The Silence of Medair

She had stumbled onto slaughter. There were bodies in all directions, centred around a circle of char about a hundred feet in diameter, intersecting with the road along one edge. It looked like a prelude to the Conflagration and had probably been burning merrily yesterday afternoon or evening while she slept at the roadside. It was fortunate that the fire had not spread far outside the blast area, or she would have woken to a more pressing problem than a fractious mount.

Dotted among the fallen trees and charred remains of shrubs were blackened lumps. Large ones for horses, smaller for people. Medair made a complete circuit of the ashes first, a cloth held over her face as she worked to keep her stomach under control. An adept had done this: killed so many so quickly. An adept of immense power, for the blast to have been so large, which likely meant an Ibisian. What had she stumbled into? What were the White Snakes planning now?

A pale, mask-like face turned to look at her out of every corner of her memory. She could almost hear that soft voice make some particularly hateful comment about unfounded assumptions.

Shaking distractions out of her head, Medair looked about for a key to this carnage. Half out of the circle of char lay a man wearing a familiar outfit of grey cloth and sturdy leather, no insignia visible. Bariback seemed to be infested with Decians. She had to force herself to check the body over for identification, but found only his hawk-nosed profile to proclaim his allegiance.

Reviewing the uncharred bodies, she found Decians, Kyledran guards, the badge of a merchanter house, and more snake-shielded fighters. Mercenaries. The mercenaries were probably connected to the merchants, hired swords. But here was another, this time with a silver horse on his shield. Very well, four or five distinct groups, out here in the middle of nowhere, fighting. Over what?

Being familiar with spells that exploded, although unable to cast them, Medair walked gingerly to the centre of the blackened ring and sighed through her teeth and the cloth which was wholly inadequate at blocking the stench. Fire was a dangerous weapon in close combat – it killed so indiscriminately sometimes even the caster fell.

Uncharred, a woman in a brown travelling dress lay crumpled atop a circle of green grass. She’d been wounded, Medair guessed, and her body hadn’t been able to take the stress of the spectacular casting she’d released. It was hard to guess from her appearance, but Medair thought she might be linked to the mercenaries. She was too blonde to be a Decian and didn’t seem to be a Kyledran official.

There was an inexplicably strong and distinct aura of power lingering about the fallen mage. Medair, investigating tentatively, discovered a purse tied to the woman’s belt. She opened it and shook out onto her hand a cluster of faceted stones, clear with a tinge of yellow. Each was about the size of a pigeon’s egg.

Disbelieving, Medair almost dropped them. This explained the span of the fire and was most likely the reason behind the battle, as well. Rahlstones. Not incredibly powerful in their own right, but they magnified a mage’s power tenfold. Her eyes went to the dead woman’s hand, clenched into a fist, and she carefully prised it open. Another clear stone. After a brief hesitation she added it to the rest.

A dozen rahlstones.

"Just what I didn’t need to find," she muttered, surveying the carnage. These people had killed each other, almost certainly over the contents of the purse. None had survived to take the stones, but there would surely be many more eager to ride right over Medair to take possession. She wanted nothing to do with what could only be a major intrigue.

But it seemed stupid to leave them lying in this blackened clearing, so she dropped them into her satchel, where the power-shielding would hide their presence. A contribution to Kersym Bleak’s collection, unless she found something more positive to do with them.

Turning to leave, she literally stumbled over a figure curled at the base of one of the smouldering trees. A boy of twelve or thirteen, only singed beneath a thick coating of ash. Alive.

Wide-eyed, Medair lifted him from the ashes and staggered out of the circle, checking for wounds and finding none. He was breathing steadily, but his temperature was high and he was obviously dehydrated. There was the scent of power about him, too. Not as obvious as the rahlstones, but a lingering suggestion of depth.