Voice of the Lost : Medair Part 2, page 2
"The Horn is in that chest," Ileaha murmured. "The shielding isn't so complete as that on your satchel, but it serves."
"The air feels thick," Medair said, not certain if that was due to the unbound power lingering in the wake of the Conflagration, or to the enchantments of two armies. "It's different than – different to other sieges."
"Other–" Ileaha's gaze wavered, and the hand she rested on her sword hilt twitched. "It takes some adjustment, knowing who you are, realising what you have seen. I don't imagine that in any of those past battles blood magic would have been used by either side, and I fear that is part of what we are feeling. Look."
She stepped closer to the parapet, but Medair was slow to follow, reluctantly moving to gaze down at what had driven her, finally, to take up her name.
A most orderly army. The Ibisians had been the same way: arraying themselves before the walls of the Empire's cities with care and precision. Five hundred years after Athere fell to the Ibisian invaders, the Decian King, Estarion, used wild magic to give himself the strength to drive them out. Now his forces were placed safely out of the range of combat casting, and in the tinted light there was an almost pleasant symmetry to their serried ranks. Sewn with an even hand among them were giants, near half again as tall as ordinary Farakkians, their horned helmets increasing that height further. Had they been human once, before the transformative power of wild magic had swept over everything outside Athere's shields, and changed their entire world and all its rules?
"Not all blood magic is foul," Ileaha was saying. "It's very closely related to the healing arts and, used with care and good conscience, a portion of life force can be sacrificed without permanent injury. But that is not what we feel now, what is stifling the air. If that truly is blood magic, then people are dying out there, before the first blow of this battle has fallen."
"Was he known to use it? The Estarion before the Conflagration?" Medair was finding some slight comfort in Estarion's lack of morals. She had called the invading Ibisians 'White Snakes', thought them cold and greedy, but they had prosecuted their war with an aim to minimise losses, taking advantage of their disproportionate strength in magic to capture their first city without the loss of a single life. Estarion threatened the opposite, promising to slaughter every Ibisian down to the smallest child.
"Known?" Ileaha lifted both hands to measure her lack of certainty. "Not in the world which was mine. But is one who is willing to risk the possible consequences of drawing on wild magic less likely to directly sacrifice lives to his cause?" She lowered her voice. "You – you must not continue to blame this on yourself, Medair. If you had given the rahlstones to Decia instead of us, they still would not have granted Estarion enough strength to take Athere with any surety, let alone place himself before her gates so abruptly. There is every chance he still would have turned to wild magic to gain the strength he lacked."
"Unless he had the Horn," Medair pointed out, and Ileaha fell silent because it was true. The whole reason Medair had set out to find the Horn of Farak was that it promised easy, overwhelming victory; a single weapon to lay low an entire army. Lacking that, Decia's King had summoned wild magic, the temptation of every mage who desired more than they had strength to achieve. The secret of how to do so was supposed to be hidden, locked away, because if wild magic slipped from control it would burn unchecked over all Farakkan. That was a consequence which no-one should have been willing to risk, but without the Horn, Estarion had taken that step. Impossible to predict that the arcane fire he unleashed would not burn the world to dust, but remake it into one where he was well able to bring down the walls of the White City.
With so much changed, what had become of the Corminevar heir Estarion claimed to support? Was he out in that forest of swords? When the Horn was sounded, would Medair be responsible for his death?
The sky faded, and it was a relief not to be so visible. But then Cor-Ibis stopped talking with the Kier and moved several steps closer to Medair. The glow surrounding him – an after-effect of serving as keystone to the shield – grew ever more marked in the gloom, and he made an admirable beacon for those who wanted to stare at the past come to life. He did not speak to Medair, had not said a word directly to her since she had revealed herself. He seemed impossibly Ibisian: cold and distant. How strongly had her actions been influenced by this man? How could someone who so epitomised everything purely Ibis-lar, who reminded her so strongly of Kier Ieskar, draw her as he did?
"MEDAIR AN RYNSTAR."
The voice rolled out of the twilight, turning Medair's name into a wave which crashed across Athere. Medair was not altogether surprised that Estarion chose to address her, that he knew what she had done. For the southern king to underline her betrayal would likely be only one of countless incidents. Assassinations and accusations. The life her conscience had not allowed her to avoid.
"MEDAIR AN RYNSTAR," Estarion repeated, voice thoughtful, contemplative, despite being magnified to an almost painful volume. "A NAME I HAVE HEARD ALL MY LIFE, IN BALLADS, IN TALES TOLD TO ME WHEN I WAS A CHILD TOO RESTLESS FOR SLEEP. A NAME OF HOPE AND HONOUR. A NAME WHICH MADE A PROMISE."
"I sense a major casting, Ekarrel," Cor-Ibis warned Kier Inelkar. "Something beyond the enhancement of his voice."
Glancing secretly at the Keridahl's cool profile, Medair saw his eyes narrow slightly at Estarion's next words.
"I ENVY YOU."
"He is a showman, this Estarion," Avahn murmured, moving to stand beside Cor-Ibis. "Full of dramatic pauses." He smiled reassuringly at Medair, but in the dim twilight he looked worried.
"THE PALLADIAN EMPIRE, THE GOLDEN AGE OF PEACE. IT SHINES IN OUR PAST, A TIME OF GROWTH WITHOUT STRIFE, OF A SEEKING FOR PERFECTION RATHER THAN POWER. WE WILL NEVER KNOW THE WORLD YOU WERE BORN TO, MEDAIR AN RYNSTAR, BUT WE SHARE A DESIRE TO SEE AN END TO THE WARS WHICH SNATCHED IT AWAY."
"Don't tell me he's going to back down?" someone muttered disbelievingly. Medair barely heard the interjection, eyes fixed unwavering on the stone beneath her feet. Where was Estarion leading? This was not the harangue for which she had steeled herself, but a far crueller attack. She faced the despair which had kept her paralysed this past year. The Empire was gone. Everyone, everything which had been hers. Nothing would ever change that.
"I CAN ONLY GUESS AT YOUR FEELINGS, WHEN YOU RETURNED HERE, TO WHAT HAD BEEN THE HEART OF THE EMPIRE, AND FOUND IT AS IT IS. DID IT NOT WRING YOUR VERY SOUL TO SEE IT? WERE YOU TEMPTED TO USE THE HORN, EVEN THOUGH THE MOMENT WAS LOST?"
Again a pause, serving to underline his last words. She remembered that angry desire all too well.
"I DO NOT NAME YOU ENEMY, MEDAIR AN RYNSTAR. YOU, AS I, SEEK PEACE, AN END TO WAR. YOU FELL INTO THE HANDS OF THE WHITE SNAKES AND LOST PERSPECTIVE, REACTED TO THE MOMENT RATHER THAN THE LARGER PICTURE. THERE WILL BE NO PEACE WHILE A SINGLE COLD SNAKE THINKS TO RULE FARAKKIAN TERRITORY. THERE WILL BE NO END TO WAR UNTIL THE ROT IS CUT OUT. CAN YOU DENY THAT?"
Medair suspected he was right, but shied from the slaughter he seemed to consider the solution. Did Estarion plan to hunt down every Ibisian on Farakkan, after razing Athere? What of those like Ileaha, who were also Farakkian? Or those with barely a drop of cold blood? And yet, and yet– She started to raise a hand to her head, then restrained herself, too aware of all who watched her through the gloom. Ibisians. White Snakes. She would not show weakness before them.
"AFTER THE BATTLE, SEEK ME OUT, MEDAIR AN RYNSTAR. THERE IS SOMEONE I WISH YOU TO MEET; A TRUE DESCENDANT OF THE ONE TO WHOM YOU GAVE OATH."
He was talking of the heir he supported – or used as banner and excuse for war. Said to descend from Verium, her Emperor's son, a line long kept hidden and protected until the moment came to return them too their rightful place on the Silver Throne. And Medair knew very well that it was possible, that Verium had been involved with the woman said to have borne a true Corminevar heir. Had she turned her back on him, this Tarsus, so-called Emperor-in-Exile?
And it was all too long ago, too muddied and tangled. For Kier Inelkar descended from Medair's Emperor as well, and her throne had been won in conquest, making questions of legitimacy secondary. More to the point, thousands of Farakkians, loyal Atherians with no drop of White Snake blood, would give their lives to protect their Kier. To them, Decia was nothing but an invader, and Tarsus an irrelevancy.
Numbness gripped Medair, the crushing weight of impossible choice she had struggled with all year. She shifted her gaze to the box which held what had been meant to be the salvation of the Empire.
"NOW. INELKAR. HAS IT YET OCCURRED TO YOU THAT THE HORN OF FARAK WILL NOT ANSWER YOUR COLD BLOOD?"
Estarion chuckled, a rumble of thunder in the night. The glint of fire on metal served as lightning. Out among the massed troops, torches were being lit. They flared like stars, thousands upon thousands of points of light. Medair's attention was briefly torn from the almost mesmeric influence of the metal-bound box. She saw with a shudder that Estarion's army was holding aloft not torches, but burning swords. The wind carried the tang of hot metal, and a faint whisper of words she could not understand. Then Estarion's voice boomed again.
"WHITE SNAKE, PALE INVADER. YOU BURIED ANY TRACE OF FARAK BENEATH GENERATIONS OF OUTLAND BLOOD. IT IS –"
"Could he be right?" the Kier asked.
"– A SOURCE OF AMAZEMENT TO ME THAT YOU COULD HOPE TO USURP –"
"It is all too possible, Ekarrel," Antellar, the Keridahl Alar, replied. "We were not certain what the Horn would do before the Conflagration, let alone in the world we now face."
"– THIS AS WELL. FARAK WILL NOT ANSWER YOU, INELKAR! THE HORN OF FARAK SERVES THE CHILDREN OF FARAKKAN ALONE! AND, MOST MAGNIFICENT IRONY, YOU HAVE OBTAINED A WEAPON YOU DARE NOT ALLOW BE USED BY ANY NOT OF YOUR OWN BLOOD. FROZEN, CREEPING WHITE SNAKE. HOW COULD YOU RISK GIVING THE HORN INTO THE HANDS OF ONE WHO TRULY IS OF THIS LAND? DO YOU KNOW THE HEARTS OF THOSE YOU RULE? OF THOSE WHO SHOULD BE RULING IN YOUR PLACE? WHO WOULD THE WARRIORS OF FARAK CUT DOWN?"
Who indeed? Medair stared down at the box. If she used the Horn, would Farak make the final judgment on who deserved death? That was a path Medair had never thought to take, and it seemed to her both right and just. Almost of its own volition, one of her hands lifted.
Cool fingers caught hers.
"There is compulsion in his words," Cor-Ibis murmured, lifting her hand to study tight-strapped bandages. "This is a choice which, if you need to make it, should be made without such." He added a word beneath his breath, the trigger for what must have been a dispell. A cool breeze whisked away the cobwebs tangling Medair's thoughts. She straightened, and looked first at his expressionless face, then at the box.
"MAKE YOUR PEACE WITH YOUR GOD, INELKAR," Estarion boomed, and Medair's shoulders tensed. A compulsion in his words. His prolonged speech to her had more purpose than demoralising those he was about to fight. She could feel it now that it struck her afresh, not layered upon her behind the shield of words.
Cor-Ibis still held her hand, and she dragged her eyes from the box to his fingers. They glowed faintly, paler even than her swathing of bandage. The same old arguments trudged a circle in her mind. Enemy, innocent, oath, trust, betrayal, loss, futility. How many times did she have to chase the tail of her own internal rhetoric? She had made her decision.
Momentarily, she tightened her clasp. Cor-Ibis was not Ieskar. He had never been her enemy. Then she drew her hand free, and moved away from the Horn, looking inward towards the lights of the White Palace rather than the fires of the army at the gate. She would not use the Horn.
"If Farak does not answer, She does not," Medair said, glancing at the Kier. "But I have never heard that She picks and chooses. All born to Farakkan are Her children."
"And you, Keris N'Taive?" Kier Inelkar asked the woman who had been outside the shield when wild magic's Conflagration had transformed the world and made her into Herald of a kingdom once thought dust. "What is your judgment?"
"How could it be otherwise?" the Mersian Herald asked, her eyes shining with sincere faith. "Farak is the mother of all."
Beyond the wall, the whisper had become a chant: steady, full-throated, accompanied by the tramp of booted feet. The army had begun to move. They would soon be within bow and spell-shot.
"Casting in the chant, Ekarrel," the Keridahl Alar said.
"Massive," Cor-Ibis added. "As if the entire army is contributing."
"Is it possible? Look to the walls, Antellar."
Protections were always set on the walls of Athere. Over the day which had just passed, these enchantments had been reinforced along the southern reaches of Ahrenrhen. Now, at a signal from Keridahl Antellar, they were strengthened to counteract anything which might be thrown at them in the first advance.
"Now we shall see if the air attack you predicted comes to pass, Keris N'Taive," Keridahl Antellar said. "You are prepared, Cor-Ibis?"
Cor-Ibis inclined his head briefly.
"What of–" the Kier began, and everyone looked anxiously at her suddenly arrested stance, head cocked to one side, eyes narrowing. Medair guessed that she was listening to a wend-whisper, a message sent by magic.
"Ekarrel?" asked the Kend, turning from whispering commands to her Das-kend.
"N'Taive, what is the 'Charaine Regiment'?" Kier Inelkar asked.
The Mersian gave the Kier a startled glance which meant she'd asked about something the Herald had assumed she could not not know. But wild magic had made the world outside Athere nearly unrecognisable, transforming the loose clans of Mersians into a formidable power, and replacing three kingdoms with an inland sea. A single regiment could have become anything.
"Charaine is the mountainous land to the south of the Forest of the Guardian," N'Taive replied, carefully. "It is where most of your deskai are stationed. The Regiment is a mainstay of Palladium's south-east defences."
"And what are 'deskai'?"
"Deskai..." The Herald shook her head. "There were no deskai in the past where you lived? How horrible!" She made a gesture to acknowledge that now was not the moment to digress. "Vecka, my mount, is part deskai. They are shape-shifters, born to two forms, and to powers more enduring than most mage-cast." She smiled obliquely. "Tanis Araina will find it disconcerting to be forgotten. Deskai are not easily put from the thoughts."
"Your horse can change shape?" asked the Kier, surprised.
"No. Vecka is more horse than deskai. They can breed to either race."
"I see. It would seem this Tanis Araina hurries to our aid. According to her wend-whisper, she is less than a quarter-measure away and regrets her failure to reach us before sunset."
"Wonderful!" exclaimed the Mersian.
Cor-Ibis lifted a hand, a short, sharp movement, adding a few hasty words beneath his breath. The air shuddered, and Medair was nearly knocked from her feet by an invisible blow. She had to clutch the smooth stone of the parapet to keep upright.
"A gate," Cor-Ibis said tersely as the blast died away. Medair's ears were ringing. "Pass on to all points," he ordered Avahn. "If Estarion can produce a gate so soon after transporting his army here, we must focus much of our own defence on counteracting them. Or allow the fight within the walls."
"How can he–?" Avahn asked, then restrained himself, obediently sending messages to mages throughout Athere.
But his question hung in the air, passing in glances between those who waited tensed for the next move. A gate was beyond the strength of even adepts, and could only be produced by melding power in a grouped casting, or through the enhancement of a rahlstone. The use of gates large and enduring enough to transport an army had already warned Athere's defenders that Estarion must have at his command dozens of mages of the highest calibre. That there were enough casters to use gates in battle, in addition to the enchantments which would protect an attacking force from massed sleep or death, suggested immense superiority of both number and strength of casters...as the Palladian Empire's defenders had faced, when the Ibisians had invaded...
"It seems to me," the Kier said into the hush, "that the Horn must be used. If it summons no aid, we have lost nothing. We are outnumbered in a battle where the rules are no longer familiar. I am willing to take the risk that we might hasten our deaths." She signalled one of her attendants to fetch the box.
"In range," the Kend announced, and gave a command which sent a hail of arrows down on the approaching troops. Selected mages added a drift of combative magic – flame darts, poison clouds, blood roses. Medair stepped forward to see the volley hit, and flinched as one of the spells was reflected back to the top of Ahrenrhen. There was a muffled shriek and a flurry of movement along the wall to the right, where the flame darts had caught a few unprepared. Not so the southern troops, whose raised shields reflected the arrow shot. Most of them hadn't even wavered in their chanting.
Only one of the defenders' spells had not been deflected or dispersed. Medair could see a dull green cloud drifting over the first line of attacker, some distance to the east. But, as she watched, a little whirlwind whipped it away.
With barely a pause, the first two ranks of attackers, all along the vast southern reach of Ahrenrhen, took two running steps forward and launched themselves into the air. Not flying, exactly, but bounding up toward the top of the wall as if they weighed little more than thistledown. Medair backed hastily away as Cor-Ibis snapped out a word of activation.
A blast of icy wind tossed the Southerners awry, and most of them were catapulted backwards to land in the midst of their troops, the upraised swords of their own forces doing more damage than their fall. A few still reached the wall. They were significantly outnumbered, but a giant now stood among Athere's defenders, far along the wall to Medair's right.
Barely had the first wave been flung away when another two ranks of soldiers leapt upwards. Again Cor-Ibis raised a gale sufficient to knock the nearest back, but those further down the wall had not managed it. Medair staggered as Keridahl Antellar disrupted another gate. Cor-Ibis said something about set-spells, but Medair could barely hear him through the ringing in her ears. And then came the song of the Horn, as the Kier opened the box.
