The Riddle

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The Riddle Page 42

by Alison Croggon


  Maerad listened in silence, a heaviness on her heart lifting at Ardina's words.

  Farewell, she said, and the two wolves touched noses. Then Ardina turned and loped out swiftly, and as she left, the light in the cavern dimmed and went out.

  Maerad slept the sleep of utter exhaustion, barely stirring for a long time. She was woken by Ka.

  You must eat, he said. Now we run.

  With the rest of the pack, Maerad ate what was left of the carcasses in the cave, even crunching up and swallowing the bones. Then Ka led the pack out of the cavern along a narrow cave that ran south. Maerad knew the direction by some new sense, as if her brain now contained a compass. They filed through the cave, walking at their leisure, some of the wolves playing together as they went, nipping each other or rolling over in mock fights. There were other animals in these caves, no doubt having fled there from the storm, but the wolves took no notice of them, even of the hares, which cowered by the cave walls as they passed; their bellies were full and they had no need to hunt. Every now and then, they would pass under sleeping colonies of bats, which hung overhead in bunches like strange leathery grapes. The smell of their dung made Maerad's lips curl over her teeth in distaste.

  They emerged at the bottom of a rock face that stood out of the trees. Judging by the angle of the sun, it was about noon.

  They were still in the forest, Maerad saw, but it bore the marks of terrible devastation. It seemed that almost every tree trunk was snapped, and everywhere was a jumble of torn branches and leaves and, sometimes, the corpse of some luckless animal. There had also been fire: Maerad saw trees that must have burned like huge torches, now sad blackened skeletons, although the fires had not spread far because of the cold. It looked like the aftermath of a war, and was tense with an eerie silence. She stood behind the rest of the pack, her ears pricked, trying to sense the presence of the Winterking; she could feel him faintly, very far off, brooding, preoccupied.

  The wolves picked their way through the ruined forest, always heading south. They went in no particular order; it seemed that Ka was the wolf with the most authority, but he was not an absolute leader. They were mostly led by a she-wolf called Neka, who was, it seemed, most skilled at finding a way through this tumbled and chaotic terrain. Despite the debris, they moved swiftly.

  Toward evening, they reached the outer edges of the forest and entered a landscape like the Arkiadera Plains—flat, treeless tundra. Now the wolves stretched out their lean, muscled bodies and began to run over the snow. The pack settled into a graceful, loping rhythm, which it could maintain for hours. They ran far into the night, as the half-moon rose into a clear sky and spilled its silver light on the snow.

  As Ka had predicted, it was six days' journey to the Osidh Elanor. Maerad was staggered by the wolves' endurance, their relentless pace. Bad weather made no difference; if it snowed, the pack ran closer together, so they would not lose each other, but were no less swift. The wolves were in a hurry, and only hunted twice, on the third day and the sixth, although at various times during their run they chased down a hare or a mouse that had been unlucky or unwary enough to cross their path.

  Despite their pace, being with the wolf pack was, Maerad found, unexpectedly fun. The wolves seemed addicted to play. There was one young she-wolf called Skira who especially liked bouncing upon the others when the pack halted; she would stalk up behind an unwary wolf and suddenly spring onto his rump, giving it a sharp nip before she tore off. Sometimes this would result in a wild chase, with the offended wolf finally catching her, the two rolling over and over in a rambunctious bundle of teeth and claws and fur while the rest of the pack barked at their antics, a noise Maerad soon recognized as wolf laughter. One evening the whole pack, even Ka, became involved in a crazy game of tag, skidding over the snow like nothing so much as a bunch of romping children. Maerad didn't know where they got the energy; at the end of the day she was usually too tired to do more than give a yelp of protest if someone jumped on her.

  Maerad was treated as an honored guest, but despite their friendliness she felt a little outside the close-knit relationships of the pack. She understood after a couple of days that they had left the younger and older wolves with Inka-Reb; Ka had only taken the strongest from his pack. One night, the wolves sang for those they missed, standing in a circle and singing long ululations of a strange beauty that made Maerad shiver.

  Unlike with Dharin's dogs, there were very few scraps; occasionally Skira might go far enough to offend Ka's dignity, and would warrant a snarl and a nip. Maerad began to understand that for all their wildness, the wolves were gentle beasts. At night, they slept close together for warmth, and often she would wake with a wolf's forepaw slung over her back in casual affection.

  Ka and Neka were mates and the pack leaders, either one taking charge according to need. Neka was usually the leader as they traveled, being the more skilled at finding routes and having the most sensitive nose; she could smell a deer from more than a league off. Ka was the better hunter, although both were very skilled, as Maerad discovered when they made their first big kill.

  The pack was subdued on the third day, with no teasing or games, as hunger began to gnaw at them. Maerad was starving; the huge meal she had devoured before they left had been digested, and all she could think about was her need for food. The pack strung out as they ran, questing for a recent scent. Toward midday, Neka found a fresh trail, a small herd of deer, and the pack turned east to follow it, traveling against the wind. When they drew near to the herd, they stopped.

  Only three wolves hunted: Ka, Neka, and another younger male, Oraka, who was almost the image of Ka. The rest of the pack simply lay down and waited, happy to rest, flicking their ears and licking themselves. Maerad was curious to see the hunt, but clearly the other wolves had to stay out of the way: this kill was too important to be disrupted by inexperienced hunters. She pricked up her ears; she could smell the wolves, but she could not hear a sound as they stalked the oblivious deer. A little later there was an explosion of activity: she heard the sudden rush as the three wolves leaped at the deer, the herd's stampede of surprise and fear, its cries of alarm, the terrified grunting of a dying animal. She was so hungry that she felt no pity; instead she began to drool, and waited impatiently for the signal to come and eat.

  Before long, Ka trotted back and the pack leaped up eagerly and followed him. The hunters had killed two deer, thin scrawny beasts barely scraping through a hard winter, but still good to eat. They began to tear at the warm carcasses, eating ravenously. As they ate, two big ravens flapped down at a respectful distance and waited for their chance at the carcasses.

  The wolves rested after their meal, dozing or playing idle games, until Ka shook himself and stood up. Then they were off again.

  Maerad smelled the mountains before she saw them: it was the scent of pine, pungent on the cold air, drifting from the forests at their feet. They entered the forest on the fifth day, following a trail made by humans, although they did not use the track and instead ran beside it. They reached the mountains the next day, just after they had killed again.

  The pass began, as the Gwalhain Pass had, with two standing stones. From there Maerad could see the road winding around the base of the first mountain. Warily the wolves crept up to the pass, alert for any human scent, but they could smell nothing. No human had passed this way for weeks.

  Peering past Ka toward the standing stones, Maerad wrenched her mind back to her human memory, which in her wolf life had sunk to the back of her mind. This was, she knew, the Loden Pass, which led into the northeast corner of Annar.

  She tried to remember what Gahal had said of it in Ossin, but nothing came to her mind. Where was she to go now? Her only thought was that she had to find Hem.

  We have come at last to the parting, said Ka. May you travel well, and blessing travel with you.

  Maerad stared at him, momentarily bewildered. She realized she no longer needed the pack to guide her and that it would be dangero
us for the wolves to travel into Annar, but she felt a sharp pang at the thought of leaving them, a wolfish dislike of being alone. She gathered herself and replied, with the dignity she had learned was befitting of a wolf.

  I sorrow to leave you, she said. Henceforth my heart will be dark. I thank you for your guidance and protection.

  We have done what was asked, Ka replied. Now we return home.

  May you travel safely, said Maerad. Then she was surrounded by noses and tails, as the pack crowded around her to say goodbye. She touched each wolf on the nose, farewelling Ka and Neka last of all. Then, without looking back, the pack turned and trotted away

  Forlornly, Maerad watched them until they vanished among the trees. She sat on her haunches for a few moments after they had gone, lifting her snout to catch their dwindling scents, and then she turned and loped toward the pass.

  Chapter XXVII

  PELLINOR

  THE Loden Pass was neither as high nor as long as the Gwalhain. It took Maerad two days to reach the other side. She went as swiftly as she could, a lone wolf moving faster than a pack. She feared that she would be hungry before she reached Annar; she knew already that she had few skills as a hunter, and she did not fancy hunting in the mountains. She avoided the road, using it only when she had no other choice, preferring to run alongside it on the snowy slopes of the mountains.

  It was a melancholy journey. She missed the company of the pack, especially at night, when the cold pierced her for the first time since she had been a wolf, and she felt vulnerable without them. She saw no humans and very few animals apart from the birds, although she could smell the presence of other beasts. No doubt they were keeping out of her way.

  The sun was already high as she passed through the standing stones on the Annar side of the pass. The highlands of North Annar, covered in a thin snow, stretched below her in gentle undulations, with bare winter trees black against the white, and she felt a momentary leap of delight. This was not the place of wide skies and endless flat plains that she had left, but a landscape familiar and dear to her. But she did not pause to savor the moment; she felt little triumph in coming so far, against such odds. Instead she pressed on southward, wondering what she should do next.

  She kept her wolf shape, mindful of Ardina's warning that the Winterking might sense her if she were a Bard. She was not yet sure enough of her feelings about the Winterking to risk changing back. It could be that her desire to see him would outweigh her longing for freedom, and would betray her. And it was easier to travel as a wolf, despite her lack of skill in hunting, which was much more difficult than the other wolves made it appear. After a few unsuccessful attempts to track rabbits and a farcical moment when she leaped on a surprised squirrel, only to see it dart with a panicked shriek from underneath her forepaws, scratching her nose and then vanishing with a flick up into a tree, she was beginning to feel very hungry.

  The following day she came across an isolated hamlet. She waited on its outskirts until nightfall, hiding in a ditch, her nose alive to the smell of sheep and cattle and chickens, pangs of hunger ripping her stomach.

  It was thick with the more disturbing smell of human beings, and she prickled with wariness as she crept toward the houses. There were only three, clustered together with their shutters tightly fastened. She discovered that the animals were shut inside large barns attached to the sides of the houses, no doubt to keep them safe from marauders such as herself.

  Maerad chose the barn closest to her ditch and stood for a time outside the door, sniffing until she was sure there were no humans inside. Then, very carefully, she unlatched it with her teeth and crept inside. Just near the door were several sleeping fowl. She managed to kill one, breaking its neck with a quick snap, before the others awoke and started squawking in panic, waking the other animals. Outside, a dog started barking. Maerad grabbed the corpse, slipped out of the barn, and fled. A man emerged, shouting and waving a pitchfork, but by then Maerad was well away.

  She felt better after eating the chicken, which was fat and juicy, although when she had finished it, she wished that she had had time to kill another; it had taken the edge off her hunger, but not its substance. Then she curled up in the hollow made by the roots of an ancient willow and slept soundly.

  She woke early the next day and continued her journey south under an overcast sky. She had no clear idea of what she was to do; her only thought was to travel as quickly as she could, to find her way to Turbansk, to track down Hem. She saw no more hamlets; this part of Annar was sparsely inhabited, although sometimes she saw abandoned houses, their doors hanging drunkenly from broken hinges, their shutters flapping in the wind.

  All morning a fine, freezing rain had turned the snow into a muddy sludge and added to the air of melancholy that filled the countryside. Maerad welcomed the rain; she wondered how long it had been since she had heard its gentle murmur, how long since she had been traveling through frozen lands. It seemed forever.

  She began to have a strange feeling that she knew where she was, as if she had already visited this land in a dream. It was then she realized that she must be close to Pellinor, the School in which she had been born. This must be the Fesse of Pellinor. It had once been a thickly inhabited region, but it was now abandoned and empty, the only sign of what it had been the sad remains of houses she passed more and more frequently.

  Maerad had not been to Pellinor since she was a small child, since the terrible day that it had been sacked and burned to the ground and she and her mother had been taken into slavery. She was suddenly consumed with an overwhelming desire to see her birthplace, ruined and dismal though it must be. Perhaps, in the place where her mother had been First Bard, in the home where her mother and father had loved each other and had their children, some inspiration might come to her and she might know what to do next.

  She knew the School was nestled against the mountains, so keeping the Osidh Annova to her left, she ran on through the desolate winter countryside. It was a relief to have some concrete aim, and she pressed on swiftly now, keeping alert for any sign of the School. The rain stopped, leaving swags of dark clouds that promised more.

  Just before noon she found the ruins. She came over a rise thickly wooded with leafless beech and larch, and saw a broken stone wall less than half a league before her. Behind the wall rose the remains of what had been a high tower and several other buildings.

  Maerad paused, suddenly hesitant. It looked even more wretched than she had expected. But her desire to see Pellinor overrode her doubts, and at last she loped down the hill toward the broken archway, which had been the gate of the School.

  Almost as soon as she passed beyond the wall, Maerad was sorry she had come, but she also could not leave, as if to do so hurriedly, without looking properly, would indicate disrespect or a lack of courage. The walls rose around her, most of them tumbled and broken, covered with brown, leafless creepers that the wind rattled against the stone. The stone in many places was still blackened by fire, and amid the tumble of wreckage, now covered with a winter detritus of dead weeds, she could see charred beams and broken doors and pieces of brightly colored glass. The stone roads were broken and clogged with dead grasses, but unless a wall had collapsed into them, they were still passable. A cold wind made a thin whistle as it blew through the gaps in the walls.

  Sometimes she would pass a house that was almost intact apart from its roof, which had long fallen in. Occasionally, miraculously, one window pane remained unbroken, or she could make out the remains of what had once been a mosaic of colored pavings, within one corner an undamaged design—the shape of lilies intertwining, or a bird in flight. On the ground she saw the remains of statues, their faces shattered, and the remnants of what had been a lintel carved with flowers, and an iron pan, now dimpled and red with rust. Once, winding through the ruined ways of Pellinor, she emerged into a tiny court in which there was a marble fountain that was almost completely undamaged. It was a carving of a beautiful woman holding a ewer, out
of which the water had once poured into a small pool. The marble was streaked with green slime, and the empty pool around it was clogged with dead leaves.

  Nothing stirred in Maerad's memory as she walked through the ruins of Pellinor. This sad, deserted place did not match her few memories, which were full of color and light and song; it revealed nothing but its own desolation. All that remained was a bleak, wintry absence. It filled her with an overpowering sorrow, and her thoughts turned to her foredream of Turbansk, long, long ago, in Ossin. Was this, then, the fate of Turbansk? Was that, too, doomed to become a haunting, pitiful ruin? Perhaps the city had fallen already, its light and beauty extinguished forever.

  She turned her thoughts away from Hem. She was sad enough already.

  Maerad wandered miserably through the ruins, her tail dragging behind her, until she came into an open space that had obviously been the central circle of the School. As soon as she entered the circle, Maerad stopped dead in her tracks.

  It seemed that the School of Pellinor was not entirely deserted: a man still dwelled amid the ruins. She scented him first, and then a pungent smell of wood smoke and meat, which made her mouth water. She saw that a horse was grazing on the far side of the circle. She had not smelled the smoke or the man earlier, preoccupied as she had been with her gloomy thoughts, and the wind had blown the scent away from her. Now she cursed her inattention.

  For reasons she did not wholly understand, Maerad did not slink back silently to hide among the tumbled stone walls. Perhaps the man would give her some of his food, or if he did not give it, perhaps she could take it. She stood tensely by the edge of the circle, and watched the man closely.

  He seemed to be a traveler. He was bent over the fire, poking it with a stick. After a short time, he seemed to become aware of Maerad. He turned his head and looked directly at her. She sensed rather than saw his eyes upon her.

 

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