Since it seemed to be her cue, Medair said briefly: "The satchel was not given to me for my name, Ekarrel."
"Perhaps not. Still, you have both satchel and name, and conflict clouds the horizon. I will not pretend it is not tempting to take satchel and secrets from you, but I do not see that such an act is justified. We owe you a debt, Medair ar Corleaux, and one not to be lightly ignored in the face of what is to come." The middle-aged man on the Kier's left made a hastily stifled sound and she again turned to look at him. Medair had guessed that the elderly woman was Keridahl Alar – perhaps this was a relative or supporter. Foolish, whoever he was, to reveal any sign of dissent to the Kier's decision. But the Kier was forbearing, and merely looked at him until he was still and stiff with contrition. Jedda las Theomain, at the man's side, was looking past the Kier to Cor-Ibis, who was in turn watching Medair, waiting for her to betray herself. Tension snarled the air, but the Kier possessed at least the self-command of her ancestor.
"However," she said, her light, cool voice perfectly emotionless, "I cannot ignore the security of Palladium altogether, and the chance of examining a functioning satchel is difficult to pass by without any attempt to expand our knowledge. Will you consent, Kel, to satisfy our curiosity on one or two questions, and to allow us to study your satchel for a short period – until after the evening meal? We will undertake, most faithfully, not to attempt to open it."
Another resemblance to Kier Ieskar, in the concession which merely paved the road for the polite demand. Medair fingered the strap of her satchel, wondering if she dared to trust not only the Kier, but those who would attempt to discover the crafting of the satchel. An impatient hand could destroy it, and all it–
"By all means," Medair replied, feeling just a little giddy. She lowered the satchel from her shoulder. They wouldn't be able to open it, but Medair did not object to the possibility that they might do by accident what she could not contemplate deliberately. The over-anxious Kerin immediately came forward and took her satchel, and she watched his retreat with only the faintest pang, aware of Cor-Ibis' narrowed eyes and sharpened attention. He had probably expected her eventual consent, but not this abrupt, almost cheerful capitulation. She turned enquiring eyes to the Kier, and found that she, also, watched intently.
"We are obliged, Kel," Kier Inelkar said. "Tell me, what was your purpose in coming to Athere, a year ago?"
Medair had not expected this, and chided herself for underestimating the woman as she cast about for a suitable reply. No doubt she looked entirely guilt-ridden while she sought a relatively innocuous answer. What had happened to her much-vaunted Herald's training?
"It had been a long time since I had been to Athere, Ekarrel," she said, eventually. "I wanted to see how much it had changed." The truth, sounding like a lie.
"You had been here before?"
"Some time ago."
"From your voice, I would name you Kyledran. There are few in Kyledra so familiar with the customs and traditions of my people as you appear to be."
"Perhaps they have not had the opportunity to visit Athere."
"Very likely," the Kier replied, one of her pale eyebrows quirking faintly. "It was fortunate for Keridahl las Cor-Ibis that you happened past. For what reason were you in Bariback Forest?"
"I live there, Ekarrel."
"Ah. Who was it gave you the satchel?"
Medair considered that one. There was no way she could tell them the truth. Desy an Kerrat's name was well known, and five hundred years in the past. "It would be easier if you didn't ask me questions I am obliged to lie to answer, Ekarrel," she pointed out.
"You believe me capable of discerning your position on a question, before I ask it?" The Kier's tone was tolerant, but the expression shared by several of her silent court suggested Medair take care.
"Yes," Medair replied, a simple, serious estimation of this woman's abilities.
"Unfortunate. For it is the questions you do not care to answer, which I wish to ask."
"Yes, Ekarrel. That is unfortunate."
They looked at each other, Kier of conquered Palladium and Medair an Rynstar, whose very name was a secret brandished openly. The implacable gaze was Kier Ieskar's. But there was no reason to declare enmity and Kier Inelkar eventually inclined her head.
"Perhaps you are wise enough to know that your lies would have told me almost as much as your truths. We will settle for what we can glean from your satchel, and give you our thanks, Medair ar Corleaux. Our debt will not be forgotten."
It was a dismissal. Avahn promptly came forward to lead Medair away and she went without a word. She had placed everything which was Medair an Rynstar, Herald of the Palladian Empire, into the hands of Ibisians. Everything but the truth.
Chapter Fourteen
A hall of light, heat, heady scents and noise. Muted conversation punctuated with soft laughter, the clatter of cutlery and ting of glasses. Unexpected gaiety for Ibisians. The old formalities seemed to have eroded severely in this particular facet of life. Only the sweet, sharp notes of a triband and certain spicy scents served to remind Medair of her Herald's guesting among the enemy. That and all the pale, shining hair, of course.
At least half the hall was blonde and the majority of the rest white, but Medair was surprised to see a goodly scattering of darker shades. Farakkians, dressed as Ibisians, with jade and bloodstone and even tiger's eye in their ears. Their presence made Medair feel queasy.
"Lathan's here!" Avahn hissed, sounding genuinely excited as he guided her toward a table where two empty seats waited. Kept for them, Medair realised, seeing Ileaha watching them approach. Nor was Ileaha the only interested observer – all around the room pale eyes fixed on Medair and voices hushed momentarily, before returning to a more ordinary volume.
"I'll be back in a moment," Avahn said, politely drawing out a chair before absconding. Off to talk to the triband player, whom Medair was able to glimpse in pale profile as she sat down.
"Hello Ileaha," Medair said, with a faint approximation of a smile. She didn't quite feel any of this was real. She had given her satchel to Ibisians, and at the next table she could see a woman the very image of Jorlaise an Vedlar, her left ear studded with bloodstone.
"Kel ar Corleaux." Despite their exchange of name-gift in Finrathlar, Ileaha greeted her with formal circumspection. "How are you?"
"Much the same." Positioning her chair a little more conveniently, Medair tried to concentrate on the collection of Ibisian nobility ornamenting her end of their table. All were young, with jade in their left ears. Only one other showed the marked 'taint' of Farakkian blood visible in Ileaha's colouring. Their silent interest left Medair casting about for some innocuous subject, but she was saved the trouble by the young man on her left. He was a pale blond, with serious grey eyes, serene and intelligent.
"Will you not introduce us, Ileaha?" he asked.
"Of course," Ileaha replied, colourlessly. "Kerin Mylar Vehl las Cor-Ibis, Keris Surreive Alai las Varentar, Keris Estal Jhet las Estasas, Kerin Adlenkar Tiend las Cor-Ibis, this is Kel Medair ar Corleaux."
"So it's true!" This soft, delighted exclamation broke from the lips of the handsome man directly across from Medair. "Cor-Ibis shelters a Medarist. What a magnificent joke!"
This was substantially the same reaction as Avahn's, back in Thrence, but tonight it rankled, perhaps because he used a language she was not expected to understand. Medair had to bite back the words which rose to her lips.
"Don't gloat, Adlenkar," the one called Surreive said, her voice weary and derisive. Her eyes were distinctively heavy-lidded. "It's not becoming."
"I detect deep manoeuvres," said the woman introduced as Estal las Estasas, ignoring Surreive's hint to keep the conversation in Parlance, not Ibis-laran. "You've been holding back on us, Ileaha."
Ileaha looked down at her hands. Then, pointedly ignoring the woman's comment, she said: "Your arrival is fortuitous, Medair. Lathan is always travelling, and it seems he has hardly been in Athere
these past few years."
Thinking that the musician's playing was so obscured by the hum of conversation that he might as well not be present, Medair smiled politely and glanced in the man's direction. She was in time to meet Avahn's speculative gaze as he headed back towards them. He immediately replaced it with a more frivolous expression, but it served to further upset Medair's calm. She smelled plots, and she no longer had the resources of her satchel, of all those trinkets and toys that could solve every problem but not give her a single thing she wanted. Just a woman on her own, among all these White Snakes.
A spate of greetings across the table kept the air busy as Avahn took his place at Medair's right. The hint of tension did not surprise her. She had recognised the names of those Ileaha had mentioned as Cor-Ibis' potential heirs. This group did not gather by chance. Long years of being thrown together in the Keridahl's entourage would have formed strong bonds of both habit and rivalry. She imagined it had been a closely-matched contest. Only Avahn and Ileaha did not wear a sigil of attainment in their right ears. Kerin Mylar had already reached the second rank of adept, which was quite an achievement for one who could not yet have twenty-five years. Medair was not familiar enough with the sigils to understand the exact ranks of the others, but she knew they were only worn by those who had reached a certain high standard.
Listening to their chatter, Medair selected a few morsels from the ravaged platter weighing their end of the table. It didn't take long for the polite exchanges to give way to the topic of such apparent interest to all Athere.
"You must tell us, Avahn," said Estal las Estasas, "whether travelling with a Medarist affords more entertainment or irritation. It amazes me that Cor-Ibis would tolerate such company."
Avahn looked across the table amiably and answered in Farrakian: "Our esteemed cousin is often a cause for amazement, Estal. And I believe he finds Medair exceedingly entertaining, since he is so rarely posed such an opaque puzzle. Irritated, however? No, it has been my observation that only a crass lack of manners or stupidity in one capable of more is likely to irritate him. The combination of those two faults, now that is something he would not be alone in finding intolerable."
The Keris turned a pretty shade of pale violet. "Well said, Avahn," Surreive complimented, as if she were an exacting judge of scathing remarks.
"Wholly uncalled for," said Adlenkar, with just a hint of a snap.
"Too mild," Avahn returned, voice as milk-like as his complexion.
"And now, perhaps, we might consider not talking about Avahn's guest as if she were not present?" Mylar said, his voice cutting effortlessly into the brewing dispute. He smiled at Medair as she turned toward him. "A name is a powerful thing, Kel ar Corleaux. I don't believe I've ever met one who shares yours, for all its notoriety. I'm glad to see that today's bearers do not always dishonour the legends of the past."
"Kind words," Medair replied. She didn't like being called a legend of the past.
"I asked Lathan to play 'Lady of the Hills' for you, Medair," Avahn said, abandoning more provoking topics. "It's very bad form not to know your Telsen."
"I can think of a more appropriate song," Adlenkar said in an audible undertone to Surreive. The Keris smiled thinly.
Restraining any number of statements regarding her familiarity with Telsen, Medair wondered if she had the patience to sit at this table of White Snakes. She was in no mood to make polite conversation or parry questions and incomprehensible insults. She no longer wore the uniform and obligations of a Herald. Her actions were her own and reflected on no-one. She could choose to offend whomever she liked.
The attractive prospect of a quiet meal alone in her room receded as the man who had been plucking aimlessly at the triband produced a more focused sequence of notes. A murmur of recognition ran through the dining hall, followed by an obedient hush. Then Lathan began to sing, sweet and grave.
It was "Faran's Lament". Telsen had never been satisfied with the melody and had forever been making alterations. Medair hadn't quite understood what he found to be lacking, and listened as raptly as the rest of the diners. Lathan's sombre voice transformed the melancholy ballad into something sublimely haunting. The triband was an Ibisian instrument, but could have been designed for Telsen's intricate style. He would have been pleased.
A soft storm of Ibisian "applause" rose as the final notes died away. Ibis-lar did not clap their hands, but would instead say "ahlau" as a mark of approval, several times if truly impressed. It did, as Jorlaise had once said, sound a little like they were all sneezing.
Avahn looked to her for approval, as if Lathan were a favoured protégé. "He's remarkable," Medair said, sincerely.
"A true child of Telsen," Avahn agreed, unwittingly replacing Medair's pleasure with a whole host of ambiguous and conflicting feelings. Did Avahn mean that the Ibisian musician was literally a descendent of Telsen, or merely following his artistic lead? She speculated on the identity of the possible mother of Telsen's child while Lathan continued to play. The music was more cheerful, wholly unfamiliar, and she did not pay it a great deal of attention. Avahn was probably disappointed to find her not captivated, but he made no attempt to coax her out of her distraction. Servitors came from table to table during the short pauses between each piece, and there would be a brief clatter of noise before Lathan launched into another song.
A difference, a marked tension in the hush which greeted the fourth song, woke Medair from thoughts of paternity. She looked up, and discovered the trio of Kerine on the other side of the table were all watching her with an air of...expectation. A glance at Avahn found him troubled, clear gaze also fixed on her.
She shifted her attention to the rest of the room, and saw that the High Table was still empty of royal presence. Then she focused on the words now being woven into the complex melody. It was another Telsen – she recognised his style from long familiarity, though the piece was new to her. A ballad of unrequited love, it seemed, poignant and starkly beautiful. Quite possibly one of his best, a masterwork, but she could not see–
They were all watching, and so all had the pleasure of observing the sudden stillness, the widened eyes, disbelief, chagrin, dismay and anger which marched in careless progression across her face. When she reached the point of fury, she remembered herself enough to shut down all expression.
A song of unrequited love. A tale of a man in pursuit of an elusive woman, as unforgettable as the song with which he had immortalised her.
I found the words, laid bare my soul.
To the lady fair.
Now I stumble lost, heart echoing;
In the Silence of Medair.
That Telsen had taken her name and rewritten their brief relationship, Medair might have eventually been able to forgive. But he had not stopped there. Instead, he had used his talent as a song-smith to depict a time of war, where 'Medair' seemed to be enacting a role far more risky than what she knew personally of Heralds. The song made Telsen out to be constantly worrying about Medair's safety, not to mention jealously convinced that she'd started a romance with someone else.
The refrain altered slightly with each repetition, but always closed with the phrase 'the Silence of Medair'. The final line saw the singer standing on the walls of a besieged city, staring vainly south, waiting for a woman who had become the only hope of victory. This was truly Telsen's masterwork. She could almost see him, on Shield Wall perhaps, gazing towards distant mountains, straining to catch some glimpse of a lone woman returning from a quest of endless peril, to hear the voice of the Horn of Farak lifted in triumph, but hearing only...
"The Silence of Medair," Surreive said. Medair was staring blindly at her plate. "Undying hope. I believe that song might well have become an anthem for those who take her name, if only it had been set to a simpler tune."
"A little too melancholy, surely," murmured Mylar.
"A little too close to the bone, you mean," put in Adlenkar. "It hints too broadly at the truth."
"What truth i
s that?" Medair asked, around the hurt and anger in her throat.
The Ibisian lordling looked surprised. "Why, that they were lovers of course."
Medair shook her head, uncomprehending. "Telsen had many lovers. What does that matter?"
"Not Telsen." Adlenkar's eyes were wide and curious. "The Herald and the Niadril Kier."
Medair stopped breathing, sat helplessly as the words forced themselves upon her consciousness. Herald. Kier. But it wasn't just the words, it was the tone, it was the 'of course'.
"You truly believe that, don't you?" she managed, her voice a strangled whisper. "You're not even trying to be provoking. You speak as if repeating established fact."
"And so I do," Adlenkar said, eyeing her now as if he suspected some infirmity of the mind.
"A theory, Adlenkar," admonished Mylar. "One of many. No proof at all, no way to judge."
"A popular theory," Surreive offered, in an idle, dangerous voice. "Tell me something, Medair ar Corleaux. Ileaha has assured me, in one of her futile attempts at peacemaking, that you have repudiated any association with Medarists, that you have not taken your name as a banner of war. Why, then, does this old, tired saga cost you so much? Why do you look at me with hate in your eyes?"
"Is that what you see?" Medair asked, in a too-high voice, knowing herself to be on the edge of hysteria. "Hate?"
"Medair?" Avahn, fatally, reached a hand to touch her arm and she jerked from his fingers. Her chair clattered backwards onto the floor and the hall fell into interested silence. Dozens of White Snakes were watching the scene play out, enjoying this Farakkian interloper being overset in their conquered domain. Medair gulped back a harsh breath, and closed her hands into fists, not allowing them to send her scurrying wholly defeated from the hall.
The Silence of Medair Page 17
