The Silence of Medair

That thought reminded Medair of her worn boots, inexpertly patched trousers, the grey colour of once white shirts, and her unfortunate hair, which she had decided to leave alone rather than try and trim with a knife. She had truly not been prepared for the realities of life when she went into self-imposed exile, was ragged in a way she had once never dreamed of being. If the riders were settlers, she might be able to trade for a few essentials, perhaps even allow herself to become part of a community. If. If they were settlers. If she could stand their curiosity and the mute pressure of her own shame.

-oOo-

Panting after her run, Medair strode into the cramped room which had been her Winter home and snatched her satchel from beneath the workbench. Sturdy, adorned only with a small embossed scroll on the flap, it had once been both a symbol of achievement and a practical tool of office. Five hundred years ago, before the Ibisians had destroyed the Palladian Empire. Gripping the familiar leather, she tried to decide what to do next.

The memory of what had happened the last time she’d told someone her name was enough to push Medair toward the side of caution. She would hide until she knew if these newcomers planned to stay or go and if they stayed, perhaps she would go. It would be easier to travel than to try and belong.

Her decision made, Medair hurriedly snatched up loose possessions. Knives, blankets, clothes, canteen, whatever food came to hand. She drained a water jug before thrusting it in after the tools she had gathered from the plague-gutted village, then glanced about for anything else which would fit through her satchel’s mouth.

Having shoved three times its volume into the satchel’s cool interior without distorting the leather in any way, Medair slipped the strap over her head in a move which remained instinctive. The satchel swung innocuously against her hip. If she were to start travelling again, she would shorten the strap and wear it on her back, so it would not disturb her stride with its slight weight. Just now it was at exactly the right spot for her to reach down and open it, dip her hand in without having to stretch.

She brought out a ring, gold twined with some black metal, of a size for a man’s hand. Standing in the doorway of the cottage, she studied it for a long moment, this tiny representative of what was hidden in a satchel which had lain under a bench with the dust mice because she couldn’t bear to think about it. The rings – for there were more than a dozen – had been laid out in a glittering line on an ebon-black table. They had not been her goal, but she’d taken them, along with all the portable magical relicts which had been in the cave where she’d spent that long night. She’d planned to give them to the adepts to study, to turn to the cause which had sent her searching out their hiding place. The cause she’d betrayed in sleep.

Medair had learned the function of three of the rings through trial and error, since she wasn’t mage enough to do a proper divination. Invisibility, strength, animal control. They had been useful in occasional times of need, but she’d only used the fourth once. After the fourth, she hadn’t been fool enough to put any others on her fingers.

Now, she slid the black and gold ring over the knuckle of her right thumb and studied her hand as the weed-studded dirt became visible through her flesh, then grimaced at the uncertain quaver of her stomach, which did not at all appreciate whatever it was invisibility did to her. But queasiness seemed an easier thing to deal with than people.

Standing by her cottage door, Medair caught her breath as a man stepped out of the trees. He was wearing a fur jerkin too warm for the weather, and she recognised the trapper she’d glimpsed on the lower slopes in winter. Those who followed were not quite so cat-quiet, but they were good, and Medair breathed more shallowly, willing herself into utter immobility. Not settlers, not prospectors: warriors.

As she watched armed men stalking her empty cottage, Medair had to grit her teeth to stop herself from bolting. It had been a mistake to wait, though there’d been no way she could have anticipated this. She’d never had anyone come after her with swords. Never. The idea made her cringe.

There were five men in the open now, the sixth rider perhaps remaining with the horses, back where any noise they might make would not disturb this hunt. The trapper dropped to one side, allowing the others to do the stalking, and these four crept toward her in a way which was both unnerving and ridiculous to watch.