The Riddle Read Online Free PDF Page B

of the oldest in all Edil-Amarandh; I am hoping there might be some ancient writings there that refer to the Treesong. It would help if we knew what it was we’re searching for.”
    Maerad turned to look at the fountain. The sunlight struck off the droplets in little prisms, and its murmurous music sank into her hypnotically, as if it were a song of which she almost understood the words. She didn’t notice the old man who stepped out of the shade at the other end of the atrium until he was only a few paces away.
    Cadvan stood up, extending his hand in greeting. “Elenxi,” he said. “Greetings.”
    “
Samandalamë,
Cadvan,” said the old Bard, smiling widely. He had strong, white teeth. “Welcome.”
    Maerad looked at him wonderingly; he must have been a giant in his youth, and still towered over Cadvan. His hair and beard were utterly white, and his dark eyes were sharp, the eyes of a much younger man. Like Cadvan, he used the Speech, the inborn language of Bards, and not the common tongue of the Thoroldians. It was much more than a courtesy to strangers: to use it was an offering of trust as much as a practicality. It was said to be impossible to lie when using the Speech.
    “My companion is Maerad of Pellinor,” said Cadvan. Maerad bowed her head, and Elenxi, bowing his head in return, gave her a swift, piercing glance, but made no comment. “We are here seeking refuge, fleeing peril on land and sea, and bring news of great import.”
    “You are always welcome, Cadvan,” said Elenxi. “And I have heard somewhat of Maerad of Pellinor.” Again he directed that sharp, disconcerting gaze at her. “Nerili will no doubt wish you to join her for dinner; she is detained at present. In the meantime, I will arrange rooms, and I expect you will want to refresh yourselves and rest.”
    So almost as quickly as she had desired, Maerad found herself in a graceful room with cool stone walls decorated with embroidered silk hangings, and a huge bed draped with a white net, which Cadvan told her later was for keeping out stinging insects at night. On one side were wide, windowed doors, with white shutters both inside and out. These were now open and led out, past a veranda, to a shady garden. Fresh clothes — a long crimson dress in the Thoroldian style, with a low neck, well-fitted sleeves, and a wide brocaded belt — were laid out for her, and Maerad earnestly requested to be shown the bathing room. The chatty Bard whom Elenxi had assigned to show her around finally left her to her own devices.
    Maerad was addicted to baths. For most of her life, the years of drudgery in Gilman’s Cot when she had been a low slave, she had never even heard of bathing. But since her introduction to Bardic ideas about cleanliness in the School of Innail, Maerad couldn’t get enough of them. This bathroom was especially pleasant: it was painted a cool blue and opened out on a tiny courtyard where finches hopped in the potted trees. The bath itself was tiled with a mosaic of dolphins and other sea creatures, and the water was hot and plentiful. When it was deep enough to come up to her neck, Maerad dropped a bunch of lavender and rosemary into the water and stepped down into the fragrant bath with a sigh. She emerged much later, dressed herself leisurely, wandered to her room, and unpacked.
    Unpacking had become a ritual, a kind of reckoning of her life. First she took out her wooden lyre, freeing it from the leather carrying case, stamped with the lily sign of the School of Pellinor, which had been a gift from Cadvan. The lyre had been her mother’s, and of everything she owned it was the most precious to her. But she knew that, despite its humble appearance, the lyre was precious in other ways: it was an ancient instrument of Dhyllic ware, made by a master craftsman, and was engraved with runes that even the wisest Bards could not decipher. She brushed her fingers gently over its ten strings, simply to hear its pure tone, before she