The Silence of Medair

"I detect deep manoeuvres," said the woman introduced as Estal las Estasas, ignoring Surreive’s hint to keep the conversation in Parlance, not Ibis-laran. "You’ve been holding back on us, Ileaha."

Ileaha looked down at her hands. Then, pointedly ignoring the woman’s comment, she said: "Your arrival is fortuitous, Medair. Lathan is always travelling, and it seems he has hardly been in Athere these past few years."

Thinking that the musician’s playing was so obscured by the hum of conversation that he might as well not be present, Medair smiled politely and glanced in the man’s direction. She was in time to meet Avahn’s speculative gaze as he headed back towards them. He immediately replaced it with a more frivolous expression, but it served to further upset Medair’s calm. She smelled plots, and she no longer had the resources of her satchel, of all those trinkets and toys that could solve every problem but not give her a single thing she wanted. Just a woman on her own, among all these White Snakes.

A spate of greetings across the table kept the air busy as Avahn took his place at Medair’s right. The hint of tension did not surprise her. She had recognised the names of those Ileaha had mentioned as Cor-Ibis' potential heirs. This group did not gather by chance. Long years of being thrown together in the Keridahl’s entourage would have formed strong bonds of both habit and rivalry. She imagined it had been a closely-matched contest. Only Avahn and Ileaha did not wear a sigil of attainment in their right ears. Kerin Mylar had already reached the second rank of adept, which was quite an achievement for one who could not yet have twenty-five years. Medair was not familiar enough with the sigils to understand the exact ranks of the others, but she knew they were only worn by those who had reached a certain high standard.

Listening to their chatter, Medair selected a few morsels from the ravaged platter weighing their end of the table. It didn’t take long for the polite exchanges to give way to the topic of such apparent interest to all Athere.

"You must tell us, Avahn," said Estal las Estasas, "whether travelling with a Medarist affords more entertainment or irritation. It amazes me that Cor-Ibis would tolerate such company."

Avahn looked across the table amiably and answered in Farrakian: "Our esteemed cousin is often a cause for amazement, Estal. And I believe he finds Medair exceedingly entertaining, since he is so rarely posed such an opaque puzzle. Irritated, however? No, it has been my observation that only a crass lack of manners or stupidity in one capable of more is likely to irritate him. The combination of those two faults, now that is something he would not be alone in finding intolerable."

The Keris turned a pretty shade of pale violet. "Well said, Avahn," Surreive complimented, as if she were an exacting judge of scathing remarks.

"Wholly uncalled for," said Adlenkar, with just a hint of a snap.

"Too mild," Avahn returned, voice as milk-like as his complexion.

"And now, perhaps, we might consider not talking about Avahn’s guest as if she were not present?" Mylar said, his voice cutting effortlessly into the brewing dispute. He smiled at Medair as she turned toward him. "A name is a powerful thing, Kel ar Corleaux. I don’t believe I’ve ever met one who shares yours, for all its notoriety. I’m glad to see that today’s bearers do not always dishonour the legends of the past."

"Kind words," Medair replied. She didn’t like being called a legend of the past.

"I asked Lathan to play Lady of the Hills for you, Medair," Avahn said, abandoning more provoking topics. "It’s very bad form not to know your Telsen."

"I can think of a more appropriate song," Adlenkar said in an audible undertone to Surreive. The Keris smiled thinly.

Restraining any number of statements regarding her familiarity with Telsen, Medair wondered if she had the patience to sit at this table of White Snakes. She was in no mood to make polite conversation or parry questions and incomprehensible insults. She no longer wore the uniform and obligations of a Herald. Her actions were her own and reflected on no-one. She could choose to offend whomever she liked.

The attractive prospect of a quiet meal alone in her room receded as the man who had been plucking aimlessly at the triband produced a more focused sequence of notes. A murmur of recognition ran through the dining hall, followed by an obedient hush. Then Lathan began to sing, sweet and grave.