The Silence of Medair

Chapter One

Sunlight on metal. A flash on the lower slopes, gone before she looked up, but enough to leave Medair staring down beyond the trees which hid her cottage. Had she imagined that momentary brightness, caught only in the corner of her eye, or was there truly another living person on Bariback Mountain?

She was keeping company with the wind, high on a slope where goats had once been taken to graze. The idea of movement did not fit with the drowsy scent of Bariback violets, the drone of the bees, and the way the breeze dried the sweat on her skin. The sky was an eternal, unblemished blue which gave no hint of the storm that would inevitably follow so many damp, sticky days, and the whole world must surely be dozing. It had been her imagination, nothing more.

Oblivious to Medair’s opinions, the flash came again. Feeling abruptly exposed, she stared down Bariback’s northern face. The mountain did not bother with foothills, rising directly to a blunt peak, with only trees to break up the incline. At its base, past the wooded middle slopes and patchily cleared lower reaches, a river snaked through farmland long left untilled. Beyond was Bariback Forest, so useful in ensuring Medair’s isolation.

There was no sign of movement in the vista below, but she couldn’t stay up here without checking. Swiping sweat-damp blonde hair off her forehead, Medair started down.

Still not entirely convinced that the flash had been real, she dawdled, the usual reluctance she felt when returning doubled by the oppressive warmth of the day. Even when the weather was not this humid, the cool and splendid solitude of the heights had become something she craved. Needed. She could not run from her memories, but the vastness of the upper slopes somehow kept them at a distance.

Medair halted at the sight of a line of horsemen below. Six riders, with two sturdy donkeys trailing on lead. They were too far away to make out more than the vaguest details, and she wished she hadn’t fallen out of the habit of taking her little spyglass with her on trips up the mountain. But hindsight was no benefit to the ill-prepared.

Remembering who had first said that to her, Medair cursed all White Snakes, and one in particular. No matter how she tried to cast it out, that soft, level voice would insinuate itself into her thoughts. Thrusting unwanted memory away, she watched the line of horses disappear into the trees. They were heading directly for her cottage.

Could these be settlers? A group of survivors returning to the village decaying on the lower slopes? Or newcomers to the area, made homeless by unrest elsewhere and lured by tales of deserted farms? She was surely not the only person in Farakkan desperate enough to risk lingering disease. There had been that trapper on the slopes in Winter. Perhaps he had spread word of the same discovery Medair had made: the plague had gone.

Six horses and two donkeys didn’t suggest poverty or desperation. A prospecting group, perhaps, uncaring that centuries of delvers had declared Bariback worth no effort? Or something else? Disquiet gripped her, not least because she didn’t think she could face people of any kind.

She wouldn’t find answers standing around like an idiot. And it was important to reach the cottage first, because she hadn’t brought her satchel with her, had thrust it under a bench at the beginning of Winter in some vain attempt to erase what it represented simply by hiding it from sight. Despite all that had happened, she couldn’t leave the Emperor’s gift there for strangers to find.

Setting out at a trot, Medair estimated how long before the riders would reach her cottage, and pushed herself hard to make sure she was there before them. It was not home, but she had made the place hers. She had patched the holes in the walls, replaced the mattress with something bearable, had eaten her meals at the scarred table, and buried the former occupant out the back. A stupid risk, when the local mages evidently hadn’t been able to combat the disease which had killed the village. But she hadn’t cared.

Nor did she care to wait meekly at the cottage for these riders. Even if they didn’t happen to be bandits, the idea of talking to people seemed impossible. Not when they would ask questions, or say devastating things quite unintentionally, and look at her with eyes that tried to guess her place in the world.