The Silence of Medair

The Medarist movement had begun several centuries into Ibisian rule. Someone had had the bright idea of adding the name Medair to her own, and trying to raise an army. She hadn’t succeeded, but she set an example for a stubborn core of resentment in Palladium, struck a chord with those to whom the Ibisians would always be invaders, no matter how many centuries they had dwelled in Farakkan.

The dry facts of the Medarists were something Medair had learned in Athere. It had explained a great deal, for her entire journey from the north had been doubly marred by the reaction to her name. In Morning High, that first village, she’d introduced herself as Medair an Rynstar and been treated as a madwoman. And she had been half mad with grief, till they’d tried to lock her up. But it wasn’t until the border town of Burradge that she’d discovered why the name Medair alone would provoke such repulsion. It had been incomprehensible to her, the way strangers would stare at her, disbelieving, when she said she was called Medair. Vendors would suddenly refuse to sell to her, and children were hurried out of her way. She’d even been turned out of an inn, before she’d learned to keep her mouth shut.

In Burradge she’d sent a too-persistent admirer on his way by finally answering when he asked what he could call her. He’d let her be, with the alacrity with which she was becoming familiar. And Medair, returning to her inn, had found a young woman blocking her way along an alley.

"Medair?" the woman had said.

"Yes?"

The wary note in Medair’s voice must have been expected. The woman had smiled and stepped forward, a hand outstretched.

"Welcome sister," she’d said, gripping Medair’s hand firmly. "You come in good time."

"Thank you," Medair had replied, more than a little blankly. She’d become aware that they were not alone in the alley, that another two people stood behind the woman, and more were behind Medair. "In time?"

"Amelda an Vestal, who holds the Braesing Reserve under Empire Right, is planning to wed into the las Dormednar line," the woman had said, to Medair’s complete confusion. "We are too readily known in Burradge to venture into the wedding feast, but the cause would be well-served if you would take on the task. We have a charm prepared, which will make the bride’s hands run with her own blood, if only it can be got to her at the feast."

The lengthening silence which had followed that little speech was one of those things which would always be imprinted on Medair’s memory. It had been a cool night. The wind had whisked at her throat, and she’d heard a dog bark in the distance as she searched her mind vainly for something to say to the woman. And, after weeks fixated on loss and a blind determination to reach Athere, all Medair had managed was: "I think you must think I’m someone else."

"You said you took the name Medair!" the woman had said, recoiling as much in shock as anger.

"My name is Medair," she’d protested. "But I don’t know what that has to do with this wedding. I’ve never heard of these people." Memory of the note of pleading in her voice still made her writhe.

"A Hand’s heir taking a White Snake and you don’t know what that has to do with one named Medair?"

They had pressed forward, but Medair had simply said: "No."

"How dare you!" the woman had spat then, only intensifying Medair’s confusion. "How dare you claim Her name, and turn your back on Her cause. Can you tell me that your name is Medair, and yet you don’t yearn to see every White Snake dead and gone?!"

The stupid thing was, Medair’s answer to that question would not have been no. They hadn’t waited to hear what she would say, had started forward with fists and heavy boots. Medair was a stranger to combat, and without the strength ring she might never have left that alley. She’d been bruised for weeks after.

Quelled. That’s what she’d felt when she found an explanation for what had happened. Five hundred years into Ibisian rule there were groups where women called themselves Medair and men Medain. They lived violent and uncomfortable lives, spitting in the faces of White Snakes and letting the world know they thought that all Ibisians should be cast out, that the people – the Farakkian people – should rise up. That none of Ibisian blood should be tolerated to live.

Medarists aped some of the codes of the Heralds and forever spouted their fury in the name of Medair an Rynstar. As if she had somehow founded their order. They usurped both her name and history and talked constantly of the stories of how Medair an Rynstar would be reborn and would lead a war to drive the White Snakes out. And, much as Medair hated Ibisians, the idea revolted her.