The Riddle - Alison Croggon [17]
She made her way back to her room, turning the wrong way only once, noticing with pleasure the familiar noises of a Bardhouse — the murmur of conversation in distant rooms, people laughing outside, musicians playing a duet somewhere, some young Bards arguing. A hunger she had been barely aware of flowered painfully inside her. Music! When had she last played? She couldn’t remember.
Back in her room, Maerad picked up her lyre and started plucking it, randomly at first and then more seriously. She was out of practice. She ran through a few scales, and then picked out a tune she had once heard some minstrels play in Ettinor — she didn’t feel like playing Bardic music tonight. It was a plaintive song about a man who had fallen in love with a water sprite. She couldn’t quite remember the words, so she made up some of her own once she had the melody down to her satisfaction. She sang it through twice, feeling her anxieties subside in the absorption of playing. Then, yawning violently, she put her lyre carefully aside and prepared herself for bed.
THE golden light of a late summer morning played over the garden outside Maerad’s room. She sat alone in the shade, enjoying the breeze on her face. Birds argued in the trees and Maerad, using her Gift, idly eavesdropped. Birds, she thought, are so brainless. All they say is Mine! Mine! Mine! Go away! Go away!
She let the birdspeech return to pretty burbling, which was much more pleasant to listen to, and breathed in the balm of the garden. She ached: oh, how she ached. Her soul was like one big bruise.
It was so pleasant to sit alone in a beautiful garden, and not to feel filthy or exhausted or cold or frightened, not to feel hunted by the Dark. But now she had a little peace, all these disturbing thoughts bubbled up inside her. Was she any closer to knowing who she was? She had all these new names — once she had been only Maerad, then she was Maerad of Pellinor, and now she was Elednor of Edil-Amarandh, the Fire Lily come to resist the Dark — but what did they really mean? And now she was on a quest, charged to find the Treesong. From the voice in her foredreams, she and Cadvan had decided that they must head north, but here, in this pretty garden, it seemed like the flimsiest of reasons. And what were they looking for? Even Nelac didn’t know.
What are you? she asked herself, echoing Nerili’s question of the night before. A freak?
She had been ruminating for some time when a door farther along the portico opened and Cadvan peered out. “Maerad! Good morning!” He came up to her table. “I see you’ve been spending your time well,” he said, looking at the empty plates. “Is that coffee still hot?”
“Coffee?”
“The drink. Coffee.”
“No.”
“A pity. I’m rather partial to it. It’s a drink from the Suderain: it’s rare to find it anywhere in Annar except here. They trade with the south.”
“I like it,” said Maerad. “But it’s strong.”
“A bit like the Thoroldians, yes?” Cadvan said, smiling. He pulled one of the chairs up to the table and sat down.
Cadvan and Maerad sat in companionable silence for a while, looking out over the garden. Maerad toyed with the idea of asking him about Nerili, and then decided against it. She doubted he would tell her anything, and part of her didn’t want to know.
“It’s lovely here,” she said at last. “I wish we could stay forever.”
“We can’t,” said Cadvan. “You know that. But we can certainly stay for a few weeks. We both need a rest. And before we head north to seek the Treesong, we have to have some idea of what we’re looking for. I’m going to have a good look through the Busk Library — it’s the most ancient in Edil-Amarandh, except perhaps for the one in Turbansk — and try and find some clue. If we know what we might be looking for, then it might not be such a goose chase.”
“It might be a goose chase anyway,” said Maerad, thinking of the argumentative geese she had herded as a slave child,