The Riddle - Alison Croggon [162]
“Oh, but a hard walk,” said Gima, shuddering with the memory. “Such chasms on one side would make your heart stop still, and those cliffs! But it was all worth it when I got here.”
“Why was it worth it?” asked Maerad curiously.
“Oh, you’ve seen the master,” said Gima comfortably. “We all work hard for him. We all are happy here, in this beautiful palace.”
Horrible dungeon more like, thought Maerad, but kept her thought to herself. The more she talked to Gima, the more sorry she felt for her. But maybe she was right to be happy, even if her present life was nothing more than a powerful illusion; in her former life she had been a slave and was married off when she was younger than Maerad to a man who beat her. She had borne him three dead children. After the third child he had thrown her out of the house, saying that she had cursed him, and she would have died homeless and alone if she had not been taken into Arkan’s service.
It seemed that Maerad was again to see the Winterking, and she let Gima fuss around her, putting on the elegant furred robe and brushing her hair. She felt more prepared than she had the day before. Her legs were much stronger today, and she merely felt tired as they wound through the long passages to the throne room.
As before, Arkan was seated at the far end of the room, but this time Gima, who was visibly quaking, stayed by the door instead of entering with Maerad. Maerad wondered what she meant by saying that she loved the Winterking; if she showed any emotion in his presence, it was naked terror. Perhaps the sorcery also works on feelings, she thought, so terror seems like love. She wondered briefly why she was not afraid; perhaps Arkan did not want her to be frightened. Or maybe (she thought with a flicker of hope) it was because she truly wasn’t afraid. After all, she thought, I am partly Elidhu.
When she reached the dais, she looked up into the Winterking’s icy eyes.
“Greetings, Elednor,” he said. This time she thought she detected a flash of mockery as he said her name. “Did you sleep well?”
“I slept as well as could be expected,” she answered coldly. “And you?”
“Me?” Arkan looked at her expressionlessly. “I do not sleep.”
Maerad suddenly wondered what time was to an entity that would not die. It could not be the same as it was for her, a straight line that led into darkness. Or was it like that? she mused, distracted. Perhaps it was a river that meandered and branched into ever-widening deltas before it merged into an immense, boundless sea. She suddenly realized that the Winterking was speaking and that she had not heard what he had said.
“I’m sorry?” she said. “I was — I was thinking about something else.”
Arkan regarded her skeptically. “I said that perhaps today you should sit down. Or will you manage to remain upright during our conversation?”
Maerad considered briefly. “I will sit down; I thank you.” She lifted the hem of her robe and stepped onto the dais, passing close before the Winterking to reach the black stool that stood by the throne. Her skin bunched up in goose pimples as if she passed before an icy blast, but she did not look at him. She settled herself.
“That is wiser,” said Arkan. “You humans are so — frail.” It was not quite a threat, but having decided that she did not want to die, that she wanted to escape, Maerad almost felt her mask of composure slip.
“We are,” said Maerad. “But that does not mean that we are weak.” She paused. “When did you learn my Truename?”
“I know the names of everything,” said Arkan.
“That’s not true,” said Maerad, without rancor, and then added on an obscure impulse, “I’ll warrant you don’t know the name of my brother.”
“Your brother? I know his name, as I know the names of your mother and father and all else about you,