The Silence of Medair

"That was the only message," Medair replied, putting all her effort into a display of being helpful. "Do you want me to repeat everything he said about going to Thrence and things like that?"

"No. He did not give anything to you? You spoke of a package."

"I meant the Kerin," Medair replied. "He didn’t give me any packages. He didn’t have anything on him to give, only the clothes he wore and they were shredded when he changed shape."

"I see." The woman produced a small purse, which she tossed to Medair. Catching it automatically, Medair felt the weight of metal. "Your word, if you please, that you will not speak of these events to anyone." When Medair did not immediately respond, the Keris made a small gesture of impatience. "Come, that is more, I am certain, than anything the Kerin promised you. Your word."

Medair lifted the corner of her mouth in an awry approximation of a smile. She hoped her fury didn’t show. "Yes, it is certainly much more than anything the Kerin promised me," she said truthfully, and stood. "You have my word, Keris las Theomain, that I will not mention these events again unless you or the Kerin bids me otherwise. Good night, gracious ladies, kind sirs." After a painfully controlled bow, Medair walked out of the room. No-one tried to stop her. Apparently they thought her adequately dealt with.

It had been a long day. She was tired, her back ached abominably, and all she wanted was a bath, food and bed. And to shred Keris las Theomain to quivering gobbets of flesh for the insult she’d just dealt. Medair’s jaw was clenched so tight it ached, and she found that her hand trembled when she opened the door of her room.

The White Snakes had judged her small indeed, she thought, standing before a mirror in her room. There were circles under her eyes, muddying the light tan she’d cultivated during the Spring. Her hair was tangled and needed a wash as much as a trim. Her clothes declared their heavy use and she supposed she must smell of sweat and trail-dirt. She’d never been a beauty, but she was tall and slender with delicate bones and pleasant features. As Herald, she’d always been particularly careful of her appearance, to the point her sister had claimed she’d grown vain, conceited. It was odd to see how dull and plain she looked after a Winter’s neglect, and she forced herself to see what the White Snakes had: a scruffy little vagabond. Someone who might place gold over anything.

Medair sat down on the invitingly soft mattress and emptied the purse onto the coverlet. Fifteen gold coins. Not an incredibly large sum by today’s costs. A fortune only to a dirt-scratcher. Why hadn’t she thrown them back in Jedda las Theomain’s face?

Because I wanted to leave, she told herself, and if I hadn’t gone then, there would have been more questions, more truth spells.

Perhaps because I was too surprised.

With slow movements she pulled her satchel onto her lap, sent a questing hand inside, fingers closing briefly around the rahlstones before seeking another prize.

One of the satchel’s many virtues was that you did not have to search about for things. If you knew what you wanted, it would come to hand as obediently as a well-trained falcon. Medair drew out two bulging leather purses and a small velvet bag.

From the largest purse she spilled out gold Imperiums. There were about four hundred and fifty coins. This was her unspent wage for the years she had served. Born to a wealthy family, she had never needed to draw on it. She selected a coin imprinted with the profile and crest of her Emperor, the man to whom she had given Oath, who had made her Herald. He had died from wounds before Athere had surrendered.

The second purse contained gemstones. These had been a gift from her mother, compensation of sorts for the fact that her elder sister would inherit the Rynstar lands and title. They were worth a great deal more than the coins. Not nearly so much as twelve rahlstones.

With delicate fingers Medair drew a badge from the velvet bag and touched its shining silver as reverently as she would the cheek of a new-born babe. The insignia of an Imperial Herald, once more precious to her than gold and jewels combined. Two crossed crescent moons: one etched with the same scroll which decorated her satchel, the other with the Corminevar triple crown.

Suddenly impatient with herself, Medair packed everything away, ordered a bath and scrubbed herself shiny clean. Dirt was an easy problem. Returning to the mirror, she inspected the bruises on her back. There were only eight, not thousands: small and dark purple. The bruise on her hip probably came from the Ibisian’s knee. Another grudge to hold against him, along with her shoddy treatment here.