"There will come a time when you will have to stand forward," he said, firmly. "No-one lives outside this war, not even on Bariback Mountain. I add this. My king searches for a way to victory. Failing you, and without the rahlstones, he will tread a more dangerous path to cleansing Palladium. Think on that."
"She’s not budging, Sir," the Mersian said, tersely. "If there’re troops coming, we’ve got to make tracks soon."
"Then answer me, Medair ar Corleaux. Will you stand with the White Snakes or your own kind? Are you loyal to the blood of Corminevar?"
"I stand with neither," she replied, without hesitation. "I will not win this war for you."
Vorclase let his breath out in a short, angry exclamation. "So be it. But I cannot, you realise, leave you in the hands of White Snakes." He turned to the Mersian. "We’ll burn her out."
Medair didn’t protest or visibly react to the words. She sat and watched as his men set about dousing the kitchen and other rooms with lamp oil. Under Vorclase’s instructions, they left a clear passage to the front door.
"If you change your mind and move quickly enough, you should be able to make your way clear. Oh, and don’t expect that invisibility trick to work twice. We’ll be waiting for it."
"Thanks for the warning," she replied, curling one corner of her mouth up, though she was more than a little worried. The spell-shield would keep out conjured effects, people, missiles, but she wasn’t sure it would be effective against natural heat and smoke.
The mage paused at the door and looked at her, sitting in her circle of safety. He smiled, and clicked his fingers, producing a tiny spurt of flame.
The farmhouse burned.
Chapter Eleven
It would have been possible to run for the door if she had gone immediately, but Medair waited. Soon droplets of oil on the pathway had ignited and it was passable only to salamanders. Tasting the acrid smoke, feeling the heat through the shield, she knew she couldn’t stay.
Kneeling, she unlinked the spell-shield and tucked it safely away. The Decians would be able to sense the abrupt disappearance of its power emissions just as they would feel but not comprehend what she planned to use next. Avahn groaned, but showed no signs of recovering as she levered him precariously over one shoulder, one arm wrapped firmly across his thighs. His hair flicked the back of her knees as she rose with difficulty to her feet. Smoke stung her eyes, tore at her throat.
It was a moment to make Medair regret her decision to stop investigating Kersym Bleak’s hoard, since there could very well be something in her satchel which would protect her from the flames, if only she knew what it was and how to use it. Struggling to keep Avahn slung across her shoulder, she fished into her satchel and produced the very ring which had prompted her decision to give up experimenting with artefacts. Managing to cram it onto the middle finger of her left hand, she closed her eyes. When Medair had first tried on the ring, a simple circle of silver, it had not activated. She could only be sure that it possessed some strong magic, but could make nothing of the engraving inside the band. Six hundred feet of what? The next time, she’d found out. She’d put it on, seen no response, heard a noise and stared toward a nearby stand of trees. And from the ring, as happened now, a circle of light expanded. It had spread along her arm, stretching to cover her entire body. Then she had been in the trees. About twenty feet off the ground, sharing a branch with the squirrel whose nut-gathering attempts had attracted her attention. But only long enough to fall off.
Teleport spells were something only a very powerful adept would dare attempt, and most would prefer to use a gate instead. It was necessary to very precisely picture a destination within the spell’s range. Those who did not visualise their target clearly might never arrive, or even appear within an object. Or twenty feet above the ground.
Medair pictured the low, sheltering hill which curved around to hide the farmhouse from those travelling north from Finrathlar. She’d had a nice long look at that when she was tying up the horses, scanning for men with crossbows waiting in ambush. The light crawled up her neck and face, covered her eyes with a glimmering haze and she concentrated with all her strength on every detail she could remember of the very crest of the hill, of just exactly how and where she wanted to be. Inches above it, not in it. Her arm tightened on Avahn’s legs as the light grew brighter, blocking out roiling black smoke and dancing flames. Above it, not in it.
She hadn’t realised how hot the room had become until she fell into the wind, tumbling to the ground in a tangle with long Ibisian limbs. She righted herself, then hastily flattened to the ground. Spiky tufts of grass pricked her flesh as she stared down at the burning farmhouse, but no-one was looking up at her.
Grabbing Avahn beneath the arms, she dragged him further up the slope. The flames were only now becoming visible, though the inside of the building must be a furnace. She had positioned herself in the elbow of the hill’s sheltering arm, and was able to see the rear of the farmhouse and other smaller buildings behind it. Two of the Decians were stationed there, to prevent any suicidal dashes through fiery and unfamiliar rooms. Vorclase and his mage were in close conversation at the front. She wondered what they had made of the surge of power which would have announced her teleportation. They did not so much as glance towards her hill.
It was a warm, sunny day, heading into late afternoon, but her teeth chattered and she was shivering uncontrollably. Now that she was out of immediate danger, reaction was setting in. Medair was a Herald, not a hero. She barely knew how to swing a sword, and would always prefer to run than fight. She could smell smoke in her hair, her clothing, and was amazed that she hadn’t faltered when the blaze pressed upon her. But she’d been told she was cool under pressure. And jelly after, it seemed.
The Decians were not quick to leave. Medair wondered if the trace which was set upon her had anything to do with their delay. She didn’t know if a trace lapsed after the death of the subject, and breathed a sigh of relief when her pursuers finally mounted and galloped off. South towards Finrathlar, though they’d doubtless detour away from the road as soon as they could. After the hoof-beats had faded, she rolled over onto her back and stared up at the blue summer sky, thinking about heirs and Ibisians and oaths until it all whirled about in her head.
Even if this Tarsus was rightfully Emperor, it did not change the fact that the Ibisians weren’t invaders, not after five hundred years. The parentage of all but these purists could be traced to the noble families of the Empire as well as Sar-Ibis. She had sworn oath to Grevain Corminevar in his capacity as Palladium’s ruler, not to him as an individual, not to his bloodline.
What was wrong with her?! How could she even suggest an Ibisian had more right to sit on the Silver Throne than an acknowledged child of the Corminevar line, one who was not tainted with White Snake blood and values? But attempting to cleanse Palladium would involve killing a huge portion of its inhabitants, including descendants of Empire nobility. Merely because an Ibisian had climbed into their family tree.
Her conviction that it was not her war remained unshaken. She was out of her time, her moment had passed. The Horn of Farak could not be used against the Ibisians now and she would return it to its resting place. She might feel wretched about her own inescapable logic, might dream of her Emperor turning his face from her, but she could not act against the Ibisians. Self-justification took her around the circle again and again and only succeeded in making her unhappier.