The Silence of Medair

by Andrea K Höst

  "Is part Farak-lar," Jaith finished. He stared deep into the woman's eyes. "You were outside the walls," he said.

  "Well, I could hardly travel to Callamere inside the walls, Jaith!" Esta snapped. "What does that matter? What's happened here?!"

  "You – Esta, you are Farak-lar," Jaith told her, sounding miserable.

  The woman frowned, looking faintly hurt. "My mother has some hot blood, it's true. You've always told me that it didn't matter, Jaith."

  "It doesn't! Esta, Esta. Ah, AlKier, I don't understand this. Esta, you are not...as you were."

  There was a stricken little silence.

  "It's not me who has changed," she said, eventually, voice small. "Mother is different, and Tehan. And..." She trailed off, gazing at his face. "I'm not Farak-lar. Mother is not Farak-lar. We have that blood, yes, but so does half Athere. The cold blood is dominant, Jaith. You know that!"

  Seeing only incomprehension in his face, the woman's self-control broke and she tore herself from his arms.

  "It's you who have changed!" she cried, stumbling backwards. "You!"

  Then she was gone, the bartender running after her. Medair left amidst a buzz of horrified speculation.

  The cold blood was dominant. The girl had only been quarter or half Ibisian, but there had been no sign of Farakkian blood. She obviously remembered the bartender and her family and everyone within the walls, but all as slightly different people. What would Athere be like if the flames of the Conflagration had been allowed to sweep over it? Who would Medair be now?

  Lassitude had claimed her by the time she found an inn with a spare room, the same deadly apathy which had followed her visit to Athere the previous year. She went to bed, and lay thinking of the Conflagration and black denans and the threat of war. And a soft, eternally courteous voice.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Another pale and beautiful dawn. The dew-studded hills were stained with jewels of colour beneath a sky of streaked pastel. It slowly brightened to reveal what had been moving in the shadows for a full-measure or more. Black specks, like a flock of crows which had settled on a meadow. But no flock of birds was so orderly, or endlessly numerous. Or so formidably armed. The hills south of Athere were blanketed with an enemy army, come to lay siege in the night. Their black and white pennants fluttered in the wind.

  Magic had again woken Medair and she had travelled back to the watchtower, joining the same kaschen and Das-kend in a silent vigil in the pre-dawn dark. They could all sense the distant throb of power, and could only wait to see what daylight would bring them.

  "It isn't possible," the kaschen suddenly said, speaking for the first time since Medair had entered the watchtower.

  "Of course it is possible, Mira. We have done it ourselves, in a time of great need."

  "Not without aid. Not to make war."

  Yes, to make war, Medair thought, viciously. But no, the Ibis-lar had fled to Farakkan. It was only once there that Ieskar had decided to make the land his own.

  "We would do it in war if it did not mean exhausting our adepts buildings gates." The Das-kend turned a brass-bound spyglass over and over in her hands. "To take the enemy unprepared, that is a great advantage. To overextend yourself in doing so, that is a great foolishness. Estarion – the Estarion we knew – could not build such gates. He had adepts, true, and could gate a sizeable force, just as we can. But we could not do this. At the fall of Sar-Ibis, we drew on the very magic which was destroying the island, but the Conflagration is already fading. He should not have the strength to gate an entire army. We certainly do not."

  "Then how?"

  "The Herald spoke of a weapon. It may be what builds them the gates, or it may be that he has adepts which now surpass us. What can one say to this new world? Decia was by no means ready to make such a move, before the events of yestermorn. What I see here..." The Das-kend shook her head. "We may be outmatched."

  "Almost I wish the Conflagration had left the world a charred ruin, rather than this."

  The Das-kend looked at her daughter. "Do you really?"

  "No. I wish it wasn't happening, though. We don't even know our home territory. Probably those who come against us have a better idea of these hills and that forest."

  "Possibly. They at least know enough not to make their gates within reach of our adepts. Even if we had anticipated this move, used the warning brought to us, we could not have hoped to disrupt all of them. Not without covering the land with patrols able to bring down a gate as it formed. And they have protected themselves immediately against attacks from a distance. With what, I cannot say precisely, but likely the winds and mirrors, unless they have things we do not even know of. We will not be throwing sleep at them."

  "The Cloaked South." The kaschen made an angry, exasperated noise. "It's as if all the rules have changed! What are we to do against so many, when we've lost the advantage of our blood? When they have equal power?"

  "If not more." The Das-kend stroked her daughter's arm lightly. "We will fight. Have faith in our Kier, and those who serve her. The Ibis-lar have triumphed in the face of great odds before this."

  The kaschen did not reply, but her look of doubt was answer enough. Medair, standing as far from the magic-sensitive pair as possible, felt sympathy stir through the lethargy which gripped her. This was the same as Mishannon. She had stood on Mishannon's walls and stared out at an Ibisian army. It was the first battle of the war and their tactics and their strength had been unknown. Mishannon's defenders had done what they could to prepare. They'd tried to guess how the Ibisians would do battle and had been wholly unprepared for what came next. A massed spell, cast by dozens of adepts. It had rolled over Mishannon as inexorably as the Conflagration. And that had been it. Battle over. Only a handful of Palladian defenders had been able to resist the sleep spell and they'd been immediately overwhelmed.

  Now, the southern army was moving slowly forward. Towering over the leather-clad soldiers were what could only be giants, though giants had been gone from the world longer than dragons, were as much legends as...as Kersym Bleak and the Horn of Farak.

  These figures wore armour of silver, with wicked horns projecting from glittering helms. They carried swords longer than Medair was tall. She could see no more detail from such a distance, and wondered what faces might hide beneath those helms. Would someone within the walls recognise a friend or relative, lost to the change?

  The silver armour reflected incongruously roseate hues as they advanced beneath the strawberry dawn. She had counted no more than a hundred bright warriors scattered randomly among the thousands which marched towards the city, but a hundred of such proportions would count for a battalion of ordinary warriors.

  New arrivals in the watchtower forced Medair to squeeze into the farthest corner. Holding her elbows in, she tried to avoid coming into contact with the short man who came nearest.

  "Keridahl an Valese," the Das-kend said, inclining her head formally to a woman some years her junior, with neatly bound honey-blonde hair.

  "Das-kend las Maret, isn't it? Tell me, can you make out the device on the pennants they carry? We have come in hopes of gaining a better view."

  "It is Estarion's gryphon, Keridahl, though it seems he no longer cares for gold and blue." The Das-kend politely proffered the spyglass, and it was passed from hand to hand.

  "Well-equipped, disciplined, protected by magic," was the Keridahl's assessment. There was no voice of dissent. The army which came against them was obviously not lacking in preparation.

  "What's that they're doing now?" asked a comely young man who stayed awkwardly close to the Keridahl's side. "Changing direction?"

  "Stopping."

  The leading ranks had indeed drawn to a halt less than a quarter-mile distant.

  "A formal declaration of war?" the Das-kend speculated, catching the Keridahl's eye with a frown.

  "Considering their opening moves, I would not trust to it," the Keridahl replied. The moment stretched, as the Keridahl plied the
spyglass and frowned more, then handed it back to the Das-kend with the innate courtesy of her kind. The kaschen, at her mother's side, struggled not to fidget.

  "Inelkar."

  Half the watchtower's occupants jumped. Probably half the city did, as that word boomed and rumbled from the sky. Medair's eyes jerked involuntarily up, almost expecting the sky to be black with thunder-clouds. A lone fluffy splotch bundled itself away behind the castle towers, as if in a hurry to disassociate itself from the voice which again made the very air tremble with its volume.

  "Inelkar. Will you cower behind your walls? Do you fear to meet me?"

  A long pause, as if the voice were somehow waiting for an answer, though the Kier would hardly be likely to emerge in response. It must be Estarion, the Decian King. The voice was so strong that Medair imagined she could feel it making the bones of her chest vibrate. A calm, deep voice. This Estarion sounded utterly certain, and that was perhaps the most chilling thing of all.

  "We have travelled a long way to this, Inelkar," Estarion went on, as the Keridahl turned to whisper some message in the ear of one of her aides. "Centuries of dispute, of drawn knives, of blood spilled in the name of honour. Your honour. White Snake honour." He sounded sad, which felt out of keeping with his reputation. There were few in Palladium who were not convinced the southern king was a greedy, ruthless man thirsting for power.

  "The sins of the past can not be forgotten, Inelkar. You call this land your own, but it was stolen from those to whom it truly belonged. Time will never wipe away that crime, nor make you more than what you are: the child of a thief, a bandit who cut the hand held out to offer aid."

  An angry murmur filled the watchtower, but Medair shivered and turned her face into the stone. This was the very thing which cut her deepest: the reason behind the fall of the Palladian Empire. Ibisian honour, Ibisian pride. There had been no need for the war which had shattered the Empire. Grevain Corminevar had been willing to shelter the refugees, but they, in their pride, had brought down Medair's world rather than accept such charity.

  "In younger years," the voice continued, a thoughtful rumble vibrating through Medair's breast, "I vowed to scour Farakkan of your blood, of all the pale thieves who shattered the Golden Age. But time offers the grace of mercy, and your race will benefit from mine. I will allow your children to live, White Snake. They will not sit high on stolen thrones, Inelkar, but I will not hunt your race into nothing, for all the anger of my forefathers urges me on. They will serve, but not die."

  "He would make slaves of us!" spat the kaschen, meekness forgotten.

  "There is, of course, a condition," Estarion rumbled on, heedless of the instant opposition his mercy inspired. "A stolen prize, another piece of thievery to add to the accounts. Give up to my protection the woman of the Isle of Clouds, before the sun sets this day. Else, my anger shall know no limits, and there will be no hole a single one of your spawn can crawl into that I will not find. Dawn will bathe in your blood. The choice is yours, Inelkar."

  Thunder died to silence over a city seething with fury, confusion and fear.

  -oOo-

  As soon as she could escape from the crowded watchtower, Medair had retreated to Odessa Park. She was lying in the grass, watching the clouds and pretending she wasn't paralysed. She didn't know what to do, did not want to do anything, but could not force thought from her mind so that she was able to do nothing at all.

  ~Medair?~

  Jerking upright, Medair stared about, but Ileaha did not suddenly appear to accompany her voice. A wend-whisper, she realised, as the wind carried her more soft words.

  ~Medair. Please meet me in three ten-measures at the Bravi Fountain. I will wait.~

  Of course they would be looking for her. Especially after Estarion's demand. Medair waited a moment more, to be certain Ileaha had not whispered anything else to the wind, then lay back down. She breathed the scent of clover, with damp earth lurking beneath. An ant ventured onto one hand, and she twitched it off. Only the calling of birds disturbed her peace. Lying there, Medair could forget about wars and oaths and the army at the gate.

  With a curse she climbed to her feet, and shouldered her abandoned satchel. Of course she could not.

  Bravi Fountain was within Remembrance Wall, near the southern gate. The fountain filled the centre of the square, which was actually more of a curved rectangle. It had been newly constructed in Medair's time, in an area which had once been a slum, but was now a prosperous place. The fountain was a magical construct: round, rising four levels, with a sculpture at its peak which had a suspicious resemblance to the White Palace. It spurted water in almost every conceivable direction, a fine mist providing cool delight in Summer. She wondered if they still held parties there on warm nights, to watch the tinted pastel colours which appeared beneath the stars, and argue about whether something so frivolous as colouring water was a waste of magic.

  There was something about large, open squares with fountains which attracted birds. A flock of grey and white pigeons landed a comfortable distance from the people clustered at one end of the square, then immediately took to the air once again. The crowd centred around a group of young women and a youth who would better be called boy than man. They were having a white-faced and tight-lipped discussion with unhappy parents about whether it was better for them to go join a battalion of reserves or stay to defend their homes in the event that Ahrenrhen and Ariensel fell. Ileaha, very plainly dressed, was seated quietly on the far rim of the shallow pool around the fountain, her attention on the crowd.

  "No shouting," Medair said, having made her way with deliberate silence to the younger woman's side. "No raised voices, no shoving or struggles. Even those with no Ibisian blood behave this way. Not unemotionally, but fantastically restrained. It takes something like the Conflagration to really jar all these careful good manners."

  Ileaha, who had started violently when Medair first spoke, gave her a strange look in return for her brief lecture on Ibisian social demeanour. "You came," she said after a moment. "I did not believe you would."

  "Didn't you?" Medair sat down, cool mist soothing the back of her neck, a hint of mildew and pigeon dung tickling her nostrils. "Why send the wend-whisper, then?"

  "Because I could not search all Athere, and you wear that set-charm against traces. But I knew you would hear a wend-whisper, and I needed to find you."

  "You needed to find me." Medair frowned, for she had expected more of a search than Ileaha alone. Had they not–? "Why?"

  Ileaha looked down at her hands, almost guiltily. "I...perhaps you might not care to know it, but finding you was a test. At least, I think that is what he meant."

  "A test?"

  "I don't know what I would have done if you had not come," Ileaha went on distractedly, clenching her hands together. "I could not think of anything to do when he asked me to find you. Sitting here, praying that you would produce yourself, I have been searching my mind for ways to find a single person in all Athere. Nothing I can imagine was possible without the aid of a dozen, a hundred others. And I thought to be a Velvet Hand."

  "It could be said that it took some ingenuity to think of a wend-whisper," Medair remarked, hiding her impatience. What mattered Ileaha's career, when Athere itself might have no future? But then, Medair was trapped by people dead for centuries. At least Ileaha was looking ahead.

  "That is different altogether. You found yourself. I don't think he would consider that I had proved myself."

  "He? Who sent you to find me?"

  That finally pulled Ileaha's eyes from her hands' attempts to strangle each other. "Cor-Ibis," she said, with an unspoken 'of course'.

  "Ah. With rumours of dead and blind and spell-shocked, I should have known that he would be completely unaffected by the casting," Medair said, her voice sounding as if she were angry because she had found that she was boundlessly glad, and hated herself for it.

  "Not unaffected," Ileaha said, carefully. "He was, in truth, blinded for a short w
hile, but that...passed. Wielding so much power – no, it did not leave him unchanged."

  "Cor-Ibis sent you to find me, to test you," Medair said, thrusting emotional turmoil to the background again. "Don't tell me you finally announced that you weren't going to be las Theomain's secretary?"

  "At such a time. Selfish, I suppose, but if this is to be the end, I don't want to spend it running errands for Jedda las Theomain." Ileaha grimaced. "I didn't mean to say anything. The entire Court has been chaos since they returned from Ahrenrhen, and running errands would probably be the most useful thing I could do. We are not ready for this war, and the Keridahl had better things to do than debate my wants and needs."

  "Debate?" Medair stood up, a sharp, violent movement. "I doubt it, Ileaha. That one rarely needs to debate things. I have encountered his kind before, and know enough to recognise the methods." She smiled stiffly, her eyes on one of the young would-be warriors, who had gone so far as to pull her arm from the grasp of an elder and was now pushing her way steadily out of the confines of the crowd. "He tests you, certainly. Keris las Theomain was your test. I suspect the task of finding me was by way of being a reward."

  Ileaha rose, and smoothed down the linen robe she wore as if it would somehow grant her control. She took a deep breath, but still sounded woefully young when she spoke.

  "Why are you angry, Medair?"

  By this time, Medair was no longer angry. If she were able to sustain such an emotion for any appreciable time, she would be able to focus herself around it. She continued to watch as the crowd began to break apart.

  "Do you think they should stay, or go, Ileaha?" she asked, as the small group marched resolutely away from home and family. "Who preaches wisdom here? Do the young chase glory, or are they simply better able to make sacrifices?"