The Riddle - Alison Croggon [141]
“I think you are a liar,” he said. “And I do not see why I should speak to a liar.”
Maerad was so taken aback she just gaped at him. Then, with crushing contempt, Inka-Reb squatted down as if she were not there and poked his fire. She was already dismissed.
All the blood rushed to Maerad’s head, and she lost her temper. Entirely forgetting the wolves who sat around her, poised to tear her limb from limb, she marched up to Inka-Reb. Although he was squatting, she was no taller than he was.
“I have come countless days, through great dangers, to speak to you. And you say, without knowing who I am at all, that I am a liar.” Maerad’s voice was shaking with rage, and there seemed to be a red mist before her eyes. “I have lost my dearest friend who — who died so I could reach you — I have suffered and wept and toiled, and given my all. And all you can say is, Go away — I will not talk to a liar. How dare you, you selfish, fat —”
Inka-Reb turned around to face her, and this time Maerad felt his power. At the same time that she realized that here was a Dhillarearën who possessed powers at least the equal of hers, he took her hand in one of his massive paws.
“I will speak with you then,” he said. “Since you desire it more than your life. That is worthy of praise. But I still say you are a liar.”
Maerad stood before him, her chest heaving, and met his eyes. He seemed to be laughing at her.
“Why do you say I am a liar?” she asked pugnaciously. “I don’t lie.”
“Daughter of the Voice, every human being in the world lies. Some know they are lying and some do not. I think you do not know you are a liar. But still you are a liar.”
“If I don’t know I’m a liar, then how can I tell the truth?” asked Maerad.
“Exactly,” said Inka-Reb.
Nonplussed, Maerad stopped and swallowed. Her anger passed as swiftly as it had risen, and she was suddenly uncomfortably aware again of the wolves. They lay just as they had before, their heads on their front paws.
“All I want to know is what the Treesong is. And where I might find it. That’s all.”
“The Treesong.” Inka-Reb gave her a long stare, and then, leaving her in the middle of the semicircle of wolves, stepped out toward the walls of the cavern. In little niches on the walls flickered oil lamps, and there were also dozens of objects: carvings on bone and stone, and other things that Maerad did not recognize. Before long he came back, holding a tusk. He handed it to Maerad.
“This is half of the Split Song,” he said. “I think you know of the Split Song?”
Maerad nodded, her heart hammering in her chest.
“Take it and look at it,” said Inka-Reb.
Maerad took the tusk. It was clearly very old, the ivory yellow and cracked. On its surface were carved some strange characters. They seemed unaccountably familiar, and Maerad rubbed her fingers over them. Where had she seen them before?
“Do you know what this is?” asked Inka-Reb.
“No,” said Maerad.
Then Maerad almost dropped the tusk. With a shock of recognition that went down her spine like a wash of cold water, she realized that she knew the shapes of the carvings as well as she knew her own hand; she had stroked them over and over again all through her childhood, trying to puzzle out what they were.
They were the same ten runes that were carved on her lyre.
She looked up at Inka-Reb in wonder, her fear and irritation forgotten. “I do know these runes,” she said.
“Each one of those marks is a tree,” said Inka-Reb. “And each one of those trees is a verse, and each verse is a mark of time. But it is only half the Song.”
“But how can I read it?” asked Maerad in despair. “I don’t know how to read it. And where do I find the other half?”
“I read the stars and the wind and the bones of animals,” said Inka-Reb. “I can read stone and shadow and snow. But I cannot tell you how to read this Song. It is a blasphemy.” He spat on the ground.
“You think that the Light will find the Song and make it whole, and then the world will be well. But I say that if either the Dark or the Light unite the halves of