The Silence of Medair

by Andrea K Höst

  "Bariback Forest," she said, keeping herself factual. She'd known she'd be interrogated, and it was no good glowering at them. "I saw some smoke and went to investigate and found...a lot of dead people. A couple of different mercenary groups, Kyledrans, Decians, merchants. A blast of fire had taken out about a hundred feet of the forest. It looked like they'd been fighting before that, though, because I found bodies at the edge with battle injuries. Your adept was in the circle but unburnt. Spell shocked and wearing the form of a Kyledran boy. The shape-change wore off yesterday and he...obliged me to bring him here and tell you that."

  "Your mishandling of him may cost him his life," las Theomain informed her in a cold yet absentminded voice. "He is not fit to travel."

  Sweet, Medair thought, lifting a shoulder. "He wanted the speed. Something about people being due to leave this morning but having problems with obedience."

  "Indeed?" Jedda las Theomain asked, her full attention shifting back to Medair. She lifted a hand and began speaking words for truth and binding. Medair hesitated, her fingers closing over the arm of the chair, but she didn't move. The spell could not force honesty from her, only indicate when she lied. And protesting might prompt them to lock her up somewhere.

  "Did Co – did the Kerin say anything else of what had happened?" las Theomain asked.

  "No."

  "'The nest was robbed' – those are the only words he said?"

  "That was the only message," Medair replied, putting all her effort into a display of being helpful. "Do you want me to repeat everything he said about going to Thrence and things like that?"

  "No. He did not give anything to you? You spoke of a package."

  "I meant the Kerin," Medair replied. "He didn't give me any packages. He didn't have anything on him to give, only the clothes he wore and they were shredded when he changed shape."

  "I see." The woman produced a small purse, which she tossed to Medair. Catching it automatically, Medair felt the weight of metal. "Your word, if you please, that you will not speak of these events to anyone." When Medair did not immediately respond, the Keris made a small gesture of impatience. "Come, that is more, I am certain, than anything the Kerin promised you. Your word."

  Medair lifted the corner of her mouth in an awry approximation of a smile. She hoped her fury didn't show. "Yes, it is certainly much more than anything the Kerin promised me," she said truthfully, and stood. "You have my word, Keris las Theomain, that I will not mention these events again unless you or the Kerin bids me otherwise. Good night, gracious ladies, kind sirs." After a painfully controlled bow, Medair walked out of the room. No-one tried to stop her. Apparently they thought her adequately dealt with.

  It had been a long day. She was tired, her back ached abominably, and all she wanted was a bath, food and bed. And to shred Keris las Theomain to quivering gobbets of flesh for the insult she'd just dealt. Medair's jaw was clenched so tight it ached, and she found that her hand trembled when she opened the door of her room.

  The White Snakes had judged her small indeed, she thought, standing before a mirror in her room. There were circles under her eyes, muddying the light tan she'd cultivated during the Spring. Her hair was tangled and needed a wash as much as a trim. Her clothes declared their heavy use and she supposed she must smell of sweat and trail-dirt. She'd never been a beauty, but she was tall and slender with delicate bones and pleasant features. As Herald, she'd always been particularly careful of her appearance, to the point her sister had claimed she'd grown vain, conceited. It was odd to see how dull and plain she looked after a Winter's neglect, and she forced herself to see what the White Snakes had: a scruffy little vagabond. Someone who might place gold over anything.

  Medair sat down on the invitingly soft mattress and emptied the purse onto the coverlet. Fifteen gold coins. Not an incredibly large sum by today's costs. A fortune only to a dirt-scratcher. Why hadn't she thrown them back in Jedda las Theomain's face?

  Because I wanted to leave, she told herself, and if I hadn't gone then, there would have been more questions, more truth spells.

  Perhaps because I was too surprised.

  With slow movements she pulled her satchel onto her lap, sent a questing hand inside, fingers closing briefly around the rahlstones before seeking another prize.

  One of the satchel's many virtues was that you did not have to search about for things. If you knew what you wanted, it would come to hand as obediently as a well-trained falcon. Medair drew out two bulging leather purses and a small velvet bag.

  From the largest purse she spilled out gold Imperiums. There were about four hundred and fifty coins. This was her unspent wage for the years she had served. Born to a wealthy family, she had never needed to draw on it. She selected a coin imprinted with the profile and crest of her Emperor, the man to whom she had given Oath, who had made her Herald. He had died from wounds before Athere had surrendered.

  The second purse contained gemstones. These had been a gift from her mother, compensation of sorts for the fact that her elder sister would inherit the Rynstar lands and title. They were worth a great deal more than the coins. Not nearly so much as twelve rahlstones.

  With delicate fingers Medair drew a badge from the velvet bag and touched its shining silver as reverently as she would the cheek of a new-born babe. The insignia of an Imperial Herald, once more precious to her than gold and jewels combined. Two crossed crescent moons: one etched with the same scroll which decorated her satchel, the other with the Corminevar triple crown.

  Suddenly impatient with herself, Medair packed everything away, ordered a bath and scrubbed herself shiny clean. Dirt was an easy problem. Returning to the mirror, she inspected the bruises on her back. There were only eight, not thousands: small and dark purple. The bruise on her hip probably came from the Ibisian's knee. Another grudge to hold against him, along with her shoddy treatment here.

  She needed to decide what to do with the rahlstones. There were certainly enough who appeared to want them, but who actually owned them? The Ibisians? The Kyledrans? The Decians? It seemed that the best thing she could do was work out who they belonged to and give them back. Not because her pride had been wounded when someone had paid her coin for aid freely given then forced from her. Not because of the geas, or her bruises, or because a White Snake had looked at her and seen the smallest thing she could construe. Just – because.

  She could, Medair reckoned, safely leave the adept and his offensive friends alone for a day or so. Whoever he was, he could not possibly travel for at least that long without really risking his health, so the geas would surely not bother her. It would give her a chance to try and find out if anyone in Thrence was missing twelve rahlstones.

  Tomorrow, she told herself, she would go shopping.

  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 b
ehind 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.

  -oOo-

  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."