Voice of the Lost

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Since Ileaha had not returned to Avahn’s room, Medair asked Kel ar Haedrin to watch over him, and headed down the corridor to the central dining hall which Queen Sendel had adopted as her base of operations in apparent preference to her brother’s throne room. Tarsus' survival was a double-edged gift. Medair could not be anything but glad not to have killed him, but she could not pretend that his death would not have made what came next less complicated.

There was no way to be certain how much difference the Conflagration had made to the question of his descent. He might be no more a direct heir of Emperor Grevain than N’Taive was a Mersian Herald, but the past she remembered made no difference to the facts of a remade world. She would–

A hand over her mouth.

An arm swiftly followed, clamping across her chest, pulling her back, and someone came from one side, bending to grab and lift her legs. Surprise froze Medair only for a moment, and then she writhed, twisting in their hold. She bit the hand, or tried to, because there were allies in the rooms ahead and behind and all she had to do was call out–

Movement. They were carrying her away, and she fought harder, furiously now because she would not die here, not now, not when at last it had seemed possible to live.

"We just want to ask you a question!" hissed a voice, young, choked.

Medair still fought, because she did not dare trust, and succeeded in wrenching her face free as they came near to tumbling down a short flight of stairs. She drew breath to shriek, but one of her captors slapped her, hard enough to snap her head to one side, and then there was a door, closing behind them and suddenly she was free, dumped unceremoniously on a flagged floor before a banked fire.

Gulping air, she assembled her limbs, drawing herself together in case it was necessary to fight, but her captors were backing away, and Medair was able to calm herself enough to measure what she faced.

A kitchen. Large, clean, with two entrances, both shut. A gangling boy blocked the one they’d entered through, and a pregnant woman holding a fire-iron rested her back against the other. A younger boy, of perhaps ten years, stood in the centre of the room next to a girl five or so years his senior, and an older woman seated in a chair.

Not an immediate attack. Medair considered her chances of forcing her way through one of the doors, but since they hadn’t attacked her, she would catch her breath and wait, at least until her ears stopped ringing. The slap had been hard.

"What question?" she asked, wondering if it would be why, and knowing her reasons could no more satisfy these people than Ieskar’s had been adequate for her.

"Is it true that there’s no survivors?" It was the pregnant woman who asked, voice sharp.

"No." She saw the change wrought in them by that single word, and regretted giving false hope. "I heard that a handful survived. Those who had no weapons, or threw them down. But it was only the smallest number."

"Kerika would never give up her sword," the young boy said, and then ducked his head down, hands balling into fists. "Never."

"But what killed them?" The pregnant woman again. She was at no pains to hide her anger, an obvious desire to lash out. "Palladium was unready, outnumbered. Whatever foul arts the White Snakes could have used, they could not, should not – it must be some kind of trickery. I don’t believe you. The battle is still being fought, and you’re just lying to protect your hides."

"It was the Horn of Farak." Medair paused, struggling to find the words, then told them the thing she had to: "Medair an Rynstar used the Horn of Farak, and…and Farak answered."

It was like she had slapped them. They gaped: stunned, betrayed.

"But why?" The stripling girl this time, stepping forward not in anger but entreaty. "Why would Farak do that?"

That was not how Medair had been looking at the issue at all, and she had no immediate answer.

"Now I know you’re lying," the pregnant woman said. "If Medair an Rynstar has truly been reborn, then the White Snakes would be gone, lost. She searched for the Horn of Farak to kill them."

"She searched for the Horn of Farak to protect Athere," Medair said. "And did."

"We went to free Athere!" The words were shouted and the woman started forward, raising the fire-iron as if it could give lie to Medair’s answer.

"Let be, Tercia."

The older woman sagged in her chair as the skin sagged on her bones, but her voice held command.

"Did you see it?" she asked Medair. "Will you swear it, on Farak’s name, that what you say is true? It was the Horn of Farak which lost us this war?"

"I swear it, by Farak’s Grace."

"And so." The older woman shook her head. "Without Farak’s favour, there was never any hope of victory."

"I still don’t see why," the stripling girl said. "Why would Farak turn her face from us?"

"I can’t speak for – I don’t know," Medair said. "Perhaps Farak would have answered any who used the Horn."

"And the Herald? Our cause was just. Tarsus, he is the direct heir of the last Emperor. It makes no sense, that Medair an Rynstar would use the Horn against him."

"To save Atherians. To save someone else who is also a direct heir of the last Emperor. To–" Medair sighed, because she knew that nothing she could say was going to ease their grief, or soothe their hatred. "In the end, perhaps merely because more people would have died if the battle was brought to the streets. I’m sorry. I wish I could do more, I wish I could tell you something that would make it better, but words will not bring back the dead. Or dull your loss."

Any response was lost as the door behind the older boy was thrust open, catapulting him forward. He yelled as he fell, and the pregnant woman stepped forward, raising her fire-iron, only to meet Ileaha’s sword. Medair started to cry out, but should have trusted Ileaha, who was abruptly holding both sword and fire-iron, and had retreated a step, flanking Islantar, who walked into the kitchen with as much dignity and calm as he would approach a room full of allies. His eyes sought Medair and he nodded, the tiniest motion.

"Keris," he said. "I am glad to find you."

"Kierash," Medair said.

Islantar had turned his attention to the small collection of Decians, and perhaps his inherent gravity would have kept them silent even if Ileaha had not been at his side, for all that he was a hated White Snake, invading the place which was their home.

"Between us there is a gulf I do not think it is possible for me cross," he said. "Not today. I do not ask it, only give to you my profound sorrow."

He bowed, a simple, but deep gesture, and turned without a word, and Ileaha and Medair followed, and closed the door behind them.

"I am sorry, Medair," Ileaha said. "I should not have left you."

Medair shook her head, then looked at Islantar. "I couldn’t tell them who I was. I couldn’t admit it."

"You couldn’t tell them who you were because they would have killed you," he said, pragmatically, but his voice changed as he continued. "And then we – I do not quite know how we would have reacted. What gain, what good, to strike them down? But this is one incident and there will be others, death for death. A snowball tumbling down a hill, collecting more and more grievous injuries, weighed down by every slight and every retaliation."

And Islantar tasked by Grevain Corminevar – or Farak herself – to heal Palladium would not achieve that by ignoring Decia’s wounds.

"I’m glad I spoke to them," Medair said. "It won’t make them hate me any less, but at least they won’t have to wonder why."

She let out a long breath, and realised she was shaking. But still alive, able to take another step. Fumbling her way forward.

"I miss believing I was right," she added, but too softly for them to hear.