The Silence of Medair

Chapter Twenty

A light tap on the door.

"Medair?"

Avahn’s voice. Medair paused in the middle of fastening her tunic.

"Yes?" she asked, stalling.

"You are here." He sounded relieved. "I’ve been sent to collect you. Can I come in?"

After a glance at the bed, Medair closed the last three buttons, and said: "Yes."

As the door opened, she picked up the cloak. When she’d first been given the uniform, she’d made a great play of swirling it about her when she dressed. Now, as a startled Avahn took in her clothing, she merely arranged folds of pearlescent grey properly to cover one shoulder, and clipped the two ends together with the strangle-knot clasp.

"A rare occasion indeed," Avahn managed, though there was shock in the voice he meant to keep light. "Illukar is hardly ever wrong, and he did most particularly believe you were not going to declare yourself Medair an Rynstar reborn."

"You’ve stopped calling him my esteemed cousin," Medair said.

"He gave me his name." At another time, Avahn would not have hidden his pleasure. Now he was merely distracted.

"Mm. I am not going to declare myself anything reborn, Avahn."

Carefully, she lifted the silver badge from where she had placed it on the bed, and fastened it to her chest. It gleamed dully, this sigil of her office. Two crossed crescent moons, one etched with a scroll, the other with the Corminevar triple crown. She touched the crowns lightly, then glanced up at her audience.

"Herald Savart," she whispered, and black clouded the grey pearl of her uniform, like a thimble of ink dropped into a glass of water. A handful of heartbeats and she stood swathed in unrelieved night, her badge shining like a beacon on her breast.

"In wartime, we were Sanguine," she told Avahn, who was staring at her, caught between astonishment and disbelief. "The red of drying blood, words of threat and anger. Savart was for death, for the ending of things. For surrender."

"Medair…" he breathed.

She did not respond, afraid that if she stopped to explain she would not be able to go through with this. Closing and sealing her satchel, she drew it over her shoulder, its weight firm against her hip.

"Who sent you to collect me?" she asked.

"The Kier." Avahn eyed her doubtfully, but visibly decided to keep his thoughts to himself. "That map – Bariback is this Isle of Clouds and the Kier wants to question you after she has finished addressing the Court."

"She is in the Throne Room, then? Good. Take me there, Avahn. It is time to end something."

Avahn hesitated. "I am sworn to my Kier, Medair," he said, carefully. "If you mean her harm–"

Medair laughed, a short, bitter sound. "I am not an assassin, Avahn. I will not raise a hand to her."

"No, you are…" He trailed off, delicate white brows drawing together. Then he smiled, a glow of sudden delight in his eyes. "You are most unexpected, Medair. I am glad to know you."

It was a reaction purely Avahn, and almost won a smile from her. He was Ibisian, but she couldn’t help liking him, any more than she could help being attracted to Cor-Ibis. They were Ibisians, and some part of her was never going to forgive that, but they were not her enemies. The war was over, was centuries past, and she would not put her hatred over her duty.

It was evident that many of the palace’s current residents had somewhere seen a depiction of an Imperial Herald. Their reactions ranged from dismay to anger, and Medair found Avahn’s presence a useful pass as he waved away two separate patrols inclined to intercept her.

All the doors of the Great Hall were open, but Medair was careful not to glance left or right as she strode down the marbled floor. The crowd in the Throne Room was densely packed, spilling out of the ebony doors. Typically, they were also completely silent, listening intently to the words of their Kier. Only the guards, who faced outwards, saw Medair’s arrival. They stirred, exchanged glances, then slid swords slowly from their sheathes.

"When have the Ibis-lar drawn weapons upon Heralds?" Avahn asked, in a clear, carrying voice.

Several of the courtiers at the rear of the crowd turned at his words, and made shocked comments. The guards hesitated.

"My bond," Avahn said, with complete assurance, and smiled faintly at Medair. An Ibisian, willing to vouch for her. It felt strange.

Stepping forward, she wondered how she was to reach the Kier, and was foolishly conscious of her dignity. A Herald should not have to push her way through a crowd.

But, whether out of ingrained Ibisian protocol, or a desire to witness a confrontation, the men and women nearest her began to move aside. There were more Farakkians in the room than she’d expected, and they stared at her with particular shock, but none chose to bar her way. As Medair continued to walk forward, a corridor formed through the centre of the Throne Room, accompanied by the whisper of silk and startled voices. The Silver Throne rose above the room on a small dais, and Medair knew the precise moment when the Kier saw the cause of the spreading commotion in her Court. The clear voice which had been addressing the gathering paused, continued briefly in a softer tone, then was silent. Waiting.

A tiny droplet of sweat launched itself the length of Medair’s spine, and she gulped air as inconspicuously as possible as she passed into the circle of space around the Throne. She focused on those members of the Court fanned out on either side of the Kier like an honour guard. The only faces which caught her eye were las Theomain’s, stiffly affronted, and the Mersian Herald, wide-eyed. The rest were a blur, insignificant at this moment. The Kier was everything, blood of both usurper and the one who owned Medair’s loyalty.

"You bring a message, Kel?" Kier Inelkar asked, her voice cool, her eyes cautious. She was wary, not ready to react with immediate hostility to what must appear to her as a threat, but by no means welcoming of this woman garbed in the past.

Medair had been trained to deliver the words of others, not proclaim her own thoughts. She felt a need to justify herself for an act of betrayal, but words crumbled to dust before they reached her lips. But she would not fail her Emperor now, not this last time.

"I bring no messages," she said, before the Court could grow restive. She lifted one hand and plucked her badge from her chest, bursting open the clasp. It cut her hand, but she did not care. She looked one last time at her most prized possession, then let it fall to the floor of the Throne Room. The colour drained from her uniform, even as the flames had drained from around Athere.

"There is nothing to say," she continued, hollowly. "The past is dead. And lost in fire. I will not watch Athere fall to invaders, no matter who sits her throne."

She opened her satchel, to the accompaniment of a half-dozen swords drawn. She ignored them, all her energy focused on an effort to keep control. Her fingers tangled in a silken cord, and she drew it into sight.

The Horn of Farak was fashioned from grey-yellow bone, banded with black greshalt. It was long and narrow, a bell of dark metal flaring at one end. The other end was slightly knobbed, with no shielding mouthpiece. It looked like a piece of someone’s leg, fashioned into a musical instrument. And it sang.

Medair had heard tales of singing swords and always found the idea a little ludicrous. She had never conceived of such a sound as now filled the Throne Room. Waves breaking on endless shores. A bubbling brook. Rocks clattering down a slope. The deep vibration of rock, grinding in the bowels of the earth. The wind: in trees, through fields, down lonely ravines. Roaring at the heart of a storm. The essence of Farak, expressed a thousand different ways, all in a single whisper which deafened and was impossible to deny.

How this barely audible, wholly inescapable cacophony became melody, Medair could not explain. But it was a song truer than any that Telsen had ever crafted, and its effect on the Court was like a physical blow. They rocked on their heels, these proud, cold nobles, gaped stupidly and broke into cries of protest and wonder. Medair took two steps forward and held the Horn out to Inelkar, taking care that the Kier would grasp it by the cord, rather than the Horn itself. She had made that mistake, on first discovering the artefact, and was kind enough to not inflict such sensations on another.

The Kier brought her free hand up to the shaft, let it hover within touching for moments, then lowered the Horn so that it rested on the floor. The thing Medair had quested for to destroy the Ibis-lar, now in the hands of their leader.

"Medair an Rynstar." A statement, not a question. Inelkar’s voice was mild, but the part of Medair which hated herself for this deed heard it as an accusation, and shame washed through her. She had betrayed her oath, and delivered the Horn into the hands of the White Snakes. All the altruistic motives in the world would not excuse that.

"Ekarrel," murmured the Keridahl Alar, "we should shield the Horn. It would be well not to alert those who wait at our gates of this turn of events."

"Truly said." The Kier stood, as if the Keridahl’s words had freed her to action. She gestured peremptorily to two Court officials – Gantains, if Medair remembered the term correctly – and in a few short moments a large, disappointed portion of the Court was filing obediently out of the Throne Room. Medair wished she were going with them.

Avahn moved to Cor-Ibis' side, presumably so he would not be swept out with the rest. Cor-Ibis was gazing fixedly at the Horn, but lifted his head when Avahn reached him, and asked a question Medair could not hear. Avahn shrugged and they both looked at her, wearing mirrored heavy-lidded masks, their shared blood very apparent. Medair averted her face, and found herself looking at Jedda las Theomain, who was in turn staring at Cor-Ibis. The woman’s expression was set, as if she’d just seen a threat confirmed.

The ebony door thudded shut. Questions waited upon the arrival of an iron-wrought chest spelled to dampen magic in the same way as her satchel. The Horn of Farak was carefully lowered inside and a few words said to activate the dampening effect.

A look of palpable relief crossed the faces of the handful who remained. The song made the blood rise up to dance in the body’s courses, and none who heard it was left as cool in heart as Ibisians strove to be.

"Medair an Rynstar." The Kier now addressed her more purposefully. "Our debt to you is beyond reckoning, Keris. This is an act of greatness."

Medair looked at her, then dropped her eyes to the bauble of silver she had discarded. She shook her head, denying the words and her actions equally.

"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.