The Silence of Medair

She did not respond, afraid that if she stopped to explain she would not be able to go through with this. Closing and sealing her satchel, she drew it over her shoulder, its weight firm against her hip.

"Who sent you to collect me?" she asked.

"The Kier." Avahn eyed her doubtfully, but visibly decided to keep his thoughts to himself. "That map – Bariback is this Isle of Clouds and the Kier wants to question you after she has finished addressing the Court."

"She is in the Throne Room, then? Good. Take me there, Avahn. It is time to end something."

Avahn hesitated. "I am sworn to my Kier, Medair," he said, carefully. "If you mean her harm–"

Medair laughed, a short, bitter sound. "I am not an assassin, Avahn. I will not raise a hand to her."

"No, you are…" He trailed off, delicate white brows drawing together. Then he smiled, a glow of sudden delight in his eyes. "You are most unexpected, Medair. I am glad to know you."

It was a reaction purely Avahn, and almost won a smile from her. He was Ibisian, but she couldn’t help liking him, any more than she could help being attracted to Cor-Ibis. They were Ibisians, and some part of her was never going to forgive that, but they were not her enemies. The war was over, was centuries past, and she would not put her hatred over her duty.

It was evident that many of the palace’s current residents had somewhere seen a depiction of an Imperial Herald. Their reactions ranged from dismay to anger, and Medair found Avahn’s presence a useful pass as he waved away two separate patrols inclined to intercept her.

All the doors of the Great Hall were open, but Medair was careful not to glance left or right as she strode down the marbled floor. The crowd in the Throne Room was densely packed, spilling out of the ebony doors. Typically, they were also completely silent, listening intently to the words of their Kier. Only the guards, who faced outwards, saw Medair’s arrival. They stirred, exchanged glances, then slid swords slowly from their sheathes.

"When have the Ibis-lar drawn weapons upon Heralds?" Avahn asked, in a clear, carrying voice.

Several of the courtiers at the rear of the crowd turned at his words, and made shocked comments. The guards hesitated.

"My bond," Avahn said, with complete assurance, and smiled faintly at Medair. An Ibisian, willing to vouch for her. It felt strange.

Stepping forward, she wondered how she was to reach the Kier, and was foolishly conscious of her dignity. A Herald should not have to push her way through a crowd.

But, whether out of ingrained Ibisian protocol, or a desire to witness a confrontation, the men and women nearest her began to move aside. There were more Farakkians in the room than she’d expected, and they stared at her with particular shock, but none chose to bar her way. As Medair continued to walk forward, a corridor formed through the centre of the Throne Room, accompanied by the whisper of silk and startled voices. The Silver Throne rose above the room on a small dais, and Medair knew the precise moment when the Kier saw the cause of the spreading commotion in her Court. The clear voice which had been addressing the gathering paused, continued briefly in a softer tone, then was silent. Waiting.

A tiny droplet of sweat launched itself the length of Medair’s spine, and she gulped air as inconspicuously as possible as she passed into the circle of space around the Throne. She focused on those members of the Court fanned out on either side of the Kier like an honour guard. The only faces which caught her eye were las Theomain’s, stiffly affronted, and the Mersian Herald, wide-eyed. The rest were a blur, insignificant at this moment. The Kier was everything, blood of both usurper and the one who owned Medair’s loyalty.

"You bring a message, Kel?" Kier Inelkar asked, her voice cool, her eyes cautious. She was wary, not ready to react with immediate hostility to what must appear to her as a threat, but by no means welcoming of this woman garbed in the past.

Medair had been trained to deliver the words of others, not proclaim her own thoughts. She felt a need to justify herself for an act of betrayal, but words crumbled to dust before they reached her lips. But she would not fail her Emperor now, not this last time.

"I bring no messages," she said, before the Court could grow restive. She lifted one hand and plucked her badge from her chest, bursting open the clasp. It cut her hand, but she did not care. She looked one last time at her most prized possession, then let it fall to the floor of the Throne Room. The colour drained from her uniform, even as the flames had drained from around Athere.

"There is nothing to say," she continued, hollowly. "The past is dead. And lost in fire. I will not watch Athere fall to invaders, no matter who sits her throne."