The Riddle - Alison Croggon [65]
They walked in silence along a small leaf-strewn track, which led up the banks and then broke out of the trees into open fields. Maerad saw a cluster of lights glowing through the darkness. Shortly afterward they arrived at a hamlet of about a dozen buildings; Owan paused in the street, looking up and down, and led them at last to the biggest. It was a double-story house made of wood and daub and painted all over with intricate murals of Bards and townsfolk at work.
“This is the First Bard’s country house,” said Owan, smiling, as they reached the front door and banged the silver knocker. “I’ve only been here a couple of times, but I warn you, he is famous for his hospitality.”
The door opened, revealing a big, dark-haired man. He flung out his arms in welcome and ushered them inside. “Cadvan! Owan! Come in, my friends. It is overlong since last we met. And you are Maerad of Pellinor? My name is Gahal, Gahal of Gent. Come in, come in. Dump your packs here. Look, let me take that cloak. First, some food and drink, yes? Nothing makes you as hungry as sailing, I believe. No, don’t worry about that; I’ll show you your rooms soon. Now, here we are.”
He hadn’t stopped talking all the way up the hallway, Maerad thought in wonder.
She gasped as she entered the sitting room; she had become used to fine rooms, but this was especially beautiful. The long casements were shaded with floor-length curtains, made of embroidered silk from Thorold, which glowed with a rich sheen of gold, and the low couches were covered in the same fabric. But it was the walls and ceiling that made her stop in wonder. The walls were paneled with pale cedar, each panel delicately carved and framing a painting of a different bird. The ceiling itself was painted with a riot of birds in flight, all flying in a spiral toward the center of the room.
Maerad was momentarily struck speechless and automatically accepted the glass of wine thrust into her hand. She felt far too filthy to sit down in such a room, but Gahal almost pushed her onto a couch and then, still chatting amiably, handed around sweetmeats and drinks. Maerad contented herself with examining the room, craning her neck to see the painting on the ceiling. The birds were of dozens of different kinds, all meticulously rendered in every detail on an azure sky with rose clouds scudding across it. It darkened to evening colors toward the casement, and there between the clouds twinkled a single star. Maerad was sure it was Ilion.
“You like my birds?” said Gahal, startling her out of her reverie.
“Oh, yes,” said Maerad. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a beautiful room.”
Gahal looked pleased. “It took me six years,” he said. “Gent keeps me so busy, you see. But every chance I got, I came down here until all the panels were completed. And now I can sit among the creatures I love, even when they fly south.”
Maerad glanced at the Bard with new respect. His loquaciousness, which was not what she had expected from the First Bard of Gent, had at first made her wonder privately if he were not a little foolish, but the loveliness of the paintings, and a certain sharpness in Gahal’s regard, dispelled her suspicion. He was clearly not a man to underestimate. “You obviously know a lot about birds,” she said.
“Birds are my passion,” said Gahal. “They are the most beautiful creatures on earth; the sky is their element, and they live in it with such grace. All my life I have watched them, and loved them, and learned from them.”
“If you need to know anything about birdlore,” said Cadvan, “Gahal is the first authority.” He lifted his glass. “And this room is one of the masterpieces of Edil-Amarandh. We are lucky to be able to see it.”
“But it’s comfortable as well,” said Maerad. “In Norloch there were lots of beautiful rooms, but somehow they felt too grand, as though you couldn’t just sit down and enjoy them.”
“I thank you for that,