Andrea Höst: The Silence of Medair

Her helpless captor was nearer thirty, perhaps four years Medair’s elder, though several centuries her junior. He looked about ready to expire at her feet. The lobes of his ears caught her attention and she silently counted the number of currently empty piercings which had been made to hold the earrings Ibisians used to signify rank. The right ear of every Ibisian she had ever seen sported decoration of some sort, for ornament or to signify ranks of magecraft. The second piercing in this man’s right ear meant he was married.

It was the left ear which told her that he was an important Ibisian. There were six major gradations of rank below the current Kier and her heir. A Keriden, the lowest titled noble, would wear a single polished bloodstone; the next rank two, the next three. They were fixed to studs or dangled from silver chains according to the obscure dictates of fashion and taste. The fourth highest rank wore only one left earring, but of a stone they called tiger’s eye rather than bloodstone. Medair had never seen a tiger, but it apparently had some resemblance to the banded gold-orange and black stone she knew as charlamine. The Kier had worn a single fire opal.

There was no further system to delineate differences of rank within rank. Children, spouses, anyone who could claim nobility without currently holding a title, wore a single piece of pale green jade. They were addressed with an honorific similar to "lord", and did not strictly outrank any other wearing jade. Only the Kierash, the son of the Kier who now sat the Silver Throne, was a titled heir and Medair understood that even he would still wear only the small carved piece of jade which proclaimed him of cold blood , as it was called. Ibisians placed a great deal of emphasis on the difference between one who held noble office and those related to that person. With three piercings, it was evident this man held a title. Either Kerikath or Keridahl, depending on whether he wore tiger’s eye or bloodstone.

Fascinating as it was to be able to learn so much from an unconscious man, Medair would rather he still wore the shape of a boy. She would so much rather not have anything to do with Ibisians.

Would she have helped him, if she had found him in this form? Or left a white-skinned man to die in the ash? The Ibisians of this time had done her no harm, but it was impossible for her to divorce them from their ancestors. The idea of having to travel with a White Snake, all the way to Athere, made her sick to the stomach.

But the geas prevented her from abandoning him, and all she could do was get the journey over with. His change had made it necessary for the second horse, since it would be too cumbersome to try and ride double with an unconscious person bigger than herself. She had no wish to be dumped into every second puddle all the way to Thrence.

Manoeuvring him into a sitting position on the big grey, she wondered what people would think when they saw an unconscious Ibisian with his arms tied around his mount’s neck. Kyledra was not officially hostile to Palladium, and she could not hope to get through Thrence without someone taking an interest. She’d have to find a place to rest and hope that after another night’s sleep he’d be able to ride on his own.

Setting off at a spanking pace, she made the next town – a real town this time, not a cluster of buildings servicing surrounding farms – before dark. With a choice of two inns, she picked the one closest to the northern edge of the town, and asked the ostler and a stable boy to carry her friend upstairs, not making an attempt to explain his condition. They were not eager, and the silence which fell over the public room when he was carried through spoke its own story. Every eye was upon them as they mounted the stair. To Kyledra, Ibisians were a symbol of the threat of war.

As she had requested, there were two beds. Medair covered the Ibisian with a light blanket, and muttered a quick charm against infestation over both beds. Then she abandoned her boots, and took off the ring. And groaned.

She was not as spent as she would have been, attempting the day’s feats without magical aid, but this particular item took a great deal out of her in compensation. Bruises whose presence she had entirely forgotten reminded her of their existence, but she was too tired to investigate them. Sliding the ring into her satchel and sealing it firmly, Medair climbed into the second bed, tucking her satchel between her shoulder and the wall. After punching the lumpy pillow, she grimaced across the darkening room to where the Ibisian was little more than the gleam of pale hair in the darkness. A White Snake. The sooner she was rid of him, the better.

Waking to a thump and a headache, Medair squinted across the sunlit room. The White Snake had collapsed near the window and was attempting to lever himself to his feet with as much success as a turtle flipped on its back. Hating that this stranger had been moving about while she slept, she watched his silently determined attempts until the pain in her head intensified.

Sitting up allowed her to fully appreciate her bruises, but it was the geas which was punishing her with a headache. It must be nearing lunch, and the innkeep would probably be on the verge of throwing them out or demanding more money. This was not so bad a thing as the memory of five men in pursuit, who by now would doubtless have found transportation.

First she pulled the Ibisian to his feet and dropped him back on his bed, noticing that he’d successfully used the chamber pot before collapsing. Despite herself she felt a brief sympathy for his situation. It did not succeed in making her forget her headache, the geas, or her reasons to hate his kind, but did keep her tactfully silent in face of his weakness. Ignoring his attempt to steady himself upright, she splashed some water on her face, then sat down to push her feet into her boots and run a comb through her hair.

The Ibisian managed to prop himself against the wall while she cleaned up. When she next glanced at him, he was studying her. Grey eyes. Ieskar’s had been an icy blue, but the different colour did not mar the resemblance. She had no doubt that he could, like the Kier, make a person incredibly uncomfortable simply by watching out of eyes which seemed to take in everything and give nothing back.

Resentment swelled, and she decided to put off conversation. Flipping the comb onto his tumbled blankets, she slung her satchel across her shoulder and went out to order them breakfast. A handful of the Decians' coins stopped the innkeep’s complaints, and a few more were sufficient to arrange for the Ibisian to be carried down later.

In a foul mood which seemed likely to only get blacker, Medair checked the sparse midday crowd for potential trouble, then took up a tray to the Ibisian. He was sorting his tangled hair into a slightly less haphazard braid, but there was far too much of it for him to hope for more. She certainly wasn’t going to groom him.

Putting the tray within his reach, Medair retired to her own bed, taking up a bowl containing steamed grain and slivers of meat. Chewing a brown shred, she watched him pick a long string of dark green out of the snarled braid and drop it to the floor.

"Water weed," he said, the soft voice neutral rather than wry this time. That only made it worse, even more like Ieskar’s. "I am sure there is a reason for that." He gave up on his hair and took up the second bowl in a hand which shook, his every action exuding a fragile dignity.

"Horse trough," Medair explained, and found herself abruptly amused. Already she could see that the man was used to command and comfort both. Most adepts were, and this one – there were surely few people who could manage to be at so bedraggled a disadvantage and still appear in charge of his situation. Those grey eyes flashed up to meet hers, then he returned his attention to eating, apparently requiring all his concentration to not drop the bowl. The bruise she had given him stood out shockingly against that white skin.