The Silence of Medair (9 page)

She laughed with them, as the mages each took up a position at the points of the star.  Then she sent a silent prayer to Farak.  This would work, and she would be free to go her own way.

"Now we shall test the mettle of the geas' caster," said an Selvar.  "The first step is to make the power of the spell visible.  This is a standard task, but you might wish to watch how we begin melding our power as we perform it.  Miss ar Corleaux, it would be best if you left the charm I gave you outside the star."

Medair removed the necklace and deposited it and her satchel over a chalked line.  She watched with interest and admiration as they smoothly opened a flow of power between each point of the star.  It was a delicate task, this melding.  She had seen it often fail, but these six performed the feat with ease, and soon she began to glow.  The geas manifested not as the snake she had imagined coiled about her spine, but as a network of silvery lines beneath her skin, patterned like veins.

"Now, a geas can be badly cast in numerous ways," an Selvar continued.  "It could be poorly 'claused', as we call it, allowing the 'chanted person to merely perform the letter of the task and not the spirit.  It could even allow the 'chanted person to kill the caster, which would be unfortunate – from the caster's point of view.  It could be sloppily set, but as we can see, this geas has hold of Miss ar Corleaux very thoroughly indeed and I assume, since she needs it broken, that she has not been able to escape the punitive effects.  What we will do now is simply pull the power out, as if we were uprooting a weed.  The question is how extensive is the root system and whether we are strong enough to pull it up.  It is always best to use more magi than is likely needed in a geas-breaking, so that much energy is not expended to no profit."  The adept smiled at Medair.  "This won't hurt," he promised, then signalled to the other mages.

It was fascinating to watch.  Lines of force erupted from the six mages as they began a low-voiced chant.  The power lines curled about Medair, then attached themselves to the silver beneath her skin, which began to lift out of her flesh.  It was a curious sensation, a little as if someone were pulling out hairs all over her body, but, as promised, without pain.  The magi gradually increased the pull and she watched their faces, noting that concentration had turned to a more intense effort.  The pull on her decreased and she felt distinctly lop-sided.

Then the lines of force snapped.  Medair staggered, pain blooming behind her eyes, and she lifted a hand even as two of the magi fell over.  The audience burst into noise, a confused babble of surprise.  Covering her eyes, Medair saw wriggling lights and tried to block it all out.

A touch at her elbow preceded Adept an Selvar's warm voice.  "I am sorry, Miss ar Corleaux," he said.  "Whoever placed this geas on you is obviously an adept of great power – probably one of the most powerful.  We cannot break it."

Medair fought the throbbing which seemed intent on bursting her head and, after a sentence or two more, an Selvar evidently realised that she was barely taking in what he was saying.  He led her to a cool dark room where there was a couch she could rest upon.  A damp cloth was laid on her forehead and he silently withdrew, leaving her to struggle with pain and frustration.

The ache did fade, becoming little more than a dull memory, but the disappointment remained.  She was stuck with it.  Geas, going to Athere.  White Snakes.

-oOo-

As soon as she was able, Medair left the couch.  Sitting around reflecting on the setback would only depress her further.  Adept an Selvar was in the next room talking to a pale, exhausted pair of mages.  He immediately suggested lunch.

"I'm sorry to have been of so little help to you, Miss ar Corleaux," he said apologetically over a glass of very good ginger wine.  "We will, of course, refund your fee."

Medair shook her head, still moving cautiously.  "The payment is for the effort, which I'd wager was more than you had bargained for.  You may have had a busy morning, but I think I've ruined your afternoon for you."

He nodded in acceptance, since Medair's geas had effectively exhausted the seven best mages in Kyledra's Arcana House.  "I am concerned for you – does this geas truly make you travel continuously?  What will become of you if it is not broken?"

"It's not so awful as that.  The geas wasn't designed to harm me, merely to cater to someone else's convenience.  There's a set destination and the geas will leave me when I reach it.  It's simply tiresome to be going to a place I hadn't intended to visit.  Perhaps, in the next large city I reach, I will be able to try with more mages."

"I would recommend ten."  He gave her a delicate look.  "In all Farakkan there are perhaps seven people strong enough to have cast that geas, unless I have been giving far less of my attention to such matters than I should.  I do not wish to pry, but I would very much like to hear your story."

Toying with her glass, Medair hid a grimace.  She liked this man and would be glad to have a long and frank discussion with him about a certain bag of rahlstones and exactly what the Kyledran involvement with the battle for them might be.  But she couldn't outright ask strangers about a fortune in rahlstones she'd found in the forest.  Not if she wanted to survive the week.

"I'm afraid I've been constrained not to tell people about it," she replied, regretfully, wondering if there was a subtle way to ask questions about rahlstones.  "Nor would I be able to enlighten you particularly.  I stumbled across a stranger and he put a geas on me to – to deliver a message.  I don't even know what his name is.  Who are the seven people powerful enough to have created this geas?"

"Was it in Kyledra?" an Selvar asked, then raised his hands in negation.  "I'm sorry.  I know that if you try to answer against a geas, things could become very unpleasant for you.  It's merely that something has been happening in Kyledra which people seem to be trying to hide and I spent half the morning talking myself hoarse at the palace, to no good effect.  If you've been caught up in the same business, perhaps you might be able to help me."

"Happening how?"

"I only wish I knew.  An associate of mine – an adept of Arcana House – was called on by the Crown almost two weeks ago.  They told him very little of what they wanted – something about smugglers, it seemed, or border taxes.  A very confused and frankly odd story they gave him.  But he went with them, and was overdue back yesterday.  Now I can't get a straight word out of the palace, for all it's buzzing like a nest of hornets."

"Well, I haven't been geased to smuggle anything.  Was your associate powerful enough to be the adept who geased me, by any chance?  I didn't think he was Kyledran."

"No, that could not have been Hendist.  He hasn't even sent me a wend-whisper, yet he knows I must arrange for someone to take his classes if he does not return soon."

"It doesn't sound good."

"No."

With just one of the rahlstones, an Selvar might be able to break the geas.  But would he feel inclined to keep the stones secret?  Even if he knew nothing about them at the moment, his ties to the palace might oblige him to report her.  It was too risky to ask.

"Such deep thoughts."

"I was thinking of ways around this geas," Medair replied.  "Who are these seven most powerful adepts?"

"It seems we can narrow the field to four, since your adept is, apparently, male.  There is Vale an Sensashen, currently in Ashencaere.  He is known for an uncertain temper and a delight in meddling with politics.  Some Mersian blood.  Three who are varying degrees Ibisian.  Kemm ar Morgallan, who lives in Westerland and who is a great peacemaker among those fractious lands.  Illukar las Cor-Ibis – I would suggest twelve magi, if it were he.  And Senegar las Tholmadrae, whom I had heard from rumour was travelling in Farash, very near.  There is also the Palladian prince, of course.  There is no doubt that he has the power – his mother is one of the seven – but he is young and a geas takes a deal of skill and learning.  Does this help you at all?"

Medair nodded, having identified "Lukar".  Why the name sounded doubly familiar she was not certain, chasing errant memory.  The 'Ibis' in his name indicated that he was, not surprisingly, of the royal bloodline.  She had expected that, with the resemblance.  He could not be a direct descendant of Ieskar however, for she was certain there was no Farakkian blood in him.

Was that true?  If Ieskar's child had bred only with Ibisians, surely the Farakkian blood would be so weak as to be undetectable by now?  She shivered, disliking the thought of associating with a descendant of Ieskar.  Where had she heard the name Illukar before?

"I know his name, now," she told an Selvar.  "I wish I could help you in return, but there is a great deal I think it would not be wise for me to say, even if I were not prevented."

"I'm sorry I cannot help you more."

-oOo-

Collecting her new horse, Medair spent the rest of the day shopping, keeping an ear out for tales of rahlstones with no success.  Even the barber had nothing more interesting to talk of than the Spring markets and some upcoming races as he trimmed ragged edges and scraped her hair neatly back into a black riband.  Still longer than she was used to, but she did not at the moment want to wear it the way she had during the war.  That Medair seemed so young and out of place.

Most of her shopping was for clothes.  The richer fashions seemed to be heavily influenced by Ibisian robes; all silks, layers and subtle patterns and nothing Medair wanted to wear.  She eventually found a simple dress of dark blue which at least resembled the clothing she was used to wearing on formal occasions.  It was easier to replace her everyday garb.  Long-sleeved shirts of different colours, close-fitting trousers, jackets which were not too different from those she was comfortable with.  They might not proclaim her ancestry, but she no longer looked scruffy and out of place as she rode once more into the yard of the Caraway Seed.  Her satchel was all she retained from that morning.

The stable hand was more confused by her change of horse, since her new animal was worth infinitely more than the two sorry nags which had brought her to Thrence.  When she walked through the front door, even the innkeep seemed unsure if she was the same person.  Then he looked at her with obvious relief.  Medair ignored him, but was aware of a small, spiteful pleasure.  Illukar las Cor-Ibis must have regained consciousness and asked after her.  That possibility had been part of the reason she had spent so long browsing the offerings of Thrence's markets.  After yesterday's insults, she was not inclined to make life easier for Ibisians.

Wondering when she had developed this inclination to be vindictive, Medair made her way into the dining room.  Thanks to her satchel, she didn't even have to take her shopping upstairs.  Most heralds ended up with their entire lives in their satchels, as she had been warned when she was presented with the deceptively simple leather case.  Not in itself a bad thing, since she could always cast a trace on the satchel, but there were risks.  There had been occasions in the past when satchels had been stolen by those anxious to get at some official document.  Thefts usually ended up with the stolen bags and their contents being destroyed in an effort to break them open.

Medair started her meal with a masterpiece of lamb in black nut sauce, which made her sincerely regret living for half a year on her own cooking and scant supplies.  She was close to finished when Jedda las Theomain and the two other Ibisian Kerise arrived, las Theomain regal in rose and blue, while dragonflies shimmered in the youth's white silks.  The girl was probably of lesser status, her robe muted and not costly.  She had been wearing sword, shirt and trousers the previous evening and Medair noticed that this new outfit had been cut to allow easy access to a weapon belted beneath the open front of the robe.  The other two were unarmed.

Medair carved a sliver of lamb, savouring the bitter delicacy of the sauce.  Then, timing their arrival, she laid her utensils cross-ways on the edge of the plate.  "Keris las Theomain.  Have you come to join me?"

"No," the Keris replied, indifferent to any slight Medair could offer.  "You are required upstairs."

Quite a beautiful woman, with intelligent eyes, but no diplomat.  The youth was most likely related to Cor-Ibis, a resemblance Medair had not remarked before became more obvious when he wore the same expression of thoughtful consideration on his more handsome features.  The part-Ibisian girl was wary, troubled.

"Whatever for?" Medair asked.

"This is not an occasion for questions.  Come with us now."

It had been a long time since Medair had reason or inclination to snub someone, but yesterday had woken pride half-forgotten, and Heralds knew how to be insulting.

"Madam," she said.  "I am sure I do not know why I should be obliged to obey your commands.  Allow me to inform you that I find you abominably rude."

A spark of sudden delight leapt into the eyes of the Kerin in figured white.  He was apparently not a friend to Jedda las Theomain.  Medair, reminded that there was a great deal she did not know, made an effort to swallow her anger.

"However," she said, on a slightly less austere note, "if you would care to sit down with me until I am finished, then I may consent to joining you after.  As it is, you are keeping me from dinner."

If Keris las Theomain had taken a seat and offered, if not an apology, some acknowledgment that Medair was not a serving-girl, she would certainly have endeared herself more than she did by coldly saying: "Bring her," to the girl before walking away.  It was an entirely futile command to give in Kyledra, where an Ibisian trying to force a Farakkian anywhere would create more problems than they solved.