The Riddle - Alison Croggon [69]
“I have put a ward about Ossin,” said Gahal. “We are all safe enough, for the meantime; no one can observe us here. But this is ill news, Anhil. I will not contemplate sending men at arms to Norloch. And it means that perhaps the fears of invasion in Busk are not ill-founded, if Enkir is gathering forces.” He knitted his brows. “My fears about you and Maerad traveling through Annar also increase fourfold.”
“I agree,” said Cadvan. “Nevertheless, I fear that three stormdogs at sea would be a certain death sentence. One came close to killing us. Even with armies pursuing us, Annar is the lesser risk.”
“I should tell you that two horses, Darsor and Imi, arrived at Gent a week ago,” said Anhil. “Darsor said you told them to meet you there.”
Maerad gave an exclamation of pleasure. Their horses had taken Saliman and Hem to Turbansk, and she missed her mare Imi almost as much as she missed Hem.
They stayed in Ossin another two days. Maerad spent most of her time with Lyla, with whom she struck up an easy friendship. In Lyla’s company, she could forget that she was the Fire Lily of Edil-Amarandh, the Fated One pursued by both Light and Dark, or that she was a Bard at all. She could pretend that she was just a young girl of sixteen, with not much more to worry about than the day’s lessons or tasks or gossip.
Although Lyla was not a Bard, her father had taught her many Barding skills: she was formidably well read — especially when compared to Maerad, who had hardly read any books at all — and knew most of the great lays by heart. She could play several instruments and even knew some basics of the Speech, although on her tongue it had no power. She was going to be, she told Maerad, a healer.
“I can’t do the Bard healing,” she said ruefully. “I wish I was a Bard. But I can help women in childbirth and cure many things, even without that, as long as I have the Knowing, and Papa says the more healers the better. And I like it.” She glanced at Maerad, as if daring her to disagree, but Maerad was privately too impressed to say anything; the fact was, Lyla was much better educated than she was.
“I’ve never thought about what I might do,” she answered reflectively. “It’s not as if I’ve ever had much choice. First I was a slave, and then Cadvan got me out of there, and now I’m a Bard and I have to — well, I have things to do. And that’s not a choice, either.”
Lyla looked at her with sympathy. “I wouldn’t like that much,” she said. “Mama always says I am far too willful, and she wishes I had been a boy, because they are much more biddable and do what they’re told. Whereas girls, she says, are stubborn as mules and as hard to train as magpies.”
Maerad laughed, a little enviously. The kind of freedom Lyla was talking of was completely alien to her; and her comments made Maerad acutely aware of her lack of family. She barely remembered her father at all, and her mother little better, and those memories were themselves riven by horror and grief. It made her wonder what she would do with her life, if she survived the quest that she and Cadvan had now begun; she realized she had no idea at all.
Maerad didn’t see much of Gahal, except at mealtimes, but although he was always friendly, she thought she detected a slight wariness in his manner. Once the Bard had taken her to see his tame blue wrens, which lived uncaged in a gnarled apple tree in the gardens. Maerad was enchanted by the tiny birds that flashed amid the green leaves like live jewels, and Gahal called one to come and sit on her finger, where it chirped and ate some seed from Gahal’s hand.
“Featherheads, they are,” said Gahal fondly as the bird fixed him with a bright eye and asked for more seed, and then flicked back into the tree. “There is not much space for brains in those little skulls. But I love them.”
“I can see why,” said Maerad. “They’re so beautiful.”
“Beautiful and fragile. Like much that is threatened by the Dark,” said Gahal, suddenly sober. Maerad glanced at him inquiringly, and to her surprise saw that he seemed