The Silence of Medair

Chapter Six

With breakfast under her belt, and a chestnut gelding fresh from the markets on lead, Medair made her way to the centre of Thrence and a building all tricked out in vast columns and tremendous arches. In her time, mages had apprenticed to masters or attended the Circle in Athere. There had not been a truly formal system as there was now, with an Arcana House in nearly every large city: a mixture of teaching school, place of research and consulting chambers. Those who wanted to buy the services of an accomplished mage visited their local House and were assured of finding a competent practitioner. Kyledra was unlikely to boast the most powerful mages in Farakkan, but she hoped that there would be enough to serve her purpose.

Since she needed to see an adept and Medair had failed to make herself appear important before asking for an appointment, she had to wait quite a long time before being received. Her stomach was making faint suggestions about lunch by the time she was ushered down a high-vaulted, badly lit hallway. Her guide took her through brass-bound double doors into a large office piled high with manuscripts, curious items in cloudy glass jars and other mystical paraphernalia, most of which had more to do with impressing the credulous than any serious pursuit of the arcane. Here, an angular man sat behind a monstrous desk swept bare of any encumbrance, eyeing her over fingers steepled together. He was all in black and cadaverously thin, a beaked nose giving him a resemblance to some great carrion bird.

"Please be seated, Miss," he said, in a surprisingly pleasant voice, all smoke and molten honey. "I’m sorry you’ve been kept waiting so long. It’s been a busy morning with much to-do. I am Adept an Selvar. How may I serve you?"

Warming to genuine courtesy, Medair smiled. "It’s a two-fold problem," she began. "The first is a trace. I have reason to believe a trace was set on me some days ago. I’m not certain where the one who has set it is, precisely, but I would like to purchase a charm to obfuscate matters."

Dark eyes narrowed, but his voice lost none of its polite regard. "If the trace has already been established, it cannot be broken – not without interference with the caster."

"I understand that. But a well-away or something which will off-centre the trace, so that I cannot be precisely pinpointed – do you have anything of the sort available?"

"You are a mage, Miss…?"

"ar Corleaux. I have studied, but do not have the strength for most of the spells, unfortunately."

He nodded, still watching her with dark, probing eyes. "An invested spell is no little thing. Will not one of ordinary duration suffice?"

"Not really."

"Very well. You would like this immediately, I gather? It will not come cheaply."

Medair shrugged, dipped a hand into her pocket, and placed a sapphire on the desk. His brows rose. "As to the other task," Medair continued, placing a ruby beside the sapphire. "There is a geas on me. I would like it broken."

The Adept gazed at the two gems, which winked like mismatched eyes. He probably thought her a jewel thief, fleeing from justice. "Would you prefer gold instead?" she asked. "I carry gems, since they are so compact, but if they’re not suitable I can arrange for coin."

"Not at all, Miss ar Corleaux. These are, in fact, more than generous." He reached out a long, bony arm and scooped the red and blue up. "I believe there is an invested spell of the type you desire in storage. If you will follow me, we will fetch it and then see about the geas."

With a certain amount of caution, Medair trailed him through the House. Her reward was a circle of malachite depending from a thin leather cord, which she immediately hung about her neck. Catching the Adept’s eye, she found him smiling with full comprehension.

"It’s not a perfect cure," he warned. "This would spread a trace focus out over perhaps a five-mile area, but only so long as the caster is not in your presence, whereupon the misdirection would become plainly obvious. Now we shall see to your geas. I will need much help, depending on the strength of the caster. Follow me."

He collected four women and two men, a couple of whom were in the middle of instructing. They invited their classes along, rather as if a geas-breaking were some rare and amusing game. They took her to a large empty room with a high roof and no windows, and Medair was directed to stand in the centre of a star chalked on the floor.

"The problem with the geas," said Adept an Selvar to the assembled audience, "is that it takes on a dimension which far outstrips the caster. Even if one of you –" he looked at the students with a humorous eye "– were somehow to successfully fumble out the casting, I doubt that I alone would be able to break it. I see you smile, whether with derision or disbelief, I do not care to speculate. But simply put, if I were to cast a geas, it would take at least three of me to break it, perhaps four. Thus I have gathered seven together and we shall overwhelm by force of numbers."

"Please, Sir," said one of the students, a snub-nosed youth with merry eyes. "What’s the geas making her do?"

"Manners!" snapped one of the mages, cuffing the boy, which he bore with the grin of one who was willing to take the rough so long as he got what he wanted.

"Would assuaging young Bartley’s curiosity be too much to ask, Miss ar Corleaux?" an Selvar asked.

Medair summoned a light-hearted amusement she did not truly feel. "Oh, it’s ensuring that I don’t spend two nights in a row in the same bed," she said, to the amazed delight of the youngsters. "By forcing me to travel almost continuously," she added. "I wouldn’t be overly surprised if I were in the Korgan Lands by the end of Summer, the rate I’m going."

She laughed with them, as the mages each took up a position at the points of the star. Then she sent a silent prayer to Farak. This would work, and she would be free to go her own way.

"Now we shall test the mettle of the geas' caster," said an Selvar. "The first step is to make the power of the spell visible. This is a standard task, but you might wish to watch how we begin melding our power as we perform it. Miss ar Corleaux, it would be best if you left the charm I gave you outside the star."

Medair removed the necklace and deposited it and her satchel over a chalked line. She watched with interest and admiration as they smoothly opened a flow of power between each point of the star. It was a delicate task, this melding. She had seen it often fail, but these six performed the feat with ease, and soon she began to glow. The geas manifested not as the snake she had imagined coiled about her spine, but as a network of silvery lines beneath her skin, patterned like veins.

"Now, a geas can be badly cast in numerous ways," an Selvar continued. "It could be poorly claused, as we call it, allowing the 'chanted person to merely perform the letter of the task and not the spirit. It could even allow the 'chanted person to kill the caster, which would be unfortunate – from the caster’s point of view. It could be sloppily set, but as we can see, this geas has hold of Miss ar Corleaux very thoroughly indeed and I assume, since she needs it broken, that she has not been able to escape the punitive effects. What we will do now is simply pull the power out, as if we were uprooting a weed. The question is how extensive is the root system and whether we are strong enough to pull it up. It is always best to use more magi than is likely needed in a geas-breaking, so that much energy is not expended to no profit." The adept smiled at Medair. "This won’t hurt," he promised, then signalled to the other mages.

It was fascinating to watch. Lines of force erupted from the six mages as they began a low-voiced chant. The power lines curled about Medair, then attached themselves to the silver beneath her skin, which began to lift out of her flesh. It was a curious sensation, a little as if someone were pulling out hairs all over her body, but, as promised, without pain. The magi gradually increased the pull and she watched their faces, noting that concentration had turned to a more intense effort. The pull on her decreased and she felt distinctly lop-sided.

Then the lines of force snapped. Medair staggered, pain blooming behind her eyes, and she lifted a hand even as two of the magi fell over. The audience burst into noise, a confused babble of surprise. Covering her eyes, Medair saw wriggling lights and tried to block it all out.

A touch at her elbow preceded Adept an Selvar’s warm voice. "I am sorry, Miss ar Corleaux," he said. "Whoever placed this geas on you is obviously an adept of great power – probably one of the most powerful. We cannot break it."

Medair fought the throbbing which seemed intent on bursting her head and, after a sentence or two more, an Selvar evidently realised that she was barely taking in what he was saying. He led her to a cool dark room where there was a couch she could rest upon. A damp cloth was laid on her forehead and he silently withdrew, leaving her to struggle with pain and frustration.

The ache did fade, becoming little more than a dull memory, but the disappointment remained. She was stuck with it. Geas, going to Athere. White Snakes.

As soon as she was able, Medair left the couch. Sitting around reflecting on the setback would only depress her further. Adept an Selvar was in the next room talking to a pale, exhausted pair of mages. He immediately suggested lunch.

"I’m sorry to have been of so little help to you, Miss ar Corleaux," he said apologetically over a glass of very good ginger wine. "We will, of course, refund your fee."

Medair shook her head, still moving cautiously. "The payment is for the effort, which I’d wager was more than you had bargained for. You may have had a busy morning, but I think I’ve ruined your afternoon for you."

He nodded in acceptance, since Medair’s geas had effectively exhausted the seven best mages in Kyledra’s Arcana House. "I am concerned for you – does this geas truly make you travel continuously? What will become of you if it is not broken?"

"It’s not so awful as that. The geas wasn’t designed to harm me, merely to cater to someone else’s convenience. There’s a set destination and the geas will leave me when I reach it. It’s simply tiresome to be going to a place I hadn’t intended to visit. Perhaps, in the next large city I reach, I will be able to try with more mages."

"I would recommend ten." He gave her a delicate look. "In all Farakkan there are perhaps seven people strong enough to have cast that geas, unless I have been giving far less of my attention to such matters than I should. I do not wish to pry, but I would very much like to hear your story."

Toying with her glass, Medair hid a grimace. She liked this man and would be glad to have a long and frank discussion with him about a certain bag of rahlstones and exactly what the Kyledran involvement with the battle for them might be. But she couldn’t outright ask strangers about a fortune in rahlstones she’d found in the forest. Not if she wanted to survive the week.

"I’m afraid I’ve been constrained not to tell people about it," she replied, regretfully, wondering if there was a subtle way to ask questions about rahlstones. "Nor would I be able to enlighten you particularly. I stumbled across a stranger and he put a geas on me to – to deliver a message. I don’t even know what his name is. Who are the seven people powerful enough to have created this geas?"

"Was it in Kyledra?" an Selvar asked, then raised his hands in negation. "I’m sorry. I know that if you try to answer against a geas, things could become very unpleasant for you. It’s merely that something has been happening in Kyledra which people seem to be trying to hide and I spent half the morning talking myself hoarse at the palace, to no good effect. If you’ve been caught up in the same business, perhaps you might be able to help me."

"Happening how?"

"I only wish I knew. An associate of mine – an adept of Arcana House – was called on by the Crown almost two weeks ago. They told him very little of what they wanted – something about smugglers, it seemed, or border taxes. A very confused and frankly odd story they gave him. But he went with them, and was overdue back yesterday. Now I can’t get a straight word out of the palace, for all it’s buzzing like a nest of hornets."

"Well, I haven’t been geased to smuggle anything. Was your associate powerful enough to be the adept who geased me, by any chance? I didn’t think he was Kyledran."

"No, that could not have been Hendist. He hasn’t even sent me a wend-whisper, yet he knows I must arrange for someone to take his classes if he does not return soon."

"It doesn’t sound good."

"No."

With just one of the rahlstones, an Selvar might be able to break the geas. But would he feel inclined to keep the stones secret? Even if he knew nothing about them at the moment, his ties to the palace might oblige him to report her. It was too risky to ask.

"Such deep thoughts."

"I was thinking of ways around this geas," Medair replied. "Who are these seven most powerful adepts?"

"It seems we can narrow the field to four, since your adept is, apparently, male. There is Vale an Sensashen, currently in Ashencaere. He is known for an uncertain temper and a delight in meddling with politics. Some Mersian blood. Three who are varying degrees Ibisian. Kemm ar Morgallan, who lives in Westerland and who is a great peacemaker among those fractious lands. Illukar las Cor-Ibis – I would suggest twelve magi, if it were he. And Senegar las Tholmadrae, whom I had heard from rumour was travelling in Farash, very near. There is also the Palladian prince, of course. There is no doubt that he has the power – his mother is one of the seven – but he is young and a geas takes a deal of skill and learning. Does this help you at all?"

Medair nodded, having identified "Lukar". Why the name sounded doubly familiar she was not certain, chasing errant memory. The Ibis in his name indicated that he was, not surprisingly, of the royal bloodline. She had expected that, with the resemblance. He could not be a direct descendant of Ieskar however, for she was certain there was no Farakkian blood in him.

Was that true? If Ieskar’s child had bred only with Ibisians, surely the Farakkian blood would be so weak as to be undetectable by now? She shivered, disliking the thought of associating with a descendant of Ieskar. Where had she heard the name Illukar before?

"I know his name, now," she told an Selvar. "I wish I could help you in return, but there is a great deal I think it would not be wise for me to say, even if I were not prevented."

"I’m sorry I cannot help you more."

Collecting her new horse, Medair spent the rest of the day shopping, keeping an ear out for tales of rahlstones with no success. Even the barber had nothing more interesting to talk of than the Spring markets and some upcoming races as he trimmed ragged edges and scraped her hair neatly back into a black riband. Still longer than she was used to, but she did not at the moment want to wear it the way she had during the war. That Medair seemed so young and out of place.

Most of her shopping was for clothes. The richer fashions seemed to be heavily influenced by Ibisian robes; all silks, layers and subtle patterns and nothing Medair wanted to wear. She eventually found a simple dress of dark blue which at least resembled the clothing she was used to wearing on formal occasions. It was easier to replace her everyday garb. Long-sleeved shirts of different colours, close-fitting trousers, jackets which were not too different from those she was comfortable with. They might not proclaim her ancestry, but she no longer looked scruffy and out of place as she rode once more into the yard of the Caraway Seed. Her satchel was all she retained from that morning.

The stable hand was more confused by her change of horse, since her new animal was worth infinitely more than the two sorry nags which had brought her to Thrence. When she walked through the front door, even the innkeep seemed unsure if she was the same person. Then he looked at her with obvious relief. Medair ignored him, but was aware of a small, spiteful pleasure. Illukar las Cor-Ibis must have regained consciousness and asked after her. That possibility had been part of the reason she had spent so long browsing the offerings of Thrence’s markets. After yesterday’s insults, she was not inclined to make life easier for Ibisians.

Wondering when she had developed this inclination to be vindictive, Medair made her way into the dining room. Thanks to her satchel, she didn’t even have to take her shopping upstairs. Most heralds ended up with their entire lives in their satchels, as she had been warned when she was presented with the deceptively simple leather case. Not in itself a bad thing, since she could always cast a trace on the satchel, but there were risks. There had been occasions in the past when satchels had been stolen by those anxious to get at some official document. Thefts usually ended up with the stolen bags and their contents being destroyed in an effort to break them open.

Medair started her meal with a masterpiece of lamb in black nut sauce, which made her sincerely regret living for half a year on her own cooking and scant supplies. She was close to finished when Jedda las Theomain and the two other Ibisian Kerise arrived, las Theomain regal in rose and blue, while dragonflies shimmered in the youth’s white silks. The girl was probably of lesser status, her robe muted and not costly. She had been wearing sword, shirt and trousers the previous evening and Medair noticed that this new outfit had been cut to allow easy access to a weapon belted beneath the open front of the robe. The other two were unarmed.

Medair carved a sliver of lamb, savouring the bitter delicacy of the sauce. Then, timing their arrival, she laid her utensils cross-ways on the edge of the plate. "Keris las Theomain. Have you come to join me?"

"No," the Keris replied, indifferent to any slight Medair could offer. "You are required upstairs."

Quite a beautiful woman, with intelligent eyes, but no diplomat. The youth was most likely related to Cor-Ibis, a resemblance Medair had not remarked before became more obvious when he wore the same expression of thoughtful consideration on his more handsome features. The part-Ibisian girl was wary, troubled.

"Whatever for?" Medair asked.

"This is not an occasion for questions. Come with us now."

It had been a long time since Medair had reason or inclination to snub someone, but yesterday had woken pride half-forgotten, and Heralds knew how to be insulting.

"Madam," she said. "I am sure I do not know why I should be obliged to obey your commands. Allow me to inform you that I find you abominably rude."

A spark of sudden delight leapt into the eyes of the Kerin in figured white. He was apparently not a friend to Jedda las Theomain. Medair, reminded that there was a great deal she did not know, made an effort to swallow her anger.

"However," she said, on a slightly less austere note, "if you would care to sit down with me until I am finished, then I may consent to joining you after. As it is, you are keeping me from dinner."

If Keris las Theomain had taken a seat and offered, if not an apology, some acknowledgment that Medair was not a serving-girl, she would certainly have endeared herself more than she did by coldly saying: "Bring her," to the girl before walking away. It was an entirely futile command to give in Kyledra, where an Ibisian trying to force a Farakkian anywhere would create more problems than they solved.

Medair watched Jedda las Theomain’s departure, then shifted her attention to the young Keris and Kerin. The youth was still smiling, and the girl had erased any expression, but they could not hide a certain tension. Obviously now aware that Medair was someone to whom they already owed a debt. She wondered if they’d follow Jedda las Theomain’s lead and depart from the strict Ibisian codes of courtesy.

"Are you going to drag me upstairs now?" she asked, and felt sorry when the girl flushed: a delicate pink colour which made her seem more Farakkian. "No. Sit down," she said when they would have made denials.

She gestured at chairs and waited while they sat. It gave her a brief sense of being in control, and an opportunity to decide what tack to take. These were people she would be associating with until Athere. She might try to remember that, instead of just damning them as White Snakes.

"I suppose Keris las Theomain is a bad enemy to make?" Medair asked, with less bite.

"She can be inopportune," the youth replied. "Allow me to make introductions, in the hopes that we do not all end up at odds. This is Ileaha Teán las Goranum and I am Avahn Jaruhl las Cor-Ibis."

"Medair ar Corleaux," Medair replied, resigned to the reaction she knew would follow. After a moment of shock, Avahn las Cor-Ibis laughed aloud, while Ileaha las Goranum looked first disconcerted, then disbelieving, then guarded.

"A Medarist!" The Kerin had just wit enough to keep his voice down. "Oh, too rich! A Medarist geased to assist Cor-Ibis! What splendid irony. I am very glad I came now."

More ironic than you could guess, Medair thought, but only waited out his laughter. She had not been fool enough to introduce herself as Medair an Rynstar since that first village, had since used the family name of the father who had never given her the right of claim. But she would not name herself other than Medair.

"I’m glad you enjoy the joke, Kerin las Cor-Ibis," she said, struggling to keep her even tone. "I’m almost sorry to tell you that the name is merely one my mother gave me and no reflection of my political beliefs."

The girl called Ileaha remained doubtful, but Avahn las Cor-Ibis shrugged and made a smiling gesture as if he was disappointed, but did not disbelieve. Medarists, after all, did not deny their cause.

Medair had been annoyed, then angry, when Medarists had been explained to her. It was not so much that a group of loyalists to the old Empire had decided to use her name as some sort of banner. It was that they were such fools.

A little less than five centuries ago, with its heartland conquered by arrogant White Snakes, the shattered Empire had turned the name Medair an Rynstar into a legend, into a myth. It had somehow become widely known that she was questing for the Horn of Farak and, hope of the slimmest sort, the conquered Imperials clung to the belief that she would return and summon an army to drive out the invaders. Her name became a talisman and there were many ballads which depicted her as some sort of sword-wielding hero, or, at least, someone mystically significant. This Medair could shrug off, embarrassed as it made her.

The Medarist movement had begun several centuries into Ibisian rule. Someone had had the bright idea of adding the name Medair to her own, and trying to raise an army. She hadn’t succeeded, but she set an example for a stubborn core of resentment in Palladium, struck a chord with those to whom the Ibisians would always be invaders, no matter how many centuries they had dwelled in Farakkan.

The dry facts of the Medarists were something Medair had learned in Athere. It had explained a great deal, for her entire journey from the north had been doubly marred by the reaction to her name. In Morning High, that first village, she’d introduced herself as Medair an Rynstar and been treated as a madwoman. And she had been half mad with grief, till they’d tried to lock her up. But it wasn’t until the border town of Burradge that she’d discovered why the name Medair alone would provoke such repulsion. It had been incomprehensible to her, the way strangers would stare at her, disbelieving, when she said she was called Medair. Vendors would suddenly refuse to sell to her, and children were hurried out of her way. She’d even been turned out of an inn, before she’d learned to keep her mouth shut.

In Burradge she’d sent a too-persistent admirer on his way by finally answering when he asked what he could call her. He’d let her be, with the alacrity with which she was becoming familiar. And Medair, returning to her inn, had found a young woman blocking her way along an alley.

"Medair?" the woman had said.

"Yes?"

The wary note in Medair’s voice must have been expected. The woman had smiled and stepped forward, a hand outstretched.

"Welcome sister," she’d said, gripping Medair’s hand firmly. "You come in good time."

"Thank you," Medair had replied, more than a little blankly. She’d become aware that they were not alone in the alley, that another two people stood behind the woman, and more were behind Medair. "In time?"

"Amelda an Vestal, who holds the Braesing Reserve under Empire Right, is planning to wed into the las Dormednar line," the woman had said, to Medair’s complete confusion. "We are too readily known in Burradge to venture into the wedding feast, but the cause would be well-served if you would take on the task. We have a charm prepared, which will make the bride’s hands run with her own blood, if only it can be got to her at the feast."

The lengthening silence which had followed that little speech was one of those things which would always be imprinted on Medair’s memory. It had been a cool night. The wind had whisked at her throat, and she’d heard a dog bark in the distance as she searched her mind vainly for something to say to the woman. And, after weeks fixated on loss and a blind determination to reach Athere, all Medair had managed was: "I think you must think I’m someone else."

"You said you took the name Medair!" the woman had said, recoiling as much in shock as anger.

"My name is Medair," she’d protested. "But I don’t know what that has to do with this wedding. I’ve never heard of these people." Memory of the note of pleading in her voice still made her writhe.

"A Hand’s heir taking a White Snake and you don’t know what that has to do with one named Medair?"

They had pressed forward, but Medair had simply said: "No."

"How dare you!" the woman had spat then, only intensifying Medair’s confusion. "How dare you claim Her name, and turn your back on Her cause. Can you tell me that your name is Medair, and yet you don’t yearn to see every White Snake dead and gone?!"

The stupid thing was, Medair’s answer to that question would not have been no. They hadn’t waited to hear what she would say, had started forward with fists and heavy boots. Medair was a stranger to combat, and without the strength ring she might never have left that alley. She’d been bruised for weeks after.

Quelled. That’s what she’d felt when she found an explanation for what had happened. Five hundred years into Ibisian rule there were groups where women called themselves Medair and men Medain. They lived violent and uncomfortable lives, spitting in the faces of White Snakes and letting the world know they thought that all Ibisians should be cast out, that the people – the Farakkian people – should rise up. That none of Ibisian blood should be tolerated to live.

Medarists aped some of the codes of the Heralds and forever spouted their fury in the name of Medair an Rynstar. As if she had somehow founded their order. They usurped both her name and history and talked constantly of the stories of how Medair an Rynstar would be reborn and would lead a war to drive the White Snakes out. And, much as Medair hated Ibisians, the idea revolted her.

Certainly she would have done anything to prevent the invasion, perhaps rebelled against Ibisian rule in those early years, when they had still been invaders. But, considering that it was sometimes impossible to tell if a person had Ibisian ancestry or was merely tall and pale, she thought it the height of idiocy to go around saying that all of Ibisian blood were evil and deserved to die, and to beat people in back alleys because their hair was white-blonde. Or because they introduced themselves as Medair. The Medarists were one of the reasons she’d retreated to Bariback.

"You should consider changing your name," Avahn las Cor-Ibis told her, still full of laughter and not in the least off-put by her stiff face and eyes full of painful memories. She blinked away the past and looked at him. How very different from any other White Snake she had met, this youth. How, she wondered, did that flippant attitude go with the remnants of such a strict and formal culture? He was even wearing white, a shade which had been reserved for the Kier alone in her time.

"I’m afraid that I’ve grown attached to it," she said, managing to shrug. "It’s only a bother when I travel, since my home lacks both Medarists and people who don’t know me well enough to not know my beliefs."

"You must live in a very small town," Avahn said, dubiously. Medair knew she was behaving in a contradictory manner, sometimes poised and sophisticated, and by the next turn haunted and hostile. She told herself sternly that she would do well not to arouse their suspicions further.

"I settled in a very under populated area," she said, striving for neutrality. Wanting to move the conversation along, she looked at the mix-blood woman. "I can guess where you are supposed to bring me and why," she said, "but perhaps I am wrong?"

Avahn chuckled, returning her attention to him. "You played the innocent well," he commented. "It was something to watch the inimitable Jedda’s face when Cor-Ibis told her to fetch you. She dug herself in so nicely too, going on to say you’d been paid off adequately, that she’d made certain you knew nothing of import and that your word had been extracted not to speak of the matter. Neatly trapped. I compliment you."

"I didn’t set out to trap Keris las Theomain," Medair replied. "She achieved that on her own. I did abet her, however, and I wonder if that might have been a mistake." Ileaha las Goranum had grown only more subdued during the discussion. "The Keris has no authority over me and I am in no demesne of hers. I will not be the one suffering the consequences of going against her will."

"The Keris can give cause to regret," the girl agreed tonelessly.

"Oh, show some backbone, Ileaha!" Avahn said, impatiently. He obviously knew more about whatever weighed on the girl, but spared it little regard. "The lovely Jedda is hardly of concern now that Cor-Ibis is back with us."

"You think not?"

The girl had the blood to match that ornament of jade, Medair decided. No-one without some breeding and background could manage quite that note of contempt. The youth felt it and looked annoyed, then cooled, and began acting a good deal more like a proper Ibisian.

"The matter is of little import," he said, and deliberately turned away from Ileaha. "Kel ar Corleaux," he continued, awarding her the form of address suitable for commoners. "My cousin wishes speech with you. He was asleep when word came of your return, so you need not hurry your meal. Keris las Goranum will, I hope, be capable of escorting you when you have done." He rose and bowed exquisitely to Medair, not at all to Ileaha, and left. Very much on his dignity.

There was a short silence while Medair continued eating and Ileaha played with the edge of the tablecloth. "What is Cor-Ibis' title?" Medair asked when she was finished. She was feeling more in control of herself now, able to think about what to do next.

Ileaha looked at her, not quite startled. "You do not know?"

"He didn’t introduce himself," Medair replied. "And Keris las Theomain took pains, last night, to be vague about his identity. A stupid thing, since the stable hands seemed to know who he was and would be happier than I to spread the tale. The way his cousin referred to him made it obvious that he is head of that family."

las meant of the line and was only dropped from reference when the person was the active controller of the line, title and fortunes of the family.

"He did not know even your name," Ileaha replied, fencing.

"I didn’t introduce myself either. Considering his first words to me consisted of a geas, I can surely be forgiven for feeling less than friendly. Being drawn out of my way for something which, from the body count, looks to be more than dangerous, does little to put me in a good humour. Without even an explanation, which I suppose you would not supply if I asked."

"Better not," Ileaha replied, and allowed the silence to stretch before answering. "He is Illukar Síahn las Cor-Ibis, Keridahl Avec."

High Lord Right of the Cold Blood. Medair had always found Ibisian titles clumsy in translation. Kier was a title which meant Highest Ruler more than High King, since the word was not specific to a gender. Keridahl was High Lord, something similar to a Duke. Avec was an extra title awarded to only one Keridahl at a time. The man was the current Kier’s second most favoured lord. She had guessed the Keridahl, from those absent earrings, but not the Avec.

Medair, after a short pause, recited: "Keriel, Kerivor, Kerikath, Kerikal, Keriden, Keridahl, Keridahl Avec, Keridahl Alar, Kierash, Kier."

"And AlKier," Ileaha finished, softly.

"That I’ve never quite understood, this idea of a Ruler of All. Farak does not rule, she provides, nurtures."

Ileaha shook her head. "Worship of the land. It is –" She paused. "Probably it is best not to become embroiled in a discussion about the AlKier or your land which provides."

"No," Medair agreed, studying the girl. Farakkian and Ibisian both – there had been none of her kind during the war. "Who are you? A name tells so little."

"Your name is one which usually tells everything."

Medair would not be drawn. "My misfortune."

"I am one of Cor-Ibis' wards."

"One? He has many?"

"A half-dozen. He is Cor-Ibis. Dependants are inevitable."

"You don’t seem a child. How long do you remain a ward?" This girl was at least twenty, which was the Ibisian majority.

"I am no longer in care," Ileaha replied carefully. "But, being without family, a suitable trade, or sufficient property, I am not quite disposed of."

The traditional poor relation. "So…the Keridahl Avec, Illukar las Cor-Ibis, travels to Kyledra with a cousin, an ex-ward, a singularly impolite woman, a couple of Farakkians and remarkably few servants. He settles them in an inn in Thrence, shape-changes into a Farakkian child and somehow ends up spell shocked at the site of a battle in Bariback Forest, an area essentially under-populated and dull, too far west of the Lemmek Pass to be of interest even to the merchants who died there, let alone the Kyledran Kingsmen, various mercenaries and oddly dressed Decians. And I see you’re not going to tell me what it’s all about."

The girl shook her head, mutely.

"Very well, then. Who is this Jedda las Theomain, who seems to be in charge of Cor-Ibis' people? She’s an adept, isn’t she? Don’t tell me she’s another ex-ward or cousin? His wife?" No, las Theomain had not had a second piercing in her right ear.

After a pause, the girl replied carefully: "Keris las Theomain is an adept, yes. Her family head is Keriel Theomain. The Keris is strong in arcane power, more so than most, and has made a name for herself acting on the Kier’s behalf and as a close friend of the Kier. She is not in charge of Cor-Ibis' people, but had authority in his absence."

Medair decided to pry. "Over you in particular?"

Ileaha was inspecting the tablecloth again. "I believe Keridahl Cor-Ibis has discussed the possibility of my being given into service to Keris las Theomain as secretary. I have a small amount of mage skill, which would be useful to an adept."

"Someone for her to snap orders at?" Medair interpreted. "Couldn’t you serve the Keridahl in that capacity, if you must serve? Or is the carefully dressed cousin already filling the role?"

"Kerin Avahn is Cor-Ibis' heir," Ileaha replied, again startled at Medair’s ignorance. A frown came into her eyes and she closed her teeth on whatever she had been about to say. It was apparent she did not approve of Avahn. Something to remember.

Medair drained her glass and stood.

"Well, shall we go and see if your ex-guardian has woken up? I assume Keris las Theomain has not gone to rouse him expressly for the purpose of telling him I have no manners."

"You did not display such self-command yesterday," Ileaha commented.

"I was tired, yesterday, and I knew it was unlikely that Cor-Ibis would be going anywhere immediately. All haste to get here, knowing that he would fall down by journey’s end. I suppose he wanted Keris las Theomain to send a wend-whisper, knowing that he could not."

Ileaha did not reply.