The Silence of Medair

Chapter Thirteen

Palladium’s capital, the innermost sanctums of the palace, had been Medair’s home for a large portion of her adult life. She had first come to Athere full of excited expectation, then, a year ago, trembling to see how it had changed. This time she felt divorced from her surroundings. She was concentrating on a time past now, on her return to the north, and oblivion.

The land around the city was flat, the fields interrupted only by breaks of trees. Those who approached enjoyed an uninterrupted view of concentric rings of pale grey stone climbing to the massive fort: a blockish collection of squat towers on a tall, table-top hill. It was an excellent site. Easy to reach for trade, amidst fertile farming land, with a protected water supply from springs buried deep within the hill and the Tarental River curving toward the steep eastern slope. Medair had first known a city of four walls. Arren Wall had fallen five hundred years ago, but the Ibisians had rebuilt it, and erased the scars on the Cantry wall, whose gates had not held. Centuries without peace had added two others: Ariensel and Ahrenrhen. Ibisian names, Ibisian design. Ahrenrhen crossed the river, which showed how far the city had expanded.

Athere’s architecture had never been harmonious. It was cramped, full of conflicting styles, but the city possessed a majesty all its own thanks to its size and variety and the sheer weight of ages. Athere had been old when Medair had first visited it. Five hundred years later, it was ancient.

"Home," Avahn murmured, and Medair looked at him.

"Not Finrathlar?" she asked.

He glanced briefly toward his cousin, then raised one shoulder. "Perhaps they both are. Like two parents or two siblings. Both bind me with ties of affection and familiarity. Two loves, who enchant me for different reasons. I don’t think I could give up either."

"Two worlds become one."

She said it thoughtfully. The previous year she had seen the Ibisian alterations as a blow against all she held dear, a distortion of the Athere of old. She had told herself she would rather see Athere razed by the Conflagration than inhabited by White Snakes.

No doubt the way she looked away from him and the city confused and intrigued Avahn, but Medair did not care. She stared at her hands, longing to be past Athere, to be able to abandon this time altogether. The need to seek oblivion grew the closer she came to the city. It was the focus of too much, had meant too much to her.

Cor-Ibis, who had a knack of approaching without drawing attention to himself, said: "You will stay as my guest while you are in Athere, Kel ar Corleaux."

"I will not be in Athere long, Keridahl."

"We will try not to detain you unreasonably. The Kier will wish to consider you."

Consider, study, interrogate. Medair was not certain the debts owed to her would afford her complete protection against the suspicion that she might be an operative of the Hold or something equally doubtful. Not in the climate of approaching war. The Ibisians had rigidly followed their codes of honour in the past. Could she be sure expediency would not overwhelm obligation? Cor-Ibis named her guest, had acknowledged triple-debt. He would be in a dangerous position if his Kier was one to place Palladium above personal honour. And Jedda las Theomain would have had first word to the Kier about the woman called Medair, who denied the politics of that name and yet carried a symbol of its past.

Medair was wholly oppressed by the mere idea of seeing the Ibisian Corminevar. She remained silent and distant as they passed farmland townlets, crossed the Lapring Bridge and approached Athere. Only a small part of her mind was free to catalogue the wide gates, the guards who watched but did not interfere, the passers-by who halted in their day’s tasks to follow the progress of a Keridahl and his company. Athere was more crowded than it had been, but cleaner, for Ibisians were fastidious beasts. And it was very blonde.

Medair tried to ignore it all, her mind wavering between taking in her surroundings and memories of previous journeys through the great city. Ahrenrhen. Ariensel. Remembrance, once called Arren. Cantry. Shield. Patrin.

The nature of the city changed beyond Patrin Wall. The hill sloped steeply. The houses were fewer, terraced, some with towers to mimic those which crowned the hill. There were five main roads, spokes with the palace as hub, but the rest of Patrin was a tangle of winding, secluded streets. Entire blocks were sectioned off by their own gates, exclusive domains of wealthy families.

They’d called this the Shadowland in Medair’s day, eclipsed as it was by the palace. The middle and upper rungs of the aristocracy dwelled here, the most exalted also claiming apartments within the palace itself. Now, she saw Ibisians everywhere, and fewer of darker complexion. Athere might be home to both races, but she would do well not to forget that it was the White Snakes who held the reins.

There. She had been trying not to think of them by that name, but it was a difficult habit to break. Parts of her were too obstinate to accept that these were not invaders, but inhabitants of this land. Born and bred here, knowing no other home. Was it self-indulgent to stoke her resentment by thinking that to be a full Farakkian in Athere could be a disadvantage? Or only too reasonable? Was anger not preferable to loss and hurt? Medair tried to empty her mind, to be detached and analytical, to feel nothing as the pale grey stone of the palace loomed ever larger. Last year she had avoided the palace. She had known she would not be able to bear all which should have been.

She swallowed, keeping her eyes resolutely on her hands, refusing to look at the gates they approached. Guards in uniforms she didn’t recognise stood beneath the south portcullis, which was still surmounted by an ancient carving of the Corminevar Crown. She had ridden this way in a dream, a fantasy of victory and acclamation. She had been astride a foam-flecked horse whose heart was near to bursting. Clad in her Herald’s uniform, with the thunder of an approaching army dinning in her ears and a thick, tasselled cord of silk wrapped around one hand. Athere’s defenders had felt the power of the Horn, and were gathered to wait. They had raised a cry of exultation at the sight of her, toiling up the last rise to this stone archway with the crown of the Corminevars carved above. In a dream.

Five hundred years too late, Medair an Rynstar finally crossed into the fastness of the White Palace. Her face was as pale and weary as the stone which mocked her loyalties and the company she kept. She took a harsh breath, like a swimmer coming up for air, and her chestnut tossed his head, for her grip on the reins was too tight. Aware of the gaze of fellow travellers and palace guards alike, she clenched jaw and hands and willed a blankness to her mind. How to survive this last distance?

Riders, coming the other way, scattered in the face of a party of higher rank. A cluster of men and women gathered around a hay wagon stopped unloading and stared. The horses' hooves set up an echo in the bailey yard. It was too much like coming home.

Telsen had taken her on a tour of the palace, when she’d first arrived in Athere. He’d been starting to gain respect for his work then, and she’d been flattered and suspicious, forewarned of his reputation and disarmed by his fascination with the past and his love of the palace. He’d known everything about the city, and he would probably be capable of loving even the changes the Ibisians had made. He had flirted and charmed and bedded and moved on from her, all in quick and easy succession.

Somehow, that old, lesser pain was enough to muffle the moment. Medair had tried to consider Telsen a youthful folly, but had never been able to genuinely dismiss love and loss and treat him as a friend. The never quite forgiven hurt of seeing that he was bored with her, the anger this realisation had roused, served now to straighten her back and ease the constriction in her throat.

They passed through a series of small courtyards to the stables, and Medair overcame her tendency to dwell on every change by noting instead the interest the Keridahl Avec’s return provoked in all who saw him. She began to dredge up her lessons on Ibisian court custom and attempted to apply them to what she now faced. It no longer seemed to be considered poor manners to stare at a person one was not conversing with, unless everyone here was deliberately being rude. The White Snake habit of "not looking" at the Imperial Heralds had been difficult to take in Medair’s time, but it was disconcerting to see the custom so altered. Since the focus of attention was shared between her and Cor-Ibis, Medair could only assume that her actions in Kyledra had not been kept entirely secret.

The stables of the White Palace had grown. They extended into what had been an exercise yard and a wall had been taken down to allow access into former gardens, now converted into open space for working the animals. It was all continually disorienting for Medair, whose memory latched onto anything familiar while her eyes found strangeness around every second corner. She wanted so much not to be here.

"You will be tired after the journey, Kel ar Corleaux," Cor-Ibis said, though it was only mid-afternoon and they had not set a difficult pace. "Avahn will show you to your room." Then he was gone and she had only Avahn to deal with.

After disposing of an errant retainer with a soft word, Avahn indicated a direction. "Would you prefer we pretend not to have noticed how the palace effected you?" he asked, voice muted as he escorted her through the maze of corridors, annexes, halls, courtyards, galleries, winding stairs, dead-ends and other sundry features which made up the White Palace.

She raised a shoulder, struggling for calm. "It makes little difference, Avahn. I made no secret of not wanting to come to Athere."

"You said Athere was out of your way, Medair. Not that it would pain you to be here." He paused, weighing his words. "You have been here before."

She wished he would leave it be. "I told you that as well. Why question me, Avahn? You know I don’t want to speak of my past."

"Or your future. Or anything, in fact. You’ve grown even more close-mouthed, these past days. Because of Athere, because of the palace." He reached out to touch her arm, swiftly and briefly. "I think I want to apologise. I’ve been treating you as a game, your secrets as a challenge. My cousin was right again – I had mistaken you. You have been rational and resigned and I didn’t realise that we dealt with something which could make you look so…lost." He offered her a smile, young and genuine. "If you are to leave soon, then I would have you remember me as a friend, not one who made what is apparently an ordeal even more difficult for you."

Medair was touched. "Your questions haven’t hurt me, Avahn," she said, truthfully. "I won’t remember you harshly."

He smiled, then was mercifully silent as he led her to the section of the palace which Medair recalled as being haunted by the ambassadors and Dukes of the Western lands. The apartments of the Keridahl Avec, Medair judged, stretched over at least half of the fourth level of the massive Lothra Tower. Only the Fasthold, the main donjon of the palace, was larger than Lothra. It was a most desirable section of the palace.

The rooms given over to the Cor-Ibis family were decorated in a markedly Ibisian manner, with iridescent screens, ornaments of opaque crystal, and furniture of spare and elegant line. In the blunt solidity of Lothra Tower the kind of furnishings which had so perfectly suited The Avenue in Finrathlar looked out of place. As Avahn opened the door to her room, she reflected that she had fallen in with perhaps the most traditional of the Ibisians in this time. The Cor-Ibis family had succeeded in retaining purity of blood and obviously revered the customs and trappings of their lost homeland. She could not decide if this made it easier or more difficult for her to deal with them.

"I’m not certain if we will eat here or in the Vestan Hall," Avahn informed her. "Whatever the case, we dine at sun-down." He gestured with one hand, down the hallway to where the sky shone blue through an archway leading onto a balcony. "My cousin has gone, you understand, to report on the events in Kyledra. The Kier may wish to speak with you and…" He shrugged. "I am not one to guess at the Kier’s wishes."

"So cautious Avahn? That’s unlike you."

"Not really," he replied, bowed with graceful formality, and left her alone.

After she’d washed, and drunk a little of the water left for her, Medair found herself worrying about clothes of all things. She drew the blue and black dress from her satchel. Although the cut and cloth were unadorned, simplistic by Court standards, it did give her the air of having dressed up. At least her appearance could not be deemed an insult, lacking the proper respect for the Kier. The ward against traces was a touch of decoration above the bodice.

Rejecting a second enquiry after her needs from the Keridahl’s too-efficient servants, Medair retreated to the balcony at the southern end of the hall outside her room. She enjoyed the cool breeze as she gazed out over this city which could no longer be thought of as home.

"How different you look from when I first saw you," Avahn said, appearing almost a decem after he had left. Medair turned away from her contemplation of the view to consider him instead.

"You, however, have merely exchanged finery for finery," she said. "Perhaps a little more costly than before."

Avahn shrugged minutely, causing the muted greens and blues of his demi-robe to shimmer. Dragonflies danced. "The Kier summons you to her presence," he said. "I make a fitting escort." He paused a beat, then added: "The Kier has expressed a wish to examine both yourself and your satchel."

"Has she?" Medair turned again towards the shadows and reflections of a late afternoon sun. "I am no longer geased," she observed, voice as distant as the jagged horizon. "Would you stop me, if I tried to leave?"

"I believe I owe you my life, Medair," Avahn replied, after a significant pause. "But there are a great many in the White Palace who have no such debt."

"And they are between me and the door." She sighed. "I don’t want to meet your Kier, Avahn, but then, I did not wish to do any of this. We had best go and get it over with."

He accepted this with an ambiguous nod, and led her on a path which he could not know was very familiar to her. Down the central stairs of Lothra Tower, through the Rumbling Tunnel to the second floor of Fasthold. Then along the Great Hall, with its ten sets of huge oaken doors, to detour at the last moment, in the very face of the silver-embossed ebony slabs which led to the Throne Room.

The private audience chamber had changed so greatly that Medair, after so much familiarity, was again disoriented. Ibisian ritual did not bend to allowing lesser beings to be seated in the presence of the Kier during any official audience, and the oak table of Corminevar times had been swept away, leaving a room which was larger for its lack of furniture. A single dark throne had replaced the Emperor’s table, and Medair felt a pang for the comfortable chairs which had once made speaking to the most powerful person in all Farakkan a little easier.

Eight pairs of eyes watched her arrival. Medair, the extreme emotions of her entry into the White Palace well suppressed, breathed deeply as she walked towards the shimmering cluster of nobility. All so very Ibisian, only a hint of Farakkian blood detectable among these tall men and women in their robes of silk, polished stones glinting through the fine, white veils of their hair. Cor-Ibis was there, and las Theomain. Medair’s eyes flicked over their formally expressionless faces, past the other three women and two men to the descendent of Kier Ieskar and a child of the Corminevar line.

Kier Inelkar Var Corminevar las Saral-Ibis resembled neither the ruler nor invader of the Palladian Empire. There were certain features which were apparent traits of the Ibisian royal line – small nose, slightly pointed face – but there was not the marked similarity to Ieskar Medair had found in Cor-Ibis' features. Nor was there any hint of Farakkian blood. The woman was as pale and remote as any of the White Snakes, without even the Corminevar jaw which had kept so many women of that line from being named true beauties. It made it better, that Inelkar did not look like either of the men Medair had known. Her nervously clenched stomach relaxed and she felt more in command of herself.

Avahn stopped some ten feet from the group gathered around the throne, and folded into a bow full of subtle complexities. Medair recognised it and decided to offer Kier Inelkar the same obeisance she had been trained to give the woman’s forebear, so long ago. The depth to indicate Medair was someone of much lower, but still courtly rank. The touches to either shoulder, but not to the heart, for Inelkar could surely not count as Medair’s sovereign and thus was owed no indication of loyalty. Avahn took himself off to one side of the chamber, leaving Medair alone before the throne.

"Medair ar Corleaux." The Kier’s voice was thin and precise and, though she was self-contained, there was nothing of Ieskar’s statue-like immobility in her manner. She wasn’t even wearing white, which had been the only colour permitted to the Kier who had ruled Saral-Ibis. "You have performed a signal service for us, Kel," Kier Inelkar said, surveying Medair’s close-fitting dress, tanned skin and streaked hair. "And raised many questions. An interesting problem, with debt owed and suspicions which cannot be ignored." A brief pause, then: "You are not a Medarist."

It hadn’t been a question, but Medair shook her head anyway, and the Kier continued.

"No. For a Medarist who denies her cause is a contradiction beyond resolving. But the name Medair is significant to more than that band of angry children. You bear not only the name of an Imperial Herald: there is also a tool of that dead office."

The interest in Medair’s satchel had been marked since her entry: an elderly female Keridahl and a middle-aged man with the single jade of an unranked Kerin appeared to be the most interested. They had both been studying the leather bag from their places on the Kier’s left since Medair had entered the room. The man shifted, then restrained himself, drawing the Kier’s attention to the degree of a brief, disinterested glance.

"The Empire’s Heralds were a stubborn breed. Those who did not perish in the conflict of our arrival departed Palladium. The mage who created the satchels died in her workroom, which was unfortunately placed near Arran Wall. None could reproduce her work, although there have been many attempts over the centuries. Now, it seems, someone has succeeded." She considered Medair’s impassive face. "A woman named Medair carrying a functioning Herald’s satchel is hardly a coincidence."

Since it seemed to be her cue, Medair said briefly: "The satchel was not given to me for my name, Ekarrel."

"Perhaps not. Still, you have both satchel and name, and conflict clouds the horizon. I will not pretend it is not tempting to take satchel and secrets from you, but I do not see that such an act is justified. We owe you a debt, Medair ar Corleaux, and one not to be lightly ignored in the face of what is to come." The middle-aged man on the Kier’s left made a hastily stifled sound and she again turned to look at him. Medair had guessed that the elderly woman was Keridahl Alar – perhaps this was a relative or supporter. Foolish, whoever he was, to reveal any sign of dissent to the Kier’s decision. But the Kier was forbearing, and merely looked at him until he was still and stiff with contrition. Jedda las Theomain, at the man’s side, was looking past the Kier to Cor-Ibis, who was in turn watching Medair, waiting for her to betray herself. Tension snarled the air, but the Kier possessed at least the self-command of her ancestor.

"However," she said, her light, cool voice perfectly emotionless, "I cannot ignore the security of Palladium altogether, and the chance of examining a functioning satchel is difficult to pass by without any attempt to expand our knowledge. Will you consent, Kel, to satisfy our curiosity on one or two questions, and to allow us to study your satchel for a short period – until after the evening meal? We will undertake, most faithfully, not to attempt to open it."

Another resemblance to Kier Ieskar, in the concession which merely paved the road for the polite demand. Medair fingered the strap of her satchel, wondering if she dared to trust not only the Kier, but those who would attempt to discover the crafting of the satchel. An impatient hand could destroy it, and all it–

"By all means," Medair replied, feeling just a little giddy. She lowered the satchel from her shoulder. They wouldn’t be able to open it, but Medair did not object to the possibility that they might do by accident what she could not contemplate deliberately. The over-anxious Kerin immediately came forward and took her satchel, and she watched his retreat with only the faintest pang, aware of Cor-Ibis' narrowed eyes and sharpened attention. He had probably expected her eventual consent, but not this abrupt, almost cheerful capitulation. She turned enquiring eyes to the Kier, and found that she, also, watched intently.

"We are obliged, Kel," Kier Inelkar said. "Tell me, what was your purpose in coming to Athere, a year ago?"

Medair had not expected this, and chided herself for underestimating the woman as she cast about for a suitable reply. No doubt she looked entirely guilt-ridden while she sought a relatively innocuous answer. What had happened to her much-vaunted Herald’s training?

"It had been a long time since I had been to Athere, Ekarrel," she said, eventually. "I wanted to see how much it had changed." The truth, sounding like a lie.

"You had been here before?"

"Some time ago."

"From your voice, I would name you Kyledran. There are few in Kyledra so familiar with the customs and traditions of my people as you appear to be."

"Perhaps they have not had the opportunity to visit Athere."

"Very likely," the Kier replied, one of her pale eyebrows quirking faintly. "It was fortunate for Keridahl las Cor-Ibis that you happened past. For what reason were you in Bariback Forest?"

"I live there, Ekarrel."

"Ah. Who was it gave you the satchel?"

Medair considered that one. There was no way she could tell them the truth. Desy an Kerrat’s name was well known, and five hundred years in the past. "It would be easier if you didn’t ask me questions I am obliged to lie to answer, Ekarrel," she pointed out.

"You believe me capable of discerning your position on a question, before I ask it?" The Kier’s tone was tolerant, but the expression shared by several of her silent court suggested Medair take care.

"Yes," Medair replied, a simple, serious estimation of this woman’s abilities.

"Unfortunate. For it is the questions you do not care to answer, which I wish to ask."

"Yes, Ekarrel. That is unfortunate."

They looked at each other, Kier of conquered Palladium and Medair an Rynstar, whose very name was a secret brandished openly. The implacable gaze was Kier Ieskar’s. But there was no reason to declare enmity and Kier Inelkar eventually inclined her head.

"Perhaps you are wise enough to know that your lies would have told me almost as much as your truths. We will settle for what we can glean from your satchel, and give you our thanks, Medair ar Corleaux. Our debt will not be forgotten."

It was a dismissal. Avahn promptly came forward to lead Medair away and she went without a word. She had placed everything which was Medair an Rynstar, Herald of the Palladian Empire, into the hands of Ibisians. Everything but the truth.