The Riddle - Alison Croggon [161]
She instantly realized what she had been unable to admit to herself: she would not be able to play the lyre again. She could no longer use her left hand to pluck or block the strings to make chords. The pain of her loss seemed to go from her missing fingers right into her heart, and she rested her forehead on the instrument as the notes died away into silence, breathing in the smell of the fragrant almond oil with which she polished it. But then she took a deep breath. Well, I have only one and a half fingers and a thumb, she thought, but I have other bits of hand. Perhaps I can still play a little.
She sat up straight again and this time tried a simple chord, one that needed only her forefinger and thumb. It rang out musically into the room, and as it did, the moonstone vanished and she was suddenly in a dungeon. She stared at the oil lamp on the wall before her, noting how it dimmed and vanished as the chord died on the air. Then she set her lips and tried another, more difficult, chord. This she fumbled; she could not get it true. But the enchanted room still vanished.
She put the lyre down and thought for a while. This must be her lyre; no illusory lyre would hold enough magery to contest the Winterking. But then why had he given it to her? Surely he would have expected her to find out that it dissolved his sorcery? She tried the chord again, getting it true this time. The same thing happened. But as the sorcery vanished, her hand hurt, and after three chords she had cracked the scabs and they were already bleeding. She put the instrument down and stared at it as if she had never seen it before.
Even with the knowledge that the Treesong was inscribed on her lyre, she began to think it was more enchanted than she had realized, more enchanted than even the Winterking knew, or else why did he let her have it?
The Winterking did not want her dead; without the enchantment, the dungeon was merely cold and uncomfortable. She had been colder in her pallet at Gilman’s Cot without taking harm. She thought of her weakness the day before, when she had stood before the Winterking. Her body was not strong enough, yet, to rely on. She must heal and strengthen herself before she could think of escaping. The Winterking wanted the Treesong, and somehow she was important to him as well. She must find out why. She must find out everything she could, and then she must escape him and go back to Annar.
She had just reached this conclusion when Gima entered with a meal, some fatty meat smoked and then fried and a sort of mash of vegetables flavored with dill and sour goat’s milk. For the first time, Maerad smiled at Gima, and the old woman smiled back. Maerad ate the food hungrily. She didn’t dare to think what it was really like — maybe it was something else, something less appealing — but it was hot and the feeling of solidity it gave her was reassuring.
“You’re eating well today,” said Gima. “You’ll be a fat little fish if you keep on.”
“It’s really nice,” said Maerad. “Did you make it?”
“Oh, bless you, no,” said Gima, cackling. “The master has cooks enough in his kitchens to keep me away from the pot. I just bring it.”
“How many cooks is that?” asked Maerad.
“Oh, he has forty or fifty at least. And more to make the beds and to keep the palace clean, and to keep us all safe from wolves and suchlike.”
“He must be a good master, then.”
“A good master. Oh yes, he’s a good master. We all love him.”
Maerad kept chatting while she ate, and Gima sat herself comfortably on the chest, happy to talk. Gima told her that the Ice Palace was very big, bigger than she knew how to say, with countless rooms, and that many people lived there. Maerad chatted mindlessly, drawing out the old woman, who seemed relieved that she was at last being friendly. Gima responded enthusiastically, speaking now of her chilblains and next of how she had entered the Winterking’s