The Silence of Medair

A long pause, as if the voice were somehow waiting for an answer, though the Kier would hardly be likely to emerge in response. It must be Estarion, the Decian King. The voice was so strong that Medair imagined she could feel it making the bones of her chest vibrate. A calm, deep voice. This Estarion sounded utterly certain, and that was perhaps the most chilling thing of all.

"We have travelled a long way to this, Inelkar," Estarion went on, as the Keridahl turned to whisper some message in the ear of one of her aides. "Centuries of dispute, of drawn knives, of blood spilled in the name of honour. Your honour. White Snake honour." He sounded sad, which felt out of keeping with his reputation. There were few in Palladium who were not convinced the southern king was a greedy, ruthless man thirsting for power.

"The sins of the past can not be forgotten, Inelkar. You call this land your own, but it was stolen from those to whom it truly belonged. Time will never wipe away that crime, nor make you more than what you are: the child of a thief, a bandit who cut the hand held out to offer aid."

An angry murmur filled the watchtower, but Medair shivered and turned her face into the stone. This was the very thing which cut her deepest: the reason behind the fall of the Palladian Empire. Ibisian honour, Ibisian pride. There had been no need for the war which had shattered the Empire. Grevain Corminevar had been willing to shelter the refugees, but they, in their pride, had brought down Medair’s world rather than accept such charity.

"In younger years," the voice continued, a thoughtful rumble vibrating through Medair’s breast, "I vowed to scour Farakkan of your blood, of all the pale thieves who shattered the Golden Age. But time offers the grace of mercy, and your race will benefit from mine. I will allow your children to live, White Snake. They will not sit high on stolen thrones, Inelkar, but I will not hunt your race into nothing, for all the anger of my forefathers urges me on. They will serve, but not die."

"He would make slaves of us!" spat the kaschen, meekness forgotten.

"There is, of course, a condition," Estarion rumbled on, heedless of the instant opposition his mercy inspired. "A stolen prize, another piece of thievery to add to the accounts. Give up to my protection the woman of the Isle of Clouds, before the sun sets this day. Else, my anger shall know no limits, and there will be no hole a single one of your spawn can crawl into that I will not find. Dawn will bathe in your blood. The choice is yours, Inelkar."

Thunder died to silence over a city seething with fury, confusion and fear.

-oOo-

As soon as she could escape from the crowded watchtower, Medair had retreated to Odessa Park. She was lying in the grass, watching the clouds and pretending she wasn’t paralysed. She didn’t know what to do, did not want to do anything, but could not force thought from her mind so that she was able to do nothing at all.

_Medair?

Jerking upright, Medair stared about, but Ileaha did not suddenly appear to accompany her voice. A wend-whisper, she realised, as the wind carried her more soft words.

_{Medair. Please meet me in three ten-measures at the Bravi Fountain. I will wait.}