Voice of the Lost : Medair Part 2 (8 page)

"I believe so.  I have seen her often, though we have not spoken.  I cannot say the same of the other two brought to this place."

"Even so, try them both.  Tell them where we are and suggest to them, if it is not too late, that they find a high perch in which to shelter for the rest of the night.  At the dawn, I will go to the cave behind that spur of rock, to collect any who have reached that far.  If they have not reached that point a decem after the break of light, they should make their way without us."  He paused, then said: "We cannot leave Estarion unchecked," and if he was unhappy about including the Kierash in any attempt on Castle Gyrfalcon – Falcon Black – he kept his concerns to himself.

"I can keep guard, while you both sleep," Medair said, after the wend-whispers had been cast and Islantar was sampling the eclectic mix of stale food she had offered.

"We will all need our rest," Cor-Ibis said.  "Kierash, you are familiar with the detection class?"

"You wish a trip-warning?" Islantar asked, between mouthfuls.

"On the hillside below and above.  Then a small shield on this entrance, nothing strong or it will be detected.  Enough to give us a few moments, should the hunter stray close."

Despite his youth, Islantar cast with a speed and confidence which far outstripped Medair's abilities.  She wondered if he was trying to demonstrate to Cor-Ibis that he was more than capable of defending himself, and that they should concentrate their plans on the major concern: stopping Estarion.  That was something Medair could also focus on.  However he had achieved it, the Decian King's ability to summon countless gates was a continuing danger to Palladium.  And, overriding everything else, was the chance that he would again turn to wild magic, now that his army was gone.

Medair shivered.  The shield, a faint murmur which was unlikely to be sensed above the swirl of magic from castle and forest, had blocked the chill wind, but could do nothing to keep away memory.  The thick scent of blood rose to stifle her, though the journey through the wet forest must surely have washed her boots clean.  But she could not wash away death, thought it would have been like this, no matter who she used the Horn against.  Thousands of lives.

The uncomfortable problem of a small cave and a night to pass bothered Medair less now the Kierash was there.  Islantar stretched out along one side of the pad of blankets and bedrolls and Cor-Ibis took centre.  Medair simply lay with her back to him, glad of her satchel's packrat qualities, which allowed her a blanket to herself.  She could not help but think of Avahn and Ileaha and the others, lost in the forest without food or water, let alone blankets.  No doubt they would be glad to exchange places with her. 

But the scent of blood kept creeping in, and a field of corpses, too many to name.  She began to shiver and couldn't stop and when Cor-Ibis reached out she turned and sobbed out her guilt against the chest of a man whose milky radiance would not even allow her to hide from the 'sheer simple fact' of his race.  The comfort she found in his arms only made everything worse, but she was glad, when finally there were no tears left, to simply be able to hold him.

He loved her.  He had said so.  Why should it matter that he was Ibisian, when it did not matter to him that she was Farakkian?  There was no enmity between them.  But how could she contemplate a relationship with Cor-Ibis when it made her feel so shamed?  To lie alive in his arms, with the blood of thousands on her hands?

Avahn had said she could be a unifying force in Palladium, just as the false Medairs had attempted to be the opposite.  But that was before she had blown the Horn, an act which would inevitably make her a rallying point for hatred.  Wouldn't taking an Ibisian lover do more harm, add insult to impossible injury?  Could she stand to be seen that way?  She, who had always wanted to follow a right and honourable course?  Being anything with Cor-Ibis would give too many an obvious reason for her actions.

Until sleep came to claim her, Grevain Corminevar's words played over and over in her mind:

*There was no right choice, messenger.  And no wrong decision.*

CHAPTER SIX

Morning light scoured the cave of all its secrets.  The pad of bedrolls and blankets had flattened wafer-thin, doing little to shield Medair from the uneven floor, and the scratches, bruises and scrapes of the previous night all gave tongue in a minor chorus of pain.

Kierash Islantar lay on his stomach next to her, chin resting on crossed arms as he kept watch, gazing along the base of the hill.  He glanced back as she sat up, and she tried not to groan at the creaking and popping of her spine.

"How long ago was dawn?" she asked, excavating sand from her eyes.  She felt blasted, battered, but somehow cleaner, better able to deal with what she had done, and might have to face.  The air smelled of pine, not blood.

"The time limit is almost up.  I have not seen anyone going to the cave."

Medair took refuge in practicality, ferreting through her satchel for breakfast.  After quickly finishing her share, she warned him not to turn around, so she could change into fresh clothing.  Islantar obligingly kept his eyes fixed on the shadow beneath the spur of rock as he munched on the dry biscuits she had offered.

"When I was nine," he said, after she had stopped moving about, "I decided that Cor-Ibis should be my father."  He glanced back, and smiled at her expression.  "He is not, of course.  He would only have been fourteen when I was conceived.  But he is what I wanted my father to be.

"That was the year when Athere heard of nothing but Cor-Ibis, awarded the honours of Keridahl Avec, whose acuity was so profound many believed he could read minds, whose manner was so perfect not the slightest fault could be recorded against him.  He is our most powerful adept, perhaps the most capable, certainly one of best respected of the Keridahl. 

"That was also the year following the death of his mother and Keris Amaret.  Those who did not want to be him spent their time courting him.  Potential allies, lovers, those of his family who competed to be named his heir.  Even his enemies vied for his attention, each moment of his time, wanting what I wanted: to be special to him, to win him."

Medair received this entirely un-Ibisian speech in silence, and searched for some hint of expression in the youth's profile.  "Did you succeed?"

"I have no idea.  He is, as I said, perfectly correct, and he has never behaved toward me with anything but the courtesy due the future Kier.  He has ever held himself aloof from those who pursue.  Immensely frustrating, perhaps even more so for my mother, who disliked my too-apparent quest to capture Cor-Ibis' affection almost as much as his failure to gratify me.  It is not how
I
should behave."

Islantar looked over his shoulder at her again, then turned resolutely away.  Medair thought of how Cor-Ibis had reacted when he had seen Islantar exposed in the midst of the battle on Ahrenrhen Wall.  Concern for the heir, or an instinctive desire to protect a bond he would not acknowledge?

"I ceased pursuit after a while, behaved more appropriately, though I still find myself trying to prove myself to him.  If he will not love me as a son, he will as Kier."

"Show," Medair murmured.  Islantar turned again, then drew himself up into a sitting position.

"Show?"

"You don't know how he feels, merely what he shows you.  And you are talking about this to me because–?"

"Because I cannot be certain you will not attempt to take your life again," Islantar replied, with a note of sorrow.  "I think if you ran from him, he would be quite capable of finding you wherever you went.  If you were killed, he would bear the wound always, but go on.  I do not believe he would survive your suicide.  And I do not wish to lose him."

For once, Islantar sounded his age.  He looked down, but had recovered his equilibrium by the time Medair could summon a reply.

"I'm not going to kill myself, Kierash," she said, surprised at her own certainty.  "I don't know what precisely I will do, but that moment has passed at least."  She grimaced.  "You remember everything, then?  You were very disoriented before."

"For a short time I was the
Niadril
Kier," he said.  He lifted a hand, but stopped short of touching his face.  "I thought his thoughts, felt what he felt.  I...do not remember a great deal of his life, only snatches, things which occurred to him while he was...within me.  You are very different now, to how he first saw you.  He could not decide if you look more or less vulnerable."

Medair winced.  "Please.  I would prefer it if you didn't tell me things like that."

"The need to demonise the enemy.  He understood it."  Islantar nodded, then caught himself.  "I'm sorry.  It was one of the most profound experiences of my life.  What could impact me more than being someone else, let alone such a man?  I cannot talk about it to anyone else, not in the same way, but I won't keep reviving the past for you."

He turned, looking back towards the spur once again.  "There has been some movement down the road from the castle," he told her.  "A patrol went past, circling the hill, but did no more than glance cursorily into the caves.  The one behind the spur is deep enough to hide a thousand."

Medair, her tentative equilibrium shredded by thoughts of Ieskar, decided that packing would be the most sensible thing to do while they waited.  To focus on moving forward, instead of wallowing in the past.  She had barely finished when Islantar leaned forward, briefly exposing himself to make some signal.

"He has someone with him, two people," the Kierash said.  "We should go down now, carefully."

Following the Kierash out of the cave, Medair craned to see Cor-Ibis' two companions.  They were immediately recognisable: the red-haired Velvet Hand, Liak ar Haedrin, and the male kaschen, an Serentel.  Her heart was heavy as she eased down among the rocks, keeping behind what little shelter the uneven hillside offered.  Avahn and Ileaha had been her companions for weeks, were friends, despite their Ibisian blood.  Just as Cor-Ibis, no matter how white his skin, was the man she loved.

Acknowledging that fact didn't diminish the difficulty of her future, but it did allow her to meet his eyes directly, and not flinch away from what had happened between them in the dark.  Whatever else, she would not run.

He waited until she was close, then touched the back of her hand.  It was the only gesture he allowed himself as they headed into the cave behind the spur, but it was apparently enough for Liak ar Haedrin and an Serentel, who were not nearly correct enough to hide their comprehension.  They seemed startled, oddly pleased.  Medair again felt that wash of shame, and tried to fight it.  They were not enemies, and there was no dishonour in caring for this man.

"We cannot move on until the patrol has passed again," Cor-Ibis said.  He was amazingly neat after a night in a cave.  Other than some minor stains on his clothing and the livid purple-red scratch from the corner of one eye down to the edge of his jaw, he was as immaculate as ever.  Medair was not altogether sure how he had managed it.

The cave entrance curved, so they weren't immediately exposed to outside view, and he stopped as soon as they had travelled far enough for his glow to become noticeable, turning to Medair.  "There is not time to fully investigate the various arcana you have brought from Bleak's Hoard, but we should be able to sort out items for immediate use.  Kaschen, if you would watch the entrance?"

The young soldier nodded briefly and moved back toward the sunlight.  Those left settled themselves on a tumble of flat rocks.

"The most powerful items are best left to another time," Cor-Ibis said.  "Such formidable arcana might prove unsafe for us, even if they did not reveal our presence."

Medair wordlessly opened her satchel and brought out a handful of rings.  She separated those where she knew the function, and lined them on the rock beside her.

"Animal control, teleport, strength."  She poured the rest into his hand.  "I don't have the sensitivity for divination, so I was trying to discover their function simply by putting them on."

"Have you tried them all?" he asked, picking out one particularly simple circle of bluish metal and bringing it close to his eyes.

"No, only six.  These two gave me no clue to their function.  The sixth I tried was the teleport, and after that I decided not to risk any more."

He nodded, handing the bluish ring to Islantar.  "You will wear this," he instructed as he put the rest of the rings on the rock beside him, then selected one of silver.  Islantar immediately mimicked him, holding the ring close to his face, half-closing his eyes as he concentrated on Cor-Ibis' unspoken test.

"A luck-ring," the boy said, eyes widening.  "I thought they were no more than legend."

"But those emanations could be nothing else," Cor-Ibis said.  He turned over the silver ring.  "This allows the wearer to breathe under water."  He handed another ring to Islantar, then started a pile of those they had identified.  Medair watched with unconcealed amazement.  She had seen adepts puzzle over unidentified arcana for days.

After the luck-ring and the water-breather, there was a poison ward and a thin jewelled band which would summon a mageglow when twisted.  Cor-Ibis lingered over two identical rings, then handed one to Islantar and told him to exchange it for the luck-ring, slipping the one he retained onto a finger.

"A wend-whisper?" Islantar asked, after a moment.

"No.  Direct communication.  So there is a way, after all."  Cor-Ibis looked at Medair and smiled, that straightforward expression she still found strange from someone so very Ibisian.  "The contents of your satchel make us seem unadept indeed.  Luck-rings I had at least heard of, though this is the first hint I've ever discovered of a mage who had succeeded in such a crafting."

"The Hoard was legendary for more than its volume," Medair said.

He nodded, eyes grave, then returned to the rings.  There was another invisibility ring and the last, much to Medair's chagrin, was a ward proof against traces.