The Riddle

by Alison Croggon

  Triple-tongued is triple-named.

  She stopped dead, realizing what the wolf meant.

  Three tongues: Human, Bard, Elidhu. Three names. She must have three names. Maerad, Elednor... and another, which even she did not know. A deeper Truename.

  The Winterking did not know her third name.

  She wandered back to her chamber without meeting anyone. She found Gima waiting for her in agitation. "The master waits for you—he waits for you," she hissed. "Where have you been?"

  "He knew where I was," said Maerad calmly. But she did not feel composed; standing outside, her attempt to escape had been a certain thing, something she had decided. But the thought of seeing Arkan made a void open in the pit of her stomach.

  "Come, come, come," said Gima, on the verge of panic. "Come; there is no time; he is impatient."

  "There's no hurry," said Maerad. While Gima fumed impotently, Maerad picked up her lyre and looked slowly around the room to check if there was anything else she needed, although she knew there was not. "I'm ready now."

  Deliberately slowing her pace, she followed Gima, who hurried down the corridors, turning at each corner and hissing for Maerad to catch up, to hurry. But Maerad refused to walk any faster. I shall come in my own time, she thought. He cannot make me run.

  The corridors darkened as they neared the throne room, and Gima hesitated, trembling. Maerad took pity on her. "It's all right," she said. "I know the way."

  "You must go there," said Gima. "He is waiting. He must not wait."

  He can wait, thought Maerad. "I will go straight there," she said. "Do not fear."

  She walked on, leaving Gima standing where she was, clasping and unclasping her hands, daring neither to walk with her nor to go back. The light in the walls was like stormlight, bright and angry, not the soft illumination she had become used to. She reached the double doors of the throne room and paused, swallowing hard. She could feel the Winterking's wrath: the iron door seemed to pulse with it. Slowly she pushed it open, and walked in.

  The hall seemed bigger, stretching back with a strangely distorted perspective, and from the pool poured a livid illumination that threw strange lights on the ceiling. The dais was in shadow: all she could see was a dark, ominous form. Maerad's nerve almost failed her, but she took a deep breath and straightened her back. Slowly she walked into the center of the room.

  "Elednor of Edil-Amarandh," said the Winterking. Maerad flinched; when he said her name, it hurt her like a whip. "You arrive at last."

  Maerad stared at the shadow, and gradually the darkness lifted from the dais. The Winterking stood before his throne, dressed in robes of a blue so dark they might have been black. About his brow was a crown of flickering blue lightnings, and his eyes blazed green fire.

  Maerad licked her dry lips. "You are angry?" she said meekly. "I thought time was of no account to you."

  "You have sought to deceive me," said the Winterking. "You are insolent, in so abusing my hospitality."

  "I don't understand." He knows, she thought with sudden panic: he knows my magery has returned. "But how can I deceive you, in your own palace? You told me I could not."

  "I told you not to play me for a fool." Arkan took a step toward her, and the lightnings about his brow grew more dangerous. "I know you have tried to hide from me. I do not permit it." So he had sensed her shield.

  Maerad outfaced him with all the haughtiness she could muster. "I did not realize your hospitality meant that you can witness all my privacies," she said.

  "Here you may have no privacy," said Arkan. "You have not earned such trust."

  "And why should I trust you?" said Maerad hotly. "What do you think it feels like, being watched all the time, like a—a captured animal? What right have you to accuse me? I have done nothing wrong."

  "I will not countenance your opposing my power," said Arkan.

  "How can I oppose your power?" asked Maerad bitterly. "Here, you say, I have none."

  "If I chose to take all your power, you would be unable to move a single finger without my permission." The Winterking stared at her with withering contempt. "I leave you a little, as a courtesy. You are unwise to use it against me. Even in your full power, you could not challenge me."

  "It's strange, for you to speak to me of courtesy," she answered angrily.

  "Silence!" This time the Winterking exerted the full force of his power over her. Maerad felt as if a rope jerked her hard; she gasped in pain and fell forward onto her knees. "Elednor of Edil-Amarandh, I have been patient with you. I have spread before you the riches of my palace. I have refused you nothing. But perhaps you prefer this treatment? I can easily oblige you."

  Maerad, her head bent, said, "I don't understand. What have I done?"

  The Winterking stepped down from the dais and walked toward her, and then bent down and took her chin in his hand. His hand was cold as ice, and its strength inexorable, but his touch was gentle. Maerad looked up into his eyes and instantly forgot everything in a rush of desire. She blinked with humiliation, seeing a flash of triumph in Arkan's eyes, and tried to hide her face.

  "You are the Fire Lily," said the Winterking softly. "And I am the Ice King. Does fire melt ice? Or ice put out fire? Or may they come together, fire and ice, neither melted nor quenched?"

  Maerad blushed and turned her eyes away Arkan let go of her chin, and she bowed her head, looking at the floor. She was trembling all over—with fear or longing, she could not tell.

  "I do not know," she whispered at last.

  "I thought to honor you as my queen," said the Winterking. Now his voice was sad and full of longing, a young prince wounded by his unfaithful lover. "And I think in return you betray me."

  Maerad reeled in shock. She shut her eyes for a moment, gathering her breath and her will, carefully shielding her mind. She could feel her pulse throbbing hard in her neck. He doesn't know I have any power, she thought, not for sure. Very slowly, she stood up and looked Arkan in the eye, refusing to lower her gaze.

  "You said that love could not be feigned and could not be stolen," she said passionately. "And now you say that I will be your queen. And yet you imprison me and give me no freedom. You know what it is like to be caged. It is a death. You tell me I cannot hide from you, and yet you punish me for hiding. You say you do not want me to fear you, and you treat me as if I were a slave. Forgive me, My Lord"—and here she bowed her head sadly, contrite and meek—"I do not understand your anger. I do not understand why you are punishing me for something that you say I cannot do. I do not understand your love, if this is the love you offer me."

  The Winterking turned on his heel, and she looked up as he walked away from her. She could feel his doubt, as slowly the light in the throne room softened, and the shadows faded. He does not know, she thought. He still thinks his power is enough.

  "I do not desire a slave," he said at last.

  "I am not a slave," said Maerad.

  Arkan glanced at her swiftly. "Forgive me, if I made you afraid," he said. "I am not used to dealing with mortals, and perhaps I am impatient."

  Maerad nodded very slightly.

  "Come, sit with me. We will forget this ever happened." He turned back and offered his arm, and Maerad smiled wanly, taking it hesitantly. She shivered at his touch: now it burned her like ice.

  "I see," he said, "that you brought your lyre."

  "As I said I would," said Maerad. "I don't know how to read the runes."

  They didn't speak again until they were seated. Maerad already felt exhausted: she knew she must deceive Arkan if she were to escape, but the only way she could deceive him was by revealing the truth. The problem with the truth, she thought despairingly, is that it is true. She stared at his mouth, noticing its cruel sensuality. To kiss him, she thought, would be like kissing a river; I would faint and drown. She dug her nails into her palms, trying to stop the dizziness that his closeness induced in her, trying to keep her mind clear and alert.

  It was no use thinking like t
his.

  She handed him her lyre with a strange reluctance; it was as if she were giving him her heart. But it is mine, cried a voice inside her; it belongs to no one else. His fingers closed on it covetously, and she felt his grasp on her most loved possession as a deep pain, and momentarily shut her eyes.

  He must not know I feel like this, she thought.

  She opened her eyes and smiled.

  "Can you read the runes?" she asked.

  Arkan stroked his fingers lightly over the carvings, and Maerad shivered. "Yes," he said. "I can read them. Shall I tell them to you?"

  She didn't trust herself to speak, and just nodded.

  "I remember when these runes were made, many many wanings of ice ago." Arkan's voice was suddenly tender, and Maerad looked at him in surprise. He was far away, in some memory of his own. "They should never have been made," he said. "But they were. That was the first ill."

  "Did the Nameless One make them?" ventured Maerad, looking at the strange carved forms. They seemed too beautiful to have been made by him.

  Arkan's eyes were suddenly opaque and private. "Nelsor himself made these runes. He was told the Song, and its potency and beauty amazed him. And secretly he made the runes, so he could have it for his own. He was always the greatest of the Bards; no other had the power to do such a thing. Nor the audacity. He captured the Song of the Elidhu, and now it sleeps within these runes."

  "Who told him the Song?" asked Maerad, but Arkan gave no sign that he heard her. He brushed the ancient wood with both his hands, and then shut his eyes and touched the first of the ten runes with his forefinger.

  "These runes embody many things," said Arkan. "That was Nelsor's genius: he saw how the Song's powers might be captured, like a flower in ice. This is his greatest work. He did not know that it would lead to such disaster."

  Maerad looked at her lyre, and then back to Arkan. In her little time at the Schools, she had learned how letters held meaning and how they could be magical, but Arkan seemed to be talking of something more.

  "There are three dimensions to each rune," Arkan went on. Triple-tongued, thought Maerad, with a sudden clutch of excitement.

  The Winterking opened his eyes and looked at Maerad intently. "This first rune is Arda, the first of the moons. It is the new moon, and it is the fir tree. And it is also this stave: I am the dew on every hill."

  Maerad blinked in confusion, and then nodded. If she did not understand, she could at least remember. "So," said Arkan. "First the moons." He shut his eyes again, and read each rune with his fingers. "This is the rune Arda. This the rune Onn. This the rune Ura. This the rune Iadh. This the rune Eadha. The new moon, the waxing moon, the full moon, the waning moon, the dark moon."

  Maerad stared at the runes, and then looked up at Arkan.

  "They're not a song," she said.

  "Listen. This is how the Song is made. Fir, furze, apple, poplar, and yew." Arkan turned his eyes upon Maerad, and she swallowed nervously. She pointed to each rune, and said, as if she were learning a lesson: "Arda, fir, the new moon. Onn, furze, the waxing moon. Ura, apple, the full moon. Iadh, poplar, the waning moon. Eadha, yew, the dark moon." She looked up, suddenly realizing something. "They're letters!"

  "They are time written down," said Arkan absently. He was frowning in concentration. "These are the staves of the moons, beginning with the new moon:

  "I am the dew on every hill

  I am the leap in every womb

  I am the fruit of every bough

  I am the edge of every knife

  I am the hinge of every question"

  The words went deep into Maerad's soul, as if they stirred memories from before she was born. She sat silently, fixing the runes in her mind; she recalled Ardina as she had last seen her, dazzling with silver light, beautiful and ambiguous, the daughter of the moon.

  "What are the others?"

  Arkan looked up, his face unreadable. "These are the runes of spring and summer," he said heavily. "They are Forn, for middle spring; Sal, for late spring; Hrar, for early summer; Dir, for Midsummer's Day; and Tren, for middle summer. The rest of the year was lost when Sharma stole the runes. That was the second ill."

  "He took the winter?" said Maerad softly.

  "Aye."

  "How were those runes lost? Did no one write them anywhere?"

  Arkan didn't deign to answer her. He was tracing the runes again, his eyelids closed. Maerad watched him. With his eyes shut, he appeared more human; in repose his face was very beautiful. She shook herself, and concentrated.

  'Torn, the alder," said the Winterking. "Sal, the willow; Hrar, the whitethorn; Dir, the oak; and Tren, the holly."

  He was silent then for a long time, and Maerad waited patiently for him to speak again. When he did not, she asked, "And are there staves for those runes?"

  Arkan opened his eyes and looked directly at her. His expression held a desolation that took her aback.

  "The runes are empty," he said. "They are dead. To speak them on the air is a horror."

  Maerad didn't know what to say, and looked down in confusion. Arkan sighed heavily.

  "I will say them one time. You must remember."

  Maerad felt the light in the throne room dim. She waited, feeling her heartbeat loud and heavy in her throat. At last, after what seemed an endless silence, Arkan spoke, his deep voice echoing around the room:

  "I am the falling tears of the sun

  I am the eagle rising to a cliff

  1 am all directions over the face of the waters

  I am the flowering oak that transforms the earth

  I am the bright arrow of vengeance"

  When he had finished speaking, Arkan covered his face with one hand, and the throne room filled with a bleak stillness.

  "There is no music," said Maerad.

  "The music does not live in the runes," said Arkan. "The runes are dead."

  "I can't play the Song without music," she said. "How am I to find the music? I can't play this Song."

  "Do you think anything can be alive, when it is cloven in half?" Arkan glared at her, his eyes hard and icy, and for an instant Maerad thought he would snap her in two with his bare hands. He thrust the lyre back into her arms, as if it burned him.

  "Go," he said to Maerad. "Leave me."

  The corridors were cold now, and the light seemed sinisterly beautiful; she felt as if the walls were full of eyes, which watched her as she stumbled. She was amazed that she was still able to walk; her legs shook underneath her as if they might give way at any moment. Gima was nowhere to be seen.

  She found her room and collapsed onto her bed. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, too exhausted to move.

  She remembered with a shudder the Winterking's face as he had told her the runes, how his black eyelashes rested against his marble skin, the fire that leaped in her veins at his touch. And yet she knew he was ruthless and merciless; Cadvan and Dharin had died by his orders. She had no doubt that he would kill her without compunction if she were no use to him.

  The thought seemed to make no difference.

  I must find Hem, she said to herself. I have to find Hem. But there was no answering resolve within her. She found she could not picture Hem's face; her memory of him seemed abstract and distant, and she had to build the picture laboriously, instead of summoning a vivid, precise memory. She turned her thoughts to Cadvan, and realized she couldn't remember his eyes. They're blue, she thought fiercely: blue. But she could see only the icy blue of the Winterking's eyes, their strange slitted pupils, and hear how he had said, I thought to honor you as my queen.

  I'm so tired, she thought. So very tired. I can't undo his ensorcelments. I can't turn my face from him and pretend that I don't feel as I do. She was certain the Winterking had spelled her, and yet she was, at the same time, quite sure that what she felt was not false. She didn't want to leave the Winterking, even for her own sake, although she knew she must.

  Gradually her limbs stopped shaking, leaving he
r bleak and empty. She picked up her lyre, which lay on the bed beside her, and very slowly drew her right hand over the strings, so each note sounded out singly. The icy light glimmered and faded, revealing the rough rock walls of her dungeon, and she began to feel a little less weak. Ten strings, ten notes, ten runes, she mused distractedly. Three tongues, three names, three meanings. That makes nine, and leaves one over. The keystone of the music, the answer to the riddle. What would that be?

  She plucked each string again, wondering if each note also belonged to a rune. She couldn't see how they would, and she thought that it would probably make no sense unless she had the runes the Nameless One had stolen. There must be twenty runes, if the Song was split in half. Did the Nameless One have a lyre as well, with ten strings?

  She sat upright, irritated with herself, and, as she did, it dawned on her that she did know how to deceive the Winterking. He knew when she was absent, when she vanished from his view. So she must make a semblance, which was like her in every respect, to replace her when she used her own power and vanished. She was never disturbed when she was asleep, so she must appear to be sleeping. If it worked, she would have a few hours' start before her absence were noticed. The best time would be right now; the Winterking was sure of his power over her and he would be unwary. And perhaps, after reading the Song, he too was exhausted, although she did not know if Elidhu felt weariness. Perhaps his vigilance had lapsed.

  She considered the idea, turning it over thoughtfully, prodding it for flaws. There were many. She had made a semblance only twice before, when she studied with Nerili in Thorold and again in the mountains to trick the iriduguls, and although she knew she could do it, and could remember the charm, it wasn't as if she were practiced. She had never worked two charms at once, and she did not know if it was possible. If she tried and failed, she would be discovered, and she didn't want to think what might happen to her. She put that thought out of her mind. Instead, she placed her lyre carefully in its case and packed it away with her other belongings and, without taking off any of her clothes, got into bed and drew the covers over herself.