Voice of the Lost : Medair Part 2 (15 page)

"We just want to ask you a question!" hissed a voice, young, choked.

Medair still fought, because she did not dare trust, and succeeded in wrenching her face free as they came near to tumbling down a short flight of stairs.  She drew breath to shriek, but one of her captors slapped her, hard enough to snap her head to one side, and then there was a door, closing behind them and suddenly she was free, dumped unceremoniously on a flagged floor before a banked fire.

Gulping air, she assembled her limbs, drawing herself together in case it was necessary to fight, but her captors were backing away, and Medair was able to calm herself enough to measure what she faced.

A kitchen.  Large, clean, with two entrances, both shut.  A gangling boy blocked the one they'd entered through, and a pregnant woman holding a fire-iron rested her back against the other.  A younger boy, of perhaps ten years, stood in the centre of the room next to a girl five or so years his senior, and an older woman seated in a chair.

Not an immediate attack.  Medair considered her chances of forcing her way through one of the doors, but since they hadn't attacked her, she would catch her breath and wait, at least until her ears stopped ringing.  The slap had been hard.

"What question?" she asked, wondering if it would be 'why', and knowing her reasons could no more satisfy these people than Ieskar's had been adequate for her.

"Is it true that there's no survivors?"  It was the pregnant woman who asked, voice sharp.

"No."  She saw the change wrought in them by that single word, and regretted giving false hope.  "I heard that a handful survived.  Those who had no weapons, or threw them down.  But it was only the smallest number."

"Kerika would never give up her sword," the young boy said, and then ducked his head down, hands balling into fists.  "Never."

"But what killed them?"  The pregnant woman again.  She was at no pains to hide her anger, an obvious desire to lash out.  "Palladium was unready, outnumbered.  Whatever foul arts the White Snakes could have used, they could not, should not – it must be some kind of trickery.  I don't believe you.  The battle is still being fought, and you're just lying to protect your hides."

"It was the Horn of Farak."  Medair paused, struggling to find the words, then told them the thing she had to: "Medair an Rynstar used the Horn of Farak, and...and Farak answered."

It was like she had slapped them.  They gaped: stunned, betrayed.

"But
why
?"  The stripling girl this time, stepping forward not in anger but entreaty.  "Why would Farak do that?"

That was not how Medair had been looking at the issue at all, and she had no immediate answer.

"Now I know you're lying," the pregnant woman said.  "If Medair an Rynstar has truly been reborn, then the White Snakes would be gone, lost.  She searched for the Horn of Farak to
kill
them."

"She searched for the Horn of Farak to protect Athere," Medair said.  "And did."

"We went to
free
Athere!"  The words were shouted and the woman started forward, raising the fire-iron as if it could give lie to Medair's answer.

"Let be, Tercia."

The older woman sagged in her chair as the skin sagged on her bones, but her voice held command.

"Did you see it?" she asked Medair.  "Will you swear it, on Farak's name, that what you say is true?  It was the Horn of Farak which lost us this war?"

"I swear it, by Farak's Grace."

"And so."  The older woman shook her head.  "Without Farak's favour, there was never any hope of victory."

"I still don't see why," the stripling girl said.  "Why would Farak turn her face from us?"

"I can't speak for – I don't know," Medair said.  "Perhaps Farak would have answered any who used the Horn."

"And the Herald?  Our cause was just.  Tarsus, he is the direct heir of the last Emperor.  It makes no sense, that Medair an Rynstar would use the Horn against him."

"To save Atherians.  To save someone else who is also a direct heir of the last Emperor.  To–"  Medair sighed, because she knew that nothing she could say was going to ease their grief, or soothe their hatred.  "In the end, perhaps merely because more people would have died if the battle was brought to the streets.  I'm sorry.  I wish I could do more, I wish I could tell you something that would make it better, but words will not bring back the dead.  Or dull your loss."

Any response was lost as the door behind the older boy was thrust open, catapulting him forward.  He yelled as he fell, and the pregnant woman stepped forward, raising her fire-iron, only to meet Ileaha's sword.  Medair started to cry out, but should have trusted Ileaha, who was abruptly holding both sword and fire-iron, and had retreated a step, flanking Islantar, who walked into the kitchen with as much dignity and calm as he would approach a room full of allies.  His eyes sought Medair and he nodded, the tiniest motion.

"Keris," he said.  "I am glad to find you."

"Kierash," Medair said.

Islantar had turned his attention to the small collection of Decians, and perhaps his inherent gravity would have kept them silent even if Ileaha had not been at his side, for all that he was a hated White Snake, invading the place which was their home.

"Between us there is a gulf I do not think it is possible for me cross," he said.  "Not today.  I do not ask it, only give to you my profound sorrow."

He bowed, a simple, but deep gesture, and turned without a word, and Ileaha and Medair followed, and closed the door behind them.

"I am sorry, Medair," Ileaha said.  "I should not have left you."

Medair shook her head, then looked at Islantar.  "I couldn't tell them who I was.  I couldn't admit it."

"You couldn't tell them who you were because they would have killed you," he said, pragmatically, but his voice changed as he continued.  "And then we – I do not quite know how we would have reacted.  What gain, what good, to strike them down?  But this is one incident and there will be others, death for death.  A snowball tumbling down a hill, collecting more and more grievous injuries, weighed down by every slight and every retaliation."

And Islantar tasked by Grevain Corminevar – or Farak herself – to heal Palladium would not achieve that by ignoring Decia's wounds.

"I'm glad I spoke to them," Medair said.  "It won't make them hate me any less, but at least they won't have to wonder why."

She let out a long breath, and realised she was shaking.  But still alive, able to take another step.  Fumbling her way forward.

"I miss believing I was right," she added, but too softly for them to hear.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Illukar and Vorclase stood in temporary alliance before Queen Sendel.  Medair very much wanted to talk to Illukar about Avahn and Ileaha, but had to content herself with joining the group standing before the long table which had been thrust to the back of the dining hall.  Questions of retaliation, let alone broken friendships, were nothing to wild magic.  The problem of Tarsus was paramount, and there was no sign of a search party being formed.

"I should be able to sense it," Illukar was saying.  "That is what concerns me most.  This device summoned and fuelled gates sufficient to transport tens of thousands – a feat beyond the capacity of any group of mages alive.  It is an artefact on the level of the Horn of Farak and it should blaze its presence like a small sun.  But I cannot sense it at all."

"And what does that mean, precisely?" Queen Sendel asked impatiently, glaring at Vorclase all the while, but willing to hear an explanation.

"That it must draw power from outside itself."  Islantar, bracketed by Herald N'Taive and Ileaha, made an expansive gesture at the castle about them.  "Wild magic."

Sendel was unimpressed.  "Well, I cannot say I'm surprised.  Xarus was ever one for the shortest path.  You think it dangerous, do you?"  They looked at her.  "I see that you do.  Then we will turn out that rabbit warren once and for all.  You may consider yourself under charge, Vorclase, and on recognizance only until Tarsus occupies the next cell."

"Your Majesty."  Vorclase bowed neatly, not losing his sardonic edge.  "If we can now at last move on to the logistics of the problem?"

"Your deference overwhelms, as usual," Sendel replied, and made a dismissive gesture.  "No doubt you have some elaborate scheme?"

He did indeed and, what's more, a finer grasp of Falcon Black's current resources than anyone else they'd encountered.  Medair wondered what Sendel would do with him, after everything had settled down.  And whether he'd allow it.

"One final point," Illukar said, after Vorclase had finished outlining his plan.  "Any writings of King Xarus, and most especially any books of arcane research, must be destroyed untouched and immediately."

"Extravagant," Sendel commented, her eyes narrowing.  "And hardly convenient.  I am unlikely to be convinced that I must destroy State documents.  They will need to be sorted."

"There should be no need to convince you," Illukar replied, quietly.  "King Xarus discovered how to summon wild magic, and fashioned this device.  Sorting the documents is too great a risk.  We can allow no possibility of his knowledge being used by others."

Sendel was in a difficult position, especially if she hoped to convince Palladium not to take control of Decia while it was stripped of defenders.  She did not hide her dislike of the situation.  "I suppose you would have me destroy every piece of writing in Falcon Black?"

"That would be ideal," Illukar replied, and she snorted.

"I have no doubt.  Tell me, Keridahl: do you know how to summon wild magic?"

"No."  He said the word crisply, clearly, as a whole thing in itself.  His chin lifted just a little and Medair realised he was insulted.  But evidently he decided to make allowances, because after a moment he went on.  "There are no exemptions."  He looked toward Islantar, who inclined his head.  "After the Blight," Illukar continued, "all knowledge of illegal magics was purged at every level.  No-one is immune to temptation."

Sendel lifted a hand in compromise, although she looked anything but convinced.  "Documents in Xarus' warrens will be destroyed, unexamined.  For now, his apartments in Falcon Black will be sealed, and we can argue about the disposal of their contents another time.  Go find Tarsus, so that we might move on to what is truly important."

Formalising peace.  Planning the future.  Medair watched as Vorclase began issuing orders, Sendel was claimed by a secretary, and Illukar sent Islantar and Ileaha to keep company with Avahn, since news of the device had postponed any attempt at gate-summoning.  Then he had a chance to stop and smile at her, touch her hand and make her heart turn over.  She was immediately overcome with dread that she might lose him; foreboding quite as strong as her previous conviction about Vorclase.

"I'd like to come with you," she said, trying to keep sudden dread from her face.

Illukar obviously sensed her unease, and glanced thoughtfully across the room to where Vorclase was instructing the few guardsmen left in Castle Black.  "Do you feel he plans some sort of trap?" he asked, leading her into the next room, where a sparse meal had been set.

"Not yet.  Though he seems anxious to preserve Tarsus."  Medair did not feel equal to trying to explain what had prompted her request, and looked down unhappily.

"Stay close to me, then," Illukar said, not pressing her.

Vorclase was back with them before she had a chance to do more than outline her worry about Avahn and Ileaha.  The Decian Captain spread a detailed map on the table and let them study it while he chewed on a fruit-studded bun.  There were far more lines than Medair had expected, and she was distracted both by her inexplicable fear for Illukar, and by Vorclase.  He was an uncomfortable ally.

"I've only marked the main routes," Vorclase said, keeping a businesslike tone.  "Snares are circled and in the corridors you'll see three score marks near the ceiling.  Stay to the left, and you should avoid setting them off.  I haven't bothered noting the alarms – there's no-one left to warn."  His eyes flicked briefly to Medair.

"Where did you last see Tarsus?" Illukar asked, and Vorclase indicated the rough centre of the middle layer.  There was the outline of a small room.

"You'll be wanting to fire this place anyway, if you really do plan to torch everything worth reading.  There's half a dozen exits from it, and I'm only sure of the one he didn't go down, which leads back to the southern stair.  We'll work on the assumption that he's still in this area, block off these points and drive him into here."  An unbroken stretch of looping corridor.  "Then it will be up to you, Keridahl.  Hold him still, knock him unconscious, do whatever it takes to get that thing off him without hurting him."

"Is Tarsus a mage?"

"No.  Wanted to be, didn't have the talent."  Vorclase stood up, restive, and collected his map.  "Let's get this over with."

oOo

"And how long has this little affair of yours been going on?"

Medair glanced at Illukar, who stood a short way back from the line of men blocking the tunnel, engrossed in preparing a set-spell.  There was no sign that he'd heard, that he had concentration to spare for listening.  Kel ar Haedrin had.  Medair could tell from the way the Velvet Sword had shifted her stance.

She turned to look at Vorclase, whose mouth was twisted into a cynical line.  This would be only the first of many such enquiries, and not by any means the most contemptuous.

"One day," she replied, with quiet dignity.

His eyes narrowed.  "A celebratory fling?  Can you truly be Medair an Rynstar?  Herald of the Empire?  Grevain Corminevar's Voice?"

"I am Medair," she said, feeling primarily sad.  "I am no longer Herald.  There is no Empire.  Grevain died centuries ago."

"At White Snake hands."

"So I'm told."  She shook her head.  "Save your breath, Captain.  I don't need to justify myself to you."  Nor did she want to try.  It had taken her too long to reach this point as it was.