The Riddle Read Free Page B

Both he and Cadvan were gray with tiredness. The
White Owl
was Owan’s pride; she might have been only a small fishing vessel, but she was a beauty of her kind, every spar and plank lovingly laid. In her making, each part of her had been embedded with charms, to keep her from upset or to ward away hostile creatures of the deep; she had also a steering spell placed on her so she could, in a limited way, sail herself. Unfortunately, under the stiff wind Cadvan had summoned to the sails, this was too risky, and Owan and Cadvan took turns day and night at the tiller. When Cadvan was too tired to keep the wind, the
White Owl
sailed on the sea’s weather, but he never slept for more than a couple of hours at a time. Maerad had already witnessed Cadvan’s powers of endurance, but his stubborn will impressed her anew: his face was haggard and his mouth grim, but he moved with the alertness of a well-rested man.
    Maerad sat in the bow, trying to stay out of the way. She was still disconcerted by how tiny the boat was, a mote in the vastness of the ocean. And she was miserable with seasickness. Cadvan managed to stay it a little, but he was so busy, she felt hesitant to bother him and had decided to suffer it, unless it became unbearable. She hadn’t been able to eat for the past day and night, and her emptiness made her feel lightheaded.
    There was, Maerad thought, nothing to see except water: water, water, and more water, and on the northern horizon a darkish blur that might be land or might be a bank of cloud. It frightened her a little: she had spent her childhood among mountains and had never imagined that space could seem so limitless. The
White Owl
was pitching strangely with the wind, bumping across the tops of the swells, which probably accounted for her nausea, and she gazed with an empty mind across the endless blue-green backs of the waves.
    By midmorning she had entered an almost trancelike state, but toward midafternoon something captured her attention. At first she followed it idly with her eyes: a darker current rippling crossways through the larger patterns of the waves, beyond which the path of their wake spread and dispersed over the surface of the sea. As she watched, it seemed to draw a little nearer. She sat up straighter and leaned forward, squinting, and stared. It was hard to be sure, but it did seem to her that it was a definite trail, and she had an uneasy feeling that it was following their boat. It had something about it, even at that distance, of a hunting dog on a scent.
    She called Cadvan, and nodding toward Owan, he came over to Maerad. Wordlessly, she pointed down the
White Owl’
s wake, and he leaned forward, shading his eyes.
    “Can you see something?” she asked.
    He shook his head.
    “There’s a sort of . . . trail, in the water,” said Maerad. “I think it’s following us. Just there, by the wake.”
    Cadvan finally saw what she was pointing at, and studied it briefly. “Have you been watching it long?” he asked.
    “Awhile. It’s hard to tell at this distance, but I think it’s drawing closer.”
    Cadvan called Owan over. He lashed the tiller and came back to them, and when he saw the dark line in the water, his face tightened.
    “Do you know what it is?” asked Cadvan.
    “No,” said Owan. “But I can guess.” He looked at Cadvan. “And if it is what I’m thinking, then it would be best to outrun it. Can you whistle any stronger wind, do you think?”
    Cadvan grimaced up at the sails. “Perhaps,” he said. “How strong is the
Owl,
Owan? I fear her breaking if the wind blows too hard.”
    “Strong enough,” said Owan shortly, and went back to the tiller. Cadvan’s shoulders sagged, and he sighed, as if he were mentally preparing himself for an effort beyond his strength. He went back to his post near the prow of the boat and lifted his arms, speaking words that were tossed away by the wind so Maerad could not hear them. She knew he was using the Speech, and she felt a