The Riddle - Alison Croggon [68]
“He’s a Bard at Gent. I like him; he’s always lovely. And he’s very good-looking.” Lyla sat down on the bed. “Is this your lyre? It’s not very grand, is it? Papa’s has gold inlay and golden strings. But I suppose you can only get old ones when you’re young like us. Anhil is Dernhil’s brother, you know, the Bard who was killed at Innail. I didn’t know him so well — I only met him once, when I was three — but it was just awful. I was so sad for Anhil.”
Maerad was grateful that her dress was over her head, so Lyla couldn’t see her expression. Dernhil’s brother! She had known that Dernhil was from Gent, and it was, in fact, one of the reasons that she had wanted to go there, but the thought of meeting his brother keenly brought back her sorrow at his death. But the moment passed, and she shrugged the dress over her shoulders.
Lyla looked at her critically, her head on one side. “I like that dress,” she said. “But I think it looks nicer on me than on you.”
“I should wash first,” Maerad answered. “I’ll be downstairs after that.”
“I shall see you then,” said Lyla. “I’ll tell Papa.”
By the time she appeared downstairs, washed and brushed, Maerad had composed herself enough to greet Anhil. He was sitting in the dining room talking to Gahal, leaning back in his chair, one foot on the other knee. When Maerad entered, he stood up and Gahal introduced them. She felt a start of painful recognition: Anhil was both like and unlike Dernhil; his hair was light brown, and he was not quite so tall. But his eyes held the same mobile expressiveness as Dernhil’s, and she found it hard to look at him straight.
“I am glad to meet you,” Anhil said courteously, taking her hand. “My brother wrote to me about you, shortly before he died. You impressed him very much.”
A lump gathered in Maerad’s throat and she nodded, unable for a moment to answer.
“His death was a great grief,” she said. “I am very sorry. It must have been hard for you.”
“Yes,” answered Anhil. “He is a great loss to all of us, but most of all to those who loved him.”
Maerad had no idea how to respond, and simply nodded again, biting her lip, and at that moment, to her relief, Cadvan entered the room. Anhil turned to greet him, and Cadvan embraced him wordlessly. Maerad sat at the table, her heart thumping, feeling graceless and awkward.
Lyla leaned over to her and whispered, “See, I told you he was good-looking.” Maerad blushed scarlet. “I didn’t know you knew Dernhil.”
“Yes,” Maerad said. “For too short a time.”
“It was sad, what happened to him,” said Lyla. “His ashes are at Gent, you know.” Maerad mumbled something inaudible in reply, and Lyla at last worked out that Maerad was uncomfortable talking about Dernhil and changed the subject. “Anyway, have some of this honey; it’s very nice. Mama keeps the hives and she gives the bees plenty of sweet clovers to work with.”
Gratefully Maerad buried herself in the business of eating, and gradually her emotions settled enough for her to start listening to the conversation between Cadvan, Anhil, and Gahal. Anhil was one of the First Circle of Gent, and his visit was not prompted solely by Cadvan and Maerad’s presence. Another emissary had arrived from Norloch, demanding men at arms from Ileadh for Norloch’s campaign against the Dark.
“Naturally,” Anhil said to Gahal, “we have told him that we can make no decisions in your absence from the School, and that he will have to await your return from Damaroch.”
“Damaroch?” said Cadvan.
“We know how dangerous it is for you,” said Anhil, turning to face him. “And for us, if it is known that we are helping you. Only the First Circle knows where Gahal is, and why. Gahal sent a semblance of himself to Damaroch; it is actually Rhyd. Gahal rode here by circuitous means, and in disguise himself, as I have done. I doubt that either of us has been followed, though I fear Ossin is watched. It is as well you arrived under cover of night.”
Cadvan nodded, and Maerad felt her fear, which had