Andrea Höst: The Silence of Medair

Sunlight on metal. A flash on the lower slopes, gone before she looked up, but enough to leave Medair staring down beyond the trees which hid her cottage. Had she imagined that momentary brightness, caught only in the corner of her eye, or was there truly another living person on Bariback Mountain?

She was keeping company with the wind, high on a slope where goats had once been taken to graze. The idea of movement did not fit with the drowsy scent of Bariback violets, the drone of the bees, and the way the breeze dried the sweat on her skin. The sky was an eternal, unblemished blue which gave no hint of the storm that would inevitably follow so many damp, sticky days, and the whole world must surely be dozing. It had been her imagination, nothing more.

Oblivious to Medair’s opinions, the flash came again. Feeling abruptly exposed, she stared down Bariback’s northern face. The mountain did not bother with foothills, rising directly to a blunt peak, with only trees to break up the incline. At its base, past the wooded middle slopes and patchily cleared lower reaches, a river snaked through farmland long left untilled. Beyond was Bariback Forest, so useful in ensuring Medair’s isolation.

There was no sign of movement in the vista below, but she couldn’t stay up here without checking. Swiping sweat-damp blonde hair off her forehead, Medair started down.

Still not entirely convinced that the flash had been real, she dawdled, the usual reluctance she felt when returning doubled by the oppressive warmth of the day. Even when the weather was not this humid, the cool and splendid solitude of the heights had become something she craved. Needed. She could not run from her memories, but the vastness of the upper slopes somehow kept them at a distance.

Medair halted at the sight of a line of horsemen below. Six riders, with two sturdy donkeys trailing on lead. They were too far away to make out more than the vaguest details, and she wished she hadn’t fallen out of the habit of taking her little spyglass with her on trips up the mountain. But hindsight was no benefit to the ill-prepared.

Remembering who had first said that to her, Medair cursed all White Snakes, and one in particular. No matter how she tried to cast it out, that soft, level voice would insinuate itself into her thoughts. Thrusting unwanted memory away, she watched the line of horses disappear into the trees. They were heading directly for her cottage.

Could these be settlers? A group of survivors returning to the village decaying on the lower slopes? Or newcomers to the area, made homeless by unrest elsewhere and lured by tales of deserted farms? She was surely not the only person in Farakkan desperate enough to risk lingering disease. There had been that trapper on the slopes in Winter. Perhaps he had spread word of the same discovery Medair had made: the plague had gone.

Six horses and two donkeys didn’t suggest poverty or desperation. A prospecting group, perhaps, uncaring that centuries of delvers had declared Bariback worth no effort? Or something else? Disquiet gripped her, not least because she didn’t think she could face people of any kind.

She wouldn’t find answers standing around like an idiot. And it was important to reach the cottage first, because she hadn’t brought her satchel with her, had thrust it under a bench at the beginning of Winter in some vain attempt to erase what it represented simply by hiding it from sight. Despite all that had happened, she couldn’t leave the Emperor’s gift there for strangers to find.

Setting out at a trot, Medair estimated how long before the riders would reach her cottage, and pushed herself hard to make sure she was there before them. It was not home, but she had made the place hers. She had patched the holes in the walls, replaced the mattress with something bearable, had eaten her meals at the scarred table, and buried the former occupant out the back. A stupid risk, when the local mages evidently hadn’t been able to combat the disease which had killed the village. But she hadn’t cared.

Nor did she care to wait meekly at the cottage for these riders. Even if they didn’t happen to be bandits, the idea of talking to people seemed impossible. Not when they would ask questions, or say devastating things quite unintentionally, and look at her with eyes that tried to guess her place in the world.

That thought reminded Medair of her worn boots, inexpertly patched trousers, the grey colour of once white shirts, and her unfortunate hair, which she had decided to leave alone rather than try and trim with a knife. She had truly not been prepared for the realities of life when she went into self-imposed exile, was ragged in a way she had once never dreamed of being. If the riders were settlers, she might be able to trade for a few essentials, perhaps even allow herself to become part of a community. If. If they were settlers. If she could stand their curiosity and the mute pressure of her own shame.

Panting after her run, Medair strode into the cramped room which had been her Winter home and snatched her satchel from beneath the workbench. Sturdy, adorned only with a small embossed scroll on the flap, it had once been both a symbol of achievement and a practical tool of office. Five hundred years ago, before the Ibisians had destroyed the Palladian Empire. Gripping the familiar leather, she tried to decide what to do next.

The memory of what had happened the last time she’d told someone her name was enough to push Medair toward the side of caution. She would hide until she knew if these newcomers planned to stay or go and if they stayed, perhaps she would go. It would be easier to travel than to try and belong.

Her decision made, Medair hurriedly snatched up loose possessions. Knives, blankets, clothes, canteen, whatever food came to hand. She drained a water jug before thrusting it in after the tools she had gathered from the plague-gutted village, then glanced about for anything else which would fit through her satchel’s mouth.

Having shoved three times its volume into the satchel’s cool interior without distorting the leather in any way, Medair slipped the strap over her head in a move which remained instinctive. The satchel swung innocuously against her hip. If she were to start travelling again, she would shorten the strap and wear it on her back, so it would not disturb her stride with its slight weight. Just now it was at exactly the right spot for her to reach down and open it, dip her hand in without having to stretch.

She brought out a ring, gold twined with some black metal, of a size for a man’s hand. Standing in the doorway of the cottage, she studied it for a long moment, this tiny representative of what was hidden in a satchel which had lain under a bench with the dust mice because she couldn’t bear to think about it. The rings – for there were more than a dozen – had been laid out in a glittering line on an ebon-black table. They had not been her goal, but she’d taken them, along with all the portable magical relicts which had been in the cave where she’d spent that long night. She’d planned to give them to the adepts to study, to turn to the cause which had sent her searching out their hiding place. The cause she’d betrayed in sleep.

Medair had learned the function of three of the rings through trial and error, since she wasn’t mage enough to do a proper divination. Invisibility, strength, animal control. They had been useful in occasional times of need, but she’d only used the fourth once. After the fourth, she hadn’t been fool enough to put any others on her fingers.

Now, she slid the black and gold ring over the knuckle of her right thumb and studied her hand as the weed-studded dirt became visible through her flesh, then grimaced at the uncertain quaver of her stomach, which did not at all appreciate whatever it was invisibility did to her. But queasiness seemed an easier thing to deal with than people.