The Riddle - Alison Croggon [157]
The corridor turned into a wider passage. This was also vaulted, and was higher than the other, and every now and then they passed underneath an arch of black iron, with architraves wrought skillfully into strange geometric shapes, not one the same as the next. They were curiously beautiful. Before long, Maerad and Gima had reached a big double-leafed door.
Here Gima paused, her composure slipping; Maerad noted with interest that her face was suddenly pale. Then she took a deep breath and pushed the door. It opened silently under her hand, and they passed inside.
The room reminded Maerad of nothing so much as Ardina’s hall in Rachida, only instead of silvered wood, the walls and ceiling were made of iron and white, translucent stone. The high ceiling was supported by black beams of iron that were wrought into the same abstract shapes Maerad had seen in the corridors. The walls were covered by tapestries, rich in shape and colors, but without figures that Maerad could make out; they seemed like the sun dazzling on snow and breaking into all its colors, or the strange hallucinatory shapes she had seen in the glacier. In the center was a rectangular pool carved out of the translucent stone, and there the light was brightest: a cold, beautiful light that evenly illuminated the room, so there were no dark corners. At the far end was a low dais, and on the dais was a high black throne, which was utterly plain, and two low stools. On the throne sat a man. He watched Maerad and Gima in their slow progress across the hall.
Strangely, Gima’s fear made Maerad feel less afraid. She straightened her back as they walked, so she should not seem deferential, and as they neared the throne she met the man’s eyes.
He was an Elidhu: he had the same unsettling inhuman eyes that Ardina had, with their catlike pupil, but while Ardina’s eyes were yellow, his were a very pale blue. His hair was black and long, and braided into two plaits that fell onto his breast. He was bareheaded, dressed in a light blue tunic richly embroidered with silver, with a long cloak of midnight blue springing back from his shoulders. On his naked arms were bracelets of silver and iron, intricately worked and set with white gems. His skin was absolutely white, but his pallor gave no sense of weakness: he looked strong and muscular, and as Maerad neared him, she sensed, with a shiver, his keen vitality. Like Ardina, he seemed ageless, neither young nor old: his face was unlined, like that of a young king in the first flowering of his manhood, but his gaze was ancient.
When they reached the foot of the dais, Gima prostrated herself, tugging on Maerad’s arm to indicate that she should do the same. Maerad had no intention of doing any such thing and shook off Gima’s hand. She stood and looked at the man, her face expressionless. So, I meet you at last, my enemy, she said to herself. And I have nothing left except my pride, but you cannot take that away from me. For surely this was Arkan, the Winterking, the author of her sorrows: murderer of Cadvan and Dharin, of Darsor and Imi, ally of the Nameless One, evil tyrant of the north. He stared back at her, unblinking. Then he waved his hand.
“Out, Gima,” he said in Jussack. His voice was deep and gentle, and Maerad, who had been expecting a harsh command, was surprised. “Leave us.”
Gima scuttled backward on her hands and knees before she stood up and backed out of the room, almost falling into the pool. Maerad turned and watched her with astonishment: why didn’t she turn around, so she could see where she was going? Finally, the old woman reached the door and slipped out.
Maerad turned back to face the Winterking and found he was regarding her with something like amusement. Despite herself, she almost smiled. This piqued her pride, and she decided to show nothing. She met his eyes as coolly as she could manage and schooled herself to wait.
“Welcome to you, Elednor of Edil-Amarandh,” said the Winterking, now speaking in the Elidhu tongue. Maerad started;