The Riddle - Alison Croggon [125]
My dear brother,
I am writing this letter in Murask, a Pilanel settlement in Zmarkan. I hope this finds you well, and that Saliman (greetings, Saliman!) has taught you enough script for you to be able to read this on your own. I am full of sad news: Cadvan, our dear friend, perished in the Gwalhain Pass on our journey here, with Darsor and Imi. There are no words to express my sorrow.
I reached Murask on my own and am now about to travel farther north with a Pilanel guide to find a people called the Wise Kindred, who may be able to tell me something about the Treesong. I hope I am right, and that this is not a mistake. I may not return, and there are some things that I want you to know, in case I am not able to tell you of them myself.
I have found our father’s family here. My guide is called Dharin à Lobvar, and he is our cousin: our father’s sister’s son. I have not been able to meet his mother, who is not in Murask at present, but the headwoman of the clans, Sirkana à Triberi, is another of Dorn’s sisters. She is a Bard like us and she is Dorn’s twin sister. I feel quite sure that if you came to Murask, you would feel completely at home; you already know that you are Pilanel, in a way that I am not, for all that we are kin. And the Bards among the Pilanel have other ways of using their Gifts than being instated to a School. If the School of Turbansk does not suit you, perhaps you might find a place among them. Whether you find yourself a Turbansk Bard or no, I believe that you must one day journey to Murask and speak to your kin here.
I write this with terrible sadness. I miss you more than I can say and every day I wish that we were together, and not separated by so many leagues. I have heard of war marching on Turbansk, and I fear for you. We are born into such dark times. But I also write this with hope and love, until one day I embrace you again, my dear brother.
Your sister,
Maerad
When she had finished, she read it through. It didn’t really say what she meant; she hadn’t the words for so many things, and she still found writing a difficult labor. But it would at least give Hem this knowledge, if she could not — if the letter ever reached him through the war-torn land. She sealed it with wax, pressing her Pellinor brooch into the seal, and then addressed it: Hem (Cai of Pellinor), by way of the hand of Saliman of Turbansk, at the School of Turbansk, in the Suderain. Then, possessed by urgency, she went to Sirkana’s room and knocked on the door.
Sirkana answered, looking weary. Maerad thrust the letter toward her, hastily explaining who it was for and what it was, and asking if it could be sent as soon as possible. Sirkana’s eyebrows lifted, and she took the letter, looking at Maerad’s anxious face.
“Perhaps there is a way of sending it before next summer,” she said soberly. “There are other passes through the mountains than the Gwalhain, and sometimes we have traffic through Annar even in wintertime. If your brother is in Turbansk, he is very far from here, and the roads are very dangerous now, but our people have secret ways. I will do my best.”
Speechlessly, Maerad flung her arms around Sirkana’s neck. Then, feeling a little better, she returned to her room.
The next day, the storm had blown itself out. It was now Maerad’s fourth day in Murask, and she was itching to leave; the clear weather seemed like a sign. For the first time since arriving in the Howe, she was able to throw back her shutters and let in some fresh air. Although it was not early, outside it was still the darkness before dawn; the days were already shortening. A strange blue light entered into the room, reflected back from the whiteness of the snow, and she breathed in the icy air. With a feeling of lightness she had not had for weeks, she began to dress for the journey.
Dharin had taken charge of Maerad’s travel clothing, a task he had approached with the utmost seriousness