The Riddle - Alison Croggon [177]
“They’re not a song,” she said.
“Listen. This is how the Song is made. Fir, furze, apple, poplar, and yew.” Arkan turned his eyes upon Maerad, and she swallowed nervously. She pointed to each rune, and said, as if she were learning a lesson: “Arda, fir, the new moon. Onn, furze, the waxing moon. Ura, apple, the full moon. Iadh, poplar, the waning moon. Eadha, yew, the dark moon.” She looked up, suddenly realizing something. “They’re letters!”
“They are time written down,” said Arkan absently. He was frowning in concentration. “These are the staves of the moons, beginning with the new moon:
“I am the dew on every hill
I am the leap in every womb
I am the fruit of every bough
I am the edge of every knife
I am the hinge of every question”
The words went deep into Maerad’s soul, as if they stirred memories from before she was born. She sat silently, fixing the runes in her mind; she recalled Ardina as she had last seen her, dazzling with silver light, beautiful and ambiguous, the daughter of the moon.
“What are the others?”
Arkan looked up, his face unreadable. “These are the runes of spring and summer,” he said heavily. “They are Forn, for middle spring; Sal, for late spring; Hrar, for early summer; Dir, for Midsummer’s Day; and Tren, for middle summer. The rest of the year was lost when Sharma stole the runes. That was the second ill.”
“He took the winter?” said Maerad softly.
“Aye.”
“How were those runes lost? Did no one write them anywhere?”
Arkan didn’t deign to answer her. He was tracing the runes again, his eyelids closed. Maerad watched him. With his eyes shut, he appeared more human; in repose his face was very beautiful. She shook herself, and concentrated.
“Forn, the alder,” said the Winterking. “Sal, the willow; Hrar, the whitethorn; Dir, the oak; and Tren, the holly.”
He was silent then for a long time, and Maerad waited patiently for him to speak again. When he did not, she asked, “And are there staves for those runes?”
Arkan opened his eyes and looked directly at her. His expression held a desolation that took her aback.
“The runes are empty,” he said. “They are dead. To speak them on the air is a horror.”
Maerad didn’t know what to say, and looked down in confusion. Arkan sighed heavily.
“I will say them one time. You must remember.”
Maerad felt the light in the throne room dim. She waited, feeling her heartbeat loud and heavy in her throat. At last, after what seemed an endless silence, Arkan spoke, his deep voice echoing around the room:
“I am the falling tears of the sun
I am the eagle rising to a cliff
I am all directions over the face of the waters
I am the flowering oak that transforms the earth
I am the bright arrow of vengeance”
When he had finished speaking, Arkan covered his face with one hand, and the throne room filled with a bleak stillness.
“There is no music,” said Maerad.
“The music does not live in the runes,” said Arkan. “The runes are dead.”
“I can’t play the Song without music,” she said. “How am I to find the music? I can’t play this Song.”
“Do you think anything can be alive, when it is cloven in half?” Arkan glared at her, his eyes hard and icy, and for an instant Maerad thought he would snap her in two with his bare hands. He thrust the lyre back into her arms, as if it burned him.
“Go,” he said to Maerad. “Leave me.”
The corridors were cold now, and the light seemed sinisterly beautiful; she felt as if the walls were full of eyes, which watched her as she stumbled. She was amazed that she was still able to walk; her legs shook underneath her as if they might give way at any moment. Gima was nowhere to be seen.
She found her room and collapsed onto her bed. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, too exhausted to move.
She remembered with a shudder the Winterking’s face as he had told her the runes, how his black eyelashes rested against his marble skin, the fire that leaped in her veins at his touch. And yet she knew he was ruthless and merciless; Cadvan and Dharin had died by his orders. She had no doubt that he would kill her without compunction