The Silence of Medair

Chapter Twenty-One

"Am I under guard, Avahn?"

Avahn hesitated, then lifted his hands, fingers uncurling.

"It is probable," he admitted. "I will ask Illukar, later, exactly what the Kier’s wishes are. They will discuss you, of course."

"Of course." Having dropped her cloak on the divan by the door, Medair sat on the bed, holding her satchel on her lap. She turned the strap over and over between her fingers, surprised at how little she felt. Only exhaustion.

"I had not really thought of what would come after. The choices don’t go away. I’m not what the legends describe, but there are those, I suppose, who would rally to me. Your Kier will not want me free to roam."

"You could be a unifying force in Palladium," he offered, diffidently. "Mend the fractures."

She snorted. "Do I need to do that? The cold blood is dominant, in this world. Mix-bloods are born almost as Ibisian as you are. Surely the Medarists don’t exist any more."

"Mix-bloods were never Medarists. I don’t see why the Hold or any other faction would cease to exist, simply because the object of their hatred stands out the more." He pulled a chair from beneath an elegant writing desk and sat down on it. "How do you know that the blood of the Ibis-lar is dominant?"

"A woman at a tavern – she was outside the shield when the fire came, and went from mostly Farakkian to indistinguishable from Ibis-lar, and spoke of the cold blood being stronger. She was very distressed. Her home is here and she no longer fits it." Medair shrugged. The parallel was obvious, but unlike Esta, Medair could no longer call Athere her home. There was no place for a former Imperial Herald. An unpredictable piece on the marrat board, as Avahn had once said, with too much cause to hate to be trusted.

Avahn, however, had other things on his mind.

"You knew Telsen, didn’t you?"

Medair grimaced. "Telsen really wasn’t a person to emulate, Avahn," she said, lowering her satchel to the floor and kicking it gently beneath the bed. "He–" She thought about it, choosing her words. "He lied, to the benefit of his music and the detriment of others. He created this legend of Medair which makes my position frankly impossible, and, because he loved hidden meanings, managed to ruin my reputation to top everything off. Does the brilliance of his talent excuse the untruths?"

Avahn, abashed, made a gesture of apology with one hand.

"Could he not, could we not be inferring more than he intended? There is nothing said outright."

"More than enough for me to claim injury before a Council of Peers," she replied. "Yes, I knew Telsen. I was briefly his lover. He made up the part about his eternal unfulfilled devotion as well." She frowned at the caustic note in her voice, and went on more equably. "He was a generous man, full of life, but he was also carelessly cruel, and nothing took precedence over his music. Not truth, not loyalty, certainly not women."

"I don’t know what to say."

"Have I ruined all of your illusions, Avahn? It doesn’t change the music. He had a marvellous voice and his songs will be remembered, well, as long as I am."

He smiled at her sadly. "I must do something to restrain this talent of mine for asking the wrong questions. Do you want me to leave you in peace?"

"No. Yes. I suppose so. I feel a little…beyond conversation, just now." Her bones dragged at her, and she struggled with overwhelming fatigue.

He nodded, stood, then suddenly assumed a formal stance.

"My thanks are as inadequate as all others, Keris Medair an Rynstar," he told her, gravely making the three gestures of debt Cor-Ibis had also once given her. "But know that I am yours to call upon in need."

He bowed and turned before she could respond, as if he were embarrassed by the sincerity behind his words. When the door had closed behind him, Medair drew her knees up beneath her chin and tried to think about her future.

That the Kier might try to control her in some way was certainly possible, despite the debt they all owed her. Confine her to the palace, keep her under observation. A life of luxurious semi-imprisonment. But safe.

For she would be hated.

The longed-for hero had become the grand betrayer. Among any who opposed the Ibisians, those who had paid a moment’s attention to foolish legends about the past reborn, and most especially the ones who had taken Medair’s name and turned it into a banner – there would be no understanding, and no forgiveness. It was quite probable that the Ibisians were the only group with both the will and capacity to keep her alive.

Kier Ieskar had told her she didn’t want to die, but in sacrificing anonymity Medair had made anything but a caged life impossible, with death a constant threat. If she abandoned White Snake protection there would inevitably be an alley, a mob, a beating she could not escape. Poison, a knife in the back, open execution. There were so many ways her story could end, if she did not cling to those she had hated, did not cower in their shadow.

Proud little herald, brought so low.

At sunset the battle with Estarion would begin – and end. At sunset, when the city’s attention was on that battle, Medair had to leave. The plan to return to that place out of time, to sleep and perhaps wake when her name was nothing more than history, had now become a question of survival, and she had to take that option before anyone remembered that Kersym Bleak had been renowned for a hoard, not simply the Horn of Farak. Or even that she still had a charm against traces.

She nudged her satchel further under the bed, then went and locked the door. Briefly, she considered wedging a chair below the handle, then shook her head. They might want to confiscate the satchel, but she did not think the Ibis-lar had changed so much that they would sneak in and steal it.

Removing her boots, she lay down on the bed, trying to work out how long it was till sunset, and when the Kier would see fit to use the Horn. It would be necessary to move before then, and she would rest while she could, because she had a long way to run.

"One last place to hide."

Medair laughed, then shook, as she touched the palms of her hands together. She supposed she was a coward, but she would certainly not be summoning any ghosts to prevent this escape. Nor would she linger long enough for Cor-Ibis to have any attention to spare, because she doubted she could face or fool him. He would make this decision too hard.

Or not. It would hurt to see him, to have to work against him, but there really was no choice. She had given up the Horn, and now had no further role to play, only a future of pain and hatred and people looking at her in a way she could not bear. She would not live that.

She was done here.