The Riddle - Alison Croggon [117]
Sirkana was as austerely dressed as she had been earlier, except that she now wore a plain necklace made of gold links, which glinted like the gold rings in her ears. “Tonight we dine with the heads of the southern clans,” she said in the Speech. “You may meet some of your kin.”
Maerad looked at the dark, tough faces of the Pilanel and inwardly quailed. “What shall I say of myself?” she asked.
“As little as you may,” said Sirkana. “These are good people, but a loose word may enter an evil ear. Tilla, Dorn, Vul, I trust with my life; your story is safe with them. I shall say you are on pilgrimage from Annar, and have brought word from Mirka à Hadaruk: that is enough to explain the honor we do you.” She winked slyly at Maerad, an ironic smile softening her stern face, and Maerad felt herself relax.
Sirkana formally introduced Maerad as Mara, and she was toasted in welcome. Then it seemed any formalities were over, and the feast began. On Maerad’s other side was a tall, stocky young man with a gentle face. He introduced himself in excellent Annaren as Dharin, and they began to chat; he had traveled widely in Annar and wanted to know where she was from. He had never been to Thorold, and when she mentioned that she had been there, he plied her with questions.
It was a high feast in the Zmarkan style, and food just kept coming and coming: first little pancakes stuffed with some kind of herbed cheese, then pickled plover’s eggs, then a soup of a surprising pink color with sour cream and dill, then a roast goose stuffed with hazelnuts and wild onions, then some kind of dumpling filled with spiced offal, then a huge side of roasted venison. And there was still more: thick spicy sausages that seemed mostly stuffed with fat, and pickled cabbage, and a number of dishes that Maerad couldn’t identify at all, and, remembering her experience with mussels, left well alone. Nobody seemed to mind when she stopped eating, but she found herself amazed at how much the Pilanel could eat and drink and still stay upright.
The meal was accompanied by shots of a fiery liquor, drunk from very small clay cups, and as the evening wore on, the conversation got louder and louder. Unexpectedly, Maerad found she was enjoying herself, and not only because of her conversation with Dharin. The Pilanel, for all their stern demeanor, gave themselves to pleasure as wholeheartedly as the Thoroldians. When the food at last stopped arriving, there were calls for music, and three Pilanel drew out fiddles and drums and pipes and began a wild dance tune that got into the blood like a fever.
“Come,” said Dharin. “We must dance.”
Maerad demurred, feeling shy, but Dharin took her hand and dragged her into the middle of the hall, where there were already many dancers. Maerad was glad that she hadn’t overeaten, because she would have surely been sick; Dharin whirled her around like a top. The Pilanel dances were very similar to those she had learned in Thorold, and before long Maerad had lost her self-consciousness and entered the pure pleasure of the present. It felt like eons since she had last been able to forget all the troubles of her life. All the fears and doubts surrounding her quest, all her griefs and regrets, were swept up into the tempest of the music, poising her exactly in the center of the moment, a clear vessel of joy.
“You dance like a true Pilani,” said Dharin as they returned to their seats. “Life is hard, no? And full of sorrow. The Pilani dance in defiance of death and grief and hardship. They choose to burn before the darkness, rather than to gutter out like a dim flame.”
Maerad looked up in surprise; she had just been thinking something similar. “Yes, it is good to dance,” she said. “And it makes me feel stronger, as if I can face peril a little better.”
“You are overyoung to face perils,” said Dharin. Maerad glanced