The Silence of Medair

"The Kyledrans have the resources to trail more than one group," Medair offered. "Together you have more chance at defence. With the rahlstones, you have every expectation of survival. Sending people off would not be a decoy, but a sacrifice."

"I can’t believe Kyledra would put itself in that position," Ileaha objected. "They don’t like us, but such an attack would be a declaration of war."

"War is coming," Avahn replied, shrugging. "A small kingdom like Kyledra would be pleased to take the rahlstones and deal with Decia for its own protection. And our demise would be a bandit attack, or, more likely, we would disappear altogether, with Kyledra able to claim no knowledge, since we left Thrence unmolested. They’d not be able to stop a wend-whisper, but wend-whispers can be faked, and would not be nearly proof enough to suit a Court of Crowns."

This delightful thought was sufficient to keep them silent until Cor-Ibis signalled a halt.

"Some four miles ahead is the township of Macaile. If we had been searched at the gate, and found empty-handed, there would be no objection to passing through it. However, it seems probable that we are to be waylaid. So we will not go through Macaile, will instead pass through the northern corner of Farash on as direct a route to Palladium as we dare. That will not be expected, for they will not know of Liak and Marden’s familiarity with the region." The Keridahl nodded towards the two Farakkians, who gazed back impassively.

"Despite precautions, we may have left something at the inn that would provide a trace spell. Nor is it possible to quietly sustain trace-wards for so many." Pale eyes touched on Medair. "We will have hounds on our trail soon enough, whatever the case. Five days to Palladium’s border."

This, it seemed, was enough of a speech for the Keridahl. Without another word he turned his horse and gestured for the Farakkian woman called Liak to take the lead.

Farash stood directly between Kyledra and Palladium and the Farashi had no tolerance for Ibisians at all. It was daring of the Ibisians to leave the roads and try and dash through northern Farash, banking on the region’s relative emptiness to shield them from interference. Medair rode silently, reflecting on the idea of being pursued out of Kyledra like a common thief. And a Kyledra which would think of waylaying travellers for its own advantage. Duchess Stameron had been so upright, one of the most respected of the Emperor’s Hands. She would turn in her grave at this. "Even White Snakes," she had said once, "have honour. Indeed, more honour than we do, if we are to believe their pride. They fight us on what they consider just terms, they do not molest our Heralds, they allow us to collect our injured, do not torture or mistreat captives. When we accord them less than that, merely because we hate them, we truly do become less than them."

-oOo-

By nightfall they were in the Wind Forest, which spanned the triple border of Ashencaere, Kyledra and Farash. Sunset proved as beautiful as the dawn. The birds spoke in different, deeper voices and, true to the name, the Wind Forest was rarely without the skirl and hush of a strong breeze. It was chilly, even in late spring.

Liak led them straight to a pool hidden on the crown of one of the rocky little hills. Avahn dismounted first, and let his black suck greedily at the water. He looked about him as the sun-painted hilltops began to shade into dusk.

"And in the Whistling Hills we hunted death," he said,

"Cold death 'midst rattling black-bone branches,

"Quick death, borne on the wind.

"At nights-fall we paid homage to the grey traveller,

"And left our lives to clatter by a pool of dusk."

The young man’s gaze was on Cor-Ibis dismounting, whose grip on his stirrup suggested that he was not entirely certain of his legs. Avahn grimaced and added more prosaically: "No fires up here to catch the eye, no spells of warmth to draw our hunters. I wish I’d brought an extra blanket."

Medair was trying to recollect where she had heard those words before: they were familiar, but subtly wrong. Sitting atop her horse, she watched the colour creep out of the south, then slid lightly to the ground.

"That’s a version of Faron’s Lament, isn’t it?" she asked, amidst the general stretching and faint groans of people who had ridden too long.

"Faron’s Lament?" Avahn was still distractedly watching Cor-Ibis. "I don’t know that name. That was from The Lady of the Hills. I take it that you’re not well-versed in your Telsen?"