The Silence of Medair

"I would ask you of the people of Farakkan, Keris." His voice had been as expressionless as ever and his eyes had looked straight through her Herald’s formality to the frantic suspicions this unexpected audience had roused. "For I must know those whom I would rule."

The feeling of being backed into a corner was still strong, years – centuries – later. She had wished desperately for Kedy’s advice, convinced that the Kier intended to trick Palladium’s secrets from her. The thought of her mentor had at least given her the strength to lift her chin and say: "I can only tell you what my Emperor disposes, Ekarrel."

He had inclined his head, just the tiniest amount, as if that had been the answer he was expecting. "Then I request of Grevain, Emperor, that his Herald be given dispensation to speak," he’d replied. "I will await his answer."

And then, to confuse her further, the Kier had gestured to one of his attendants. The boy had carried a heavy velvet purse to the table, turned it over three times while what sounded like a thousand tiny rocks clattered inside, and then emptied it into the table’s depression. Coin-like disks of dark stone had poured out, each marked on one side with complex symbols in gold, red, silver and blue. The attendant’s fingers had darted over the stones, turning all face-down, then arranged them into piles of ten. Rows and rows of disks.

Then, for the rest of the evening, Kier Ieskar had lectured her on marrat. He had not asked one single question about Farakkan. He had not asked any questions at all, merely began a week-long explanation of the fiendishly complex game.

The questions had come eventually, of course. Medair had sent a wend-whisper to her Emperor and Grevain had obliged his enemy. It had been a precarious position for a Herald, and she had been relieved when the questions had focused on customs and traditions which could only be remotely useful in a tactical sense. Death rituals and marriage laws, harvest festivals and the worship of Farak: she’d explained them all over innumerable games. So he could know whom he would rule. She wondered if he’d found any use for it all, in the short time before his death.

Feeling old and out of place, Medair watched the two women laugh as one placed a stone, changed her mind, and shuffled it to a different part of the table with careless indecision. That was not marrat. Marrat was ceremony, and questions after long silences, and the constant sick dread which Kier Ieskar had always seemed to inspire in her. He’d had a way of not moving at all while she drew her stones and tried to decide what use to make of them. Then he would reach out without even seeming to look at the table and pick up one of the stones between his thumb and the third finger of his hand. As he placed it delicately in his chosen pattern, he would turn it over twice. There had been a thin scar across the back of his fingers and, countless times, she had thought of beheading snakes as she watched him make that precise movement.

It had been Kerikath las Dona who explained the gesture, during one of Medair’s own lessons on the language and customs and binding laws of the Ibisian invaders. That had been the first time Medair had really taken in the significance of the ceremony which surrounded Kier Ieskar’s every act. She had been told during her first lesson that it was against custom for the Kier to do things like speak in the Palladian language, as he had when he declared war. Over the months, the Kerikath had provided Medair with an increasing list of things which were against custom. And things which were against law. When Medair had questioned the Kerikath about marrat, she had been warned not to turn the stones in the same way, for it was against custom for any but the Kier to do so. For the Kier not to do so was against law.

Faintly disbelieving, for she had long since formed the opinion that the Ibisian Kier’s will was absolute among his people, Medair had pressed her tutor for detail and been treated to a list of restrictions which only scratched the surface of what was forbidden the Kier.

"There is only one person the Kier is permitted to touch," the Kerikath had said in the measured voice which had described so much of the Ibisian world to Medair. "Since his brother’s death, the Kierash Adestan is the only other of the direct Saral-Ibis line. The Kier is forbidden contact with any outside that line."

The Kerikath had calmly described the difficulties posed by a childless Kier, and the good fortune that his brother had left an heir to ensure the succession. Otherwise, the Kier would be obliged to arrange a conception by magic alone, forbidden from touching any woman he married. Kerikath las Dona had only broken off her description of the purification rituals anyone who would bear such a child would have to endure when she noticed Medair’s disbelieving face.