The Riddle - Alison Croggon [36]
Elenxi turned up later, obviously well pleased. “It’s the same story over the whole isle,” he said, rubbing his hands. “Outrage at Norloch and vows of resistance. There are caves all through these mountains, which I’ve advised them to stock well with provisions and supplies against an invasion. In a week, all Thorold will be ready.” He took a deep draft of wine, and then looked down at the table. “By the Light, I hope it doesn’t come to that,” he said soberly. “School against School — and Norloch, the center of the Light, the aggressor — such a thing has never happened. Kings have always fought, alas, to make their kingdoms greater, but Bards have never made war against each other. But if it does come to that, Thorold will not fall.”
Looking at the fierce old man, now pouring himself another drink, Maerad thought that she understood why Thorold had held out against the Nameless One during the Great Silence. Thoroldians would make bitter and ruthless enemies, she had no doubt, and in defense of their own she suspected they would never concede defeat.
The three Bards continued their trek, riding from village to village across the mountainous terrain of Thorold, for three days. The weather cooled on the third day, and Elenxi sniffed the air suspiciously, wondering if there was to be a storm. That night they stopped at a tiny village called Velissos, huddled in the lee of a high ridge. Elenxi was obviously well known there, and they were greeted warmly. They stabled the horses at the tiny tavern, which was really little more than the front room of a house. They planned to leave the horses in the village; from here they would go on foot.
The storm broke with a sudden violent downpour almost as soon as they reached shelter, and Maerad looked with wonder out onto the wall of rain, a solid gray curtain that hammered down on the tiled roof of the tavern.
“We’re deep in Thorold now,” said Cadvan. “This is mountain country. You can feel the bones of the earth.”
“Well, as long as it doesn’t break my bones,” said Maerad.
“It won’t, if you’re careful,” Elenxi answered. “Which you should be. We’re near the Lamedon now, and it’s tough country. These are my people.”
Maerad looked around her at the Velissos villagers. They did seem tough; these were the shepherds and goatherds who made the delicious white cheeses Maerad had eaten in Busk, and most of them looked as craggy as the mountains their holdings clung to. Some of the men were almost as big-boned as Elenxi, and the women looked strong and capable.
“They breed special goats here, because the mountains are so steep,” said Cadvan. “On one side their legs are shorter than the other, so they can graze more comfortably.”
“How strange,” said Maerad. “Poor things! What happens when they have to turn around? Wouldn’t that be a bit difficult for them?”
“Well, they breed different goats for different hills — right-legged goats to move one way, and left-legged —”
Elenxi snorted with laughter, and Maerad realized she’d been taken in.
“Oh, that’s not fair! It might have been true,” she said. “And there I was believing you.”
That night they brought out their instruments, and there was dancing. Maerad was amazed by how the taciturn villagers became as high-spirited and noisy as the Bards of Busk; she was picked up and whirled around by big men with huge black mustaches and muscles as gnarled and brown as old trees. After the dancing there was singing, and the whole tavern joined in, their hands clasped to their breasts, their voices trembling with emotion. They retired late, after finishing with an old favorite of the Thoroldians, The Song of Theokas, a lament that throbbed with sorrowful desire:
“I kiss the peaks of Lamedon with my eyes
And the white arms of the passionate