The Riddle - Alison Croggon [124]
“Unless they go hunting, but they might not catch anything, and it makes them wild,” he said. “And they eat a lot. They can keep running all day. It adds up to a lot of meat. I put it at the front: it will freeze there and so it will keep.”
They stood back, both admiring their handiwork. “It looks neat, well balanced,” said Dharin, his head tilted to one side. “Well, Mara, we’re ready to go anytime now. Just say the word.”
Maerad looked out through the open doors into the wide yard. She couldn’t see to the farther end; the view was white with snow.
“Do you think we ought to leave in this weather?” she asked dubiously. “Are you really as good a driver as you say?”
Dharin glanced at her. “We can wait,” he said. “Even the best driver avoids blizzards if he can.”
Maerad considered. “Let’s wait a day,” she said. “I don’t think I have a lot of time, so maybe if this snow doesn’t stop, we should think about going anyway. If you think it’s all right.”
“I await your word,” said Dharin, giving her an elaborate bow. Maerad pretended to be unamused by his foolery and waved him away, like an arrogant queen. He shuffled out of the shed backward, dangling his hat in his hands, and fell over in the snow.
Maerad laughed out loud, and Dharin came back inside, brushing snow off himself.
“Sorry, Queen Mara,” he said. “I’m not much good as a slave.”
Maerad laughed again, and brushed more snow out of his hair. “Neither was I,” she said.
THAT night, alone in her room, Maerad was afflicted by a terrible melancholy. In the few days she had been in Murask, she had found a part of her family she hadn’t known anything about. And although she felt a closeness to Sirkana that she could not deny — and even to Dharin — she also knew she was different from them in a way she was sure that Hem was not. Hem would have fit in seamlessly, right down to the endless meals. She smiled, thinking of Hem’s bottomless appetite. It was impossible to be in Murask and not to think of Hem; his vivid face came into her mind’s eye again and again. That afternoon she had seen a young boy whose lean, dark features were disconcertingly like her brother’s, and she had almost cried out his name, until he turned and she realized he was quite different. Hem would belong here, perhaps as she felt she belonged among the Bards. Or had felt, in the past, before . . . She flinched from the painful thought that her actions might have exiled her from the Schools forever.
She lay on her bed for some time, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Soon — tomorrow, perhaps — she would be starting another stage of her quest. She knew nothing of where she was going, and it was possible that she might not come back. And if she did not, Hem would never know of his family in Murask. . . .
She remembered her terrible foredream of the sack of Turbansk and felt a suffocating despair rising in her breast. What hope did she or Hem have of surviving their different perils? How could she know that Hem was not already dead? And yet, with some unshakable knowledge deeper than her doubt, Maerad was certain Hem was still alive. It was as if the two of them were connected by an invisible filament, immeasurably fine and delicate, which vibrated with his presence in the world. She was sure that she would know if Hem were dead. Hem was alive, then; she had to believe that. And while the heart beats, hope lingers, she said firmly to herself. She could not let her fear or hopelessness rule her actions; that way lay certain defeat.
Maerad reached a sudden decision. She got up from her bed and rummaged through her pack, looking for the writing materials she kept in there, wrapped carefully in oilskin. She spread the precious paper on the trunk,