The Riddle - Alison Croggon [130]
Maerad nodded, and then pondered the truth of what he said. She had not used this aspect of the Speech much, except with Imi, whom she still missed with a fierce ache. And she was not otherwise afraid of wild creatures.
“Fears don’t always make sense,” she said. “I have been too frightened to speak to them. Well, I have never seen dogs like yours before. Maybe I will try later.”
“So, your real name is Maerad.” Dharin did not look surprised, and Maerad supposed he had already guessed that Mara was not her real name. “And what is your story?”
“Well, actually, I am your cousin. My father was Dorn à Triberi, Sirkana’s brother. My mother was First Bard at the School of Pellinor. But I scarcely knew my father; he died when I was very little.”
Now Dharin did look surprised, but he smiled. “I should have known we were kin,” he said. “I felt as if I already knew you. Good, good. Well, Mara — I mean, Maerad — you must tell me everything.”
Even in their small tent, crouched over the stove, the air was cold. Outside, the wind was beginning to howl, and the thin skins flapped. Maerad shivered and drew her furs closer around her; she was glad even of this small shelter. She took a breath and began the story of her life, which she had told how many times now?
Dharin was a good listener; he sat in attentive silence for the whole tale. When she had finished, Maerad looked up at him. His eyes were downcast.
“Thank you, Maerad,” he said. “I think it is a very sad story, yours. Well, I understand a little now. And I understand why Sirkana said to me what she did.”
Maerad was grateful for his simple acceptance. She had felt guilty about deceiving him, and fearful that her deceit would harm the trust between them.
“I’m glad you’re my cousin,” she said. “I wanted to tell you before, but I felt I couldn’t.”
“There is no need to excuse caution, in days like these,” said Dharin. Despite herself, Maerad yawned, and he smiled gently. “We will have a tough day tomorrow,” he said. “We must sleep.” He put out the stove, storing it carefully by where their feet would be when they lay down. Then he kissed Maerad on both cheeks. “Sleep well, cousin.”
“Sleep well,” replied Maerad. That night she slept almost as soon as her eyes closed.
The next few days’ traveling was not as pleasant as it had been. It was not quite a blizzard, just endless snow and cold air. Dharin slowed their pace, watching anxiously for signs of trees or other obstacles. Maerad covered her face, and then tried to snuggle under the skins and sleep. She was mostly bored; there was nothing to look at, and it was very cold.
Living so closely with the dogs did much to allay Maerad’s fear of them; they were savage and half wild, but they did her no harm, treating her, she thought, with a kind of friendly contempt. She began to tell one from the other, and to see their different personalities. She could recognize Claw, with her black coat and dramatic white ruff. She was sober and responsible, and kept the team in line. There was also a young gray dog called Ponto, the youngest on the team, who often annoyed the older dogs by trying to chew their tails and wanting to play when they were all resting, and who somehow reminded her of Hem; and a big gray-and-black dog called Neck, for the strange white dapples around his throat. She still got the others more or less mixed up, but she was learning.
Since the beginning of their journey, Dharin had insisted that Maerad should learn to drive the sled, and one afternoon she gave in. She stood on the ledge at the back while Dharin sat in her usual place, and she took the harness in her hands. “Now, say, Ot!” said Dharin, giving her the Pilanel word for go. She said it, but nothing happened. “Say it again, but more firmly,” said Dharin. She tried again, but still the dogs took no notice. This time, Maerad felt a bit annoyed, and before Dharin