The Riddle - Alison Croggon [166]
Maerad paused and thought. She desired her freedom, but clearly that was the one thing Arkan would not give her. “I don’t like being shut in my room,” she said in a softer voice. “I would like to look around the palace. I would like to go outside.”
“You cannot leave here, Elednor of Edil-Amarandh. I think you would do well to remember that, instead of wasting your time in futile efforts to escape.” As Arkan said her name, Maerad felt as if he jerked a tight leash on her mind, reminding her of his power over her, but this time she sensed something, a weakness. Perhaps his control was not as complete as he had thought.
“And how long do you plan to keep me here?”
“You will stay so long as I need you to. While you are here, Sharma cannot take you: he has not the power to challenge me in my own domain. You do not know how much he desires to find you, nor how fortunate you are that I found you first. You cannot outrun Sharma’s spies and servants; they are everywhere, and they all seek one thing: you. Do not believe that they will not find you. They will.”
Maerad shuddered, remembering her nightmares where Hulls reached for her, the foredream where the darkness sought her.
“The Nameless One is cruel, as I am not,” said Arkan. “You would not be permitted the escape of death: your most secret mind would be open, skinless and raw, to his hatred and malice. You could hide nowhere. Your existence would be an endless torment. There would be no resistance; he would break you, and you would do anything he desired.”
Maerad considered this. She thought that Arkan was probably speaking the truth. And it seemed clear that the Winterking was pursuing his own interests; she found it difficult to believe that anyone so arrogant would consent to serve another. She studied him mistrustfully.
“I thought you and Ardina were enemies,” she said at last. “And yet you say you are not.”
Arkan made a dismissive gesture with his hands. “In the deeps of time we waged different wars,” he said. “Things change.”
A terrible thought occurred to Maerad: had Ardina delivered her to the Winterking? Had she betrayed Maerad? She thought of Ardina, the beautiful, amoral Elidhu she had first met in the Weywood, the wise and just Queen of Rachida, the blazing Moonchild. Ardina was a creature of many faces: Maerad had no reason to believe that she would not have betrayed her. The thought made her feel miserable, and she realized that she was exhausted. She looked down at her hands: they were trembling.
“I want to go back to my room,” she said.
“As you like,” said Arkan. “We will speak when you next wake. You have the freedom of the palace; you may wander where you will.”
Maerad stepped off the dais and walked toward the door of the throne room without saying anything further. At the door, she turned and looked back. The king’s throne was empty.
Once back in her room, Maerad flung herself on the bed and covered her face to shut out the sight of the chamber. Her conversations with the Winterking seemed to turn everything on its head. What was real and what was illusion? She felt as if she didn’t know anything anymore. She sat up and put her hands in front of her eyes. Was it illusion that her hand was mutilated? But no, when she had played the lyre, her fingers were still missing: only then they were not so well healed. Or maybe her wound was an illusion as well? How was she to tell? On a sudden impulse, she scratched her right hand viciously with her left forefinger, hard enough to draw blood. It opened a wound: but, as she watched, the skin joined and healed, and it seemed as if she were not scratched at all.
That, at least, could not be real.
She picked up her lyre and slowly stroked a chord. As the notes rang out, she saw the scratch open on her hand, the blood running down into her palm. It tickled, and she licked the blood off her hand thoughtfully until the music faded and her hand was whole and she was back again in