The Silence of Medair (34 page)

"An act born of lack of alternatives."

"Perhaps.  How came you to be here, Keris an Rynstar?  Centuries have passed."

Medair made a gesture toward the chest.  "The Hoard of Kersym Bleak slumbers outside time," she said.  "As did I."  The words sounded pretentious and false, an attempt to hide the simple fact of falling asleep in the wrong place.  "I erred," she continued, trying to make herself clear.  "Chose to rest where I should have had better sense, and found the–"  Her voice broke, and she inhaled sharply, as if she had been forgetting to breathe.  "– I found that the war had passed me by."

It was not condemnation she read in their faces then, but pity.  These White Snakes pitied her for failing to defeat them.  That at last seemed a good reason to hate them, but she did not have the energy.

"All Athere has joined you in being displaced from the world, it seems," the Kier commented, bringing Medair's past tragedies into perspective.  She turned her eyes to her Keridahl Avec and Alar, standing to either side of her throne.  "What say you?  Will the changes which have been wrought by the Conflagration effect the Horn?"

"Impossible to know,
Ekarrel
," the Keridahl Alar responded, immediately.  "It is claimed the Horn will summon an army sufficient to defeat any foe.  That it has power of immense proportion is obvious to us all.  More exactly we will not know until it is..."  She hesitated, then continued less confidently.  "Until it is used."

When his Kier's attention turned to him, Cor-Ibis raised a hand in agreement.  He seemed to be glowing still, though it was difficult to be certain in the bright light of the throne room.

"If the Conflagration has indeed caused the rise of two unknown gods," he said. "And brought together the AlKier and Farak as part of this Four, then there can be no guessing as to the consequences of using the Horn.  The consequences of not using the Horn are clearer."

"Keris N'Taive, do you know the legends of the Horn of Farak?" Kier Inelkar asked the Mersian Herald, who had been staring at Medair with something like awe.

"
Ekarrel
, of course!" exclaimed the Herald.  "Did we not discuss–"  She broke off, frowned and shook her head.  "Well, perhaps we did not discuss those very tales, at our last meeting.  It seems to me incredible that you have no memory of the past, or that my memories are false within this city, but I can only accept and try to remember.  Yes,
Ekarrel
, I know of the Horn of Farak, fashioned from the body of the Living World at the end of her sojourn among mortals.  I know of the Hoard of Kersym Bleak and the quest of Medair an Rynstar.  Who does not know the Silence of Medair?  I can scarce believe I witnessed its breaking."  She turned wide, tilted eyes on Medair.  "Have you then been on the Isle of Clouds all this time?  Dwelling with Voren Dreamer?"

"Has it occurred to you," Medair retorted, stung by the apparent enjoyment this woman took in legend made flesh, "that you might venture out from the walls of Athere and find that the world does not correspond to your memory of it?  That Tir'arlea fell into ruin a thousand years ago, and there is no Isle of Clouds?"

A flicker of surprise crossed N'Taive's face, then the compassion which grated so on Medair's nerves.  "Yes, it did," the Herald said, softly.  "When my every statement was met with a blank stare and endless disbelieving questions.  But then the South obliged me with confirmation, and I knew that the world I had grown up in was out there, and it was everyone here who was wrong.  A rare occurrence indeed, for one of Tir'arlea to greet the advent of darkness with relief, but the presence of the Cloaked South means that Tir'arlea shines to the north-west.  I think I would like to tell Estarion that, if ever the chance is given to me."

Medair looked away from the tilted eyes.  She found the Kier was waiting for her to answer the question posed, and gritted her teeth.  She had given up the Horn.  What more did these White Snakes need?

"I went to Bariback after I – found Athere as it is."

"How did Estarion know of you?" the Keridahl Alar asked, sharply.  "Is he aware of what you carried?"

Medair shook her head, then shrugged.  "Vorclase was there to fetch me," she told them.  "Estarion had sent some unfortunate to his death bringing forth True Speaking.  All they knew was–"  She stopped, and glanced at the iron-bound box which shielded a legend.  "That to hold me – or whoever it was living on Bariback – was to hold victory.  Twice over, I suppose, if the rahlstones are to be counted.  They must have decided the location for the exchange to complement Vorclase's expedition."  She frowned, and looked again at the Mersian Herald.  "What are the consequences of using wild magic?" she asked.

The Herald seemed mildly startled, and glanced uncomfortably at the Kier.

"That is surely known, here above all places," she replied.  "Sar-Ibis died in wild magic."

"Yes.  But do you know what the Conflagration is?" Medair asked.  She was thinking of Esta, the woman at the tavern.

"I am told it was a great fire," Herald N'Taive, began.  "I saw no fire, but..."

"But had you heard of the Conflagration before you came to Athere?"

"No."

The Ibisians, having listened to this exchange with mild confusion, finally saw Medair's point.

"If there is no warning against the Conflagration," asked the man who Medair thought was the Keridahl Alar's son, "what weighs against using wild magic?"

N'Taive was clearly perplexed by their sudden tension, but answered anyway.  "The Creeping Dark, Kerin.  That which overwhelmed Sar-Ibis.  The Blight."

It was not new information, for no Ibisian could be unaware of Sar-Ibis' loss.  "Estarion has already used wild magic," Medair explained to the Herald.  "And brought upon us the Conflagration.  Remade Farakkan.  Now, if he loses the coming battle, past behaviour suggests that he may again turn to wild magic.  Even if he does remember the past as we do, he might again be willing to risk trying to control summoned power.  And this time, if he fails, no shield will save Athere."

"Or the rest of Farakkan," the Herald responded, looking doubtful.  "Estarion is not so stupid, surely?  Did he not put to death a mage in his realm who was experimenting with power beyond herself?"

"He may very well have," the Kier said, taking back control of the conversation.  "But the possibility that Estarion might turn to wild magic when he is on the verge of defeat is one we will not overlook.  There is also a great deal of unbound power loose in Farakkan, which will complicate any casting we wish to do.  We will need to draw again upon your knowledge, Keris N'Taive, for there are obviously many aspects of your world which we have yet to cover."

Kier Inelkar lapsed into a moment's thoughtful silence before addressing Medair:

"I cannot adequately express our debt to you, Keris an Rynstar," she said.  "There is a great deal more I would know, and I hope that you will agree to discuss matters with me at another time.  Until then, you will remain our guest."  She gestured to Avahn.  "Escort Keris an Rynstar to her chambers."

Medair had no objection.  She wanted to leave this room of Ibisians, and the thing she had just done, behind her.

Chapter Twenty-One

"Am I under guard, Avahn?"

Avahn hesitated, then lifted his hands, fingers uncurling.

"It is probable," he admitted.  "I will ask Illukar, later, exactly what the Kier's wishes are.  They will discuss you, of course."

"Of course."  Having dropped her cloak on the divan by the door, Medair sat on the bed, holding her satchel on her lap.  She turned the strap over and over between her fingers, surprised at how little she felt.  Only exhaustion.

"I had not really thought of what would come after.  The choices don't go away.  I'm not what the legends describe, but there are those, I suppose, who would rally to me.  Your Kier will not want me free to roam."

"You could be a unifying force in Palladium," he offered, diffidently.  "Mend the fractures."

She snorted.  "Do I need to do that?  The cold blood is dominant, in this world.  Mix-bloods are born almost as Ibisian as you are.  Surely the Medarists don't exist any more."

"Mix-bloods were never Medarists.  I don't see why the Hold or any other faction would cease to exist, simply because the object of their hatred stands out the more."  He pulled a chair from beneath an elegant writing desk and sat down on it.  "How do you know that the blood of the Ibis-lar is dominant?"

"A woman at a tavern – she was outside the shield when the fire came, and went from mostly Farakkian to indistinguishable from Ibis-lar, and spoke of the cold blood being stronger.  She was very distressed.  Her home is here and she no longer fits it."  Medair shrugged.  The parallel was obvious, but unlike Esta, Medair could no longer call Athere her home.  There was no place for a former Imperial Herald.  An unpredictable piece on the marrat board, as Avahn had once said, with too much cause to hate to be trusted.

Avahn, however, had other things on his mind.

"You knew Telsen, didn't you?"

Medair grimaced.  "Telsen really wasn't a person to emulate, Avahn," she said, lowering her satchel to the floor and kicking it gently beneath the bed.  "He–"  She thought about it, choosing her words.  "He lied, to the benefit of his music and the detriment of others.  He created this legend of Medair which makes my position frankly impossible, and, because he loved hidden meanings, managed to ruin my reputation to top everything off.  Does the brilliance of his talent excuse the untruths?"

Avahn, abashed, made a gesture of apology with one hand.

"Could he not, could we not be inferring more than he intended?  There is nothing said outright."

"More than enough for me to claim injury before a Council of Peers," she replied.  "Yes, I knew Telsen.  I was briefly his lover.  He made up the part about his eternal unfulfilled devotion as well."  She frowned at the caustic note in her voice, and went on more equably.  "He was a generous man, full of life, but he was also carelessly cruel, and nothing took precedence over his music.  Not truth, not loyalty, certainly not women."

"I don't know what to say."

"Have I ruined all of your illusions, Avahn?  It doesn't change the music.  He had a marvellous voice and his songs will be remembered, well, as long as I am."

He smiled at her sadly.  "I must do something to restrain this talent of mine for asking the wrong questions.  Do you want me to leave you in peace?"

"No.  Yes.  I suppose so.  I feel a little...beyond conversation, just now."  Her bones dragged at her, and she struggled with overwhelming fatigue.

He nodded, stood, then suddenly assumed a formal stance.

"My thanks are as inadequate as all others, Keris Medair an Rynstar," he told her, gravely making the three gestures of debt Cor-Ibis had also once given her.  "But know that I am yours to call upon in need."

He bowed and turned before she could respond, as if he were embarrassed by the sincerity behind his words.  When the door had closed behind him, Medair drew her knees up beneath her chin and tried to think about her future.

That the Kier might try to control her in some way was certainly possible, despite the debt they all owed her.  Confine her to the palace, keep her under observation.  A life of luxurious semi-imprisonment.  But safe.

For she would be hated.

The longed-for hero had become the grand betrayer.  Among any who opposed the Ibisians, those who had paid a moment's attention to foolish legends about the past reborn, and most especially the ones who had taken Medair's name and turned it into a banner – there would be no understanding, and no forgiveness.  It was quite probable that the Ibisians were the only group with both the will and capacity to keep her alive.

Kier Ieskar had told her she didn't want to die, but in sacrificing anonymity Medair had made anything but a caged life impossible, with death a constant threat.  If she abandoned White Snake protection there would inevitably be an alley, a mob, a beating she could not escape.  Poison, a knife in the back, open execution.  There were so many ways her story could end, if she did not cling to those she had hated, did not cower in their shadow.

Proud little herald, brought so low.

At sunset the battle with Estarion would begin – and end.  At sunset, when the city's attention was on that battle, Medair had to leave.  The plan to return to that place out of time, to sleep and perhaps wake when her name was nothing more than history, had now become a question of survival, and she had to take that option before anyone remembered that Kersym Bleak had been renowned for a hoard, not simply the Horn of Farak.  Or even that she still had a charm against traces.

She nudged her satchel further under the bed, then went and locked the door.  Briefly, she considered wedging a chair below the handle, then shook her head.  They might want to confiscate the satchel, but she did not think the Ibis-lar had changed so much that they would sneak in and steal it.

Removing her boots, she lay down on the bed, trying to work out how long it was till sunset, and when the Kier would see fit to use the Horn.  It would be necessary to move before then, and she would rest while she could, because she had a long way to run.

"One last place to hide."