Voice of the Lost

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Medair was hurriedly dressing when the next wend-whisper came. The distant roar of wild magic completely overwhelmed her ability to sense such a subtle piece of arcana, but she noticed Illukar wearing that intent, listening-to-nothing expression.

"They have Tarsus," he said, as she joined him at the door. His eyes were full of worry and a kind of angry helplessness. "He woke in shock, and dropped the glass onto stone. It shattered. A foolish accident."

"Did it–?"

"The island is no more. It is the Blight."

He continued out of the room without another word, face frozen in an expressionless mask. Medair realised he was suppressing what passed for fury in an habitually controlled man. The worst had happened, for the stupidest of reasons, and he knew of no way to fix it.

Her own plummeting dismay was complicated something she should say, a thing she should suggest. It seemed impossibly unfair that she was faced with another double-barbed choice – to lose Illukar quickly or slowly – and she was scrabbling frantically for ways to avoid it. Surely they could first try other means of stopping the Blight, try those dispells and nullifications and containments in the hopes of hitting on some combination which all of Sar-Ibis' adepts had failed to find. Or they could send someone else, send Sedesten, Islantar, anyone but Illukar. Craven solutions. If she were mage enough, she would go herself, because it seemed far easier to sacrifice herself for him, than the other way around.

But there wasn’t any choice. Nor, she discovered as they descended the main stair, any time for prevarication. Islantar was among those crowded into the entry hall, and his eyes fixed on her with typical determination. He alone would be able to see the same solution to this lost knowledge. Silence wasn’t an option for her, if it ever had been.

She was given the briefest of respites, as Illukar swept straight out to the portico at the top of the doubled entrance stairs. The move was some measure of how he was feeling, for there was little to gain by going outside to look in the direction of the raging power. The Blight would not tower into the sky as the Conflagration had. Just dissolve Farakkan quietly into water.

Still, he looked, and she did as well, and saw Falcon Black silhouetted against the sunset above the hills. The half-wrecked castle was grim and ugly and striped incongruously in gold and pink. The Blight was somewhere beyond, an unseen presence shouting its advance.

"Can you call him back?"

When she didn’t respond immediately, Islantar went so far as to touch her arm. "I don’t know," she said, struggling against her reluctance to call upon the only person who might know how to stop the Blight. She recognised that her hesitation wasn’t only due to what it would mean for Illukar, but also because that person was Ieskar.

She didn’t want to see Ieskar again, didn’t want to try and summon him up, certainly didn’t want to ask for his help. In the face of the Blight, that seemed contemptible. But she wasn’t certain she knew how to summon him, for she hadn’t done so consciously, back in Athere. He had simply arrived, possessing Islantar – the nearest of his descendants – and told her things she did not want to hear. And offered to haunt her, if she would not touch his hand.

"Call him back?" Illukar repeated, turning to look from Medair to Islantar. "What do you mean?"

Islantar glanced at the mix of servants and others crowding the doorway, then led Illukar and Medair down to the foot of the twin stair, and the entrance of the lavender-filled garden between them. Only two people followed: Queen Sendel, who wore a most pugnacious expression, and Avahn, slow and unsteady, but awake and on his own feet. Illukar’s innate courtesy asserted itself, and Medair was given a few moments more while he saw his injured heir settled on one of the stone seats. It was sufficient time for her to notice, in the shadow of the stair, how that slight glow still clung to Illukar. And to see, like some daemon conjured by thought alone, another tall, luminous figure, wearing clothes so dark that only his face and the straight fall of his unbound hair distinguished him from shadow.

"Funeral clothes," she said inanely, and everyone looked at her, then followed the direction of her gaze.

Kier Ieskar didn’t move. He was, as she had said, wearing funeral clothes – the unrelieved black Ibisians reserved for the dead – and his face was thin and drawn. This was how he must have looked when he was placed in his tomb.

When he stepped forward – one of those statue-come-to-life movements which had made him so inhuman to her – she caught a glimpse of stone and leaf directly through him. He was an insubstantial shade from the past, nowhere near as real as he had been when she met him in the crypts, yet every bit as overwhelming as the first time she had laid eyes on him.

"What magic is this?" Queen Sendel asked, and was ignored. Even her vigour was thinned, diminished by the intensity of the dead Kier’s presence.

Ieskar’s gaze fixed on Illukar’s face as he stopped before him. It was a shock to see them together, to mark the similarity of their features and, worse, the duplication in their expressions and their way of holding themselves. Medair clutched at differences. The most apparent was their height, but that observation only made her remember a time, back in Thrence, when she had realised Illukar was not so tall as she expected. A moment of dissonance she now understood: he was shorter than Ieskar.

"My brother," Ieskar said.

"Ekarrel." Illukar bowed, the same degree of courtesy he would award Kier Inelkar, but with an added note of veneration. Niadril Kier. She had never asked herself what Illukar would think of the man who had destroyed her peace, had not even allowed herself to consider the question. Far more than a historical figure for both of them.

As Ieskar turned to look at her, Medair forced questions out of her head through sheer effort of will. She knew she must be almost as pale as an Ibisian, but she refused to look as sick as she felt. It was a relief, and something of a shock, when he only inclined his head and moved to study Islantar. Then that pale, piercing gaze returned to Illukar.

"You have little time," Ieskar said, in the most calm and unhurried tone imaginable. "This occurrence is not a precise duplication. By the next sunset, this city will be gone."

"What is it saying?" Queen Sendel asked in Parlance, as both Islantar and Avahn drew in their breath. Illukar did not break the gaze of the ghost who had named him brother.

"Will you tell us how to stop it?" he asked.

Ieskar lifted his hand, a move which would have made Medair flinch if it had been directed at her. Long fingers passed through Illukar’s cheek before coming to rest against – or under – his temple. They stood that way ten breaths or more, while their small audience stared and wondered. Medair closed her eyes, because this was Illukar’s death sentence and she could only hate Ieskar more for making it possible.

When she looked back, it was as if Ieskar had never been. Queen Sendel had moved to take his place, and was questioning Illukar tersely. Islantar stood at Illukar’s shoulder, his composure not equal to hiding tight misery. Avahn had covered his eyes.

It was what Medair could see in Illukar’s face which was worst. A certain amount of relief. And resignation.

Water, reeds, mud, and myriad small islands. Wetter than a swamp, but far too shallow to be a lake. In late twilight, the Shimmerlan was a murky, uncertain expanse of shadows and subdued reflections. It felt threatening and unpleasant and smelled of damp and rot. And everything which could scurry or jump or crawl was running from it.

Insects whirred past Medair’s face and birds flew overhead making strange forlorn cries. In the short time since they’d reached the Shimmerlan’s border, at least three snakes had slithered by her feet, and there had been frogs and water rats and many things she’d never seen before. All heading away from the oppressive advance of what must look like nothing more than a pool of dark water.

They were waiting for the tracking party, returning ahead of the spreading Blight. With Tarsus, apparently. Medair spent her time watching Illukar’s face as he discussed some sort of levitation spell with Sedesten; working out ways for him not to die just long enough to banish the Blight. Medair was taking in little things, like the way Illukar would tip his head ever so slightly to one side when he was considering a request, and the way he held his hands loose and relaxed at his sides, not shifting them about as so many people did.

She couldn’t quite believe she was doing this. Cataloguing her lover, snatching at minutiae before he went and saved the world and died. Now should be when she produced another Horn of Farak, another artefact of stupendous power, and this time it wouldn’t be too late and she would save what was most important to her and it wouldn’t all end in tears.

But artefacts were nothing to wild magic. The Horn of Farak would be little more than a bright firefly against this arcane sun, and all that ridiculously large collection she had brought from Kersym Bleak’s hoard were useless dross. All Medair could do was watch, with the rest of the muted crowd who had followed to the Shimmerlan’s edge. The sum of her choices now were to make Illukar’s departure as hard or easy as possible. To meet loss bravely or to curse it and wail.

That was no choice, either.

"They’re coming," said Kel ar Haedrin, though how the woman had seen through the post-twilight gloom Medair couldn’t imagine. Still, she was right. A blot of darkness shifted, became distinct figures accompanied by the sound of sloshing boots. And preceded by one of the inhabitants of the Shimmerlan.

Herald N’Taive had called them Alshem. The swimmer-folk. The woman who lifted herself from the water was the size of a ten-year child, though noticeably mature beneath a tightly wrapped leathery sheath. Slender and lithe, with a fine pelt of brown-black covering head, neck, shoulders and arms, she was still far more human than Medair had expected. The eyes were strangest: liquid black, lacking any sign of white, and with a transparent inner lid which slid up instead of down.

The Alshem woman carried herself with an effortless dignity as she approached Illukar, who towered above her looking as distant and remote as only Ibisians can. She made a fluid gesture with her hand and bowed her head to a degree which Medair interpreted as honour without servitude.

"Strange doings, cold one," the Alshem said in precise Ibis-laran. "We have brought the one you required."

"My thanks, sun skimmer," Illukar replied, managing not to sound the least bit uncertain. He’d obviously found a chance to mine Sedesten for information about these neighbours he did not remember. And would only meet once.

Medair looked away, breathing deeply. He was going to die, and she had to sit here and let him. She felt cold and frozen inside, her chest clogged with the effort of not wailing and screaming. So hard not to weep.

"Ibisian."

It was Tarsus' voice, urgent and imperative. He came tramping out of the swamp trailed by the search party. Wet and haggard, the boy looked like the survivor of a shipwreck, his eyes filled with a different kind of agony than that which had consumed him in Falcon Black. There was less anger to it, but a depth Medair recognised.

"He says there’s nothing I can do to stop it," Tarsus said, shortly. "Is it true? "

"There is nothing." Illukar’s expression was not welcoming.

"Are you certain?!" Tarsus mastered desperate anger with evident difficulty. He swallowed a gasping breath, staring at Illukar’s face, then straightened. "What then? You have something planned. I can see it in your eyes. What can I do to help?"

Bald anguish, overmastering guilt and a childish horror warred in his voice, all subdued by stern determination. How do you live with the knowledge that the world is dying by an act of yours? That because you could not trust, because you had been taught to hate, to never forgive, you had caused the worst thing possible?

Illukar responded to the patent sincerity of Tarsus' offer. "It is a matter for adepts," he said, more kindly than Medair could have managed. "There is something which might succeed and we go to try it. Farakkan is not yet lost." But that was all the comfort he could give.

Leaving the boy to Kel ar Haedrin, Illukar turned to one of the mud-spattered escort: an angular Farakkian woman in her fifties, who had been shifting uneasily during Tarsus' interlude. "What can you tell me, Kel?"

"It moves at a slow walking pace, Keridahl. Just water on water, though none could mistake the peril. We outpaced it easily, but it will reach this point by midnight."

There was a pause, as everyone took in the urgency of the situation, then it was back to contingency plans and orders. Medair, looking determinedly at nothing, found Islantar again at her elbow and allowed him to draw her a short distance down the sodden bank, till they could barely make out Illukar’s glow. The Kierash didn’t speak, merely stood beside her, keeping a tight control on his expression as he waited, turning a glowstone over and over in his hands.

When Illukar finally joined them, Islantar stepped forward, lifted a hand, then let it drop. They were both so rarely awkward that the hesitation which followed was painful. Then Islantar collected himself and took another step, so that he was facing Illukar, much as Tarsus had a short while before. The duplication again reminded Medair how very young Islantar was.

"There–" Islantar began, and ground to a halt, staring up at Illukar. Such an Ibisian scene: both their faces were formal masks, their posture correct, pain kept inside where it cut deeper. Yet no-one who looked on them could possibly think Ibisians cold.

"There are so many things I have wished to say to you," Islantar said, his voice just the tiniest fraction higher than normal. "I have looked for an opportunity to tell you that you are – that I have learned so much from you, followed your lead in countless things. You are–"

A father to me. He didn’t say it, just looked down, silenced either by his own emotions or by the rules which governed his rank.

Odd that Illukar, considered so perfectly Ibisian, could simply reach out and embrace his Kierash. Islantar’s eyes went wide, then he wrapped his arms tightly around Illukar’s waist, hiding his face against his chest.

"Make me proud, Islantar," Illukar said into the boy’s hair. His face was a mask, but his voice was full of undercurrents. Islantar whispered something so softly Medair was not certain even Illukar could make it out, then let go and stepped back, resuming at least a semblance of his self-command.

"Goodbye," he said simply, then walked away. His steps were steady and his back straight.

Illukar watched him until he was out of sight, then moved toward Medair.

"My turn now?"

He didn’t quite smile. "I would that this moment had never come, Medair."

She looked away, out into the roiling dark. The evening was cool, a light breeze toying with her hair, but it was impossible to regard the night as pleasant. It was neither heat nor wind nor visible threat, but the Blight’s power was a doom impossible to ignore or mistake. It choked and stifled and crushed, perfectly matching the feelings which welled inside.

Illukar’s long fingers curled over her shoulders. "I have requested of Avahn that he care for you. I would like, very much, for you to consider The Avenue your home."

How can it be, when you aren’t there? Medair didn’t say it, instead turning and clasping his hands. It was hard to look up into his eyes.

"These last few days–" He paused, and she could almost see him think on all that had happened in such a short time. "I know that what we have shared will make my death harder for you, but I cannot regret choosing my moment to speak."

"No." Medair determinedly set aside the selfish, petulant part of herself which regretted ever having met him. And the part which told her that no good could ever have come of lying with a White Snake. "I’m glad you did," she said, meaning it. "I–" How to say everything she had not? "I have been happy with you," she said, finally, and watched his eyes smile. That made it nearly impossible not to cry, so she followed Islantar’s example and hid in Illukar’s embrace. So much easier to simply hold him and try to pretend it wasn’t for the last time.

Immediately, her memory served up to her the expression on Illukar’s face when he had bowed to Ieskar. Such straightforward respect. Did he admire the man who had destroyed her Empire to save his people’s pride? Had he been raised on stories of the Niadril Kier’s war, just as Medarists followed the legend of Medair? What would Illukar have done, in Ieskar’s place?

"What is it?" he asked, catching her off guard. He must have read some tension in her body, unless he truly could see into her mind.

"This isn’t the moment," she said, aching more with every word. She didn’t want to ask him, not now.

"It is the last moment, Medair," he said. Almost wry. "Speak."

Would it be better not to know, and live with the uncertainty? Or should she risk tarnishing her memory of him? She drew back, enough to look up into that faintly glowing face, and saw a shadow of concern. That made it harder to refuse, for she would not leave him wondering as he went off to die.

Her tongue was heavy and reluctant as she spoke. "Kier Ieskar…told me that he invaded because the Ibis-lar would have become a pauper race if they’d accepted the Emperor’s mercy. Feared, hated, separated…" She trailed off.

"I have heard the Niadril Kier’s reasons," Illukar said. His voice had gone quite soft, as if someone held a knife to his heart. Medair stared up at him, a knot in her throat she couldn’t swallow.

"Do you think he was right?" she asked, faintly.

"Not for Palladium," Illukar replied, immediately. But his eyes were unhappy. "It was disastrous for the Empire, and so many centuries later there is still division because of it. It is the one great wound in our past that Farakkan cannot forget. As Ibis-lar…" The care with which he weighed his words was answer in itself. "It may not have happened as he forecast. Grevain had offered aid, shelter: a generous welcome. There was no certainty that they would have devolved into hearthless outcasts. I do not doubt they would have been feared for their power, that inevitably they would have been at odds with some Farak-lar, perhaps persecuted. We are not the most flexible people, and the laws which bound us at that time were astoundingly rigid. Being divided, as refugees must be, among those who could house them, they would have been powerfully disadvantaged, overwhelmed by Farakkan’s numbers. A vulnerable position." He stopped, then continued grimly. "In the longest of terms, yes. It was not an honourable thing to do, but for the Ibis-lar as a people, I think he was right."

There were so many implications to this admission that Medair’s head spun. And yet, it barely mattered.

"Strange how little difference that makes to the way I’m feeling now," she said in astonishment, and kissed him because it was true.

Too soon someone – Sedesten – came near them and said: "It is ready." When Illukar drew back she had to force herself not to cling to him, and instead tried one last time to conjure some plan for his survival out of need and nothing. All she could manage was a wretched attempt at hiding the way her breath sobbed in her throat.

"I will miss you, always," she said. His attempt at a smile was sadly awry, out of place on Illukar’s beautifully drawn features. It was her pain, her loss, which was doing that to him.

"I will love you always, Medair," he said, a stark statement which did not pretend that his always would not be longer than that night. He brushed her cheek once with those slender white fingers, then turned and walked away.

Hidden by the dark, Medair curled down to hug her knees, closed her teeth on the hand pressed to her mouth, and howled.