The Riddle - Alison Croggon [167]
The more she thought about it, the more she thought that Arkan was being honest with her. She did not trust him, but she believed what he said about the Nameless One and his story of betrayal. Perhaps it was Arkan himself who had revealed the Treesong to the Nameless One. She wished fiercely she knew more of the history of the Dhyllin, of the legendary citadel of Afinil, when Bards and Elidhu had sung together, before the Great Silence. She would be better able to judge his tale then: she would know whether he sought to mislead her, whether he warped the truth to his own ends.
Ardina had told her she was neither of the Dark nor the Light. Arkan had more or less said the same thing. They both were very different from what she had been told of other Elidhu, like the Lamedon. She struggled to remember what Cadvan taught her. No one knew how many there were, and when the Great Silence had fallen on Annar, they had withdrawn from human affairs and would no longer take human shape. Except, she thought, Arkan and Ardina, who had domains over which they ruled as king and queen. Ardina had done so for love, or that was the legend. But Arkan — why had he? Was it also for love of a human being? Perhaps — she dismissed the thought as ridiculous almost as soon as it occurred to her, but it returned and she puzzled over it, wondering if it was perhaps not so far-fetched — perhaps Arkan had loved Sharma, and perhaps he had been betrayed by him. Love would explain why Arkan spoke of the Nameless One with such bitterness, and also, maybe, why he might have given him the Treesong. If he had. After all, there were many stories of love between Elementals and humans. But the Treesong, she thought suddenly, did not belong only to Arkan. Did he want it only for himself?
Maerad felt dizzy. She lay on her back and shut her eyes.
Beneath all these thoughts was the necessity of escape. Whatever Arkan wanted of her, he had no right to keep her against her will. She had no doubt that he was not exaggerating the dangers of the Dark in Annar: even the Light had been conscripted against her. Yet some deep instinct, beyond her desire for freedom, told her that she must get back to Annar.
Hem needed her; maybe he was the only person who really needed her — not as an embodiment of prophecy, not as the final hope of the Light against the Nameless One, but as his sister. And Saliman could help her quest; he was almost as powerful a Bard as Cadvan. But how could she possibly find them? The chaos of war must be everywhere by now: perhaps Turbansk had already fallen and Annar itself was riven by civil war.
Arkan was confident she could not escape him — so confident that she felt a little hope. She did not think that he knew that she had pierced the illusion of his ice palace. But it was possible that he was toying with her: he knew, after all, that the Treesong was written on the lyre, and perhaps he knew of its power to break his sorcery. But Maerad thought that he did not know, and it was much better that he didn’t.
Perhaps he underestimates me, Maerad thought hopefully. In which case, I am a little freer: he will not watch me so carefully. And if I am careful enough, if I am clever enough, perhaps I will find a way out of here.
She pondered for a while whether she was capable of being careful and clever enough to outwit the Winterking. She felt somewhat dubious. But, she thought, she had little to lose by trying. Living in Gilman’s Cot, she had played private games to escape the misery of her life. Here life was not so miserable: she was more like an honored hostage than a slave. It would be a game, a game with high stakes, a game for her freedom, for her truth.
A thought struck Maerad like a hammer, and she sat up. Perhaps Arkan could read the runes on her lyre.
Could she risk showing the lyre to Arkan and asking him? Could she risk not doing so? If it was Arkan who gave the Song to the Nameless One, he may have had a part in making the runes. Perhaps he understood what they meant. It might be her single chance to decipher