The Silence of Medair

"Apology?" She seemed able to do nothing but stare at him. He was still gazing down at his tomb, as motionless as the statues which guarded Grevain, but at that he lifted his eyes.

"Not for making war, Keris. When a new Herald brought me Corminevar’s next message, I sought your location, and learned that you quested for an artefact which might well cost me victory. I sent a handful of my best to find you and ensure you did not return."

Medair laughed, unable to stop herself. She clamped her jaw when she heard an edge of hysteria. "How appropriate," she managed, through quivering lips. "In attempting make amends for murdering me, you succeed in destroying my reputation."

"I learned, later, that they had not found you, but by that time my end had nearly come and I could only charge my regent to be on her guard." He did not appear in the slightest way remorseful about ordering her death, his voice thoughtful, introspective. "It is perhaps appropriate that it is now my people who wait upon the silence of Medair."

"They can wait forever, for all I care," she said, hotly.

"You are too just for that, Keris. Answer my question now. What sent you on this quest?"

She looked at him from the corner of her eye, wondering why he wanted to know. What he had meant, about Telsen’s song. He had tried to have her killed. He had died. And she couldn’t begin to tell him something she refused to admit even to herself.

"Your brother’s daughter," she replied eventually.

"Adestan? Ah, of course. The last game of marrat. It is hard to hate a child, is it not?"

"It is hard to hate."

"All too easy." He walked towards her, measured, implacable. "This is your war, for this is Palladium, Athere, which you are sworn to protect. This is your war, because you cannot stand by and watch innocents slaughtered alongside warriors. This is your war, because you are here. Give me your hand."

Medair stared, fingers curling into fists. She had never touched him. It was forbidden, and even if it were not, she would never have been able to bear such contact. He lifted his hand, and she flinched.

"Give me your hand, Keris an Rynstar. Consider it my price. Perhaps I could even haunt you, if you deny me. In this new world, it may well be possible, and I do not think you would like such a thing."

Not at all. She stared at him, at the pale blue eyes glittering behind hooded lids, and could not ask why he wanted this. There were some things that had to be left unspoken.

Tentatively, she lifted one hand and placed it against his, palm to palm. Her hand looked small and muddy against his white flesh. Icy fingers, colder than death, closed around hers and she shuddered.

That soft, imperturbable, unbearable voice went on. "It revolts you to touch me. That is hate. Remember this feeling, Keris, for it is not what you feel for those who live in this time, who had no part in the downfall of your Empire. There is no betrayal in alliance with them."

She stared at slender white fingers, livid against her skin.

"Take your place in this world, Medair," he said, very softly. "Goodbye."

-oOo-

As she watched, the pale fingers blurred and changed, became smaller, more delicate. She gasped, and went to her knees as the person attached to that hand sagged against her. She found herself holding a boy of fifteen or so, in the throes of shivers so violent they were practically convulsions. White hair spilled across her arms as she tried to hold him still, and she could hear his teeth chattering. Awkwardly she pulled open her satchel, dragged out the lambs' wool cloak which she resorted to on the coldest days, and wrapped it around his shoulders.

He clung to her, decidedly disconcerting until she realised how warm her body must be in comparison with his own. So she held him close, this Ibisian boy she suspected must be a descendant of Ieskar, and wondered if the Niadril Kier had known this would happen. Deliberate contrast. Like the attempt on her life, it would be characteristic.

"Who are you?" she asked, when his shudders had finally subsided to the occasional quiver, and he lay exhausted against her chest.

"Islantar." His voice was a breathy sigh.

"The Kierash."

"Yes." He spoke in Ibis-laran. Eyes rose to peer at her through a disordered fringe. "You are Medair an Rynstar. That was…"

"Kier Ieskar."

"Yes." The boy hid his face against her chest, trembling. "He was so sad," he whispered.

Medair could not think about that. She disentangled herself and found her feet. "Can you stand?" she asked.

"No," the Kierash replied. Then, with her aid, he levered himself upright, swaying.

"Medair an Rynstar," he repeated, as she began to guide him towards the exit. She did not reply. "Forgive my weakness, Keris," he continued, switching languages.

"Hardly your fault," Medair replied, shortly.