The Riddle - Alison Croggon [70]
“What is it?” she asked.
Gahal scratched his head and stared at the apple tree. “I wanted to say that much hangs on this quest of yours,” he said at last. “And I wish to warn you, also. But I find that words fail me.”
“Warn me of what?”
Gahal looked her in the eye with a strange earnestness. “That is what I have no words for, young Bard. There is something in you that I do not understand, and I fear it.”
Maerad stared back, unable to think of any response because of a strange dread that rose inside her. Gahal sighed, and then laughed and patted her arm. “It is hard to say, beware of yourself! But I do say it. Take care, my young girl. I think of Lyla, and I think of you, no older than she is, and I would not countenance my daughter facing the perils you must survive.”
They walked back to the house, and Gahal seemed then his normal voluble self, but the conversation had troubled Maerad. She felt that she both did and did not understand what he meant. Was he speaking of the Elemental part of her? She knew that Bards distrusted the Elidhu.
Afterward she had felt disturbed, and she wandered down to the river to spend some time in the undemanding company of Owan. She had scarcely seen Owan since that first night; he had been busy at the river harbor. He had drawn the White Owl out of the water and painstakingly examined her, mending the broken rail, which was the main hurt she had sustained in their battle with the stormdog, and checking each plank for cracks or weaknesses.
Owan left for Thorold shortly afterward, and their parting had been warm and full of sadness. In their time together, Maerad had learned to perceive the deep feeling that lay beneath his taciturn nature and to respect his solidity, which held true and strong even in the most perilous circumstances, and she counted him among her closest friends. She wondered if she would ever see him again.
Darsor and Imi arrived that afternoon. A young Bard from Gent had ridden Darsor, leading Imi; she was about Hem’s age and clearly delighted to be given such an errand. She was really guided by Darsor, rather than the other way round. Darsor was a magnificent black animal of about seventeen hands, with a proudly arched neck and a form made for both endurance and speed. He was out of the line of Lanorgrim, the heroic mount of Maninaë, whose ancestors were said to have had winged fetlocks, and his mettle was such that no one could ride him if he did not permit it. Maerad’s steel-gray mare, Imi, was smaller than Darsor, but brave and hardy.
Maerad, who was outside with Lyla when the horses arrived, rushed up to greet them. The young Bard slid off Darsor, shyly handing the reins to Maerad with a nod, and ran inside to look for Gahal. Maerad took the liberty of kissing Darsor on the nose and flung her arms around Imi’s neck.
How are you, my friend? asked Imi, nuzzling her hair.
All the better for seeing you, Maerad answered in the Speech. It has been a long road for you!
Oh, yes, said Imi. But it was fun. I liked Turbansk. They have golden mangers.
Darsor snorted. Brass mangers, he said. But good oats. Where is my friend?
Inside, said Maerad.
At that moment, Cadvan flung open the door and came out, greeting Imi affectionately and embracing Darsor.
Always you are here at need, he said. Now for our next journey.
Darsor put up his head and neighed. The chickens scratching by his hooves squawked and fluttered away in alarm, and Maerad covered her ears. It sounded like a war cry.
That night, their last in Ossin, Maerad had another foredream. Like her previous dreams, it possessed an unreal, almost bitter clarity. It seemed she was lifted to a great height above the mists and fumes of a landscape scarred with battle; she saw towns thrown down in smoking ruins, fire set in forest and village, fields littered with bodies crumpled in odd poses and ominously still. The grass of the gentle meadows beneath her was drenched