The Silence of Medair

Chapter Sixteen

Incredible as it seemed, in the teeth of the Conflagration they would probably all die of suffocation. The shield kept out the fire, the wind, most of the heat. And the air. The exclusion had been deliberate. It had been important that the shield be complete, not semi-permeable like the one Medair had used in Finrathlar. After all, there was nothing beyond the shield but fire.

She wasn’t sure how long it had been. The soldiers had left the watch-tower soon after it was certain the shield would hold, and Medair had stayed to watch the flames. They took on a greenish tinge, through the blue of the shield, and showed no sign of abating. Enough heat came through to keep Medair sweating, and there was not so much as a hint of breeze.

Medair’s first concern had been that the shield would not last as long as the fire, but she’d had time to think it through, now. How long would it take for a city full of people to use up all the air trapped within the shield? How long before Athere became an expensively preserved tomb?

Even if they survived the Conflagration and the shield released before everyone suffocated, what would they find? Anything at all? Charred earth, the scorched beds of rivers? No crops, no stock, no wild game to hunt. There should be, in Athere, stores enough to do some planting. There might be horses to breed, but few cattle and sheep and birds. Frogs? Dragonflies? Let alone the fodder to maintain what survived. Faced with the prospect of starvation, Medair thought of the Bariback violet, tiny and delicate, and lost forever.

"The sky!"

A single voice from the crowd still lining the walkways. It sparked a series of outcries as eyes sought the apex of the glimmering pyramid and found, as proclaimed, the sky. So commonplace a sight to inspire such a groan of unbridled relief. The shield still held and the fire was waning. Athere had survived the Conflagration.

Like water, the fire drained slowly down the sides of the shield. Medair followed its progress sadly, not wanting to see what it had left behind, not wanting to see the–

–verdant hills. Manicured woodlands. Fields of gently waving corn and wheat. A road paved with stones of lambent silver instead of the familiar, worn grey. In the distance there was a rider, racing towards the city.

Medair, who had suffered many shocks in the last day, swayed invisibly in the watch-tower. She had looked upon the land around Athere countless times, and this was somewhere else. Five hundred years had changed certain features of Palladium, but it had still been the same place. This sculptured landscape of quiet hills and soft curves was… She shook her head.

In the far distance, the mountains which formed the eastern reaches of Farak’s Girdle rose as they always had, yet they seemed higher and darker than before. The glitter of the Tarental River curved to the east, but surely that bend shouldn’t be there? And that bridge, an elegant arch which led to the beginnings of a dark forest where farmland should be? Everything was different and oddly familiar.

"I finally have run mad," she whispered.

The verdant world did not go away. The shield remained, locking out the scene like an image behind glass. It was better, surely, than the ashen char everyone had been expecting, but Medair still stared in blank dismay. She could hear cheers from the wall below, but they were muted, nervous. Frightened.

There was something strange about the rider still racing toward them. No, not the rider, the steed. It took only a moment to isolate why: not only was the animal travelling faster than any horse Medair had ever encountered, it was doing so at about a foot above the ground.

It looked like a horse. A black horse which cantered along with great, smooth strides. Its rider was a woman, dressed in green, black hair flowing in a mass down her back. Long before horse and rider were in hailing distance of the shimmering blue shield, Medair knew she wanted a much closer vantage point.

The Kier’s armed escort, their own horses missing, were holding the crowd back from the open gates. Medair was quick to slip invisibly past and hurry out to the shield. The Kier, with the Keridahl Alar and a cluster of attendants, was standing before the shield, lost in casting. Even as Medair came up, the blue wall dissipated, and a cool, scented breeze swept over the city.

It was all real. Medair stopped where she was, only a short distance from the Kier. Beneath her feet, the grass was withered and brown, a testament to the heat which had beat upon the shield. A few feet away, beyond where the shield had stood, the grass grew lush and moist. She took a few steps forward and then knelt to touch it. Grass, cool beneath her fingers. It smelt real. There was magic everywhere, the lingering remnants of the Conflagration, but the grass was not an illusion. The fire had destroyed Farakkan, then remade it.

The rider on her floating horse was drawing close. Why its hooves should make any noise when they didn’t touch the ground, Medair couldn’t guess. And didn’t try, as she had her first good look at the rider. She had Mersian features, almost exaggeratedly so. Her hair was a mass of thin braids wound with glittering threads. And she wore the uniform of a Herald.

Medair put her hands slowly down on the grass and simply stared.

It wasn’t until the woman dismounted that she was sure it wasn’t the same uniform. In outline it was almost identical to an Imperial Herald’s, but there was no silver badge, no satchel, and there was a device of a tree stitched on the breast. And it was green.

Long before Medair been born, Heralds had worn a thousand combinations of colour to complement every kind of message. That was why the colour-change enchantment had been created. The system had been deemed overly complex during the reign of a former Emperor, and the Heralds had been restricted to three colours. White, red and black. Dark green would have been…marriage tidings? Medair shook her head, numbly. This wasn’t an Imperial Herald. It wasn’t.

"It was a marvel to look upon, Ekarrel," the rider was saying. Medair had missed part of their conversation, while she had crouched on the ground trying not to scream.

"Tell me more of Queen Valera," the Kier responded.

The Mersian looked frankly bewildered, but then, so did most of the Ibisians. "Ekarrel," she said, "I have carried messages between you and My Lady Valera these past five years. I was in My Lady’s escort when she visited the White City two years ago. I do not understand what it is you wish to know."

The horse, a black mare, swung its head in a strangely alert fashion as Medair climbed unsteadily to her feet. The animal seemed to be looking directly at her, and Medair shifted uneasily, not certain whether to be concerned. At least the black’s hooves were for the moment planted firmly on the ground.

The Kier’s voice was as thin and cool as it had been when she’d interviewed Medair. But she looked tired. "This day has brought many strange things to Athere, Heleise of Tir’arlea. The memories you have I do not share. Nor, it seems, does the fire we watched overtake our land remain in your mind."

"Fire?" The Mersian’s gaze rested on the withered grass, a puzzled frown creasing her brow. She shook her head, then continued urgently. "Ekarrel, my message is such that it cannot be delayed, even if it seems you no longer know the one who sends it. Estarion’s armies mass. His mages work spells of great strength and speak of bringing down the White City at dawn. My Lady’s spies send word of a new confidence in the Cloaked Lands. They whisper of a weapon of surpassing strength. Over such a distance a warning is all My Lady can send before the dawn, but if a battle is to be joined, the Lady of Silver-on-Water will not allow her presence to be missed for long."

The woman – the Herald – was sincere, impassioned. She was met by blank silence and her steady gaze faltered.

"The Cloaked Lands?" the Kier said, slowly. "Silver-on-Water? Keris N’Taive, I do not understand you. I do not understand you at all."

The Herald shook her head despairingly. "I know not what subtle magic has stolen your memory, Ekarrel," she said. "In the name of the Holy Four, I know not what to say to you."

Medair looked at the Kier’s still face and wondered if she felt as Medair had, when she’d stumbled into Morning High. That stunning dislocation, that irremediable sense of loss. It seemed all Athere had joined her, out of place.

Kier, Herald and entourage had abandoned their attempts to make sense of each other and gone into Athere. After a short pause, curious Atherians had begun to drift in the opposite direction. Hazed and confused, Medair wandered towards the bridge she could see to the east.

The Tarental glittered in the sunlight. The bridge was yellow-white faintly tinged with pink and apparently carved from a solid block of stone. Medair studied it dubiously. It was honeycombed with an intricate pattern of tiny flowers and she could see the water through the smooth arch across which she was supposed to walk. The little holes gave glimpses of sunlight flashing and glittering on flowing water.

Back where the Tarental curved beneath the wall the Ibisians had constructed, a mounted patrol trotted cautiously out of the nearest gate. People milled all about the city, but few were venturing very far from the walls. The sky was a brilliant, almost violent blue and the air was full of the scents of soil and pollen. It still didn’t seem real; not the grey-white city climbing into the sky, the cool forest at her back, or the fields and hills. Or too real. She felt faded in contrast with this glowing world. Small and insignificant and unreal, a ghost of a woman from a past which wasn’t even right any more.

Belatedly, Medair realised she was suffering the side-effects attendant to wearing the ring of invisibility. None of them were serious, but they went badly with her current state of mind. She immediately removed the ring, then grimaced. Doubtless a few thousand people on Athere’s walls had seen a woman suddenly appear from nowhere at the bridge. Well, she was too far away for anyone to make out her features.

With a shrug, she set her feet upon the bridge, which showed no sign of collapsing or doing anything at all unbridge-like. She wasn’t certain why she’d thought it would. The forest was the shortest of walks away, the trees weaving together into an arch over the path. It hardly seemed natural, it was so perfect. Everything looked so…created, placed for effect.

Dappled shadows and bird song. The forest was restful, with plenty of paths to follow among groves of oak and elder. Medair wandered randomly, climbed a small hill and discovered a tiny valley with a pool at the centre. The trees here were small and carefully tended. Medair stared at them for a long time, then plucked a round, dark berry. A black denan.

It was too much. Dropping the supposedly extinct fruit to the ground, Medair left the forest. By this time, others had reached the trees and she met a half-dozen groups wandering. She avoided speaking with them, and made her way back to Athere, to lose herself among the crowd.

The sun was low. She seemed to have been walking in the woods all day, though it had not felt a quarter so long. Hungry, she found her way to a tavern within Cantry Wall, full of excited people, voices bright with relief and incredulity. She slipped into an empty seat and ordered a meal, then listened to the wild stories being exchanged about the claims of the Mersian Herald.

According to fifth-hand report, the Herald was from Ashencaere, from the Court of Queen Valera in Tir’arlea. That was stunning enough. The Mersians had not had their own court since before the formation of the Palladian Empire. Not since the Silver City, Tir’arlea, had tumbled in arcane war. The Conflagration had conjured Tir’arlea back to life. It was now an ally of Palladium against the Cloaked Lands. Half southern Farakkan had been formed into an Empire by Xarus Estarion, who was a mage. And on the verge of invading Palladium.

"May I join you?"

It was the man who had been serving behind the bar. Young and neat of dress, very Ibisian, yet with a beguiling smile curving his pale lips. He took her hesitation as acquiescence and slid into the seat opposite.

"Your pardon for disturbing you, Kel," he said. "I was wondering if you had been on the southern wall when the Herald arrived, or perhaps had been outside the city after the flames had passed." He shook his head, laughing at her surprised expression. "No, I am no seer. I’ve asked everyone who’s come in and have yet to find a single person who witnessed this woman’s arrival, rather than having spoken to one who spoke to one who was standing behind someone who could see."

He was one of those people of infectious good humour, and Medair tried to smile in return. "I was on the wall," she said, and his face lit up.

"Then tell me, did this Herald really fly in on a winged horse?"

That made her laugh, a brief, surprised burst. "Close," she admitted. "It didn’t have wings, but it, well, rode on the air. It’s a bit hard to describe…its hooves didn’t touch the ground and…it was a little like it bounced along. Effortlessly."

"The world remade." The bartender seemed caught between wonder and horror. "I went down to look, once the crowds had died away a little. It’s eerie: familiar yet strange. And we are wrong here, because we were shielded from the fire. It will be a poor thing if Cor-Ibis has given his life only to make matters worse."

The jolt was palpable. Medair felt as if her pulse had stopped. "He’s dead, then?" she asked, her voice tight. "I didn’t know."

The man grimaced. "In truth, neither do I. Half of those who’ve claimed to know have assured me that he is. The rest agree he is merely blinded, his sight burned beyond recovery. Whether to believe them or those who claim he is spell-shocked or transformed or completely unaffected – when there are so many stories, I choose to believe none. But his name is fated. All who have borne it have made the greatest sacrifice to save the Ibis-lar."

Medair found herself remembering the time she had learned of Kier Ieskar’s death, five hundred years after the fact. This same jolt, as if a prop had been knocked out from beneath the land. She had never really believed he was mortal, let alone slated for such an early demise. He’d only been twenty-three.

It felt just as impossible to picture Illukar las Cor-Ibis dead, that soft voice silenced and those mirror eyes dimmed. "That means Avahn would be Cor-Ibis, now," she said, slowly. Surely it was impossible.

"I heard tell he was one of those who cast the great shield. That’s scarcely believable in itself. When did Avahn last study? But he has always been one who surprises. I don’t think he’ll be happy to come so soon to the title."

"You know him?" Medair asked, blinking.

"He comes here often," the bartender told her, with the pleased air of one who knows the benefits of illustrious patronage. "Or came. Who knows how being Cor-Ibis will change him?"

"Jaith!"

An urgent summons from the doorway. Medair’s companion turned, frowning in confusion. Then he froze, jaw dropping.

"Esta?" he gasped, sounding not altogether certain.

"You know me, don’t you Jaith?" the woman asked, a note of pleading in her voice. She was pure Ibisian, a few years Medair’s senior, and in much disarray. White hair fell loosely over her face and there was dust on her clothes.

"Esta?" Jaith repeated, more loudly. He rose falteringly to his feet. "It is you, isn’t it?"

"Who else would it be?" the woman replied, caught between exasperation and desperation. "Has everyone gone mad?"

"What happened to you?"

"To me?! Nothing’s happened to me! It’s all of you who’ve run mad! And worse. Jaith, I was just at mother’s – I don’t understand what–" The woman shook her head, lifting hands to press against her temples while the occupants of the tavern shifted uneasily about her.

"Tell me what happened, Esta," Jaith commanded, walking forward and, after a slight hesitation, taking the woman’s hand.

The woman wrapped her arms around Jaith’s waist, holding on to him like an anchor in a storm, not seeing the discomfort on his face.

"Mother’s different, Jaith. I don’t understand. I’m just back from Callamere – delivering the kabli-man’s order, you know. There are all these people roaming about outside the city walls, looking as stunned as pole-axed cows. I avoided them, as best I could. And something has killed all the grass around the walls – at least a hundred feet out. Inside the walls, it was just the same – people roaming about aimlessly and talking all the while about something called the Conflagration and fires and who knows what? I thought Mother would explain, but she… she…"

"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.