The Silence of Medair

Chapter One

Sunlight on metal. A flash on the lower slopes, gone before she looked up, but enough to leave Medair staring down beyond the trees which hid her cottage. Had she imagined that momentary brightness, caught only in the corner of her eye, or was there truly another living person on Bariback Mountain?

She was keeping company with the wind, high on a slope where goats had once been taken to graze. The idea of movement did not fit with the drowsy scent of Bariback violets, the drone of the bees, and the way the breeze dried the sweat on her skin. The sky was an eternal, unblemished blue which gave no hint of the storm that would inevitably follow so many damp, sticky days, and the whole world must surely be dozing. It had been her imagination, nothing more.

Oblivious to Medair’s opinions, the flash came again. Feeling abruptly exposed, she stared down Bariback’s northern face. The mountain did not bother with foothills, rising directly to a blunt peak, with only trees to break up the incline. At its base, past the wooded middle slopes and patchily cleared lower reaches, a river snaked through farmland long left untilled. Beyond was Bariback Forest, so useful in ensuring Medair’s isolation.

There was no sign of movement in the vista below, but she couldn’t stay up here without checking. Swiping sweat-damp blonde hair off her forehead, Medair started down.

Still not entirely convinced that the flash had been real, she dawdled, the usual reluctance she felt when returning doubled by the oppressive warmth of the day. Even when the weather was not this humid, the cool and splendid solitude of the heights had become something she craved. Needed. She could not run from her memories, but the vastness of the upper slopes somehow kept them at a distance.

Medair halted at the sight of a line of horsemen below. Six riders, with two sturdy donkeys trailing on lead. They were too far away to make out more than the vaguest details, and she wished she hadn’t fallen out of the habit of taking her little spyglass with her on trips up the mountain. But hindsight was no benefit to the ill-prepared.

Remembering who had first said that to her, Medair cursed all White Snakes, and one in particular. No matter how she tried to cast it out, that soft, level voice would insinuate itself into her thoughts. Thrusting unwanted memory away, she watched the line of horses disappear into the trees. They were heading directly for her cottage.

Could these be settlers? A group of survivors returning to the village decaying on the lower slopes? Or newcomers to the area, made homeless by unrest elsewhere and lured by tales of deserted farms? She was surely not the only person in Farakkan desperate enough to risk lingering disease. There had been that trapper on the slopes in Winter. Perhaps he had spread word of the same discovery Medair had made: the plague had gone.

Six horses and two donkeys didn’t suggest poverty or desperation. A prospecting group, perhaps, uncaring that centuries of delvers had declared Bariback worth no effort? Or something else? Disquiet gripped her, not least because she didn’t think she could face people of any kind.

She wouldn’t find answers standing around like an idiot. And it was important to reach the cottage first, because she hadn’t brought her satchel with her, had thrust it under a bench at the beginning of Winter in some vain attempt to erase what it represented simply by hiding it from sight. Despite all that had happened, she couldn’t leave the Emperor’s gift there for strangers to find.

Setting out at a trot, Medair estimated how long before the riders would reach her cottage, and pushed herself hard to make sure she was there before them. It was not home, but she had made the place hers. She had patched the holes in the walls, replaced the mattress with something bearable, had eaten her meals at the scarred table, and buried the former occupant out the back. A stupid risk, when the local mages evidently hadn’t been able to combat the disease which had killed the village. But she hadn’t cared.

Nor did she care to wait meekly at the cottage for these riders. Even if they didn’t happen to be bandits, the idea of talking to people seemed impossible. Not when they would ask questions, or say devastating things quite unintentionally, and look at her with eyes that tried to guess her place in the world.

That thought reminded Medair of her worn boots, inexpertly patched trousers, the grey colour of once white shirts, and her unfortunate hair, which she had decided to leave alone rather than try and trim with a knife. She had truly not been prepared for the realities of life when she went into self-imposed exile, was ragged in a way she had once never dreamed of being. If the riders were settlers, she might be able to trade for a few essentials, perhaps even allow herself to become part of a community. If. If they were settlers. If she could stand their curiosity and the mute pressure of her own shame.

Panting after her run, Medair strode into the cramped room which had been her Winter home and snatched her satchel from beneath the workbench. Sturdy, adorned only with a small embossed scroll on the flap, it had once been both a symbol of achievement and a practical tool of office. Five hundred years ago, before the Ibisians had destroyed the Palladian Empire. Gripping the familiar leather, she tried to decide what to do next.

The memory of what had happened the last time she’d told someone her name was enough to push Medair toward the side of caution. She would hide until she knew if these newcomers planned to stay or go and if they stayed, perhaps she would go. It would be easier to travel than to try and belong.

Her decision made, Medair hurriedly snatched up loose possessions. Knives, blankets, clothes, canteen, whatever food came to hand. She drained a water jug before thrusting it in after the tools she had gathered from the plague-gutted village, then glanced about for anything else which would fit through her satchel’s mouth.

Having shoved three times its volume into the satchel’s cool interior without distorting the leather in any way, Medair slipped the strap over her head in a move which remained instinctive. The satchel swung innocuously against her hip. If she were to start travelling again, she would shorten the strap and wear it on her back, so it would not disturb her stride with its slight weight. Just now it was at exactly the right spot for her to reach down and open it, dip her hand in without having to stretch.

She brought out a ring, gold twined with some black metal, of a size for a man’s hand. Standing in the doorway of the cottage, she studied it for a long moment, this tiny representative of what was hidden in a satchel which had lain under a bench with the dust mice because she couldn’t bear to think about it. The rings – for there were more than a dozen – had been laid out in a glittering line on an ebon-black table. They had not been her goal, but she’d taken them, along with all the portable magical relicts which had been in the cave where she’d spent that long night. She’d planned to give them to the adepts to study, to turn to the cause which had sent her searching out their hiding place. The cause she’d betrayed in sleep.

Medair had learned the function of three of the rings through trial and error, since she wasn’t mage enough to do a proper divination. Invisibility, strength, animal control. They had been useful in occasional times of need, but she’d only used the fourth once. After the fourth, she hadn’t been fool enough to put any others on her fingers.

Now, she slid the black and gold ring over the knuckle of her right thumb and studied her hand as the weed-studded dirt became visible through her flesh, then grimaced at the uncertain quaver of her stomach, which did not at all appreciate whatever it was invisibility did to her. But queasiness seemed an easier thing to deal with than people.

Standing by her cottage door, Medair caught her breath as a man stepped out of the trees. He was wearing a fur jerkin too warm for the weather, and she recognised the trapper she’d glimpsed on the lower slopes in winter. Those who followed were not quite so cat-quiet, but they were good, and Medair breathed more shallowly, willing herself into utter immobility. Not settlers, not prospectors: warriors.

As she watched armed men stalking her empty cottage, Medair had to grit her teeth to stop herself from bolting. It had been a mistake to wait, though there’d been no way she could have anticipated this. She’d never had anyone come after her with swords. Never. The idea made her cringe.

There were five men in the open now, the sixth rider perhaps remaining with the horses, back where any noise they might make would not disturb this hunt. The trapper dropped to one side, allowing the others to do the stalking, and these four crept toward her in a way which was both unnerving and ridiculous to watch.

They were too uniformly equipped to be mercenaries. Mercenaries usually supplied their own armour – hotchpotches of plate, leather and chain scavenged, inherited or purchased. These men all wore leather, well-fitted, over dark grey clothing. A uniform, despite the lack of any insignia of rank or mark of allegiance, and they displayed practiced team-work as two stalked the door direct, the other pair circling to prevent escape from any windows or rear exits. One of the men was ginger-haired and freckled, with a tilt to his eyes which suggested Mersian blood. The rest were tanned and had the dark brown hair and hawk-nosed profiles of Decians.

The tiny hand movements they used for communication told her they were no ordinary soldiers. Scouts? Some sort of elite squad? She closed her beringed hand into a fist. None of them looked like a user of magic, but it was not as if they were Ibisians with their earrings to declare status. If they were anything like the Black Hawks, the Special Assignments Division of the Emperor’s armies, there would be magi among them.

It was very difficult not to move then, as the Decians crept towards her. A magic like the ring’s would not trumpet itself, but if a mage came close enough to touch her, he would feel an echo of its power. Even Medair’s negligible abilities would alert her to an invisible person standing a foot away. Farak, they could probably smell her if they paid attention: she’d sweated more than enough coming down the mountain, and hadn’t bathed daily for centuries.

The contents of her satchel were her advantage: they would surely not have anticipated an invisible target, any more than she had expected soldiers. She couldn’t guess how anyone knew to look for her.

What they were expecting was the important question. They could not possibly know. Her hand brushed the leather of her satchel, and at the thought of all it contained she shuddered. How could these men be looking for her, Medair an Rynstar, and the prizes of her wildly successful, fruitless quest?

Decia, largest of the southern duchies, had always been stalwartly loyal to the Palladian Emperor, and the kingdom it had become was still at odds with the Ibisian conquerors. But Medair knew she couldn’t become part of that struggle, even though she hated what the Ibisians had done. If these people really were looking for her, knew who she was, what she carried – she had to get away.

Medair noticed another man standing at the forest’s edge just as the lead two rushed the cottage, swords drawn. Another Decian, he was dressed like the rest, a light sword at his side. His eyes were on the door as the man whose commanding gestures marked him as leader emerged, frowning, and shook his head once. The five gathered together, only the trapper standing apart, watching with wary interest. Two feet away from the nearest man, Medair practically stopped breathing.

"Looks like she’s run," the leader said, with just an edge of anger. "Place has been emptied. How long before you can locate her?"

"Half a decem or less, with a hair or some personal item – presuming she’s still within range. If she’s more than a few miles away, a different, less precise trace will be needed." The latecomer raised an equivocal shoulder.

"Likely she’s hopped just before us. Go to it, then."

The latecomer detached himself from the group, then hesitated at the threshold. "She’s a mage," he said over his shoulder, closing his eyes and holding his head to one side, listening to something only mages could hear. "There’s traces of power lingering. Possibly something to confuse her trail. It’s very, very recent."

"Seb, Norruce – a quick circle, if you will. Try and isolate her most recent movements, the direction she went."

Touching hands to foreheads, two men with a distinct, brotherly resemblance began an intent study of the ground, moving in outward spirals. Medair tried not to think what their tracking would reveal.

"Glyn, send our guide on his way," the leader ordered.

The Mersian nodded, but lingered. "Could she have been warned?"

The leader shrugged. "It seems unlikely. We were exposed more than once on the trip up – if she’s as valuable as it sounds the sight of any stranger might well send her skittering. She won’t get far."

"She better not. We’ve only the vaguest idea what she looks like, Sir! We don’t have the resources to track her if she reaches a more populated area and even if the Kyledrans were of a mind to cooperate, how would we know if they found the right person when no-one’s come close enough to know her face? We don’t even have a name!"

"You underestimate us, Glyn," the leader replied. "Go."

"Yessir," muttered the Mersian, rebuked. The leader entered the cottage and Medair took the opportunity to move after the Mersian. She’d almost caught up with him as he politely thanked the trapper and hinted at the possibility of a bonus.

"Now, that’s good of you, sir," the trapper began, then sighed, eyes widening. For one astonished instant Medair thought that the man had seen her despite the ring. Then he fell. The Mersian bent to wipe a blade on the fur-lined vest, replaced it within a sheath hidden at his wrist, and strolled on into the trees, humming softly.

Shuddering, Medair followed as close on his heels as she dared. They didn’t know who she was, didn’t know what she looked like. Were about to use magic to locate her. She didn’t have any protection against a trace.

The Mersian whirled, knife in hand. Freezing, Medair swallowed her breath and watched him searching the trees. He was thorough, standing as still as she, eyes roving even up into the branches. Of course he saw nothing, but he was not convinced and began walking at a much slower rate, placing his feet with care. Invisibility was no protection against a knife, so Medair circled, guessing the most logical place for horses to have been left and coming up even with him some ten feet to his right. She tried to match the careful placement of his feet, putting hers to earth at the same time he did so that he would not be wholly certain any slight noise she made was not his own.

When he reached the cluster of mounts tethered in a small clearing, he appeared to shrug off his concern and bent to examine one bay’s hoof. Not accepting this clear invitation, Medair picked up a fallen branch, concealing the eerily floating object behind the nearest tree while she waited for the ring to include it in her invisibility. The wood was mouldering, unpleasant to touch, but testing revealed that it hadn’t rotted to the point of being unsound. It would do, presuming she could bring herself to hit someone.

Medair watched as the Mersian became more businesslike. He was still alert, still watching, not ignoring the signals his instincts were sending him merely because no attacker had rushed to take him so before moving she squatted to her heels again and palmed a clutch of walnut-sized stones.

When she had approached as close as she dared, just as the nearest of the horses was flicking an ear in response to the scent of sweaty human female, she tossed the smallest of the stones far across the clearing. The Mersian pivoted at the muted impact and Medair took those vital two steps closer. The horses reacted, snorting and shifting, so she didn’t hesitate in sending the rest of the stones up in a high arc, then immediately gripping her weapon with two firm hands.

Her timing was good. Moments before she estimated the stones should land she tensed, began the last step forward, swinging the hunk of wood back as the knife reappeared in the Mersian’s hand. He was starting to turn towards her, then there was a thumping patter of stones landing and he hesitated long enough for her to solidly dint his skull, knocking him to the ground.

Face-down, the man was still groggily conscious, but Medair dropped her weapon anyway, revolted by the idea of hitting him again. As the horses crowded away from them, she pulled off her black and gold ring and groped in her satchel. The animal control ring was a small braid of silver, and she jammed it on her pinkie finger, wishing that it were possible to wear two rings at once, wishing this wasn’t happening.

The horses immediately stopped jumping about. Medair hastily unlooped all but the two donkeys, then hoisted herself up onto a grey. Questing about with her toe for the other stirrup, she cast one anxious glance back toward her cottage, then led an equine stream away from the dangerous men who had been sent, for whatever reason, to capture her.

Away from solitude.