Andrea Höst - Voice of the Lost

Illukar responded to the patent sincerity of Tarsus' offer. "It is a matter for adepts," he said, more kindly than Medair could have managed. "There is something which might succeed and we go to try it. Farakkan is not yet lost." But that was all the comfort he could give.

Leaving the boy to Kel ar Haedrin, Illukar turned to one of the mud-spattered escort: an angular Farakkian woman in her fifties, who had been shifting uneasily during Tarsus' interlude. "What can you tell me, Kel?"

"It moves at a slow walking pace, Keridahl. Just water on water, though none could mistake the peril. We outpaced it easily, but it will reach this point by midnight."

There was a pause, as everyone took in the urgency of the situation, then it was back to contingency plans and orders. Medair, looking determinedly at nothing, found Islantar again at her elbow and allowed him to draw her a short distance down the sodden bank, till they could barely make out Illukar’s glow. The Kierash didn’t speak, merely stood beside her, keeping a tight control on his expression as he waited, turning a glowstone over and over in his hands.

When Illukar finally joined them, Islantar stepped forward, lifted a hand, then let it drop. They were both so rarely awkward that the hesitation which followed was painful. Then Islantar collected himself and took another step, so that he was facing Illukar, much as Tarsus had a short while before. The duplication again reminded Medair how very young Islantar was.

"There–" Islantar began, and ground to a halt, staring up at Illukar. Such an Ibisian scene: both their faces were formal masks, their posture correct, pain kept inside where it cut deeper. Yet no-one who looked on them could possibly think Ibisians cold.

"There are so many things I have wished to say to you," Islantar said, his voice just the tiniest fraction higher than normal. "I have looked for an opportunity to tell you that you are – that I have learned so much from you, followed your lead in countless things. You are–"

A father to me. He didn’t say it, just looked down, silenced either by his own emotions or by the rules which governed his rank.

Odd that Illukar, considered so perfectly Ibisian, could simply reach out and embrace his Kierash. Islantar’s eyes went wide, then he wrapped his arms tightly around Illukar’s waist, hiding his face against his chest.

"Make me proud, Islantar," Illukar said into the boy’s hair. His face was a mask, but his voice was full of undercurrents. Islantar whispered something so softly Medair was not certain even Illukar could make it out, then let go and stepped back, resuming at least a semblance of his self-command.

"Goodbye," he said simply, then walked away. His steps were steady and his back straight.

Illukar watched him until he was out of sight, then moved toward Medair.

"My turn now?"

He didn’t quite smile. "I would that this moment had never come, Medair."

She looked away, out into the roiling dark. The evening was cool, a light breeze toying with her hair, but it was impossible to regard the night as pleasant. It was neither heat nor wind nor visible threat, but the Blight’s power was a doom impossible to ignore or mistake. It choked and stifled and crushed, perfectly matching the feelings which welled inside.

Illukar’s long fingers curled over her shoulders. "I have requested of Avahn that he care for you. I would like, very much, for you to consider The Avenue your home."

How can it be, when you aren’t there? Medair didn’t say it, instead turning and clasping his hands. It was hard to look up into his eyes.

"These last few days–" He paused, and she could almost see him think on all that had happened in such a short time. "I know that what we have shared will make my death harder for you, but I cannot regret choosing my moment to speak."

"No." Medair determinedly set aside the selfish, petulant part of herself which regretted ever having met him. And the part which told her that no good could ever have come of lying with a White Snake. "I’m glad you did," she said, meaning it. "I–" How to say everything she had not? "I have been happy with you," she said, finally, and watched his eyes smile. That made it nearly impossible not to cry, so she followed Islantar’s example and hid in Illukar’s embrace. So much easier to simply hold him and try to pretend it wasn’t for the last time.

Immediately, her memory served up to her the expression on Illukar’s face when he had bowed to Ieskar. Such straightforward respect. Did he admire the man who had destroyed her Empire to save his people’s pride? Had he been raised on stories of the Niadril Kier’s war, just as Medarists followed the legend of Medair? What would Illukar have done, in Ieskar’s place?

"What is it?" he asked, catching her off guard. He must have read some tension in her body, unless he truly could see into her mind.

"This isn’t the moment," she said, aching more with every word. She didn’t want to ask him, not now.

"It is the last moment, Medair," he said. Almost wry. "Speak."

Would it be better not to know, and live with the uncertainty? Or should she risk tarnishing her memory of him? She drew back, enough to look up into that faintly glowing face, and saw a shadow of concern. That made it harder to refuse, for she would not leave him wondering as he went off to die.

Her tongue was heavy and reluctant as she spoke. "Kier Ieskar…told me that he invaded because the Ibis-lar would have become a pauper race if they’d accepted the Emperor’s mercy. Feared, hated, separated…" She trailed off.

"I have heard the Niadril Kier’s reasons," Illukar said. His voice had gone quite soft, as if someone held a knife to his heart. Medair stared up at him, a knot in her throat she couldn’t swallow.

"Do you think he was right?" she asked, faintly.

"Not for Palladium," Illukar replied, immediately. But his eyes were unhappy. "It was disastrous for the Empire, and so many centuries later there is still division because of it. It is the one great wound in our past that Farakkan cannot forget. As Ibis-lar…" The care with which he weighed his words was answer in itself. "It may not have happened as he forecast. Grevain had offered aid, shelter: a generous welcome. There was no certainty that they would have devolved into hearthless outcasts. I do not doubt they would have been feared for their power, that inevitably they would have been at odds with some Farak-lar, perhaps persecuted. We are not the most flexible people, and the laws which bound us at that time were astoundingly rigid. Being divided, as refugees must be, among those who could house them, they would have been powerfully disadvantaged, overwhelmed by Farakkan’s numbers. A vulnerable position." He stopped, then continued grimly. "In the longest of terms, yes. It was not an honourable thing to do, but for the Ibis-lar as a people, I think he was right."

There were so many implications to this admission that Medair’s head spun. And yet, it barely mattered.

"Strange how little difference that makes to the way I’m feeling now," she said in astonishment, and kissed him because it was true.

Too soon someone – Sedesten – came near them and said: "It is ready." When Illukar drew back she had to force herself not to cling to him, and instead tried one last time to conjure some plan for his survival out of need and nothing. All she could manage was a wretched attempt at hiding the way her breath sobbed in her throat.

"I will miss you, always," she said. His attempt at a smile was sadly awry, out of place on Illukar’s beautifully drawn features. It was her pain, her loss, which was doing that to him.

"I will love you always, Medair," he said, a stark statement which did not pretend that his always would not be longer than that night. He brushed her cheek once with those slender white fingers, then turned and walked away.