The Silence of Medair

It took considerable determination on Medair’s part to work her way along one of the crowded ramps. The walkway up top was packed so tightly that she couldn’t slip forward far enough to even glimpse the ground beyond the city walls, where she could sense one of the sources of arcane casting.

Explanations at least were easily had from others in her predicament. The nearest caster was the Kier, flanked by six of her guards. The Keridahl Alar and Avahn had left the Kier and headed around the curve of the wall. They would be two of those many sources of power Medair could sense. They were trying to create a shield, the same kind of shield Medair had used in Finrathlar, but on an improbably large scale. Impossible to save Farakkan, but they would do all they could to keep Athere from the flames.

"But how will they link across the city?" Medair asked.

The short, dark woman who seemed to know most about the casting lifted her hands. "Without line of sight or a graven star? Who knows? Athere’s too big and there’s not enough rahlstones or adepts of that strength to really circle it. I’ve never heard of a massed spell where the casters didn’t have line of sight."

"Doesn’t matter," said a spindly Ibisian girl. "Even if they get this shield up, what do they hope to achieve? The Blight ate through shielding as quickly as it did flesh. It’s pointless."

"You’d have them do nothing?" asked a pale boy, hotly.

"That was the Blight," the short woman put in, with a shrug. "This is the Conflagration. Who’s to know how it’ll react to shielding? Wild magic’s unpredictable in every way." She clenched her hands into fists. "What I’d give to have Estarion here, to make him suffer. He’d have been the first to go, quick and easy. Doesn’t seem right."

Wanting a better view, Medair worked her way back to the inner railing. She thrust a hand into her satchel and startled those nearest to her by disappearing. Then she climbed onto the parapet and walked swiftly and precariously along its flat surface, cursing Ibisian ideas of decoration each time she had to work her way around a large stone urn filled with too-healthy plant life. Her goal was a watchtower some four hundred feet along the wall, where guards kept the pressing crowd back from the entrance stairs.

When she left the parapet, her progress through the crowd was marked by a series of surprised and annoyed looks, as innocents were blamed for her determined shouldering. The guards she did not disturb so clumsily, clambering halfway over the outer wall and stepping across corners to slide over the stair railing. Then it was a moment’s work to reach the room at the top of the small tower

Three armoured women were watching the scene beyond the gate. Medair crept across the room to a vantage point against the far wall, and then stopped to stare south.

Fire, everything was fire. Finrathlar and Pelamath must by now both be ash, and Athere would follow within a decem. There was no smoke, but the hot wind dried Medair’s face. She had to clench her teeth to stop herself from making any outcry.

Kier Inelkar stood some considerable distance out from the wall, her back to the fire. Her head was bowed in concentration and she slowly moved her hand in a repetitive pattern. A faint blue glow of gathering power was visible around her, but she looked puny, impotent against that backdrop of flame. Near the gate, her troop of guard were having immense trouble controlling their horses and as Medair leaned forward to get a better look, one of their number gestured them back inside the city. Even blinkered and enchanted, the animals would go completely mad when the fire was closer.

"A full-measure or less," said one of the women, the one furthest from Medair, who wore three entwined sickle-shapes in her right ear. Das-kend. A Kend was, simply, ultimate commander of an entire army, answerable only to the Kier. A Das-kend was a Kend’s second, handling mainly administrative details, but also regarded as a chosen heir, much as Avahn was to Cor-Ibis.

"Less," said the woman standing between the other two. The Kend, according to her ears. She was, so far as Medair could tell, entirely Farakkian, and her black hair and eyes contrasted remarkably with her two pale subordinates. Her pronunciation of Ibis-laran was soft and measured, her stance weary, facing something she had no way of fighting. "It’s gaining speed with size."

"They won’t be able to judge the arrival," the Das-kend murmured.

"Will they finish in time?" the third woman asked, in a small voice. Medair was mildly surprised to hear her speak, for she wore the sigil of a kaschen, the most junior officer in an Ibisian army. It was not her place to offer opinions. But this girl barely out of her teens was watching the Conflagration race toward her, and neither of the older women looked inclined to discipline her for the question.