Faintly disbelieving, for she had long since formed the opinion that the Ibisian Kier’s will was absolute among his people, Medair had pressed her tutor for detail and been treated to a list of restrictions which only scratched the surface of what was forbidden the Kier.
"There is only one person the Kier is permitted to touch," the Kerikath had said in the measured voice which had described so much of the Ibisian world to Medair. "Since his brother’s death, the Kierash Adestan is the only other of the direct Saral-Ibis line. The Kier is forbidden contact with any outside that line."
The Kerikath had calmly described the difficulties posed by a childless Kier, and the good fortune that his brother had left an heir to ensure the succession. Otherwise, the Kier would be obliged to arrange a conception by magic alone, forbidden from touching any woman he married. Kerikath las Dona had only broken off her description of the purification rituals anyone who would bear such a child would have to endure when she noticed Medair’s disbelieving face.
"But why?!" Medair had asked, incredulously. "Why these rules? What purpose can they possibly serve?" It had perplexed Medair that for all his power, the Ibisian Kier would live such a rigidly ascetic life, following laws which dictated the games he could play, the food he ate, the very dishes and cups he ate from.
The pause which had followed was one Medair had come to recognise as her tutor adjusting her mind to her pupil’s immense ignorance.
"The Kier is more than merely one who rules," Selai las Dona had explained, as if trying to put into words what rarely needed clarification. "The Kier is the focus of the land’s protections, the convergence of all enchantments to ensure health and fruitfulness. The Kier is the focus of the AlKier’s regard. If the Kier ails, the land ails, and so the Kier’s life is paramount. To do anything which would threaten that life would be to betray the trust of the kiereddas."
"But why the turning of the stones?" Medair had asked, confusedly. "How could that possibly serve any purpose?"
"Marrat stones are onyx," Kerikath las Dona had replied. "They possess a capacity for becoming imbued with the essence of those who handle them, particularly one who is a powerful lok-shi. By turning the stone, the Kier prevents any accumulation of resonance, which could lead to a dilution of his essence."
"Why not just make a marrat set out of something other than onyx?" Medair had asked, reasonably, but the Kerikath had only looked at her blankly and repeated that marrat stones are onyx.
The dissonance between a people who could efficiently handle such a massive upset as the destruction and complete evacuation of their homeland, yet would not make marrat stones out of anything but onyx because "marrat stones are onyx" had made Medair dizzy. She had asked only a few questions as the Kerikath had told of the Kierash Adestan’s circumscribed but less enduringly restricted life. Until she ascended the Ibis Throne, the Kierash was permitted to touch any who had undergone the appropriate purifications, although custom again restricted that number to a select few. The rules were without end.
Much as Medair had hated the White Snakes, it had felt senselessly cruel to prod at the wound of their loss, so she had forborne to point out that, given the destruction of Sar-Ibis, it was surely futile to continue to enforce laws born out of the Kier’s protections of that land. She was not altogether certain it would make any difference to them. Tradition was not something the Ibisians seemed anxious to question.
"Kel?"
She had by now learned to distinguish between their voices. Cor-Ibis' was a trifle lighter, and he accented words differently. And, though many would find it hard to believe, he was infinitely more expressive than Kier Ieskar. But his eyes cut through her the same way, stripping away shields and lies until she was naked and squirming. He was looking at her now, watching her stare at the two women. Farakkian women, playing with stones too light to be onyx.
"Do you play marrat, Keridahl?" she asked, clutching at her bystander guise rather than betray the tidal wave of her past.
"At times," he replied, after a tiny pause to underline what wasn’t said. "It is a useful aid to thought, once the patterns become second nature. I do not compete."
"Compete?" she asked, blankly, and immediately knew she’d blundered.
His lids dropped, then he inclined his head. His voice struck that particular cool note which she interpreted as Cor-Ibis at his most dangerous. "I imagine the Tournament will be missing a few of the major players this year," he said, watching her. "Given the hostility between Palladium and Decia. But it will certainly continue in the Western Kingdoms. Sooner hold back the sea than keep Seochians from the marrat tables."
The idea of the Seochians, the people of Western Farakkan, being proverbially linked to marrat made Medair blink. She had no doubt Cor-Ibis was adding her reaction, her ignorance of marrat tournaments, to his list of strange things about Medair ar Corleaux. And there was nothing she could do but ask some question about a thing wholly inconsequential and walk on.
He did not object, or even pursue the subject of marrat. Instead he launched into a story about the trees of Pelamath, which were covered in purple flowers in spring. "They are calias," he said, indicating the nearest bushy, pale green tree. "A native of Sar-Ibis, brought out during the exodus. Pelamath is one of the few places where they have flourished, and for a short space each year it is clothed in scent and blossom. The young girls of the city make coronets of fallen petals and one is chosen as the Land’s Maiden."
"Farak’s Daughter," Medair murmured. It was a Spring game she had played when she was a child, though there had been no calias. A celebration of the end of Winter, with Farak’s Daughter decked out in the green of Farak’s gifts and paid a day’s courtesy in thanks for the land’s bounty.
Cor-Ibis glanced at her; mirror-grey eyes. "A cloak is constructed of the blossoms, a bruised and fragile thing which rarely lasts the morning. While the Land’s Daughter is robed, the children hide in the park, and one is given the AlKier’s cup. Before midday, the Land’s Daughter must capture that child, wrest away the cup, or the year is not thought blessed."
He was testing her again, Medair realised, and kept her face relaxed and mildly interested. A tale like this, which mixed one of Farak’s customs with the White Snake god, was a distortion which would surely infuriate the Medarist they thought she might be.
"So many variations," Medair said, with just enough of a dry edge to her voice to show she thought he was fencing. This time his faint smile was appreciative, and he did not press the point further.
How different they all were! And so the same. Avahn behaved like no Ibisian she had ever imagined, and still she saw in him a core of tradition which had barely altered since the invasion. Even Cor-Ibis managed to somehow be unutterably like the White Snake she had hated the most, and yet Farakkian at the same time.