The Riddle

by Alison Croggon

  She would first have to make a shield that would hide her magery from Arkan, but would not hide her. Beneath that shield, she could weave the semblance, preparing it to the point where she need only set the charm that would manifest it. Then she would have to vanish, ensuring that the two spells were so finely coordinated that her vanishing and the manifestation of her semblance were seamless.

  It all seemed impossible, and she sank into black thoughts for a few moments. But then she remembered the wolf that had spoken to her. Unless she had imagined it, which she did not think she had, it had been waiting for her. Perhaps someone, hearing of her capture, had sent it to help her. It could not have been an ordinary wolf. Perhaps she would not be entirely without help. It was a slim chance, perhaps suicidally slim, but it was the only hope she had.

  Maerad brushed her doubts aside and focused on the first question: getting out of the palace itself. She would have to do all the spells lying down in her bed, looking as if she were sleeping, which was not the ideal pose for magery. She lay on her back, as straight as she could manage, and then, tightening her lips, began on the shield.

  This took a little time, since it had to be detailed. She concentrated on concealing any magery beyond the little the Winterking believed she had regained, but not concealing so much that she might appear to vanish. It was risky, since her magery would not be concealed until she completed it, and she had to make it slowly, bit by bit, cautiously releasing her power in increments so it could not be perceived. She kept her senses keen for any changes in the palace, any shift of the light that might alert her that she had been detected. She closed her eyes, mentally said the words that activated the spell, and cautiously tested it. It seemed, as far as she could tell, to be good, and, as far as she could tell, it had not been noticed.

  Then she began work on the semblance. Making the semblance took some considerable time; it could not be merely a rough form, meant to fool from a distance. It would not only have to look like Maerad, but feel like Maerad too. She worked in layers. She visualized her mind first, the colors of her emotions, the charge of her power, and carefully wove its outlines, testing them as she went to ensure they felt true. When she had finished, her mind held a replica of itself, a shell which, when she plucked it, seemed to resonate with her self. Then she started on her body, weaving it through the specter of her mind: bone, blood, veins, muscle, and last, skin and hair.

  The semblance now existed in her mind, precise in every detail, and awaited only the word of power to make it appear, to set it breathing. Maerad took a deep breath and prepared herself for the final, most difficult part of her task: the creation of the semblance and her simultaneous vanishing. She had emptied her mind, patiently gathering together her power, when she heard steps approaching her chamber. It was Gima.

  Maerad cursed silently and paused, teetering on the brink of releasing her power. It was as if she had gathered herself for a leap, and then had been forced to stop, holding all the energy in check, without falling over, without losing the momentum of her jump. She heard the curtain over the doorway pulled aside, and the steps approached the bed. They stopped, and she could hear Gima's heavy breathing. Then she turned and left the room.

  Maerad waited until she was sure the footsteps had retreated far enough, and then took another deep breath. Her mind was hurting from holding both charms in abeyance, and her body was trembling. Then, very carefully, she released the semblance and, drawing on deep powers within her, made herself vanish.

  She didn't get it quite right; there was the smallest moment when there were two Maerads, side by side on the bed, and she disconcertingly found herself looking into her own face. She got out of the bed and listened, all her senses agonizingly alert for any disturbance in the palace. It was blanketed in silence, apart from the retreating footsteps of Gima.

  Maerad bent to pick up her pack and realized that she had made no semblance for it; Gima might notice it was missing. That charm was easy after the spell she had just made, and this time she managed the timing perfectly, vanishing one as the other appeared. She fumbled around for her pack. Then she swung it onto her back and looked around the room that had been her prison for the past few days, pushing down a sudden sharp regret. The Winterking would believe her to be a traitor. He had no right to think that, given that he had captured and imprisoned her, but he would think it all the same.

  On an impulse, Maerad drew one of her precious pieces of paper and her pen and ink out of her pack. She sat down and smoothed it out on the chest, and then paused. She didn't know if the Winterking could read Bard script, but somehow she felt she owed him some acknowledgment, even though, she thought, by all accounts of fairness she owed him nothing at all.

  She bit her lip, and then carefully wrote the rune Eadha, the yew rune, the rune of the dark of the moon: 1 am the hinge of every question. She pushed her sleeping semblance, who stirred and gave a sudden loud snore, and she hid it underneath its body. Then, feeling oddly relieved, she shouldered her pack again and walked into the corridor.

  In her power, the enchantment of the Ice Palace dissolved. It hit her then that she did not know the way through the unenchanted palace. She knew her way through the illusory corridors, but now it all looked completely different: she walked into a corridor that was black as pitch. She rocked on her heels, completely taken aback: she had not thought about this at all. There could be other corridors leading off the halls that could confuse her. She could still be winding through the heart of the mountain, lost and bewildered, as the Winterking discovered how she had tricked him. The thought made her go cold.

  I could go back, she thought, I could undo all the spells, and then no one would know. The idea tugged at her painfully; she was already so tired, and it was a long way through the palace. Even if she made it out, she did not know how she would pass through the archway or what would happen afterward. She had no plans at all, beyond escaping the palace. She could try again tomorrow, and in the meantime find out more. She almost turned back to her chamber.

  Some deep stubbornness flickered in contempt at her weakness. And something else ran beneath all her doubts, a deep current of urgency, which she realized had been driving her since she left the throne room. Time was running out; she did not have the luxury of tomorrow. She took a deep breath to steady herself and began to wend through the darkness, running her fingers lightly against the walls. She would have to remember the way by touch; she dared not set a magelight.

  She went carefully, fearful of making a mistake, stopping often to run through the way in her mind, sending her hearing before her. She could hear a light breath, which might be Gima sleeping, the drip of water in distant caves, the stirring of nameless creatures in the deeps of the mountains, but she could hear nothing else. The way seemed much longer in the darkness, and after a while she began to wonder if, despite her carefulness, she had made a wrong turn. Strange lights began to appear before her eyes, her legs became heavier and heavier, and the pack felt like lead on her shoulders. Her left hand was aching badly.

  She had almost convinced herself that she was completely lost when she felt the smallest whisper of cold air touch her face. It was fresh and clean, unlike the slightly heavy air of the palace: she was going in the right direction. Encouraged, she pressed on, and before long she saw the mouth of the cave emerge from the darkness, limned silver by starlight.

  Almost dizzy with relief, Maerad stepped out onto the snow and looked up into the sky. Automatically she searched for Ilion, the star of dawn and evening, which she thought of as her own, but she could not see it; it was probably deep night. The air felt like blades of ice as she drew it into her lungs, but she breathed deeply, savoring the taste of freedom.

  Within moments, she was shivering with the cold. She took her cloak out of her pack, remembering how Dharin had cast it aside as inadequate, and wishing fruitlessly that she had not lost her warm fur coat. Dharin had been right: the cloak could not offer the kind of protection against the cold that sh
e needed.

  Maerad looked down the snowy slope toward the stone arch that stood over the road. This, she was sure, was the Winterking's most powerful defense; no one could enter or leave the palace without passing under it, and the Winterking had told her that even birds would not fly over it. If she could not find a way to pass it unseen, all her magery had been in vain. And she did not know how. Yet. And even if she did manage to pass it, what then?

  She squared her shoulders, trying to will away her tiredness, and walked slowly toward the black arch.

  Chapter XXVI

  WOLFSKIN

  MAERAD was not entirely surprised to see the wolf standing on the slope beyond the arch, its form frosted by the waning moon. It was standing very still, staring straight at her despite her charm. A terrible doubt rose inside her, constricting her throat: had her charms been unsuccessful? Was the Winterking, even now, laughing as she walked into an elaborate trap?

  She bit down her doubts and stopped an arm's length away from the arch, looking through it to the road beyond. It ran on about twenty paces before it met the snow-covered mountain road, which glimmered slightly as it wound around the mountain wall and disappeared. She deliberately didn't look at the wolf. Unwillingly she dragged her eyes back to the arch and pondered her next step. She could feel the power invested in the stone from where she stood: it seemed to bear down on her with a malevolent vigilance. Its message could not have been clearer if it had been written in letters of fire: You shall not pass.

  I have to pass, thought Maerad. But it will take everything I have left, and it will probably be for nothing.

  As she took a deep breath, gathering herself for one last exertion, she heard a voice in her mind.

  Do not speak until you pass the Arch, it said.

  Maerad nodded.

  You cannot pass the Arch, it went on. It will reveal you. You must become wolf.

  Maerad looked at the wolf in bewilderment, and silenced the questions that rushed into her mind. Wolf?

  The wolf sat down on its haunches, still looking at her. The starlight sparked cold off its eyes.

  Become wolf, it said again. It settled down casually and put its head on its paws, looking for all the world like a domestic dog lying down in front of a fire. Maerad stared at it in exasperation, thinking it could at least have given her a clue. After a few moments, the wolf pricked up its ears and looked at her.

  You do not have long, it said. The stars will soon begin to fade.

  Maerad gave the sky a swift glance and saw the wolf was right. It would not be long before daylight, and she would need to be well away from Arkan-da by then if she was to have any hope of escape.

  She tiredly put down her pack, sat down on a rock, and put her face in her hands. The cold pierced her clothes, and she was shivering. Inside her a voice said, You can't do this. You're mad to try. You can still go back to your chamber and undo the semblance and make everything as it was, and the Winterking will never know. And underneath this voice there was another, which whispered, And you will then see the Winterking tomorrow.

  Maerad miserably let the implications of this rise in her mind. Leaving here would mean that she would never see Arkan again. Despite everything—despite the wrongs he had done her, despite his tyranny, despite his cruelty during their last meeting—something in her cried out in protest. She could remember only his face in repose, his cruel, sensual mouth. My enemy, she thought bitterly: my own heart. It calls me back into prison, even as the gate opens. But how can I leave my heart behind me? It would be a maiming deeper than the loss of my fingers. Then even my heart would be songless.

  Maerad didn't know how long she sat, shrouded in her unhappiness, forgetting the wolf, forgetting that she sat at Arkan's very door, insensible even to her present peril. She felt as if she were being very slowly torn in two. At last, the wolf called her back to herself.

  Become wolf, it said again. Or you will be a tame dog forever. Maerad looked up, startled, and realized that the sky was beginning to lighten. She was almost frozen, her hair iced and her feet numb. The wolf was standing up again, and it seemed to be looking at her with something like scorn.

  Maerad closed her eyes.

  I choose to leave, she said steadily to herself. She felt as if she had stepped out into an abyss. Now she could not turn back.

  As the decision formed irrevocably within her, she realized that she did understand what the wolf meant. Of course she could transform into a beast. It was not the magery of Bards, which could work such a transformation only in seeming. It was part of the Knowing of the Elidhu, and with it, she could worst the Winterking's powers.

  She stood up slowly, her limbs cold and stiff, and deliberately shouldered her pack, which had to transform with her. She looked the wolf in the eye; it stared back at her unblinkingly. Without hurry, as if she had done it a thousand times, she focused deep within herself, sinking through layers—slave, Bard, Pilanel, Maerad, Elednor, woman—deeper and deeper, until she came to a place where all the skins fell away and she had no name at all, and her mind was as empty and clear as water. Now she sought the still point of transformation, the fulcrum on which all turned; she found it and balanced, swaying easily like an eagle on the wind.

  Be wolf, she thought; be my heart, my hunger. Be my freedom.

  For a heartbeat her whole body was racked by terrible pain, as if she had been thrown into a furnace, but that passed almost as soon as it arrived, giving her no time to do more than gasp.

  The next thing she knew, she was overwhelmed by a new sense, the sense of smell; her tongue and her nose were suddenly flooded with odors, so rich and detailed that they were like brightly colored images.

  She could smell the arch; it smelled like burned metal, hot and dangerous, the smell of sorcery. Her hackles rose, and she leaned forward and sniffed the stone tentatively.

  It will not burn you, said the wolf. Hurry. You have wasted much time.

  Maerad did not stop to wonder that she was standing on all fours. She gathered herself and leaped through the black arch, and felt its power part before her and close seamlessly behind her, as if she were a sleek diver who left not a ripple of water in her wake. When she landed on the other side, she left no mark in the snow, although she could see her human footprints all the way back to the door of Arkan-da, already beginning to blur under a thin layer of snow.

  Without speaking, the wolf turned and began to lope very fast down the south road. Maerad leaped forward in its wake, her heart suddenly soaring. All tiredness seemed to have fallen from her. She was a wolf, lean and swift and strong, and if she wanted, she could run all day and night. She felt the pleasure of her muscles sliding over each other, the heat of her running, her inextinguishable energy.

  She was free.

  The darkness faded slowly out of the sky as the sun rose above the mountains, staining the barred clouds red. The snow fell lightly, whirling idly about the wolves, and rising in small puffs of white where their paws struck the ground. They were running at an even pace that ate up the ground, and they were already far from Arkan-da, following the pass that led through the mountains. Maerad could sense now that the road was winding down, and that they would soon be out of the mountains and onto the plains.

  She was beginning to tire, panting as she ran, and her left forepaw was aching fiercely, but the other wolf led her on without pausing, without even turning to see if she still followed. Maerad made no protest; fear drove her past her weariness. She now wanted to get as far away as possible before the Winterking discovered she was gone.

  Maerad's semblance would last about half a day, but she thought it likely that her absence would be discovered before that. Perhaps Gima would leave her alone out of pity, but it was likely she would become alarmed if she tried to rouse her and could not, and her stratagem would then be revealed. She had no idea what would happen when the Winterking found that his captive had fooled him, but she knew that the anger he had shown in the throne room would not be a tithe of his
rage when he discovered her escape. And his arm was long: he had sent his stormdogs to Thorold and attacked her in the Osidh Elanor; he had captured and imprisoned her when she was on the far side of Zmarkan. What real chance of escape did she have in the shadow of his own mountains?

  For all these reasons she kept running, but another part of her ran for the sheer joy of it. Even her tiredness could not abate her pleasure in her freedom. Her senses rang with the sharp smell of pine sap, the scent and scuffle of a hare bounding for its lair, the sudden strange stink of a fox, the clean, empty taste of snow dissolving on her hot tongue. She could feel the ground stretching far beneath her paws, turning in its ancient, unchanging rhythms as the wolves skated over its surface, leaving not even a mark on the snow, transient and silent as snowflakes. Only the sharpest eyes could have seen them as they ran, white ghosts slipping through shifting curtains of snow.

  At about midday, they left the road and climbed to the top of a snow-covered ridge. Maerad found herself looking down on a forest of spruce, which stretched from the knees of the mountains southward. Here, at last, they stopped. Maerad drew up beside the wolf and stood, her sides heaving, too spent for the moment to speak.

  We have traveled well, said the wolf into Maerad's mind after she had caught her breath. But farther would be better.

  Yes, said Maerad, speaking for the first time since she had fled Arkan-da. She turned and looked into the wolf's eyes, resisting the urge to sniff, overcome by curiosity. Who are you? she asked. You are no ordinary wolf, surely. Why did you help me?

  You know me better than you think, answered the wolf. I have my own reasons for helping you.

  You're Ardina, said Maerad with a sudden conviction.