Andrea Höst: The Silence of Medair

When she had approached as close as she dared, just as the nearest of the horses was flicking an ear in response to the scent of sweaty human female, she tossed the smallest of the stones far across the clearing. The Mersian pivoted at the muted impact and Medair took those vital two steps closer. The horses reacted, snorting and shifting, so she didn’t hesitate in sending the rest of the stones up in a high arc, then immediately gripping her weapon with two firm hands.

Her timing was good. Moments before she estimated the stones should land she tensed, began the last step forward, swinging the hunk of wood back as the knife reappeared in the Mersian’s hand. He was starting to turn towards her, then there was a thumping patter of stones landing and he hesitated long enough for her to solidly dint his skull, knocking him to the ground.

Face-down, the man was still groggily conscious, but Medair dropped her weapon anyway, revolted by the idea of hitting him again. As the horses crowded away from them, she pulled off her black and gold ring and groped in her satchel. The animal control ring was a small braid of silver, and she jammed it on her pinkie finger, wishing that it were possible to wear two rings at once, wishing this wasn’t happening.

The horses immediately stopped jumping about. Medair hastily unlooped all but the two donkeys, then hoisted herself up onto a grey. Questing about with her toe for the other stirrup, she cast one anxious glance back toward her cottage, then led an equine stream away from the dangerous men who had been sent, for whatever reason, to capture her.

Away from solitude.

Medair rode at a speed both reckless and unkind to her mounts, all the way down Bariback Mountain and far along the neglected road toward the forest. The thought of those five men, of the noise her lump of wood had made colliding with the head of the one called Glyn, was a hound nipping at her heels and she would not stop to do more than water the horses until she was certain they could not catch her that day. It was only when she had forded the Sorbry River and was faced with the forest that she thought beyond simply away .

With the sky darkening, and her heart finally easing out of her mouth, Medair looked about for a grassy verge, then stripped the gear from five of the horses and sent them scattering toward the river, impelled by the ring. Guilty over not having rubbed down their sweating flanks, she lavished attention on the last horse, a sturdy bay, cosseting him and securing a tether while the ring kept him complaisant. Then she slipped the circle of silver from her finger and replaced it in her satchel.

The bay immediately sidled away from her, but, as she had hoped, he did not consider her quite so much a stranger any more. He was more interested in cropping grass than escaping. Turning her attention to the sky, Medair frowned at the clouds crawling south. The long-brewing storm wasn’t far away: tomorrow, if not that night. She would get wet before she reached the nearest city, Thrence, nearly three days' ride away.

More information was what she needed before she began making choices, so she turned to the stolen saddlebags. Only a small amount of food: most of that must have been on the pack animals. She had six bedrolls, which guaranteed a relatively comfortable mattress for the night, even without drawing on the resources of her satchel. Five canteens, various items of male clothing, oddments like little pots of oil and saddle soap. A scattering of coin minted with the crests of a half-dozen kingdoms. No insignia at all, no documents, no neatly packaged explanation of who and why and how.

Having sorted out the gear and stowed what she considered would be of use, Medair cooked herself some dinner and sat back against a tree, thinking.

They had not known what to expect, that elite, unscrupulous little group. They had approached with caution, but had not known she was mage until the second Decian had misunderstood the traces of power given out by the ring. They knew neither her name nor her features and, really, considering what she carried, five men, only one a mage, seemed a little…inadequate. If they had taken her by surprise, then yes, they could have had her. But with the contents of her satchel, if she were desperate, she could fight off a great many more than five, no matter what their skill. With what her satchel held, she could bring down an army. That was irony.

Did the one who had sent them know? "If she’s as valuable as it sounds," the leader had said. If whoever had sent these people knew who she was, what her satchel contained, why not adequately prepare those set on her trail? Why not a greater effort at secrecy in their approach? She couldn’t think of any reason for them to come after her if they didn’t know.

"I am Medair an Rynstar, Herald of the Empire," she said to the dying embers of the fire.

She had been one of the two heralds Grevain Corminevar had sent to greet the Ibisian refugees when they’d appeared in Kormettersland. Wild magic, forbidden in Farakkan, had destroyed the Ibisians' island home. Not with the massive Conflagration the mages of Farakkan warned would be the consequence of wild magic slipping from control, but by a creeping blackness which melted the land from beneath their feet. As Sar-Ibis dissolved into nothing, the Ibisians had fled to Farakkan through arcane gates; an incredible feat of magic.

Riding through their camp that first time, she’d actually been glad to see how organised they were. Their tents were in orderly clusters: small suburbs in a city of cloth separated by securely penned animals, crates, carts and carriages. Even saplings, their roots bound in sacks. With their own supplies, the hundreds of thousands of refugees would not be such a strain on the north-east as had first been thought.

She’d felt desperately sorry for them, before they’d declared their intentions. She’d wanted to reach out and help, to show them the bounty of the Empire, wondering what she could do to make it easier for them. Their alien appearance, so tall and bleached of colour, only made her feel sorrier for their displacement, for the desolation they had to feel.

Trained for her memory, Medair could not wipe out any part of that first day. She would always remember riding through that endless camp of white-skinned people, and how glad she’d been to carry a message of aid. Try as she might, she could not forget the first time she’d seen the Ibisian ruler, that cold statue of a man framed by the graceful black heads of carved ibises. She could even recite every word of the message the Emperor had sent to his homeless counterpart, the message her teacher, First Herald Kedy, had delivered:

"Words are small things," Kedy had said, his voice an echo of the Emperor’s deep, measured tone. "They cannot possibly carry the weight of events, or convey anything but an outline of thoughts and feelings. My sorrow and dismay I must give you in words, knowing that nothing I say can begin to alleviate your loss. Instead, I offer you my welcome, people of the Land of the Ibis. Farakkan is a wide and varied realm and the Bountiful Lady will gladly receive another people into her fold. The Palladian Empire will give you a home."

It had been a message of sympathy and understanding, full of generosity. Medair had been so blindly proud as her mentor delivered it. She’d stood there in the tent of the Ibisian ruler – the Kier – conscious of the image of strength and security she projected, willing to do whatever it took to make loss easier for the Ibisians.

Then the world had changed forever. Kier Ieskar, the Ibisians' implacable, incomprehensible leader, had declared war and waged it with total efficiency. Farakkan hadn’t seen a battle fought primarily with magic since before the Fall of Tir’arlea, and the Empire had been woefully unprepared. Massed spells cast by hundreds; Ibisian adepts whose strength dwarfed their local counterparts; their damnable geases solidifying their victories; and, behind it all, the relentless brilliance of the Ibisian Kier. The White Snakes were close to unstoppable.