The Riddle - Alison Croggon [81]
Namaridh looked up at him, shaking with contempt and grief and rage, his face wet with tears.
“I know I have not the power to stop your fell deeds,” he said. “I am not so powerful a Bard. But, by the Light, if ever there is justice in this world or the next, Cadvan of Lirigon, I will avenge Ilar of Desor’s death. She was worth six of the likes of you. Now, get your monster to do her worst. I suppose I too must die.”
He stood up, staring steadily at Cadvan with a defiant courage. Cadvan spread his hands in a gesture of peace and regret. “Nay, Namaridh. I would for all the world this had not happened. There is nothing that will compensate. I beg your forgiveness.”
Namaridh spat on the ground.
Cadvan bowed his head. “This is how the Dark works, riving friend from friend,” he said. “One day, I hope, the full text of this story will be known. Perhaps then you will forgive me, although nothing can forgive the wanton murder of a Bard.”
The other Bard said nothing. He just stood, breathing heavily, glaring at them both.
Cadvan sighed. “I am sorry, Namaridh. I must now work a charm on you. One day, perhaps, you will know it is for all our sakes.”
He stretched out his hand, saying some words in the Speech, and Namaridh’s eyes closed briefly, and then opened, staring sightlessly ahead. He sat down quietly by the side of the road, as if nothing were amiss, and Cadvan turned to Maerad, urging on Darsor. “Go!” he said.
They left the scene at a full gallop, slowing to a canter a few leagues down the road, when they had left the beech wood far behind. Cadvan did not speak a word to Maerad for a long time. She cast furtive glances his way, but his face was hard and closed.
Maerad still felt shocked. The Bard’s insults and then the blow — which was not, as Cadvan had said, meant to kill, only to stun — had released a deep, uncontrollable anger. She was terrified of what she had done, but Cadvan’s anger was almost as frightening. She heard his words echoing in her head, icy with contempt: nothing can forgive the wanton murder of a Bard.
So, she was a murderer now, although she had only sought to protect them. Cadvan had himself killed Bards: yet he had forgiven himself more easily than he seemed to forgive her.
Other arguments stirred within her. The forces against them were ruthless, and they must be as ruthless if they were to achieve anything. Then she thought of what Nerili had said, ages ago it seemed, about the ethics of the Balance, and her own doubts about them. We remember that if we did not try to adhere to the Balance, even in our extremity, we would become like them. And that would be the greater defeat. Well, perhaps Bards could not afford such niceties, if they were to survive against the Dark.
She fiercely regretted killing Ilar, but she felt she did not deserve Cadvan’s anger. Her shame mingled with resentment at his lack of understanding. She did not deserve Cadvan’s absolute censure. She had not meant to kill; it had just come out of her, in the same way as when she had destroyed the wight. He had not been so keen to judge her then. She pushed down her knowledge that, at the instant of the blow, she had wanted to utterly destroy the Bard. She bit her lip, hardening herself, and concentrated on keeping up with Darsor, which was not easy. Cadvan was pushing the great horse almost as fast as he could go.
It was not until they struck camp that night that Cadvan spoke about what had happened that day. They had eaten in silence, and Maerad was about to wrap herself in her cloak and curl up to sleep. She now felt nothing at all: neither grief nor regret nor anger. She was just too exhausted.
“Maerad, we must talk,” said Cadvan. He looked at her over the fire, its flames casting his eyes into deep shadow. “Today’s task was ill done, and I hope you feel the weight of your crime. You have killed a Bard needlessly. We were not in threat of our lives, and we did not need such violence.”
Maerad flinched and looked away. His words hurt, as if they scraped her in some raw place. She tried to turn