The Riddle - Alison Croggon [22]
“There’s more to them, nevertheless, than those instinctive powers. Glimmerspells can be quite useful. Not against Bards, of course; Bard eyes can always see through them. But if we do this”— and Nerili made a strange pass with her hands — “we can persuade Bard eyes to collude with us, though it won’t work against a Bard’s will. Then we can share our imaginations.”
Suddenly, in the middle of the room, there appeared a silver sapling. As Maerad watched, enchanted, it grew to the height of the ceiling, putting out branches and broad silver leaves. When it was fully grown, there burst out all over it little golden buds, which opened wide to luminous flowers that seemed to be made of pure light. The petals withered and vanished, releasing a delicate fragrance, and where the flowers had been there swelled marvelous fruits: golden apples so bright they threw shadows over the walls. There was a music in the room, the same clear inhuman voices Maerad had heard during her instatement, which seemed to her like the sound of stars singing. She gasped in pure delight.
“The Tree of Light, as I see it each year at Midsummer,” said Nerili, looking at it with her head cocked to one side. “It is beautiful, yes? Each First Bard sees it in her own way. This is how it appears to me. If ever you do the Rite of Renewal, you will see a different one. But it will be just as beautiful.” She clapped her hands, and the tree vanished. “Now you try.”
Maerad’s mind went blank. “What?” she asked.
Nerili shrugged. “Show me something,” she said. “Something you remember. Did you catch the passes?” She showed Maerad the hand gestures again, and Maerad copied them slowly, fixing them in her memory. Into her mind leaped an image of the wight she had destroyed at the Broken Teeth, just before Norloch. She bent her imagination to visualizing it, and Nerili gasped.
“Not that!” she said quickly. “Not a creature of the Dark. No, show me something else.”
My memories are full of horror, Maerad thought. I can’t help it. Obediently she pushed the wight out of her mind and cast about for another image. Gradually, shimmering a little, the figure of a woman appeared in the room, facing away from them. She was dressed in white robes, and her long dark hair fell unbound down her back. Slowly she turned to look at the two Bards. Her face was full of sadness.
“Your mother, Milana of Pellinor,” said Nerili softly. “I never met her. She looks very much like you. Thank you, Maerad.” The figure faded and vanished, and there was a short silence. Maerad looked away. She didn’t know why she had shown Nerili her mother, and she now wished she hadn’t. Nerili took her hand, and Maerad jumped. If she had said anything to her, Maerad might have started crying, but they just sat wordlessly for a while, until Maerad collected herself.
“Magery, even the slightest, calls on the deepest parts of ourselves,” Nerili said at last, releasing her hand. “And often that is painful. It is the pain of being in the world, where so much that is fair passes into death and forgetfulness. But if we are to know joy, we must embrace that pain. You cannot have one without the other.”
Maerad nodded, her face downcast. Sometimes, it seemed to her, the pain far outweighed the joy.
Emissaries arrived from Norloch very quickly, five days after Maerad and Cadvan. They made council with Busk’s First Circle and left early the next day for Gent. After they had gone, Nerili called another council of the First and Second Circles — all the senior Bards of the School of Busk — and this time Maerad and Cadvan were summoned.
When they arrived in the Council Room, Maerad was surprised to see half a dozen people who were clearly not Bards. They were the Steward of Busk, a tall, burly man called Arnamil, and the members of his Chamber — three women and two men — one of whom, Maerad saw, was Owan d’Aroki. In tandem with the six Bards of the First Circle of the School, the Chamber governed the Isle of Thorold. With the sixteen Bards, there was a sizable gathering