The Riddle - Alison Croggon [159]
“Why did you, then?” Maerad looked up, anger stirring again inside her. “I didn’t choose to come here. And I want to go.”
“Go where, Elednor of Edil-Amarandh? Back into the snow, to give it your other fingers? The snow is always hungry.”
“I — I have things I must do,” Maerad answered. An overwhelming desolation swept over her. I want to go home, she thought, but I have no home to go to. An image of Hem, turning toward her with his vivid, mischievous smile, leaped into her mind, and a piercing sense of how much she missed him filled her whole body. She didn’t want to sit any longer on the floor of this throne room, being toyed with by the Winterking.
“What things? I suppose you have business with my old acquaintance Sharma. You would be the merest morsel to him, I fear.” Arkan laughed, and Maerad felt a shiver run down her back. Sharma, the Nameless One. “There is much you do not understand. No, I brought you here because I wish to talk to you. We have much to talk about, you and I.”
“Do we?” Maerad stood up; her legs were shaky, but she could stand. “I think not, Winterking. What could you have to say to me that could possibly interest me? Why don’t you just kill me? It would probably solve a lot of problems for your old acquaintance Sharma.” She spat the words out, and turned to go.
“My old acquaintance, my old enemy,” said Arkan softly. “Sharma threw me to the dogs of the Light; he betrayed me. He was once not without charm, for a human. He deceived many, who now remember only that he deceived me and choose not to remember that they too were fooled. He betrayed all Elidhu.”
Maerad stopped, her spine tingling, but did not turn around.
“He stole something precious from us,” said Arkan. “But he could only use its half; and the other half is in your keeping.”
Maerad involuntarily spun around and stared at the Winterking in wonder.
“I want my Song back,” said Arkan.
There was a long silence.
“How do I know it’s your Song?” said Maerad coldly. “It might equally be Ardina’s Song. Ardina, who is your enemy.”
“Ardina is not my enemy. The Song is of us both.”
“I don’t believe anything you say.” Maerad turned and walked from the throne room, not looking behind her, and she felt the room momentarily darken, as if she had finally succeeded in disturbing Arkan’s calm. But he did not call her back.
She met Gima by the door. For once, the old woman didn’t say anything; she seemed awed and shaken. She led Maerad back in silence to her chamber. Once there, Maerad sank gratefully onto the bed. She had managed to stay upright on the walk back, but it had taken all the will she possessed.
One to me, she said to her lyre. Twenty to him, but one to me.
MAERAD dreamed of Cadvan. He was not dressed in his usual worn traveling clothes, but as for a festival, with a long cloak edged with silver embroidery and the brooch of Lirigon shining on his breast, and in the dream Maerad had forgotten he was dead. He stood before a long table laden with food of the kind Maerad had not seen for months — Annaren food. There were fresh breads of rye and wheat and linseed, salads of lettuce and radish and mushrooms and herbs, delicately roasted and potted meats, bowls of strawberries and damsons and currants, and tarts filled with apple and pear — crystalline with honey and spices — and plates of sweetmeats, candied apples, and sugared chestnuts. Tall glass decanters filled with rich wines stood among the feast like glittering jewels. Maerad’s mouth filled with water, and she stepped forward eagerly to the table, but Cadvan took her arm, holding her back.
“I’m so hungry,” she said.
“Elednor,” said Cadvan, using her Truename for the first time since her instatement. “All this is yours. You just have to take it.”
Maerad turned to him in surprise.
“But you’re stopping me,” she said.
“No,” he said. “It is you, stopping yourself.” And when she looked again at her arm, she realized that he wasn’t holding her back at all.
Oh, she thought; I was just imagining it . . . but then the dream dissolved