Voice of the Lost

CHAPTER FIVE

"Don’t."

It was a feeble protest, and his long fingers only shifted a fraction in response. He was silent and she couldn’t say anything more, knowing how much she needed to pull away, and completely incapable of making that tiny, tremendous effort. They sat there, hand-in-hand at the mouth of the cave, while futility chased its tail around Medair’s mind.

She had admitted some of her feelings to herself, but to do anything about them was impossible. He would never stop being Ibisian and she would always be Medair an Rynstar. Loyal Palladian, failed hero. Butcher.

"Do you remember our last meeting before the Conflagration?"

"Y-yes," she said, uncertainly. That had been on the balcony, when he had theorised about her past.

"I have never regretted a moment more than that," he said. His voice was as soft and calm as ever, and so bare in its sincerity that she had to stop herself from flinching.

"I knew that my people had given you reason to hate," he went on, choosing his words with eggshell care. "I know now that to you I am a man who might be Palladian but is foremost a White Snake, one of the people who brought down the Empire you served. I am everything you should hate, and if you do not, you will feel in your heart that you have turned your face from all you failed to save."

He glanced at her, and she couldn’t say anything, because he had put her feelings into words exactly.

"That night, I wanted to tell you that nothing would please me more than to name you mine, to have between us a certainty which banished distance. And I did not. I thought it too cruel. It is my eternal fortune to be allowed to make that choice again and, though the moment is perhaps harsher still, this time I do not bow down to the hold of the past."

"I am the past," she said, finally gathering the will to pull her hands from his, but his fingers tightened and held her still.

"You are from the past," he said, firmly. "I doubt I will ever succeed in freeing you completely from that cage, from the weight of circumstance crushing you. But you are not failing the dead by living, Medair. You are here, now, and I would be–" He stopped and she heard him take a breath; the imperturbable Illukar, struggling for words.

The thousand arguments she needed to fling in his face would not come to her, sabotaged by a pathetic need.

He looked down, then traced a question on her palm. "Even without your past, we did not have an auspicious start," he said, and she was again conscious of the excruciating care with which he spoke. "A geas by way of introduction and spell-shock to exacerbate matters. You had so many reasons to be angry, and you did not quite hide that there was an old enmity to spice the mix. And you were so meticulously, so scrupulously just. When every feeling must have urged you against it, you returned the rahlstones to me. Purely because you believed it the right thing to do. I have rarely met such honour." He paused again, then raised his head. "I have loved you from that moment," he said, and his voice was raw.

Out of sheer, numb-minded stupidity she tightened her hands in his and that was sufficient encouragement for him to lean forward, to touch her lips with his. His skin was cool and he kissed her with exquisite care, all Ibisian delicacy, but the quiver which ran through his hands matched her own.

Her throat tightened with panic, and she broke away. "I can’t do this," she said, but she had to force the words, to not shout her need for him. He remained very still for a moment, then drew back as well, though not nearly far enough for her peace of mind.

"Hardly the place, I know," he said, and his voice was fully mastered once again. There was a time she had thought Ibisians a wholly passionless race, but their extreme control was no indication of their hearts.

"I’m sorry," she said, and felt foolish.

"Now tell me why," he said, as merciless as Ieskar. And not nearly so dead.

She choked on arguments which ran in every direction.

"If I had spoken, the night of the Conflagration, I would not have been able to sway you," he went on, thoughtfully. His calm had returned, perhaps bolstered by her obvious confusion. She should not have leaned into his embrace, should not have pressed against him as if she’d been waiting an eternity to do so.

She should be able to not hate the idea of loving him.

"You still had the Horn then, and all your secrets," he continued. "Your oath to the throne, your office as Herald, and the legend built up about your name. But now everything has changed. You proclaimed yourself before Kier Inelkar. You left your badge of office on the floor of the throne room. You used the Horn to defend Athere and fulfilled the legend in doing so. There is no bar left, no true reason. Not the sheer simple fact of my race."

Battered by all she had done that day, Medair shuddered. She did not feel freed by her use of the Horn, but further trapped in a succession of wrongs which could not be righted.

"No legend involved slaughtering people who thought themselves loyal to Palladium," she said harshly, and realised with a plummeting disgust that she was hoping that he would convince her, that he would reason a way out of the endless loop of rhetoric in her head. That she could allow herself to believe that she had done only what was necessary, and that it was right to stop hating.

"You heard the words of your Emperor," he said. "There was no thread of blame. You heard his words to the Kierash. Your oath is to Palladium, Islantar is its future. There is no conflict, no–" He stopped, perhaps sensing that part of her was stubbornly attempting to close her mind to any hope of a future. That part of her calling him White Snake still, even blaming him for what she had needed to do.

Then those cool, slim fingers touched her cheek and he spoke in a whisper which did not hide how very afraid he was. "Please, Medair."

He took a breath to continue, but did not, turning his head attentively. Medair, so close, caught a faint shred of sound but could not make it out.

"A wend-whisper?" she asked, unspeakably relieved by the interruption.

"The Kierash." Cor-Ibis had straightened, and was surveying the forest below. "He has found a large cave, in the shadow of that spur of rock. I will bring him back here. Better to have him high, if any of those animals are released."

"No." Medair held out a belaying hand, but stopped short of touching him. "I’ll go. Unless you can dim that glow, it’s too great a risk for you to cross those shadows twice more."

She didn’t give him a chance to argue, slipping her satchel from her shoulder and plunging down the slope, by some fortune managing it without more than a knocked elbow. She crossed the passage into the mist without hesitation, and then stopped dead, folding over.

What had she been doing? What did Cor-Ibis think they could do? Impossible. To touch, to talk of love, after she had stood on the walls of Athere and summoned death.

He had known she might run from him, from her response to him. That was why he had taken her trace ward. Part of Medair wanted to do exactly that, to keep walking into the mist, to get as much distance between them as possible, so she could never again hear him say please. But, if she ran at all, it could not be now. There would be time enough later for cowardice.

Taking a deep breath, Medair turned, walking along the border of the mist, near enough to stir the edge’s tendrils for a few steps before sinking back. Her link to her satchel made it easy to keep track of the cave where Cor-Ibis waited, so her only difficulty in reaching the spur of rock was the uneven ground and the occasional bush or branch.

A single step took her into the spur’s shadow, and she followed its shape with her hand as she moved out of moonglow into pitch.

"Keris."

Kierash Islantar, nowhere near as drained as Cor-Ibis, had obviously cast a night-sight enchantment. A step in the dark and he was with her, this boy the Emperor had commanded to heal Palladium. While it might not be possible for Medair to find a right way forward, she could at least support those words. Ibisian blood or not, this was Palladium’s heir, and the only thing she could see to do was get him safely out of Decia.

"I am glad to discover you safe, Keris," he said, formal as ever.

"Can any of us be safe here?" she asked. "The Keridahl has at least found a more sheltered cave."

She turned, less than willing to talk, and he followed her obediently across to the mist. Without the rope, she thought it best to take his hand, and led him with only a few stumbles to the point below the cave. From that angle, Cor-Ibis' glow could be mistaken for a reflection of moonlight, and was not the beacon she had feared. So long as he stayed still, it was unlikely to lead any Decians to them.

"Follow close," she murmured to Islantar, and led him quickly up to join that still, gleaming figure.

"Kierash."

"Keridahl." For a moment Islantar’s youth showed in a tone of simple relief, then he moved forward, kneeling as he discovered the low ceiling. "Where did you find these blankets?" he asked. "Ah, of course. Your satchel, Keris, is a wonder beyond compare."

"I–" Hearing the quaver in her voice, Medair made an effort to pull herself together. She would go mad while this habit of hatred struggled against its opposite. "I can offer you a meal of sorts, Kierash," she said, almost steadily. "Dried fruit, nuts, even brandy."

She also produced a spare jacket, and more blankets. They were manoeuvring around the problem of three people sitting in a cave barely able to accommodate them when a cry rose above the muffled silence of the fog. A scream, eldritch and unnatural, rattled against the hillside and stole any semblance of safety from the tiny cave.

"Is that–?" Medair began, but couldn’t finish.

Islantar half-rose, but settled back. "Not human."

"No," Cor-Ibis agreed. "A hunting cry."

"Hunting one of us." Medair had received no replies to her wend-whispers, and was particularly concerned about Ileaha, whose sensitivity to magic might not be enough to lead her to the hill.

"Very likely." Cor-Ibis was sitting closest to the entrance, and she could see his dimly luminescent form leaning forward as he gazed down at the forest. "The mist is lifting."

"They’ve released whatever it was in those caged caves. The thing which snatches. Or the other." The killer.

"Can we do anything?" Islantar eased alongside Medair so he could look over Cor-Ibis' shoulder.

Cor-Ibis shook his head. "Expose ourselves to the hunter and the guards, though we have little chance of even locating our companions? No." He turned back into the darkness of the cave, getting down to business. "Your reserves are still high, Kierash?"

"Yes. I have done little today but watch the valour of others."

"Then cast wend-whispers, to supplement any lost to the mist. Avahn was with the Mersian Herald and Kaschen las Cormar, so one casting will be sufficient for three. Do you know Ileaha las Goranum well enough for a wend-whisper to find her?"

"I believe so. I have seen her often, though we have not spoken. I cannot say the same of the other two brought to this place."

"Even so, try them both. Tell them where we are and suggest to them, if it is not too late, that they find a high perch in which to shelter for the rest of the night. At the dawn, I will go to the cave behind that spur of rock, to collect any who have reached that far. If they have not reached that point a decem after the break of light, they should make their way without us." He paused, then said: "We cannot leave Estarion unchecked," and if he was unhappy about including the Kierash in any attempt on Castle Gyrfalcon – Falcon Black – he kept his concerns to himself.

"I can keep guard, while you both sleep," Medair said, after the wend-whispers had been cast and Islantar was sampling the eclectic mix of stale food she had offered.

"We will all need our rest," Cor-Ibis said. "Kierash, you are familiar with the detection class?"

"You wish a trip-warning?" Islantar asked, between mouthfuls.

"On the hillside below and above. Then a small shield on this entrance, nothing strong or it will be detected. Enough to give us a few moments, should the hunter stray close."

Despite his youth, Islantar cast with a speed and confidence which far outstripped Medair’s abilities. She wondered if he was trying to demonstrate to Cor-Ibis that he was more than capable of defending himself, and that they should concentrate their plans on the major concern: stopping Estarion. That was something Medair could also focus on. However he had achieved it, the Decian King’s ability to summon countless gates was a continuing danger to Palladium. And, overriding everything else, was the chance that he would again turn to wild magic, now that his army was gone.

Medair shivered. The shield, a faint murmur which was unlikely to be sensed above the swirl of magic from castle and forest, had blocked the chill wind, but could do nothing to keep away memory. The thick scent of blood rose to stifle her, though the journey through the wet forest must surely have washed her boots clean. But she could not wash away death, thought it would have been like this, no matter who she used the Horn against. Thousands of lives.

The uncomfortable problem of a small cave and a night to pass bothered Medair less now the Kierash was there. Islantar stretched out along one side of the pad of blankets and bedrolls and Cor-Ibis took centre. Medair simply lay with her back to him, glad of her satchel’s packrat qualities, which allowed her a blanket to herself. She could not help but think of Avahn and Ileaha and the others, lost in the forest without food or water, let alone blankets. No doubt they would be glad to exchange places with her.

But the scent of blood kept creeping in, and a field of corpses, too many to name. She began to shiver and couldn’t stop and when Cor-Ibis reached out she turned and sobbed out her guilt against the chest of a man whose milky radiance would not even allow her to hide from the sheer simple fact of his race. The comfort she found in his arms only made everything worse, but she was glad, when finally there were no tears left, to simply be able to hold him.

He loved her. He had said so. Why should it matter that he was Ibisian, when it did not matter to him that she was Farakkian? There was no enmity between them. But how could she contemplate a relationship with Cor-Ibis when it made her feel so shamed? To lie alive in his arms, with the blood of thousands on her hands?

Avahn had said she could be a unifying force in Palladium, just as the false Medairs had attempted to be the opposite. But that was before she had blown the Horn, an act which would inevitably make her a rallying point for hatred. Wouldn’t taking an Ibisian lover do more harm, add insult to impossible injury? Could she stand to be seen that way? She, who had always wanted to follow a right and honourable course? Being anything with Cor-Ibis would give too many an obvious reason for her actions.

Until sleep came to claim her, Grevain Corminevar’s words played over and over in her mind:

There was no right choice, messenger. And no wrong decision.