The Riddle - Alison Croggon [39]
“He is too modest,” said Elenxi. “Ankil is a famous healer, and many send all this way for his help.”
“Pffft, that is nothing,” he said. “I am content.”
“Were any of your children Bards?” asked Maerad curiously.
“Yes, two,” said Ankil. “One is in Gent, another in Turbansk. And my granddaughter is First Bard in Busk.”
“Nerili?” exclaimed Maerad in surprise.
“Yes, my little Neri. She is the image of my Kiranta, and when I see her, I am both proud and sad; she calls up in me so many happy memories, and so many sorrowful reflections. So you see, although I was no good as a Bard, I have made my contribution.”
Elenxi stayed the night before heading down the mountain to confer with more villagers. They had a merry time — merry enough for Maerad to feel very unwell the following morning. She was fascinated by the two brothers, at once so similar and so different, and looked from one to the other in wonder all night: one a Bard of the First Circle, the other a goatherd. The respect between them was palpable. There was no sense that Elenxi felt in any way superior to Ankil; in fact, she felt that he deferred to his brother in a way she hadn’t seen him do to anybody, not even Nerili. Elenxi, she found, was the older brother, by four years, so seniority did not explain it.
Over the coming days, she began to understand Elenxi’s respect. Ankil was, for all his unletteredness, as wise as Nelac, Cadvan’s teacher in Norloch, and beneath his gentleness and apparent simplicity was a rare strength of spirit. His memory was prodigious, and his life had left him plenty of time for reflection. He was a vast storehouse of songs and tales, and his knowledge of herblore was, Cadvan told her, reputedly unrivaled in Thorold.
He lived a life of comfortable austerity. Inside his house was tidy and clean, and everything in it had the beauty of functional things well made. There was little decoration, and no books at all. The kitchen was dominated by a black-iron wood stove with a huge, smoke-blackened chimney. It was furnished only with a broad table and stools, and was surrounded by shelves, which were well stocked with bottles of dried herbs and pulses and grains and salt. Yet more herbs hung in bunches from the ceiling, interspersed with bunches of onions and garlic, infusing the room with a pungent fragrance. The cellars were carefully sealed against damp and were stacked with jars of pickles and jams and preserves and honey, bags of nuts and grains and flours and pulses, and shelves of fruits and vegetables gathered from the previous year — wrinkled golden apples and pears, turnips and potatoes and carrots. And barrels and barrels of wine. There was no meat, because Ankil would not eat animals. Some food and all the wine came up from the village, but the bulk of what he ate was grown and preserved by Ankil himself.
Maerad was to find that visitors were not so infrequent as Ankil had intimated; at least once a week a Velissos villager would struggle up to the meadow, leading a pony that carried supplies on its back — wood or grain or wine — and leading it back down laden with cheeses or combs of honey or some especially requested healing potion.
It all bespoke a life of hard physical labor, and, indeed, Ankil was busy from dawn to dusk. At night he sat with them in the fragrant kitchen or, if it was not too cold, outside on the porch, and they told many tales and sang many songs, their music echoing out over the mountains of Thorold.
Maerad and Cadvan had their own routines, although they helped Ankil in his tasks whenever they could. Cadvan was now intensively drilling Maerad in High Magery, practical and theoretical, and she continued to learn the Ladhen runes and Nelsor scripts, although they hadn’t many books with them. In the afternoons, mentally tired by the work, it was a relief to practise swordcraft and unarmed combat. It also provided much entertainment for