The Silence of Medair

Chapter Fourteen

A hall of light, heat, heady scents and noise. Muted conversation punctuated with soft laughter, the clatter of cutlery and ting of glasses. Unexpected gaiety for Ibisians. The old formalities seemed to have eroded severely in this particular facet of life. Only the sweet, sharp notes of a triband and certain spicy scents served to remind Medair of her Herald’s guesting among the enemy. That and all the pale, shining hair, of course.

At least half the hall was blonde and the majority of the rest white, but Medair was surprised to see a goodly scattering of darker shades. Farakkians, dressed as Ibisians, with jade and bloodstone and even tiger’s eye in their ears. Their presence made Medair feel queasy.

"Lathan’s here!" Avahn hissed, sounding genuinely excited as he guided her toward a table where two empty seats waited. Kept for them, Medair realised, seeing Ileaha watching them approach. Nor was Ileaha the only interested observer – all around the room pale eyes fixed on Medair and voices hushed momentarily, before returning to a more ordinary volume.

"I’ll be back in a moment," Avahn said, politely drawing out a chair before absconding. Off to talk to the triband player, whom Medair was able to glimpse in pale profile as she sat down.

"Hello Ileaha," Medair said, with a faint approximation of a smile. She didn’t quite feel any of this was real. She had given her satchel to Ibisians, and at the next table she could see a woman the very image of Jorlaise an Vedlar, her left ear studded with bloodstone.

"Kel ar Corleaux." Despite their exchange of name-gift in Finrathlar, Ileaha greeted her with formal circumspection. "How are you?"

"Much the same." Positioning her chair a little more conveniently, Medair tried to concentrate on the collection of Ibisian nobility ornamenting her end of their table. All were young, with jade in their left ears. Only one other showed the marked taint of Farakkian blood visible in Ileaha’s colouring. Their silent interest left Medair casting about for some innocuous subject, but she was saved the trouble by the young man on her left. He was a pale blond, with serious grey eyes, serene and intelligent.

"Will you not introduce us, Ileaha?" he asked.

"Of course," Ileaha replied, colourlessly. "Kerin Mylar Vehl las Cor-Ibis, Keris Surreive Alai las Varentar, Keris Estal Jhet las Estasas, Kerin Adlenkar Tiend las Cor-Ibis, this is Kel Medair ar Corleaux."

"So it’s true!" This soft, delighted exclamation broke from the lips of the handsome man directly across from Medair. "Cor-Ibis shelters a Medarist. What a magnificent joke!"

This was substantially the same reaction as Avahn’s, back in Thrence, but tonight it rankled, perhaps because he used a language she was not expected to understand. Medair had to bite back the words which rose to her lips.

"Don’t gloat, Adlenkar," the one called Surreive said, her voice weary and derisive. Her eyes were distinctively heavy-lidded. "It’s not becoming."

"I detect deep manoeuvres," said the woman introduced as Estal las Estasas, ignoring Surreive’s hint to keep the conversation in Parlance, not Ibis-laran. "You’ve been holding back on us, Ileaha."

Ileaha looked down at her hands. Then, pointedly ignoring the woman’s comment, she said: "Your arrival is fortuitous, Medair. Lathan is always travelling, and it seems he has hardly been in Athere these past few years."

Thinking that the musician’s playing was so obscured by the hum of conversation that he might as well not be present, Medair smiled politely and glanced in the man’s direction. She was in time to meet Avahn’s speculative gaze as he headed back towards them. He immediately replaced it with a more frivolous expression, but it served to further upset Medair’s calm. She smelled plots, and she no longer had the resources of her satchel, of all those trinkets and toys that could solve every problem but not give her a single thing she wanted. Just a woman on her own, among all these White Snakes.

A spate of greetings across the table kept the air busy as Avahn took his place at Medair’s right. The hint of tension did not surprise her. She had recognised the names of those Ileaha had mentioned as Cor-Ibis' potential heirs. This group did not gather by chance. Long years of being thrown together in the Keridahl’s entourage would have formed strong bonds of both habit and rivalry. She imagined it had been a closely-matched contest. Only Avahn and Ileaha did not wear a sigil of attainment in their right ears. Kerin Mylar had already reached the second rank of adept, which was quite an achievement for one who could not yet have twenty-five years. Medair was not familiar enough with the sigils to understand the exact ranks of the others, but she knew they were only worn by those who had reached a certain high standard.

Listening to their chatter, Medair selected a few morsels from the ravaged platter weighing their end of the table. It didn’t take long for the polite exchanges to give way to the topic of such apparent interest to all Athere.

"You must tell us, Avahn," said Estal las Estasas, "whether travelling with a Medarist affords more entertainment or irritation. It amazes me that Cor-Ibis would tolerate such company."

Avahn looked across the table amiably and answered in Farrakian: "Our esteemed cousin is often a cause for amazement, Estal. And I believe he finds Medair exceedingly entertaining, since he is so rarely posed such an opaque puzzle. Irritated, however? No, it has been my observation that only a crass lack of manners or stupidity in one capable of more is likely to irritate him. The combination of those two faults, now that is something he would not be alone in finding intolerable."

The Keris turned a pretty shade of pale violet. "Well said, Avahn," Surreive complimented, as if she were an exacting judge of scathing remarks.

"Wholly uncalled for," said Adlenkar, with just a hint of a snap.

"Too mild," Avahn returned, voice as milk-like as his complexion.

"And now, perhaps, we might consider not talking about Avahn’s guest as if she were not present?" Mylar said, his voice cutting effortlessly into the brewing dispute. He smiled at Medair as she turned toward him. "A name is a powerful thing, Kel ar Corleaux. I don’t believe I’ve ever met one who shares yours, for all its notoriety. I’m glad to see that today’s bearers do not always dishonour the legends of the past."

"Kind words," Medair replied. She didn’t like being called a legend of the past.

"I asked Lathan to play Lady of the Hills for you, Medair," Avahn said, abandoning more provoking topics. "It’s very bad form not to know your Telsen."

"I can think of a more appropriate song," Adlenkar said in an audible undertone to Surreive. The Keris smiled thinly.

Restraining any number of statements regarding her familiarity with Telsen, Medair wondered if she had the patience to sit at this table of White Snakes. She was in no mood to make polite conversation or parry questions and incomprehensible insults. She no longer wore the uniform and obligations of a Herald. Her actions were her own and reflected on no-one. She could choose to offend whomever she liked.

The attractive prospect of a quiet meal alone in her room receded as the man who had been plucking aimlessly at the triband produced a more focused sequence of notes. A murmur of recognition ran through the dining hall, followed by an obedient hush. Then Lathan began to sing, sweet and grave.

It was "Faran’s Lament". Telsen had never been satisfied with the melody and had forever been making alterations. Medair hadn’t quite understood what he found to be lacking, and listened as raptly as the rest of the diners. Lathan’s sombre voice transformed the melancholy ballad into something sublimely haunting. The triband was an Ibisian instrument, but could have been designed for Telsen’s intricate style. He would have been pleased.

A soft storm of Ibisian "applause" rose as the final notes died away. Ibis-lar did not clap their hands, but would instead say "ahlau" as a mark of approval, several times if truly impressed. It did, as Jorlaise had once said, sound a little like they were all sneezing.

Avahn looked to her for approval, as if Lathan were a favoured protégé. "He’s remarkable," Medair said, sincerely.

"A true child of Telsen," Avahn agreed, unwittingly replacing Medair’s pleasure with a whole host of ambiguous and conflicting feelings. Did Avahn mean that the Ibisian musician was literally a descendent of Telsen, or merely following his artistic lead? She speculated on the identity of the possible mother of Telsen’s child while Lathan continued to play. The music was more cheerful, wholly unfamiliar, and she did not pay it a great deal of attention. Avahn was probably disappointed to find her not captivated, but he made no attempt to coax her out of her distraction. Servitors came from table to table during the short pauses between each piece, and there would be a brief clatter of noise before Lathan launched into another song.

A difference, a marked tension in the hush which greeted the fourth song, woke Medair from thoughts of paternity. She looked up, and discovered the trio of Kerine on the other side of the table were all watching her with an air of…expectation. A glance at Avahn found him troubled, clear gaze also fixed on her.

She shifted her attention to the rest of the room, and saw that the High Table was still empty of royal presence. Then she focused on the words now being woven into the complex melody. It was another Telsen – she recognised his style from long familiarity, though the piece was new to her. A ballad of unrequited love, it seemed, poignant and starkly beautiful. Quite possibly one of his best, a masterwork, but she could not see–

They were all watching, and so all had the pleasure of observing the sudden stillness, the widened eyes, disbelief, chagrin, dismay and anger which marched in careless progression across her face. When she reached the point of fury, she remembered herself enough to shut down all expression.

A song of unrequited love. A tale of a man in pursuit of an elusive woman, as unforgettable as the song with which he had immortalised her.

I found the words, laid bare my soul.

To the lady fair.

Now I stumble lost, heart echoing;

In the Silence of Medair.

That Telsen had taken her name and rewritten their brief relationship, Medair might have eventually been able to forgive. But he had not stopped there. Instead, he had used his talent as a song-smith to depict a time of war, where Medair seemed to be enacting a role far more risky than what she knew personally of Heralds. The song made Telsen out to be constantly worrying about Medair’s safety, not to mention jealously convinced that she’d started a romance with someone else.

The refrain altered slightly with each repetition, but always closed with the phrase the Silence of Medair. The final line saw the singer standing on the walls of a besieged city, staring vainly south, waiting for a woman who had become the only hope of victory. This was truly Telsen’s masterwork. She could almost see him, on Shield Wall perhaps, gazing towards distant mountains, straining to catch some glimpse of a lone woman returning from a quest of endless peril, to hear the voice of the Horn of Farak lifted in triumph, but hearing only…

"The Silence of Medair," Surreive said. Medair was staring blindly at her plate. "Undying hope. I believe that song might well have become an anthem for those who take her name, if only it had been set to a simpler tune."

"A little too melancholy, surely," murmured Mylar.

"A little too close to the bone, you mean," put in Adlenkar. "It hints too broadly at the truth."

"What truth is that?" Medair asked, around the hurt and anger in her throat.

The Ibisian lordling looked surprised. "Why, that they were lovers of course."

Medair shook her head, uncomprehending. "Telsen had many lovers. What does that matter?"

"Not Telsen." Adlenkar’s eyes were wide and curious. "The Herald and the Niadril Kier."

Medair stopped breathing, sat helplessly as the words forced themselves upon her consciousness. Herald. Kier. But it wasn’t just the words, it was the tone, it was the of course.

"You truly believe that, don’t you?" she managed, her voice a strangled whisper. "You’re not even trying to be provoking. You speak as if repeating established fact."

"And so I do," Adlenkar said, eyeing her now as if he suspected some infirmity of the mind.

"A theory, Adlenkar," admonished Mylar. "One of many. No proof at all, no way to judge."

"A popular theory," Surreive offered, in an idle, dangerous voice. "Tell me something, Medair ar Corleaux. Ileaha has assured me, in one of her futile attempts at peacemaking, that you have repudiated any association with Medarists, that you have not taken your name as a banner of war. Why, then, does this old, tired saga cost you so much? Why do you look at me with hate in your eyes?"

"Is that what you see?" Medair asked, in a too-high voice, knowing herself to be on the edge of hysteria. "Hate?"

"Medair?" Avahn, fatally, reached a hand to touch her arm and she jerked from his fingers. Her chair clattered backwards onto the floor and the hall fell into interested silence. Dozens of White Snakes were watching the scene play out, enjoying this Farakkian interloper being overset in their conquered domain. Medair gulped back a harsh breath, and closed her hands into fists, not allowing them to send her scurrying wholly defeated from the hall.

"That is," she said, slowly, "the first time anyone has suggested to me that your Niadril Kier was without honour. It is a point I believe I shall have to ponder further."

Medair took another heavy breath, in the shocked hush which followed this piece of heresy. Then, head held high, she walked with a ragged assumption of calm from the hall, through the tower, all the way back to the room which had been given to her. She locked the door firmly behind her, lay down on the bed, and allowed herself to weep.

The view of the city from the balcony had eventually proven more of an attraction than snuffling into her pillow. She stood leaning on the cool stone, sheltered by night, thinking about everything but the distant past. Everything but–

Biting her lip, she shied away from the thought, but there was no escaping what she had heard that evening. Stupid over-reaction on her part, really. It was not as if it had never been suggested before. Two years of war, endless games of marrat with Kier Ieskar. More than one person among the beleaguered defenders, not knowing of constant attendants, not knowing the laws which governed the Kier, had made suggestions. But none of them had actually believed it!

To question a Herald’s honour was no small thing. To suggest–! Jennet had knocked down that fool Soven, when he had asked Medair if it were true that Ibisians had blue spines, and even that had only been provocation, not accusation. Medair was an Imperial Herald. One of the Emperor’s Mouths, as the Dukes had been his Hands. A Herald spoke the Emperor’s words, acted as the Emperor’s ears, was unmolested even in the midst of battle. A position of great trust, attained by a rare few. Medair had served Palladium with all her heart, and now, it seemed, people believed she had gone to the enemy’s bed. A popular theory, even among Ibisians.

Ieskar had been compelling. Brilliant. Frighteningly observant. An attractive, willowy young man whose pale eyes could cut you to the core. Medair had hated him. Loathed him for destroying her world. She had no idea how she would have felt, if she had known him as other than invader. It was impossible to divorce the person from his deeds.

It was probable, she supposed, that he had liked her. He had after all commanded her company. She had long refused to think of it that way, to think of him as a man at all. Had he known of that popular theory, or had it only grown in force after his death? Had he ever heard that song? She could not understand how it was that the Ibisians tolerated its subject. Not only did it depict them as the enemy, and close on the hope of rescue, but it suggested that their revered Niadril Kier had done something which broke their precious laws and was also incredibly dishonourable. Seduce the Herald of the enemy? Had they forgotten that he was forbidden any touch?

But what Adlenkar had claimed might not have been how the song was regarded at the time. She could not imagine any of the Ibisians who had fled Sar-Ibis even momentarily believing that Kier Ieskar would cast off the restrictions which bound him, however obsolete those laws had become with the destruction of Sar-Ibis.

Today – it was only a song, and a popular theory, established by long centuries of speculation by people who no longer lived to the strictest rule of Ibisian culture. Who laughed over their meals, and said pettish things and looked directly at strangers. Did Surreive and Adlenkar even understand what they had suggested?

And, she had to remember, the Heraldic tradition of the Palladian Empire had died after the invasion, its codes superseded by Ibisian practices. A Herald whose actions among the enemy were anything but formal and correct was behaving unprofessionally. A Herald who went to the bed of the enemy’s leader might as well fight at his side. Treason. Did time really obscure the situation that greatly? Could they not see what they had been suggesting, what reflection this would be on the morals of both involved? How utterly impossible it would have been?

"Kel."

Medair turned her head to consider Cor-Ibis. The light of the mageglow which had been set in the hallway limned him with a faint blue aura. An outline of a man with a soft, cool voice.

"Keridahl."

Joining her in shadow, he handed her the satchel.

"I give to you my thanks, Kel, and those of my Kier," he said formally.

Medair ran her hands briefly over the familiar leather. Did she regret that the Ibisians had not inadvertently destroyed it? Probably not. It was hers, after all. All that she had left.

"It would be a kindness, Kel, if you did not leave Athere without speaking to Avahn. He believes he has wronged you."

"He did ask Lathan to play it, then."

"At my instigation."

So calmly said. She responded in kind. "Were you pleased with the result, Keridahl?"

"A miscalculation on my part. I had assumed that the song was so famed that no-one could have escaped hearing it."

"Infamous," Medair muttered.

"Even so. Although it is not without merit to have Surreive forced to regret one of her games, I cannot say I am pleased with the results of our experiment. It has merely raised more questions, with no prospect of answers."

"You have my sympathy, Keridahl." Medair shook her head, wishing he would go, then straightened, and looked at the milk and midnight face inclined courteously towards her. "I pose no threat to Palladium, am in league with none of her enemies. I will take no part in the coming war and, leaving with the dawn, will never see any of you again. You have a love of mystery, it seems, for you continue to attempt to solve mine. I will not tell you my past and I doubt your current theories tally at all closely with the truth. Leave it be, Keridahl."

That silenced him, at least momentarily, and he turned to study the jagged horizon, where Farak’s Girdle separated Palladium and Decia.

"My current theories, Kel," he said, eventually, "have the virtue of fitting the facts, the flaw of lack of proof, and the fatal weakness of not convincing me with their arguments."

"And you would like to tell them to me, to see what you can glean from my reactions," she observed, weary.

He did not deny it, quite possibly smiled in the darkness. "Would you object, Kel?"

"I am no longer certain I care, Keridahl."

He paused again, out of guilt she hoped, before beginning.

"The name Medair is never given or taken lightly," he told her. "Combined with your satchel, it is obviously more significant in your case than a name your mother gave you. But you are not a Medarist. No Medarist would deny her cause, or aid Ibis-lar. Are you familiar, Kel, with the belief that Medair an Rynstar will be reborn, to rid Farak of the scourge which descended upon it five hundred years ago?"

"I am not Medair an Rynstar reborn," Medair told him, an edge to her voice.

"I do not suggest it. But it is a legend of great strength, and the appearance of a convincing pretender has been used as a weapon on two occasions in the past. The deceits were uncovered, but the belief in her return remains, unwavering. Consider for a moment, Kel, in this time of approaching war, what the effect would be of a woman who was not pretending to be Medair an Rynstar reborn, but who was raised to believe that she was in truth legend given new life, whose entire existence had been carefully orchestrated to give foundation to the lie."

Medair stared at his shadowed face. "That’s your theory? You think that fits what facts you have about me?"

"Not quite. But picture this woman, who has been told all her life that she is Medair an Rynstar reborn, who has witnessed various events which make her believe this. She is trained as a Herald, her hatred of Ibis-lar instilled from birth. She has been given a satchel in honour of her supposed past, possibly been told that it is the original satchel carried by her namesake. Perhaps she has been subjected to arcane manipulation. She might even remember events of the distant past. For a skilled adept of sufficient imagination, it is not too difficult to plant images in a sleeping mind. Memories real enough to her to convince any spell of her veracity. Picture her discovering the truth."

It was a compelling image. Medair considered it until the Keridahl spoke again.

"Such a woman could be expected to flee from those who had manipulated her. And be pursued."

Medair made a sharp movement with her head, and he nodded. "A woman such as this might even be worth the risk Vorclase took venturing into Finrathlar. Avahn is certainly not worth so much to the South."

"You’re right, Keridahl," Medair announced. "It does fit what facts you know, if somewhat imaginatively."

"And is not correct," he concluded.

"Not at all."

"A pity. I do, as you say, have a fondness for mysteries, but I can see no way to pursue this one. You leave on the morrow, Kel?"

"At dawn." Her tone warned him not to argue, but he made no attempt. Of course, she had little doubt that someone would be set to follow her, once she’d left Athere. But with her ward against traces and her ring of invisibility, she refused to be concerned.

"I still owe you a great debt," Cor-Ibis said.

"I sorrow for you."

She thought he smiled, and found that she wished she could see his expression. It was suddenly hard to believe that she would never see him again. She had saved his life, and he had – what?

"Is there anything I can do to help, Kel?" he asked. His voice was grave, genuinely concerned. Strangely young. "Captain Vorclase is a formidable man, and I cannot like leaving you undefended."

"He’d have to find me first," Medair said, off-balance. This didn’t feel like another ploy to extract her secrets.

"I fear he is quite capable of that. At the very least, do not forget the debts owed to you. Call on Palladium’s protection, if there is need."

"I will remember, Keridahl. But I don’t think there’ll be a need."

And still he didn’t go, just stood there in the dark looking at her. The hesitation was so out of character, she wondered if he were debating keeping her prisoner. But then he said: "As you wish, Kel."

His voice was oddly constrained, and he took a sudden step back, glancing at Athere’s lights. "You will speak to Avahn?" he asked, sounding more like himself.

Medair’s turn to hesitate. Then she shook her head. "Avahn is correct. He has wronged me. Perhaps in future he’ll be able to distinguish a person from a puzzle. But you may tell him that I lay the blame firmly at your door, if you wish."

"I will do that."

The Keridahl inclined his head in a gesture of sincere respect.

"Goodbye, Medair," he said, and walked away without a backward glance, leaving her staring in confusion after him. The ineffably correct Illukar las Cor-Ibis, using someone’s personal name without formally asking for it? She would sooner expect Jedda las Theomain to kiss her good morning.

It was a long time before Medair left the balcony, and half the night was gone before she succeeded in capturing sleep.