The Riddle - Alison Croggon [57]
“You looked exactly like the Queen Ardina,” he said. “It took me by surprise.”
The unexpectedness of his comment made Maerad laugh. “But she has silver hair,” she said.
“Your hair looked silver in the moonlight,” said Cadvan, smiling in return. “So it is not as ridiculous as it might sound.”
“And she is beautiful,” said Maerad, more softly.
“Yes,” said Cadvan. “She is.”
There was a short pause; Maerad felt strangely abashed. “Well, then, I suppose I ought to thank you.”
A silence fell between them that was not quite comfortable. Maerad didn’t know how to respond to Cadvan’s mood. He seemed somber and weighed down by some preoccupation, and it caught an underlying mood within her, bringing shadows into the present. But it was more than that; Cadvan had often given her compliments, but they had always been in play. This time there had been an emotion in his voice that Maerad didn’t understand, a complex adult emotion, and it quickened some deep sense of alarm. She did not think he meant that she reminded him of Ardina — someone else, perhaps. The thought gave her a small, cold feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Cadvan broke the silence, asking after Elenxi’s seasickness remedy. Maerad replied lightly, and the strange moment passed. Maerad fell gratefully into the easy, casual trust between them, a trust that had already been tempered by several conflicts, but the cold feeling persisted for a while longer. Maerad had a deep distrust of men, which stemmed from her brutal childhood and, in that unguarded moment, Cadvan had unintentionally woken her old fears.
The next day, the fair sailing continued. The sea was blue and calm, and a sou’westerly carried them steadily toward Gent on the southern coast of the peninsula of Ileadh. Now that Maerad was not crippled by seasickness, she realized sailing was exhilarating: the fresh, biting wind blew all the darkness out of her heart.
Cadvan and Owan began to teach her the basics of handling a craft. It was, she discovered to her chagrin, something she did not have a natural talent for; she couldn’t feel instinctively how a boat might respond to the currents of wind and wave, or predict how it would move. At one point, while Owan was attempting to teach her the art of tacking, she accidentally sent the White Owl into a violent spin, almost knocking Owan into the sea. Although the other two thought it was funny (after the vessel had been righted), Maerad felt it as a humiliation and worked all the harder to gain some basic skill.
“You’ll make a decent sailor one day,” Owan said comfortingly that evening. He had lashed the tiller, letting the White Owl follow her own course as they had dinner. “If you work at it.”
“If I don’t sink myself first,” answered Maerad ruefully. “But thank you.”
“It’s perfect teaching weather, anyway. There was no real danger.” Owan settled himself on the bench that ran along each side of the deck and began to eat with relish. He had set out fishing lines that day, and dinner was grilled bream, flavored with his carefully hoarded dried herbs. Eating in the open air, as the sun spilled a path of flames along the darkening sea, gave the meal an extra piquancy. At last they sighed and pushed away their plates, watching the sun send out its last pale gleams into the sky. The moon had not yet risen, and the stars were especially brilliant, letting fall a light strong enough to throw shadows. No one moved to light a lamp.
“I can’t see Thorold anymore,” said Maerad, gazing southward over the heaving waves.
“It must be concealed in a haze,” Owan answered. “Sometimes you can see the Lamedon from two days out.”
“It’s a beautiful place,” said Maerad dreamily. “I’m sad to leave it.”
“Aye, it is that,” answered Owan. “Have I told you of the Lamedon and the Sea?”
“No,” said Maerad, sitting up straighter. “Is it a story?”
“Ah, yes, it is an old story,” said Cadvan, smiling. “I’d like to hear it again, Owan, if you’re in the mood.”
Owan lit a pipe, and gazed over the water in silence for a few moments. “Well then,” he