The Silence of Medair

Except for that trace of power, he was not difficult to puzzle out, especially with the blue circles beneath his eyes and that temperature. The boy was a mage. Strong, since he’d been able to protect himself against the fire. In the brief moments between realizing what the brown-clad woman was casting and the set-spell being released, he must have drawn the sum of his strength up into a shield of pure power, the simplest and most exhaustive of magical manoeuvres. So now he was in spell shock, having overextended his considerable abilities.

Spell shock was not fatal, if you survived the actual casting. The boy would be weak and feverish and thirsty and would doubtless sleep a great deal over the next few days, but he would not die. Unless she left him out here in the ash, with a storm coming. She would not, of course, but she grumbled beneath her breath, mind on the five men who thought she must be valuable, none of whom were likely to cherish kind thoughts about her after she had stolen their horses. How far behind were they now? How much would this boy slow her down?

Medair was able to hook him over a shoulder and stagger back to the horse, where she pulled water skins from her satchel. The bay was grateful for the drink, but the boy only feebly swallowed without waking. He did not so much as move as she struggled to keep him slung across the bay’s withers while she mounted. She didn’t need a dependant, no matter how forlorn he looked, and would leave him at the first convenient village.

-oOo-

Thunder accompanied her on the awkward ride which followed, and an early green-grey twilight descended. Then the rain arrived in force. At first the huge, heavy drops were a relief after the relentless humidity of the last couple of days. It quickly became an annoyance, then something to make the situation wholly miserable: riding through a forest on a mean-tempered, stolen horse, clutching a dirty, feverish little boy, and hunted by five killers.

Drenched and battered by the force of the downpour, vision obscured, she could think of nothing to do but travel on until she reached the ramshackle wayfarer’s shelter she’d used on her way to the mountain. It couldn’t be more than a mile or two, and she used the time to speculate about the boy’s role in the battle. He was dressed in plain trousers and loose shirt. Perhaps he was a servant of the merchant, or even the son of the mage. When he had recovered she would at least be able to ask him what had happened. An exchange of the precious stones, interrupted by – one? two? – sets of thieves?

The current political situation was not particularly stable – or had not been in Autumn, when there had been talk of a trade war between Decia and Palladium. A dozen rahlstones would be a spectacular advantage if it came to war. Used together, a group of adepts could cut a swathe through enemy forces or maintain defensive spells against all but the most persistent attack. Their stock of rahlstones had been one of the things which had made it possible for the Ibisians to wage war against an entire Empire.

The shelter proved too small for the horse, but she was sure it would mind the rain less and, besides, it shouldn’t have stood on her foot. Medair tended to the animal before the boy so she wouldn’t have to venture back out into the rain and by the time she staggered inside with the tack she was shivering.

The single bedroll she had kept was soaked, but she made do with a pile of the many blankets she had stowed in her satchel. Stripping the boy, she dropped him on the pile beneath another blanket, then chanted her way through a fire charm, wishing she’d had the foresight to ready a few set-spells before being forced to flee Bariback Mountain. Finally, she started a watery vegetable stew and changed into dry clothes and considered the boy.

He sounded suitably alive, groaning and twitching as she wiped traces of ash from his face. She patted a streaked cheek consolingly. Not a particularly taking lad, with little chin and a nose which would be impressive when he was fully grown, but he’d survived that fire, so there must be something to him. When the stew was done and she had eaten, Medair eased him upright, and rested him against her chest. Time to try to coax him awake, enough to accept a spoonful of savoury liquid.

The role of nurse was new to her, and she was uncertain if she was doing all she should, but the boy’s response to the stew was at least encouraging. He was sluggish and only half-awake, but if he could eat he mustn’t be too deeply spell shocked. His skin was still fever-hot, but he did not drop immediately back to sleep. Blinking ponderously at the ceiling, he lay frowning at something, then focused on her when she sat back down.

"A few days abed and you’ll be back on your feet," she told him. "You can rest properly at the next village along the road." And out of her fumbling hands, Thank Farak!