The Silence of Medair

A lump lodged itself in Medair’s throat and she went to one knee in the traditional obeisance. He had not been a handsome man. Stocky, bearded, dour. Whoever had been set the task of recreating his likeness had been skilled: the prominent Corminevar jaw was visible beneath the curling outline of beard. The stone face was at peace, despite the sword clasped to his chest to indicate he had died in battle. Medair could not remember ever seeing him wear such an expression. He had been a brisk, impatient man, used to dealing with problems quickly and efficiently, always thinking on to the next trouble brewing on the horizon.

"I’m sorry," Medair choked out, inadequately. She brushed at tears suddenly streaking her cheeks. The enormity of her failure overwhelmed her and she was barely able to hold her ground, wanting to collapse into wails, to crawl away in shame. "One stupid mistake," she told indifferent stone. "I – it could have been so different, if I hadn’t – Excellency…"

The futility of it all strangled further words. Grevain Corminevar was dead, the Empire had fallen, and nothing Medair could do could change that. She could not even ask his forgiveness.

Did death release the bonds of oath? Medair was running out of time in which to struggle with her own conscience. She did not want to stand by and watch the inhabitants of Athere slaughtered, for all they were Ibisian. But to give the Horn of Farak to those whom she had originally sought to use it against? No, that was beyond her. She would not betray her people to the benefit of another. She would rather…

Medair placed her satchel on top of the stone hands of her king, and slowly opened it. Reaching in, she found a heavy silk cord and pulled it gently, not enough to expose the Horn, not yet. It was so rich in power that every Ibisian in the palace would likely be able to feel it. Instead, she found the bone handle of a knife, a sliver of metal which would cut flesh cleanly. Fear and uncertainty washed over her, but she pushed second thoughts to one side. It was better this way.

Winding the cord about one wrist, she closed her eyes and sent a silent prayer to Farak. The Horn would be pulled from her satchel when she fell, and she would be free of choices she did not want to make.

"One last place to run, Keris an Rynstar."

Medair gasped, entire body jerking with shock. She stared around her at the shadows lurking at the edges of her mageglow, but could not see the source of that entirely too familiar voice. It couldn’t be him.

She cautiously unwound the cord from her arm and took a step forward, knife held at ready. Another step and she was able to see the stair, and the tall man watching her. His eyes were serious, his pointed face the same grave mask he’d worn for an entire war. Pale hair fell neatly over the shoulders of a shimmering robe of Kier’s white.

The knife fell to the ground with a clatter. Medair backed away until her ribs connected painfully with a corner of white marble and she stopped, trapped.

"A most convincing display of horror." Kier Ieskar descended the last few steps into the room and paused.

"How–?" Medair rasped, lifting one hand as if to fend him off. At the same time she began sidling sideways, to remove herself from the vicinity of the white marble which she had thought housed his body.

He inclined his head to one side, lids lowering as he followed her progress. White Snake. When he spoke again, it was in Parlance, a concession he had not made since their first meeting.

"Wild Magic," he said, and looked down at himself, as if to confirm his own existence. "The shield held off the reshaping of the Conflagration, but the world is still saturated with unfocused power. It collects in pools, sinks into the ground, is carried on the wind. It will be a long time before there ceases to be unpredictable changes."

"Changes!!? The dead coming back to life is not–"

"Not what has happened here. Calm yourself, Keris an Rynstar. You have summoned my shade from beyond the veil, not returned me fully to this world."

"I –?!"

"Yourself."

He came forward and she managed not to cringe, or even leap to snatch her satchel to safety as he approached her Emperor’s sarcophagus. His long fingers touched the blood-red cord which trailed from the satchel’s mouth.

"I did not summon you," she whispered.

"You did. You know that, within yourself. Do not argue against it." He lifted the tasselled end of the cord. "You sought this to kill me and my kind. To revenge yourself for what we, what I, had done to your Empire. And I was not here. You cannot assuage your sorrow in belated apologies. You want justice, a clear choice, for it all to be right again, and, failing that, you want to rail at me for my role in your loss."

Silence. Medair could not answer him.