The Riddle - Alison Croggon [67]
Gahal looked at her in surprise. “You are a seer as well?”
Maerad didn’t answer, and Cadvan stirred and said, “Yes, she is. Well, it was always a gift of the House of Karn. There is much to tell you, Gahal, and not just about Maerad. But I am glad to know that we can count on Gent. Not that I would have expected anything else.”
There was a short silence, and then Gahal drained his glass and rose. “Alas, my curiosity makes me discourteous. You will want to refresh yourselves,” he said. “Your rooms are waiting for you; I’ll show you to them. And then we will eat a dinner worthy of your exploits.”
Maerad woke the next morning with a feeling of complete luxury. Her skin felt soft and clean, instead of itchy and rough with brine, and all the aches of tiredness had vanished. After the discomforts of a hammock, a real bed felt wonderful. She stretched lazily, listening to the sounds coming through the casement: the cluck of chickens scratching in the road, a couple of men chatting in the rich dialect of Ileadh, the low of cattle drifting in from the distance, the cark cark of crows. A warm late-morning light shafted through the casement and tempted her out of bed. She wriggled her toes in the soft carpet, and looked out of the window.
From Gahal’s house she could see over the roofs of the hamlet all the way down to the river, which glimmered silver as it twisted between the hills. Close to the hamlet was a patchwork of fields with a white road winding through them that dived into the birch forests that stretched up to hills purpling in the distance.
Maerad had slept long and deeply, after a dinner as convivial as Gahal had forecast. At dinner, they had been joined by Gahal’s household, which counted about twenty people. There was his direct family: his wife, Rena, his two adult sons, Nik and Beljan, and his daughter, Lyla, who was about Maerad’s age. But there were also other Bards and laypeople who were not related to Gahal at all, but bore some other profound relationship of work or inclination. Lyla, for instance, seemed to regard the other adults as intimately as if they were second fathers or mothers. Maerad, whose family had been fragmented by disaster and who had, up until now, mainly stayed at Schools, did not remember the broader patterns of responsibilities and kinship that operated in Barding households, and it struck her for the first time.
Lyla had sat next to Maerad, and the two liked each other on sight. It was the first time that Maerad had met anyone her own age who wasn’t awed by her reputation or her association with Cadvan.
The conversation remained general, and Maerad had eaten her way through several courses of beautifully prepared food: a dish of fat yellow asparagus cooked to absolute tenderness, a salad of herbs and nasturtiums, fresh trout baked with almonds and honey, wood mushrooms seethed in milk and butter. Then Gahal had insisted she try his limonel, an apple spirit he made himself, which was more delicious (and stronger) than laradhel. It was no wonder she had slept so well.
She lazily watched a horseman trot up the road toward the house, dismount, and knock on the door.
Rena had lent her some of Lyla’s clothes, as her own were being laundered, and she had just decided she had better dress and see what was happening with the day when there was a knock on the chamber door.
“Yes?” said Maerad.
Lyla popped her head around the door. “Morning, Maerad! Papa wanted to know if you’d like breakfast.”
Maerad indicated her nightgown. “I’ve been a bit slow this morning,” she said. “I’m not even dressed.”
“Oh, he said to tell you there’s no hurry.” Lyla came shyly into the room. Like Gahal, she was dark-haired and dark-eyed, and her hair was tied in a long plait down her back. “He just wanted to know whether to put it all away yet. Cadvan and Owan aren’t up, either.”
“Well, I’m glad to know it’s not just me being so lazy,” said Maerad, laughing.
“Besides, Anhil’s arrived, and he wants to meet you.”
“Who