ease with strangers. She felt shy and foolish, and angry with herself for feeling these things. “I am a Bard of Edil-Amarandh, Maerad of Pellinor. Until lately I was traveling with Cadvan of Lirigon, seeking this place. He died in the Gwalhain Pass, and since then I have walked here alone.”
The four Pilanel stirred at this news, exchanging shocked glances. “Cadvan was known to us,” said Sirkana. “You bring grievous news. What could have killed such a powerful Dhillarearën?”
“We were attacked by frost creatures. Iriduguls. There were three, and they brought down the side of the mountain on him. Not even the greatest of mages could have survived that.”
“Iriduguls?” Dorn stared at Maerad in disbelief. “What are iriduguls doing in the Gwalhain Pass — and in autumn? I can scarce credit this.”
“They were pursuing us.” Speaking of Cadvan’s death to others for the first time was like admitting finally that he was gone, and Maerad struggled with the pain rising inside her. “We were also attacked by a stormdog near Thorold. Cadvan thought it was the Winterking. We have been pursued for a long time.” She stopped, biting her lip hard enough to hurt. She did not want to break down in front of these grave, dignified strangers.
“If the pass is blocked, it would explain why the clans are late in coming from the southern plains,” said Vul. He looked intently at Maerad. “Is it blocked?”
“I think so,” said Maerad. “There was a landslide that filled up the whole road. It would take an army to clear it.”
“It seems our clans will not return from the Rilnik this year, then,” said Dorn. “That is sad news.”
“If you are young, you have seen much beyond your years,” said Sirkana. “We do not mean to distress you.” She waited until Maerad had composed herself, and then said, “I suppose, then, that Cadvan of Lirigon knew you to be the Chosen.”
“I am the One. The Foretold among Bards.” It was the first time Maerad had claimed this title before others, and she sat up straighter. I am the One, she thought, and I have to stop behaving as if I am not. “If that is what you mean by the Chosen, then you are correct. It is said that I will defeat the Nameless One in his next rising.” She looked down at her hands, suddenly an abashed young girl again. “The only problem is, I don’t know how. Or why it is me.” She finished in a whisper, not daring to look up. She heard Vul clear his throat.
“And how do we know this?” asked Tilla, speaking for the first time. “I do not mean discourtesy, Maerad of Pellinor, but perhaps you or others are mistaken.”
“I don’t know,” said Maerad humbly. “My Truename is as foretold. And I do have — I did have — an unusual Gift. I can do things that other Bards cannot.”
“She is the Chosen,” said Sirkana. “I knew as soon as I saw her.”
“But how did you know?” Maerad looked at Sirkana, suddenly forgetting everything in her desire to understand why everyone else seemed to know more about her than she did. “I’m not even sure myself. How can you know?”
Sirkana looked at her steadily. “You know, Maerad of Pellinor, that like you I am a Dhillarearën. In Annar, any with the Voice are sent to the Schools; even here many travel south to gather that learning. But not all do. There are other ways, and I have followed those, in the fashion of my people. I also have the Sight, which is not given to many among the Dhillarearën. I see what is hidden from others.”
Maerad looked