The Riddle - Alison Croggon [47]
Maerad didn’t feel like pursuing the question any further and did not ask who the spy was. She didn’t want to know. It disturbed her; she understood Elenxi’s harsh logic, but at the same time part of her resisted the absolute judgment she saw in his face. It was too easy, after all, to make mistakes, even for the best of reasons. Who was to know what was right?
“Pity is never wasted,” said Cadvan softly. “Even the worst deserve pity. Even the Nameless One himself is a pitiable being.” Elenxi gave him a piercing glance.
“Perhaps,” he said gruffly. “I will not argue with the wisdom of the Balance. For all that, this man was betraying you, and us, for gold. There is not much to pity in that.”
“Whatever the argument, it is true there are spies, and that Norloch strongly suspects you are here,” said Nerili. “So you must leave as soon as you can. Elenxi will guide you to Nisa, and then you must head for Gent. Gahal is expecting you and will advise you on how to proceed north. Myself, I advise that you go by sea, along the coast, despite the perils. I think crossing Annar is more dangerous still.”
There was a reflective silence.
“Have you been looking in the Library?” asked Cadvan, changing the subject.
“I have,” said Nerili. “I have ransacked it from top to bottom and consulted all the most learned librarians. There is nothing I could find that could help you.”
“Nothing will be written down,” said Ankil, who hitherto had sat in silence, following the conversation alertly.
“Probably not,” said Nerili, giving him a curious look. “I would be surprised, Cadvan, if you found anything in any of the other Libraries.”
“Nelac had read something of the Treesong,” said Maerad. “So there must be something written somewhere.”
“The reference he found was very vague,” Cadvan answered. “But I think Ankil is correct.” He told Nerili and Elenxi of the Split Song, and they listened with deep interest. “That is the nearest we have come to any clue,” he finished.
“Do not look for nuts in a mulberry tree,” said Ankil. “I think you must move wholly from the realm of the written to the realm of the remembered.”
Maerad felt her heart quicken within her. She was sure, in a deep part of herself, that there was a profound truth in what Ankil said. Maerad too had come to writing late; until that spring she had known nothing of written language, and like Ankil she felt closer to oral lore than most Bards.
“Perhaps the Knowing is kept in the north,” she said. “And that’s why we have to go there. To talk to someone.”
“Yes,” said Cadvan. “But who?”
No one had any answer to this, so Nerili changed the subject. “The emissaries did not bring only bad news,” she said. “One carried something for you two.” She reached into her bosom and pulled out a sealed letter. “This comes from Saliman of Turbansk.”
Maerad cried out gladly and reached out for the letter, forestalling Cadvan, who had also put out his hand. He checked himself and sat back, although he was clearly as impatient as Maerad to see what the letter said. Maerad looked curiously at the seal, which bore the emblem of the School of Turbansk — a sun surrounded by flames — and then broke it with her fingernail, unfolding the parchment. The letter was written in Saliman’s clear, sure hand.
“Read it out to us, Maerad,” said Cadvan.
Maerad hesitated, and then slowly began to read, Saliman’s mobile, laughing face rising vividly in her mind as she spoke.
“It says, ‘Maerad, Cadvan — greetings, my friends! I write in haste, as the emissary from Thorold seeks to leave this hour. But I was never so glad as to hear that you are safe in Thorold. My thoughts have turned your way each day since last we saw each other, and to hear no news is hard: it breeds phantoms.’ Oh, Cadvan,” she said, turning to him impulsively. “They never got our news!”
“Birdnews oft goes astray,” said Cadvan. “Sometimes they are apt to forget their