The Riddle - Alison Croggon [171]
“I have never been there, though I have seen it in my mind’s eye,” said Arkan. “Yes, it has a certain beauty.”
“I miss green. Green fields, green trees, flowers . . .”
“Such green withers and dies,” said Arkan. He disengaged Maerad’s hand and pointed toward an alcove carved out of polished black stone. “Look at this.”
Maerad saw with a gasp of astonishment that the alcove housed a great, perfect diamond, almost her height; it was much bigger than the crystal of the White Flame in Norloch and was incomparably beautiful. Light broke on its facets into every color, and as she gazed, she felt almost hypnotized, as if she could fall into its glittering maze and never find her way out again.
“This is better than your green,” said Arkan. “It will not die.”
“Only because it is not alive,” said Maerad, freeing herself with difficulty from the fascination of the diamond. She looked up into Arkan’s face, feeling an amazement growing within her at the strangeness of their conversation. Arkan seemed different to her since she had seen the shadow of his wild being; when she had first met him, she had thought him handsome, but cold and somehow loathsome. Now she was aware of his vitality, an energy like a storm that made her skin tingle.
“I live,” said Arkan with a peculiar arrogance as they walked. “And I do not die. The wind lives, the snow lives, the ice lives, the mountains live. Rock and ice have their own voices, their own lives, their own breath, their own pulse. Do you deny them that?”
“No,” said Maerad, unable to conceal the sadness in her voice. “But I like flowers.”
“I will make you flowers if you desire them.”
“They would be flowers of ice. Beautiful, but cold. It wouldn’t be the same. But thank you.”
They walked in silence for a time through the endless, beautiful corridors, and despite herself Maerad found she was admiring the beauties of Arkan-da with different eyes. The design of the pillars had changed subtly, she thought; she saw flowers within them, all with six petals, but infinitely various and intricate. She was always conscious of the man pacing beside her, although she did not look at him.
“Why do you wish to please me?” she asked, breaking the silence. “You could just as easily cast me into some dark dungeon. What difference would it make to you?”
“It is better if you do not hate or fear me,” said Arkan. “Song cannot be made out of hatred and fear. That is what Sharma failed to understand.”
“What is needed to make Song, then?”
Arkan turned and looked her full in her face, and Maerad’s heart skipped a beat. “Do you not know?” he asked.
Maerad looked down at the floor and watched her feet. She did not want to answer.
“Love,” said Arkan at last. “Love is what is needed to make the Song. Love is why the darkness blossomed into light. Love is why the Earth spoke and became Elidhu.”
Maerad blushed furiously and did not dare to meet the Winterking’s gaze. It was the first time he had addressed her so familiarly, and the intimacy struck a resonance through the depths of her being. She felt herself shaken with sudden desire, like a tree that fills with a wild light when it is touched by storm.
What do I know of love? she asked herself fiercely. And now this man, this Elidhu, this creature of ice and storm and stone, wants to show me? And then, fearfully, she asked herself if he mazed even her feelings, manipulating her as he manipulated the perceptions of Gima.
She waited until the wild beating of her heart calmed down, and then turned to the Winterking, careful to betray nothing of what she felt. “Was love why the Song was lost?” she asked boldly.
Arkan turned from her gaze, with a trace of bitterness. “Perhaps,” he said.
“And is that why the Song split in two?”
“It can only be sung with love. And love can neither be stolen nor feigned.” He gave her a swift, piercing glance, and Maerad felt herself tremble. “It can only be