The Riddle

by Alison Croggon

  She lay on her back, her heart heavy as a stone in her breast, trying to rally her spirits. She had completed part of her quest, but, all the same, her feeling of failure was overwhelming. All she had discovered on her long journey north was that she had carried the Treesong with her all her life.

  It was like some bad joke, she thought. Even though she knew the Treesong as well as her own hands, unlocking its riddle was as far beyond her as it had ever been. Even a Bard as learned as Nelac hadn't recognized the runes, let alone known how to read them. Her dream of the destruction of Turbansk came back to her with agonizing clarity: all those who had put their trust in her had been mistaken. Cadvan and Dernhil, Darsor and Imi, had died for nothing.

  It was no use having the Treesong if she did not know what it meant.

  She battled her despair all that day, as she and Dharin packed to set off once again over the ice sea. They took their leave of the Wise Kindred, who pressed on them gifts of food: unprepossessing packages of meat that looked to be mainly fat, and two yellow ivory tusks, on which were carved the images of a seal and a fish. Maerad had bowed, touched, and accepted the gifts, feeling that she was a fraud.

  Since Maerad had returned from Inka-Reb's cave and reported that Inka-Reb had spoken to her, she and Dharin had been treated with respect bordering on awe; it seemed that he barely deigned to speak to anybody. But this only compounded her feeling of failure. It might have been better if Inka-Reb had said nothing; what he had told her had made her more responsible than she had been before, without giving her any clue what to do about it.

  Dharin had merely asked her if she had found out what she needed. She told him briefly what Inka-Reb had said, and he had shrugged. "Well, then, we must find someone who can read the runes," he said.

  Maerad looked at him. "Where?"

  "I don't know," he said, smiling. "But if they are written, they must be readable."

  Not if the only people who can read them are dead, thought Maerad; but she didn't say it out loud.

  Dharin asked nothing further and didn't mention her quest again. Maerad was very glad of his easy, undemanding company over the following days. They retraced their route over the sea and back down through the Ippan Peninsula toward the Ippanuk Glacier, easily falling back into the routine they had established on their way there. The weather continued fine, and they traveled through days of icy, clear skies and nights of still cold. In five days they reached the glacier and recrossed it without incident. Dharin estimated that they would be back in Murask within a week if the good weather continued. Maerad dreaded returning; she had the Treesong, or at least half of it, but what could she do with it? What was she to do next?

  On the day after their crossing of the glacier, they had stopped in a dip for the hourly untangling of the dog traces. They worked from different ends of the team, meeting in the middle, so it took very little time. Maerad's fear of the dogs had now completely vanished, and she worked in a methodical, businesslike way.

  They had just finished their task and were deciding whether to have their midday meal before moving on, when the team began to bark and howl, straining at their traces. Maerad had never seen them do this; they were, as a rule, silent when they were working. She looked toward Dharin and saw with alarm that he was running to the sled, then standing on the driver's ledge and waving her to get in. She looked around wildly, but could see no sign of any disturbance. She sent out her hearing and realized why the dogs were barking: there were sleds nearing them, from either side. She saw with sudden dread that the hollow in which they had stopped was the perfect place for an ambush. And the air was so still that even the dogs had sensed no one near until it was too late to avoid them.

  Maerad instinctively felt her side for her sword and realized, cursing, that it was in the sled. She had fallen out of the habit of carrying it, finding it too clumsy with all her winter clothing. She ran to the sled and climbed into her usual seat, dragging her sword from where she kept it. Dharin set the team running so quickly she nearly fell out.

  "Jussacks!" shouted Dharin. "We'll have to outrun them. There are at least two sleds, probably more, and we can't outfight them."

  "I think there are six, or more," Maerad said. She looked back and saw four sleds appear over the ridge. Their sleds were much lighter than Dharin's, and each carried a single man. She saw with anxiety that even though their dogs were not nearly as powerful as Dharin's team, they were faster.

  The Jussacks themselves were, like Maerad and Dharin, dressed in heavy winter clothing. Each man carried a weapon like a mace in one hand, steering his sled with the other. They had fair beards, plaited in two ropes from their chins, and there was something odd about their faces, something misshapen, that Maerad could not make out at that distance.

  The dogs were running at a reckless pace. There was no clear path, and the risks of hitting an obstacle grew the faster they ran. Then she saw two sleds ahead of them. There was no escape to either side; they were now running headlong down a narrow valley. Dharin urged the dogs on, his voice sharp, and they somehow managed an extra spurt of speed. It was hopeless; they could not turn back, and passing the Jussack sleds ahead of them was their only chance.

  Maerad stood up, holding to the rails to keep herself steady, and threw up a shield to protect them. Then she prepared to blast the Jussacks aside, to allow their sled to pass. She gathered the power inside herself, feeling a sudden gladness as she experienced an infinite energy surge through her veins, and cast a bolt of light toward the nearest sled.

  Nothing happened. Maerad staggered and almost fell. It wasn't like the Hull with the blackstone, which had eaten up her power and then cast it back twofold; nor was it like the impotence that had afflicted her in the Gwalhain Pass. This was something else altogether; she felt herself to be powerful and knew the magery was glowing within her. But for some reason she could not use it.

  Dharin was looking at her in awe, and she realized he had not seen her in her power before. She straightened herself and tried again, steeling her will. Again nothing happened. She shook her head, bewildered, but by now they were almost level with the sleds, which had turned to block them. Dharin's team swerved violently to avoid a collision. He was making for a tiny space between the right sled and the rise beyond, calling his dogs to bunch together. If they made it through, they might have a chance.

  Wildly they raced for the gap, and at the last moment the Jussack urged his sled out of the way. Maerad glimpsed his face as they passed, his eyes cold, his blond beard forking down from his chin. For a moment she thought he was not human at all, and then realized that his face was tattooed, with strange blue marks curling around his cheekbones and eyes, making him look savage and alien.

  Then they were past the sled; they were flying along the valley. They might just make it. Maerad's heart leaped in hope.

  But suddenly Dharin slumped forward with a grunt. The traces went slack and the dogs, bewildered, became tangled and lost their direction.

  Maerad turned, her mouth open, and saw that an evil-looking bolt was protruding from just below Dharin's collarbone. It had passed right through his back. She hadn't even heard it. So her shield wasn't working either. What was wrong with her? But she had no time for thought: their sled struck a spruce with a splintering crash, shivering Maerad to the bone and pulling the dogs up so sharply that some tumbled over in their traces. Dharin was flung over the rails and landed on Maerad.

  Forgetting everything else, she lifted him off her with a strength she had not known she possessed and straightened him lengthwise on the sled on his side. The black feathered shaft of the arrow stuck out from his back. She bent over him, trying to pull the arrow out through his chest, her fingers slippery with blood, but he lifted up his hand and clasped her fingers. He opened his eyes and looked up into Maerad's face. His eyes were very blue and clear, and his face was very pale.

  "It is no good, Maerad," he said, gasping for breath. "The life already goes out of me."

  Maera
d stared at him, all the love she felt for this gentle young man welling into her heart. "No!" she said. "You can't die. I can heal you."

  "They will kill you, too. I hope your death is as merciful as mine. I am told—" Dharin winced, and a trickle of blood came out of his mouth. "I'm told that it is often better to kill yourself, rather than to be captured by these people. I'm sorry, little cousin."

  Maerad could find no words to answer him, and bent over Dharin, clasping his hand and stroking his face. He pressed her hand gently, trying to say something. She pressed her ear to his mouth.

  "If you are not killed—if you ever speak to my mother— say my farewells for me. I will see her beyond the Gates."

  "I will. I'll do anything. I love you." Dharin's blood seemed to be all over Maerad, in her hair, on her clothes, all over her hands; and still more poured out of him. "You have nothing to be sorry for; it's my fault. It's all my fault. You can't die."

  "Nay." Dharin drew a shuddering breath and tried to smile. "Nay. It is not your fault. I love you too, cousin. I am glad that I knew you." His breath now bubbled with blood, and he tried to say something else, but Maerad couldn't hear it.

  "What?" she whispered, her face close to his.

  "It doesn't hurt. Don't be afraid." Then he shuddered and went still, his eyes turning up into his head, and Maerad knew he was dead. She closed his eyelids with her fingers and kissed his forehead, remembering how she had done the same for her mother, so many years ago. Was she cursed, that she caused the death of anyone who loved her?

  She had been so intent on Dharin that she had not realized that his team was howling. The mournful cries echoed unbearably through her body, like the sound of her own grief. She stood up and saw the Jussacks had already reached the sled and were walking over the snow toward her. There were two, with four more behind them. She drew her sword, snarling. She was not afraid anymore. She had nothing left. Her powers had deserted her. She had failed. All that lay before her was darkness.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Claw biting at her harness, trying to get free. She looked as though she would tear out the throats of any Jussacks who came near. Maerad felt like Claw: she would fight to the death, since death was all that was left her. With her sword she slashed the great dog free of her restraints, and then launched herself off the sled with a wild cry, suddenly glad that she would die.

  The Jussacks were almost twice as big as Maerad, but they were not prepared for the ferocity of her attack. As one approached her, she sliced off his arm with a double-handed stroke, jumping back and spinning to counter the other. But he hung back, keeping out of reach of her sword until the other sleds drew close and he was joined by the other Jussacks. The man she had maimed lay twisting on the ground, screaming, blood blossoming from his body and steaming on the snow. Suddenly a huge shape launched from behind Maerad and leaped, growling, onto the injured man. It was Claw, the cut traces still dangling from her harness. The man screamed high, and then stopped, and the second Jussack ran to Claw and hit her on the head with his mace as Maerad ran up to him yelling. Claw turned, menacing, ready to bite, but then, with a dreamlike slowness, tripped and fell into the snow, and did not get up. Maerad launched herself at the Jussack who had killed Claw, freshly enraged, but again he retreated beyond her sword, unwilling to engage her in combat, and at this point the other Jussacks reached them.

  One of them, Maerad realized instantly, was a sorcerer, but he was exerting some magery that Maerad had not encountered before. He raised his hands, speaking words she did not recognize, and suddenly Maerad's mind became vague, tipping over into a darkness like sleep. She stood like one in a daze, and her sword fell to the ground out of her nerveless hand. So, that's why my magery failed me, she thought, with a kind of wonder. A huge dark smoke seemed to be filling her mind; she struggled against it, trying to bend down to pick up her sword, but her body would not obey her. Is this death? she thought. Dharin was right, there is no pain. . . . And then the darkness overwhelmed her, and she knew nothing more.

  Arkan-da

  Up then stood the Wolf King Nardo,

  Bravest of his kin and kindest,

  Savage hunter shod with silence,

  Fearless singer in the moonlight,

  Standing high so all could hear him

  On the peaks of Idrom Uakin,

  To the snow hare and the eagle,

  To the elk and fleet-foot zanink,

  To the horse herds sadly waning,

  To the moose herds weakly starving,

  Spoke then with a voice of thunder:

  "I will journey for our hardships

  To the fortress of the Ice King,

  To the mountains of the Trukuch

  Where he rules in his dark palace.

  I will seek the season's changing,

  Winter dark to silver springtime,

  Hammer hail to gentle summer.

  Of all creatures I am swiftest,

  Of all fighters the most deadly,

  I fear not death nor what comes after.

  I will take this task upon me."

  From The Kilibrikim

  (Pilanel Lore), Library of Lirigon

  Chapter XXII

  DELIRIUM

  MAERAD was lost in a desert of dream. Strange orange dunes rose ahead of her, wave upon wave, like an endless ocean of sand. A golden snake was swimming through the sand before her; it turned and fixed her with a ruby eye. She fell forward into the eye, which grew huge, like a pit of fire, and its flames licked painlessly about her. Her skin curled and blackened and flaked away. She was bones on sand, an endless desert of thirst; she cried out, and her mouth filled with water, or blood. She couldn't move her arms or her legs, and she burned all over—with cold or heat, she couldn't tell. She struggled weakly, as if she were drowning, and the blackness rose up out of the ground and reclaimed her.

  Maerad was on a sled, bound hand and foot. The white sky passed endlessly above her. She could hear the panting of running dogs, their almost silent padding through the snow, the swish of a sled, hoarse male shouts in a language she did not recognize. She looked to her right: alongside were running white wolves, strong and fast. One looked at her and grinned, its red tongue lolling from its mouth, and then, as she watched, its shoulders swelled and sprouted wings, and it flew up into the sky. She turned away, frightened, and a blond, bearded face looked into hers. Filled with a sudden hatred, the reasons for which she did not know, she tried to spit, but her mouth was parched. Hands raised her and gave her water. She swallowed; it burned her mouth like fire, but she had moisture in her mouth. She spat into the light blue eyes. They blinked, and disappeared, and the darkness swept over her.

  Maerad's mother, Milana of Pellinor, stood before her in a tower of glass. Her face was marked with inconsolable grief. In her arms she clasped Hem, not as Maerad had last seen him, but as a baby. Both of them turned to face Maerad, who was outside the tower. There was no door. Maerad was overcome by a longing to join them, to be held again in her mother's arms. She beat her hands against the glass until they were bloody, but she could not break it; she beat and beat, until she could see the bones of her hands, like broken white twigs in a mess of blood and flesh.

  After that dream, Maerad awoke. The world around her seemed to be real. Hem is dead, she thought; the dream told me. He is dead, murdered, like everyone else I have ever loved. The thought brought no tears. She was beyond tears, beyond grief; she was empty of all feeling, a shell as light as a feather. All her body burned with pain, apart from her left hand. Her left hand was almost completely numb.

  She was bound; that was no dream. She seemed to be tied to a sled. Slowly she remembered what had happened to her; she remembered Dharin's death, and the final fight with the Jussacks. She blinked, trying to work out where she was. She was on a sled, being driven over the endless plains of Zmarkan. She had been captured by the Jussacks. Dharin had said they would kill her, but they had not killed her. She wished they had.

  All Maerad
wanted was to die. Even that had been denied her. She had thought about killing herself once before, after the death of Cadvan, but then the life in her had cried out, had pleaded for its existence. Now even that visceral pleading of the body was gone. The darkness was friendly and warm; it waited for her, a dark pool into which she could slide her body and rest forever, free from grief, free from torment: free, most of all, from her failure.

  When the blond face appeared again, she turned away and shut her eyes and mouth, so she could not be given food or drink. Her head was lifted, and water was forced between her lips from a leather bottle. She was too weak to keep her jaw clamped shut, and when the water dribbled into her mouth, she automatically swallowed. She tried to spit out the next mouthful, but could not. She tossed her head from side to side, but someone held her head firmly, so even that protest was thwarted. Some warm soup was forced into her mouth and she nearly choked before she swallowed. I could kill myself by choking, she thought, and the next mouthful of soup she took eagerly, trying to fill her mouth so much that she could not breathe, so that the soup would go into her lungs and drown her, but despite herself she swallowed it. The same thing happened again, until she had finished the bowl.

  Then she was left alone. Maerad lay on the jolting sled, tears at last spilling from her eyes. Even her body betrayed her.

  Time no longer existed. Life was an unending torment, rushing forward through an endless night, slipping between evil dreams and worse wakings. The Jussacks did not want her to die; they were going to a lot of trouble to make sure that she didn't. She was fed and even kept clean, no easy task in the harsh conditions. She barely needed to be tied; she was so weak that she could not even lift her arms. Sometimes the wind howled and snowflakes settled on her face, and until someone noticed and she was covered, being unable to brush them away was a worse torment than almost anything else.