There was an audible gasp of dismay from around the table, and Maerad met Cadvan's eyes. He looked saddened, not shocked; she suspected he knew this already.
Nerili continued. "Norloch is under the military rule of the White Guard, commanded by the First Bard, Enkir of Norloch, to combat the emergency caused by the rebels. He has invoked the triple scepter, the emblem of the lost Kings of Annar, and claims the authority of High King over all the Seven Kingdoms."
Again there was a collective gasp of shock. Arnamil leaped out of his chair, his mouth open, ready to say something, but Nerili held up her hand to indicate she wasn't finished, and he slowly sat down.
"Moreover, he spoke of news that the kingdom of Den Raven is moving in the south. He said that Norloch expects that Turbansk will be attacked within the next three months by the Sorcerer Imank."
Maerad thought of the implacable army she had seen in her foredream. She bit her lip and looked at her hands, trying to keep down a surge of despair; even if Turbansk were attacked, it didn't mean that Hem would be killed.
Nerili kept speaking. "In this climate of danger, Igan tells me, the First Bard of Norloch and the King of Annar, Enkir of Norloch, seeks the loyalty of all Schools and all Kingdoms. We are to give our undivided fealty, without question, to the triple scepter, or we are to be regarded as rebels. And he gave me to understand, in not so many words, that to choose rebellion, and thus to earn the enmity of Norloch, would be to risk the full wrath of Norloch's might and power."
The final statement nearly caused a riot. Almost everyone in the room stood up and started shouting. Nerili again held up her hand for silence, and her voice rang out over the room.
"My friends," she said. "My dear fellow Thoroldians. I know as well as you that never, even in the times of the Kings of Annar, were we or any of the Seven Kingdoms under the authority of Annar. And you can be sure that I said this to Igan, emissary of Enkir of Norloch. And he said to me, 'Nerili of Busk, things change. We have entered dangerous times, and if we are to survive them, we must change our free ways. Thoroldians must obey the new laws or be the victims of them.' Such is the edict of Enkir of Norloch." Nerili bowed her head. "I am ashamed to be the bearer of this news. It casts a shadow over all Bards."
There was a wrathful murmur around the table, and Arnamil stood up again, his eyes flashing. "What did you say to this insult, Lady of Busk?" he asked. "Did you throw him out of the School, with his tail between his cowardly legs, as he deserved?"
"I did not." Nerili looked him steadily in the eye. "Arnamil, to do so would be tantamount to severing all connection with Norloch, and would risk open war. Such a thing has not happened since the Kings ruled in Annar, and I am not prepared to risk warfare solely on my own authority." She again looked around the table, where everyone now sat in tense silence.
"I received him politely. I listened politely. I told him that I was aware that we live in dangerous times, and that we must take heed of such that threatens us. I said I would consult with the Bards and Chamber, and then would let Norloch know of our response." She paused. "He gave us a week. And he said again that if our fealty was withheld, we would suffer grave consequences."
"I say, then," said Arnamil, thumping the table with his huge fist, "that in a week we send back his damned edict, torn into little pieces." Most of the table cheered. "We don't need Norloch." He sat down truculently.
Now Elenxi stood. "I suggest, for the meantime, another way," he said. "If we can avoid a war with Norloch, I think we should. Let them force the issue. If Norloch seeks to betray the covenant between Annar and the Seven Kingdoms in this way, then let Norloch break it. Not us."
"What do you suggest, then?" Owan, who had hitherto sat silently throughout the noisy meeting, twisted around to look up at the old warrior.
"I suggest we offer Norloch our fealty." There was an angry rumble. "We offer them our fealty, I say, under our unwavering allegiance to the Light. That covenant guarantees our freedom and our independence. If Norloch doesn't like it, Norloch has to say on what terms our fealty is unsatisfactory. This will take a little time, since we have broken no promises. Meanwhile, we send emissaries to other Schools in the Seven Kingdoms and seek to know their own answers to this outrage. I think their minds will be like to ours. Will Annar seriously declare war on all of the Seven Kingdoms? And, in the meantime, we look to our fortifications." Elenxi glared around the table from under his bushy eyebrows and sat down.
After a short silence, Arnamil started chuckling. "They always said you were a fox, Elenxi. I like it."
"This is the course I and the full First Circle advise," said Nerili, standing again. "Are we all agreed?" Everyone in the room, even Cadvan and Maerad, who were not really supposed to vote, put up their hands. Nerili nodded. "Good, then. We will pursue this policy until we find out whether Norloch's words have real steel or are only empty threats. Norloch would be a dire enemy, doubt it not; but it would be no small thing to invade Thorold. We will all keep in close consultation. Elenxi and Arnamil can confer on the strength of our defenses, and improve them, if need be."
"They'd have to kill every man, woman, and child to defeat Thorold," growled one of the Chamber.
"Now, there is one more thing. I need to introduce to you Cadvan of Lirigon and Maerad of Pellinor." Cadvan stood up, and Maerad, taken by surprise, scrambled up after him. "Most of you know Cadvan well. He has spent much time here. Maerad only some of you will know; she has been Cadvan's student, and is now a full Bard. They are, Igan told me, dangerous members of this rebellion in Norloch, and they are outlawed. They are now sought over all Annar."
The council turned to look at them with lively curiosity.
"I want you all to know that I cannot and do not believe that either of these Bards have any truck with the Dark. Igan tells me that anyone who hands these criminals to Norloch will earn great favor with the citadel, but those who harbor them from justice will feel the full force of its displeasure. He is unaware as yet, of course, that they are here in Thorold. I warned my people to keep silent when the emissary came, and I know also that they were asked after, both within the town and the School. To my knowledge, they can prove nothing, but we cannot be sure of that. They may already know that these Bards have sought refuge here.
"I ask you now whether we, as Thoroldians, will hand them over to Norloch, as is ordered. Or do we suffer this risk—to grant haven to Cadvan of Lirigon and Maerad of Pellinor, and risk its punishment?"
The table erupted again. The mood against Norloch was so ugly that Nerili had no need of persuasive argument: to be declared rebels by Enkir was itself enough to ensure their protection.
"I need not tell you, then," said Nerili, "that their presence must be kept secret within the School and must not be made known within the town of Busk, aside from those here, who already know. We cannot tell what spies are abroad, and the arm of Norloch is long. A loose word could forfeit their lives and would cause Norloch to declare us rebels." She stared around the table, to underline her seriousness. "Well, that is the end of our business."
She lifted up her arms, as if in blessing, and said, with a sudden wild joy that sent goose bumps down Maerad's spine, "My friends—you make me so glad. I expected no less from you. No tyrant will crush the heart of Thorold!"
The council ended in cheers.
Chapter IV
MIDSUMMER
NERILI acted on the decision with dispatch: the Thoroldian emissaries left the following day. As one was to go to Turbansk, Maerad took the chance to write to Saliman and Hem. She closeted herself in her room and carefully laid paper, ink, and a pen out on the table. She sat for a long time looking at them, without doing anything. She had never written a proper letter before.
At last, with a determined expression, she picked up the pen and began to write. She blotted the first sheet, then tore it up and threw it on the floor. Her second try was more successful. She wrote laboriously, with many hesitations.
To Hem and Saliman, greetin
gs!
Cadvan and I arrived in Thorold safely, as you may know if the bird reached you. We are both much better than when we last saw you.
I was very seasick on my way here, and Cadvan and I had to fight an ondril, which was very big, but we got here safely. Nerili has given us haven, and you will have heard the rest of the news from the emissary.
I hope you have arrived in Turbansk with no harm, and that Hem finds the fruits are as big as the birds said they were. I think of you all the time and miss you sorely.
With all the love in my heart,
Maerad
Writing this note took her a long time. She looked at it critically; her writing was still very wobbly with none of the sure beauty of a Bard's hand, and it said nothing that she really wanted to say. She would have liked to tell Hem what Busk was like, to describe its low stone buildings and cool gardens, and its cheerful, generous people. Hem would have been amused by the sea urchins that smelled like old boots. She imagined him laughing, and then imagined him tasting them in his greed. But no good manners would have prevented Hem spitting them out onto the table, no matter who was present.
A terrible ache opened inside her. She longed to be able to tell Hem all these things face to face. A letter was no substitute; it made him seem even farther away.
She wondered whether to try writing her letter again, but couldn't face it. With a deep sigh, she folded and sealed it, and took it to Elenxi to give to the emissary.
After the council meeting, Maerad felt completely safe in the School of Busk. Everyone in the School now knew of the threat from Norloch, but if it cast a shadow over their enjoyment of life, Maerad couldn't see it. She discovered the truth of Cadvan's comment that the only real problem with Thoroldians was keeping up with their consumption of wine: if it hadn't been for how hard she was working, she would have thought that living in Busk was like being at a permanent festival. After one particularly bad morning, she learned a few survival techniques: thereafter she sipped her wine very slowly and drank lots of water whenever she was out with the Bards.
On feast days, when she didn't have to do any lessons, Elenxi and his friends would sometimes take her into the town, where they would drink and dance all night in the gardens of the waterfront taverns under the glittering summer stars. Bards were always welcome in the taverns because Bards meant good music, and Thoroldians loved music with a passion.
The people she met in town were just like the Bards: fiery, passionate, argumentative, generous. The Thoroldians' intensity was not always benign: to Maerad's alarm, she witnessed a couple of brawls, once between two drunken Bards whom Elenxi literally lifted up by the scruffs of their necks and threw into the road, and once in a tavern between a number of fishers.
It was all very different from anything she had encountered before, but she found that she liked it very much. It wasn't long before she was as argumentative and noisy as the best of them.
"Wild girl," Cadvan teased her one night when she sat down, flushed and out of breath, after dancing. "I said you were part Thoroldian."
"Well, if I am, maybe you are too," said Maerad, laughing.
"Not as far as I know," he answered. "But anything is possible." It was true that Cadvan, usually so solitary and often so ill at ease when he stayed for any length of time in a School, was unusually relaxed in Busk.
Apart from Norloch's ultimatum, the major topic of discussion among both Bards and townfolk was the Midsummer Festival, one of the high celebrations of the Bardic year: it was when the new year was welcomed in and the old farewelled. Maerad and Cadvan had arrived just under three weeks before the summer solstice, when the festival occurred, and this year's was especially auspicious because it coincided with the full moon.
"There will be a procession," said Kabeka, the tall Bard Maerad had seen declaiming a poem that first day. "Everyone comes to the procession—every man, woman, child, dog, and chicken in Thorold, and half of Thorold is in it."
"It must be total chaos," said Maerad, trying to imagine how such a crowd could fit in the narrow streets of Busk.
"It is!" Kabeka answered, grinning. "But it's great fun. We look forward to it all year. The children wear masks and are allowed to steal sweetmeats from the stalls and to cheek their elders and get into all sorts of mischief, for they can't be punished on that day.
"But the real event is the Rite of Renewal, which is always made by the First Bard. It is one of the most beautiful of the Bardic Rites; I have seen it so many times, and I never tire of it. The First Bard takes the Mirror of Maras, which holds the old year, and she smashes it. Then she remakes it, and from the Mirror grows the Tree of Light."
Maerad remembered the glimmerspell Nerili had made in their first lesson, and her heart quickened.
"And afterward there is dancing and eating and drinking. And kissing," Kabeka added wickedly, making Maerad blush. "You shall have to find someone to kiss."
"I don't want to kiss anyone," said Maerad hotly, thinking suddenly of Dernhil.
"There are plenty who want to kiss you," Kabeka answered, and Maerad's blush deepened. "You'll just have to work out how to stop them, then."
One day, Maerad finished her lessons early and decided to go to the library to find Cadvan, who she knew would be searching through its archives for any mention of the Treesong. The Busk Library, off the central square, was a labyrinthine building that stretched back deep into the rocky hill behind it. It had been added to in a chaotic fashion in the centuries since it had been built, and it was now a bewildering honeycomb of rooms. Some were huge halls lit by long windows; others were tiny, dark chambers. But they were all lined from floor to ceiling with shelves, each of which was piled with scrolls or huge, leatherbound volumes or strange objects whose purpose she could not guess.
Maerad was quite happy to wander through the rooms, nodding to the Bards who sat reading at tables or stood on stepladders rummaging through the shelves. She wondered how anyone found anything, and after a while began to feel awed by the sheer weight of the knowledge she was walking past so lightly. Even if she spent her whole life doing nothing but reading, she would never get through it all. As she worked her way to the back of the library—she supposed Cadvan would be in the older rooms that were delved into the rock—she found more and more chambers that looked as if no one ever went there: the shelves were covered with thick dust, and they had a forlorn air. She picked up a lamp, for many of these rooms were dark, and continued her wandering.
At last she entered a long, narrow hall hung with intricately fashioned silver lamps that let down clear pools of light over a table that ran the entire length of the room. Underneath the light farthest from Maerad sat Cadvan, his head bent over a scroll spread open on the table. Opposite him, Nerili leafed steadily through a heavy book.
Maerad paused irresolutely at the threshold, wondering whether to enter and greet them. Neither Bard had noticed her presence; they were deeply absorbed in their work. There was a self-sufficiency in their silent companionship that she was too shy to disturb. In the end, she retraced her steps, trying to quell a small bitterness that had risen in her throat. In all their evenings of discussion, Cadvan had never mentioned that Nerili was helping him in his search of the library.
On Midsummer Day, the sun rose into a sky as perfectly blue as a robin's egg. The winding alleys and small streets of Busk were packed with people, with the rest of the town seemingly out on their balconies, drinking and eating and waving and gossiping.
Everyone had put on their best clothes, and the streets were a carnival of color, shimmering with the blazing silks woven and dyed in Busk: emerald green and crimson and gold and azure and turquoise.
The crowds made Maerad feel breathless; she'd never seen so many people squeezed into such tiny spaces. As they pressed through the narrow streets, she drew close to Cadvan, who was shouldering his way steadily toward the waterfront, where the procession was to take place later that day. The farther they pushed into town, the more crowded and noisy
and hot it became. Children who wanted to get through simply wiggled their way between people's legs. Some wore astounding masks made of dyed feathers and silk. Others simply had their faces painted, and were little foxes and cats and owls and flowers. Most of them clutched beribboned treasures: silk bags of sweets or toffee apples, especially made to be "stolen" from the market stalls.
Nobody was in a hurry, and Maerad and Cadvan were often stopped for conversation, or waved over to balconies to share a drink. They smilingly refused and pressed on. Eventually they reached their destination, the Copper Mermaid, the Bards' favorite tavern, where they were meeting some friends who had sworn they would keep places for them. You could hear the Bards even over the noise of the crowd: a makilon player and a drummer were playing in the garden, and revelers spilled out, talking and laughing, over the garden and down to the waterfront.
Maerad looked with relief out to the sea, which was the only place not packed with people. A breeze played over the waves and cooled the sweat on her forehead.
"I didn't realize there were so many people in the world," she said, wiping her hair out of her eyes, once they had sat down.
"They're not usually so close together," said Cadvan. He poured her some minted lemon water. "Well, now that we're here, we need not move until it's time for the Rite of Renewal. We can just eat and watch the pageant."
And it was some spectacle. They had prime seats, high on the balcony of the Copper Mermaid. Maerad and Cadvan agreed it was much better than jostling at the front, getting poked by old women with parasols and being trodden on. The gardens stretched before them in a series of terraces crowded with tables and chairs, down to the Elakmirathon, the harborside road bounded on one side by the long quay and on the other by rows of taverns and workshops and, farther on, by the open markets.
The Riddle Page 6