The Riddle - Alison Croggon [182]
As the decision formed irrevocably within her, she realized that she did understand what the wolf meant. Of course she could transform into a beast. It was not the magery of Bards, which could work such a transformation only in seeming. It was part of the Knowing of the Elidhu, and with it, she could worst the Winterking’s powers.
She stood up slowly, her limbs cold and stiff, and deliberately shouldered her pack, which had to transform with her. She looked the wolf in the eye; it stared back at her unblinkingly. Without hurry, as if she had done it a thousand times, she focused deep within herself, sinking through layers — slave, Bard, Pilanel, Maerad, Elednor, woman — deeper and deeper, until she came to a place where all the skins fell away and she had no name at all, and her mind was as empty and clear as water. Now she sought the still point of transformation, the fulcrum on which all turned; she found it and balanced, swaying easily like an eagle on the wind.
Be wolf, she thought; be my heart, my hunger. Be my freedom.
For a heartbeat her whole body was racked by terrible pain, as if she had been thrown into a furnace, but that passed almost as soon as it arrived, giving her no time to do more than gasp. The next thing she knew, she was overwhelmed by a new sense, the sense of smell; her tongue and her nose were suddenly flooded with odors, so rich and detailed that they were like brightly colored images.
She could smell the arch; it smelled like burned metal, hot and dangerous, the smell of sorcery. Her hackles rose, and she leaned forward and sniffed the stone tentatively.
It will not burn you, said the wolf. Hurry. You have wasted much time.
Maerad did not stop to wonder that she was standing on all fours. She gathered herself and leaped through the black arch, and felt its power part before her and close seamlessly behind her, as if she were a sleek diver who left not a ripple of water in her wake. When she landed on the other side, she left no mark in the snow, although she could see her human footprints all the way back to the door of Arkan-da, already beginning to blur under a thin layer of snow.
Without speaking, the wolf turned and began to lope very fast down the south road. Maerad leaped forward in its wake, her heart suddenly soaring. All tiredness seemed to have fallen from her. She was a wolf, lean and swift and strong, and if she wanted, she could run all day and night. She felt the pleasure of her muscles sliding over each other, the heat of her running, her inextinguishable energy.
She was free.
The darkness faded slowly out of the sky as the sun rose above the mountains, staining the barred clouds red. The snow fell lightly, whirling idly about the wolves, and rising in small puffs of white where their paws struck the ground. They were running at an even pace that ate up the ground, and they were already far from Arkan-da, following the pass that led through the mountains. Maerad could sense now that the road was winding down, and that they would soon be out of the mountains and onto the plains.
She was beginning to tire, panting as she ran, and her left forepaw was aching fiercely, but the other wolf led her on without pausing, without even turning to see if she still followed. Maerad made no protest; fear drove her past her weariness. She now wanted to get as far away as possible before the Winterking discovered she was gone.
Maerad’s semblance would last about half a day, but she thought it likely that her absence would be discovered before that. Perhaps Gima would leave her alone out of pity, but it was likely she would become alarmed if she tried to rouse her and could not, and her stratagem would then be revealed. She had no idea what would happen when the Winterking found that his captive had fooled him, but she knew that the anger he had shown in the throne room would not be a tithe of his rage when he discovered her escape. And his arm was long: he had sent his stormdogs to Thorold and attacked her in the Osidh