"Thanks for the warning," she replied, curling one corner of her mouth up, though she was more than a little worried. The spell-shield would keep out conjured effects, people, missiles, but she wasn't sure it would be effective against natural heat and smoke.
The mage paused at the door and looked at her, sitting in her circle of safety. He smiled, and clicked his fingers, producing a tiny spurt of flame.
The farmhouse burned.
Chapter Eleven
It would have been possible to run for the door if she had gone immediately, but Medair waited. Soon droplets of oil on the 'pathway' had ignited and it was passable only to salamanders. Tasting the acrid smoke, feeling the heat through the shield, she knew she couldn't stay.
Kneeling, she unlinked the spell-shield and tucked it safely away. The Decians would be able to sense the abrupt disappearance of its power emissions just as they would feel but not comprehend what she planned to use next. Avahn groaned, but showed no signs of recovering as she levered him precariously over one shoulder, one arm wrapped firmly across his thighs. His hair flicked the back of her knees as she rose with difficulty to her feet. Smoke stung her eyes, tore at her throat.
It was a moment to make Medair regret her decision to stop investigating Kersym Bleak's hoard, since there could very well be something in her satchel which would protect her from the flames, if only she knew what it was and how to use it. Struggling to keep Avahn slung across her shoulder, she fished into her satchel and produced the very ring which had prompted her decision to give up experimenting with artefacts. Managing to cram it onto the middle finger of her left hand, she closed her eyes. When Medair had first tried on the ring, a simple circle of silver, it had not activated. She could only be sure that it possessed some strong magic, but could make nothing of the engraving inside the band. Six hundred feet of what? The next time, she'd found out. She'd put it on, seen no response, heard a noise and stared toward a nearby stand of trees. And from the ring, as happened now, a circle of light expanded. It had spread along her arm, stretching to cover her entire body. Then she had been in the trees. About twenty feet off the ground, sharing a branch with the squirrel whose nut-gathering attempts had attracted her attention. But only long enough to fall off.
Teleport spells were something only a very powerful adept would dare attempt, and most would prefer to use a gate instead. It was necessary to very precisely picture a destination within the spell's range. Those who did not visualise their target clearly might never arrive, or even appear within an object. Or twenty feet above the ground.
Medair pictured the low, sheltering hill which curved around to hide the farmhouse from those travelling north from Finrathlar. She'd had a nice long look at that when she was tying up the horses, scanning for men with crossbows waiting in ambush. The light crawled up her neck and face, covered her eyes with a glimmering haze and she concentrated with all her strength on every detail she could remember of the very crest of the hill, of just exactly how and where she wanted to be. Inches above it, not in it. Her arm tightened on Avahn's legs as the light grew brighter, blocking out roiling black smoke and dancing flames. Above it, not in it.
She hadn't realised how hot the room had become until she fell into the wind, tumbling to the ground in a tangle with long Ibisian limbs. She righted herself, then hastily flattened to the ground. Spiky tufts of grass pricked her flesh as she stared down at the burning farmhouse, but no-one was looking up at her.
Grabbing Avahn beneath the arms, she dragged him further up the slope. The flames were only now becoming visible, though the inside of the building must be a furnace. She had positioned herself in the elbow of the hill's sheltering arm, and was able to see the rear of the farmhouse and other smaller buildings behind it. Two of the Decians were stationed there, to prevent any suicidal dashes through fiery and unfamiliar rooms. Vorclase and his mage were in close conversation at the front. She wondered what they had made of the surge of power which would have announced her teleportation. They did not so much as glance towards her hill.
It was a warm, sunny day, heading into late afternoon, but her teeth chattered and she was shivering uncontrollably. Now that she was out of immediate danger, reaction was setting in. Medair was a Herald, not a hero. She barely knew how to swing a sword, and would always prefer to run than fight. She could smell smoke in her hair, her clothing, and was amazed that she hadn't faltered when the blaze pressed upon her. But she'd been told she was cool under pressure. And jelly after, it seemed.
The Decians were not quick to leave. Medair wondered if the trace which was set upon her had anything to do with their delay. She didn't know if a trace lapsed after the death of the subject, and breathed a sigh of relief when her pursuers finally mounted and galloped off. South towards Finrathlar, though they'd doubtless detour away from the road as soon as they could. After the hoof-beats had faded, she rolled over onto her back and stared up at the blue summer sky, thinking about heirs and Ibisians and oaths until it all whirled about in her head.
Even if this Tarsus was rightfully Emperor, it did not change the fact that the Ibisians weren't invaders, not after five hundred years. The parentage of all but these purists could be traced to the noble families of the Empire as well as Sar-Ibis. She had sworn oath to Grevain Corminevar in his capacity as Palladium's ruler, not to him as an individual, not to his bloodline.
What was wrong with her?! How could she even suggest an Ibisian had more right to sit on the Silver Throne than an acknowledged child of the Corminevar line, one who was not tainted with White Snake blood and values? But attempting to 'cleanse' Palladium would involve killing a huge portion of its inhabitants, including descendants of Empire nobility. Merely because an Ibisian had climbed into their family tree.
Her conviction that it was not her war remained unshaken. She was out of her time, her moment had passed. The Horn of Farak could not be used against the Ibisians now and she would return it to its resting place. She might feel wretched about her own inescapable logic, might dream of her Emperor turning his face from her, but she could not act against the Ibisians. Self-justification took her around the circle again and again and only succeeded in making her unhappier.
Eventually she sat up, fairly certain that any lingering Decians would have given up, if they had indeed stayed to spy. The farmhouse was burning merrily, sending up a black gout of smoke. It would be an admirable beacon for anyone Cor-Ibis might have sent to investigate Avahn's wend-whisper.
She examined Avahn more closely, wondering what the drug had been. He was looking a little battered, his face scraped some time during the escape. She brushed a wandering ant from his cheek and analysed her emotions warily. A friend who was an Ibisian. She couldn't imagine using the Horn of Farak to kill him, or Ileaha. Or Cor-Ibis, no matter who he reminded her of.
On the slope of the hill opposite she saw Avahn's horse peacefully cropping grass. Catching horses seemed a better pursuit than her current thoughts, so she shifted Avahn onto his side so his face was out of the sun and set off to round up their mounts. With the help of the silver ring, she had collected them both and even brought Avahn down off the hill by the time the rescue party finally showed up.
The farmhouse was still blazing merrily, though parts of it had begun to collapse into embers and char. Medair was out back investigating some strange thumping noises, audible over the crackle of flames and the hysterics of a coop of chickens, when approaching hoof-beats took precedence.
She headed back to Avahn, and found him surrounded by horses. Cor-Ibis, worlds better for five days' rest, had already dismounted. He bent to check his heir for signs of life.
"Just drugged," she informed him. "He said he would have known if it was enchanted. Though it did take hold very quickly."
The Keridahl ignored her words, satisfying himself over Avahn's condition before rising. He gestured for two of the arms-men he had brought with him to attend to the youth. Then he turned his attention fully on to Medair, studying her almost as
if he hadn't seen her before. She noted that he was as perfectly groomed as if he had just stepped away from the mirror, his muted finery pristine, his hair unruffled by the ride. Truly a far cry from the mud and ash-grimed man she had first seen. Keridahl Avec.
"What of those who dwell here?" he asked, turning his attention to the fire without immediately delving into the how and why.
She shrugged. "I haven't seen anyone, but I suspect that a search among the buildings out back might prove fruitful. Someone's certainly banging on something around there."
Another pair of guards were dispatched and then Cor-Ibis turned to the fire. Speaking softly beneath his breath, he watched impassively as the flames flickered and died away. Medair suspected that he was annoyed, whether with her or over the fact that his demesne had been invaded she was not certain. The remains of the roof caved in, as if the fire had been the only thing holding it up, and Medair winced at the cloud of ash and tiny cinders which billowed out.
"Tell me what happened here, Kel ar Corleaux."
They walked around to the back of the house as Medair, carefully choosing her words, told him of the well-played trap. It was difficult to decide exactly what line to take.
"Avahn drank first," she said. "It only took, oh, not very long for it to effect him." She paused, because the two guards sent to investigate the thumping had opened the doors of what looked to be a root cellar and several distressed and angry women tumbled into the light. "Melani or her mother must have signalled from an upstairs window, because the rest arrived at just the right moment, moving in ready to fight if we hadn't helpfully drugged ourselves into unconsciousness." She considered his fine-boned profile. He was following her story without any change of expression, watching the women.
"It seemed that their plan, at the outset, was to take us alive, but I barricaded us out of their reach and their solution was to set the building on fire." She paused again. "I suppose I shouldn't have told them that Avahn had sent a wend-whisper, or they'd still be here, trying to get us out of the barricade. With time a pressing factor, they chose to cut their losses."
Working on the theory that it was safest to say as little as possible, Medair stopped speaking, and listened in silence as Kerin las Lorednor skilfully extracted the tales of the angry women. The Decians had descended on them at midday, as they sat down for a meal. One woman held her arm to her chest, having made an attempt to fight against their attackers. Her name was Melani.
Cor-Ibis spoke briefly to the elderly woman who seemed to be their leader. Arrangements would be made for temporary shelter until the farmhouse was rebuilt. He did not speak again until they were on the outskirts of Finrathlar.
"Tell me, Kel ar Corleaux," he said. "Was it Avahn or yourself who was the target of this raid?"
Medair lifted one shoulder. "Both, I should think."
"You have a trace fixed upon you."
"I know."
His face was a mask, neither cold nor forthcoming. "The trace could not have been set after you obtained that charm."
"No, it was before," she agreed. "It's been very inconvenient. I was hoping it had worn off, by now."
Cor-Ibis gazed at her. "I owe you life-debt, Kel ar Corleaux. And the rahlstones weigh the scales further. To continue to question where you choose not to answer is difficult, but I cannot ignore this attack. Vorclase is not fool enough to have failed to ascertain that the rahlstones have been sent on with Jedda. To make such an elaborate attempt in the heart of my Dahlein speaks of a strong motivation beyond the stones." He turned his head slightly to consider the cluster of guards to whom he had entrusted his heir. "Avahn has not such intrinsic value."
"Does a trace dissipate when the subject dies?" Medair asked.
Pale grey eyes were briefly veiled. "No," he replied. "Since the link is to the shell rather than what dwells within." He raised one long hand in a languid gesture. "In a fire, with the complete destruction of the traced...object, then yes, it would be possible."
"But not guaranteed," Medair verified, pleased. She gave Cor-Ibis an apologetic glance. "I do think they came for me, for reasons other than the rahlstones. I didn't expect them to follow into Palladium, and certainly don't suppose they will continue this chase, especially if they leave Finrathlar before learning that Avahn and I still live."
"Your escape surprises me," he remarked.
"Luck." She was certainly not going to go into detail. She could only hope his debt would outweigh his no doubt strong wish to compel a few straight answers out of her. "I was close to joining Avahn and then they would have only been faced with the task of smuggling us out. You seem fully recovered Keridahl. Can we hope to resume our journey tomorrow?"
The grey eyes searched her face dispassionately, then Cor-Ibis inclined his head.
"Presuming Avahn is unharmed, we will travel on, Kel ar Corleaux."
Chapter Twelve
"How did the rahlstones come to be stolen in the first place?" Medair asked, resisting the temptation to look self-consciously away at green, sprawling Pelamath, their journey's halfway point. They were resting a day in the city, a major trade junction sitting squarely on the border of the massive Cor-Ibis Dahlein. Only a week's ride from Athere, it had once been a herding town called Pelladon.
Cor-Ibis' eyelids dropped a fraction, a mannerism she still suspected betrayed otherwise hidden amusement. Conversation with the man was like walking through a forest full of snares, with the trapper following behind to study her fumbles. She kept falling over questions like the one he had just asked – what she thought of the Simonacy – and having to abruptly change the subject to hide her complete ignorance of who or what he was talking about.
Was the Simonacy some dreadfully obscure topic he had dredged up from the far reaches of his memory, just to see whether she would weasel out of answering? Or the equivalent of the Western Kingdoms, or the Korgan Lands, or Farak herself? The sort of thing about which no normal person would not have some opinion. Even ambiguous answers could be treacherous, so she had to resort to a transparent change of subject.
"It is not a story which depicts Palladian security in any favourable light," Cor-Ibis said now, accepting the shift from Simonacy to rahlstones without demur. He never challenged her when she squirmed from one topic to another, just made her feel hopelessly clumsy in the light of his eternal courtesy. She wished Avahn had breakfasted with them, instead of deserting her to Cor-Ibis on the balcony of yet another ducal mansion while he gallivanted off to visit friends.
"As is boasted, the vaults of the White Palace are protected by gates, guards and glamour," Cor-Ibis continued. "Gates are the easiest to circumvent, and do not even require magic for the feat. The guards themselves are kel-sa rank mages, and suffer the usual scrutiny levelled at such sentinels."
"Geases and truth spells," Medair murmured. If it weren't for Cor-Ibis' unwavering scrutiny, this would be a pleasant place to breakfast. The Pelamath residence was less secluded than The Avenue, and this balcony offered a view over a public park with a small lake and, distantly, the surge and bustle of a busy marketplace.
"Even so, Kel. The guards were not suspect. A thief aspiring to the vaults must overcome the physical impediments, along with several layers of detection and reinforcement spells. Without alerting guards sensitive to magical interference."
"As well shoot the moon. Yet it was done?"
"It was done. And I cannot tell you how, because I still do not know. A routine inventory revealed the rahlstones' loss something on the order of two months ago. Nothing else was missing, the wards and trips were all in place, and the guards had not reported a single unusual occurrence. A remarkable thief."
"Who was not, I take it, among the victims of that blast?"
"Not from my observation. But Thern Mara – the merchant attempting to sell the stones on – kept secrets close to her chest. Since nothing else was taken, I can only presume the thief was hired specifically for the task."
"Quite a commission." Medair toyed with
the slices of apple and cheese she had so busily carved while avoiding his gaze.
"Have you been to Pelamath before, Kel?"
"No." She didn't imagine that the dozen times she'd passed through Pelladon counted.
"Then I will show you the city." His eyes were veiled when she looked up. "It is a place of many moods, Pelamath, and I rarely have a chance to see them. Ever a crossroads."
That didn't sound like an attractive prospect for a number of reasons. "I–" Medair began.
"You would rather not traipse about Pelamath in my wake," Cor-Ibis said, and a corner of his mouth curled up. She looked away, for she found these rare, wry smiles highly distracting.
Medair had no doubt about his motives for playing the courteous host. Avahn had quite certainly told Cor-Ibis what he had learned on their outing in Finrathlar and so both Cor-Ibis and his heir were more intent than ever on prying loose her secrets. She supposed she should be grateful that they chose to do this by trying to lure her into betraying herself in conversation, but keeping her wits about her through every minor exchange was truly wearying. She wished more than anything for an end to this sojourn among White Snakes.
Taking her silence as acquiescence, Cor-Ibis arranged for their excursion and Medair found herself at least not refusing. She didn't change to go out, only washed her hands after breakfast and went to wait at the front door. It was not too long before he appeared, walking down the stair of the main hall.
Cor-Ibis had found the time to exchange outfits and no doubt this affair of shot silk beneath a fine linen demi-robe was the precise thing for a quick tour. He hadn't spent the time for travelling braids, merely clasped a band of black and silver above the last foot or so of that extravagant fall of hair. Its pendulum weight swayed with each graceful step, as mesmerising as a cobra.
The Silence of Medair Page 14
