The Riddle - Alison Croggon [151]
When she was next inspected by the sorcerer Amusk, he was not so displeased with her condition, but he looked closely at her left hand and pursed his lips. Three fingers were a strange color, a dark purple, and she could not feel them at all. He did some healing magery, but it made very little difference.
This time Maerad could follow the conversation a little, though she kept her knowledge of the language secret, in part out of natural caution, and in part to protect Nim. She gathered they were not far, perhaps a week, from their destination. She was briefly amazed; they had traversed the vast expanse of the Arkiadera, from one side to the other. She had twenty-five scratches on the wooden rail. Even given that she didn’t know how many days she had been unconscious after her capture, they were traveling swiftly.
Maerad inspected Amusk closely. He did not look at all like Nim; she wondered now how she could ever have confused them. His face was thin and cruel, and it seemed to Maerad that he looked much more drawn than when he had last come into the tent. Good, she thought; he battles hard to keep me under his control. Alerted by Nim’s comment, she looked for signs of fear when he inspected her, but his eyes were cold and did not reveal anything. An arrogance within her stirred under his cold regard, and she would not avert her gaze, although she could tell he was used to people lowering their eyes in his presence. Especially women, thought Maerad. But if he wanted her in good condition, he could not punish her too much. And, indeed, he did not punish her.
This time she did not try to speak to him, and he did not speak to her at all. When he left, Nim confirmed they would soon be at Arkan-da.
“I suppose then I shall not see you again,” he said.
“I will escape,” said Maerad. “And I will go to Annar. You should too.”
“I have to look after my grandmother and my sister,” said Nim. “My father is dead, too, and there is no one else to care for them. I cannot leave my people.”
“Then maybe we will not meet. Unless one day there is peace in our lands, and perhaps then we could visit each other’s homes.” It was a childish fantasy, but Maerad said it anyway. Speaking of any future was only dreaming.
Nim laughed. “My people are not peaceful,” he said.
“Peace is better than killing,” said Maerad with feeling.
“I think so too.” Nim was silent; he seemed to be remembering something. “I used to like gathering the wildflowers with my sister. We were sent out to get berries and we would gather flowers instead. My mother would be very angry.”
Maerad looked at him curiously. “An old woman told me that the Jussacks keep their women in holes in the ground,” she said.
“That’s not true. Pilani lies,” Nim spat.
“Well, maybe the Jussacks tell lies about the Pilani, too. The man you killed — my cousin, Dharin à Lobvar — he too might have gathered flowers instead of berries.”
Nim was silent for almost an hour after that. Maerad settled down to sleep, her eyes heavy. She still found moving difficult, although she did not feel as sick as she had. She was quite certain that Amusk had almost killed her when he had captured her. All her hatred now focused on him, and on the Winterking. She brooded, wondering what she would find at Arkan-da.
“I do not know much of the world,” said Nim, breaking into her thoughts. “Perhaps you are right. You know different peoples and different languages. All I know is my people and my language.”
“I don’t know that much,” said Maerad sleepily. “Some people have taught me some things.”
“Well, you are lucky,” said Nim. “Maybe what they tell about the Pilani are lies. But would we stop warring against them if there were no lies?”
“You might.” Maerad leaned