To question a Herald’s honour was no small thing. To suggest–! Jennet had knocked down that fool Soven, when he had asked Medair if it were true that Ibisians had blue spines, and even that had only been provocation, not accusation. Medair was an Imperial Herald. One of the Emperor’s Mouths, as the Dukes had been his Hands. A Herald spoke the Emperor’s words, acted as the Emperor’s ears, was unmolested even in the midst of battle. A position of great trust, attained by a rare few. Medair had served Palladium with all her heart, and now, it seemed, people believed she had gone to the enemy’s bed. A popular theory, even among Ibisians.
Ieskar had been compelling. Brilliant. Frighteningly observant. An attractive, willowy young man whose pale eyes could cut you to the core. Medair had hated him. Loathed him for destroying her world. She had no idea how she would have felt, if she had known him as other than invader. It was impossible to divorce the person from his deeds.
It was probable, she supposed, that he had liked her. He had after all commanded her company. She had long refused to think of it that way, to think of him as a man at all. Had he known of that popular theory, or had it only grown in force after his death? Had he ever heard that song? She could not understand how it was that the Ibisians tolerated its subject. Not only did it depict them as the enemy, and close on the hope of rescue, but it suggested that their revered Niadril Kier had done something which broke their precious laws and was also incredibly dishonourable. Seduce the Herald of the enemy? Had they forgotten that he was forbidden any touch?
But what Adlenkar had claimed might not have been how the song was regarded at the time. She could not imagine any of the Ibisians who had fled Sar-Ibis even momentarily believing that Kier Ieskar would cast off the restrictions which bound him, however obsolete those laws had become with the destruction of Sar-Ibis.
Today – it was only a song, and a popular theory, established by long centuries of speculation by people who no longer lived to the strictest rule of Ibisian culture. Who laughed over their meals, and said pettish things and looked directly at strangers. Did Surreive and Adlenkar even understand what they had suggested?
And, she had to remember, the Heraldic tradition of the Palladian Empire had died after the invasion, its codes superseded by Ibisian practices. A Herald whose actions among the enemy were anything but formal and correct was behaving unprofessionally. A Herald who went to the bed of the enemy’s leader might as well fight at his side. Treason. Did time really obscure the situation that greatly? Could they not see what they had been suggesting, what reflection this would be on the morals of both involved? How utterly impossible it would have been?
"Kel."
Medair turned her head to consider Cor-Ibis. The light of the mageglow which had been set in the hallway limned him with a faint blue aura. An outline of a man with a soft, cool voice.
"Keridahl."
Joining her in shadow, he handed her the satchel.
"I give to you my thanks, Kel, and those of my Kier," he said formally.
Medair ran her hands briefly over the familiar leather. Did she regret that the Ibisians had not inadvertently destroyed it? Probably not. It was hers, after all. All that she had left.
"It would be a kindness, Kel, if you did not leave Athere without speaking to Avahn. He believes he has wronged you."
"He did ask Lathan to play it, then."
"At my instigation."
So calmly said. She responded in kind. "Were you pleased with the result, Keridahl?"
"A miscalculation on my part. I had assumed that the song was so famed that no-one could have escaped hearing it."
"Infamous," Medair muttered.
"Even so. Although it is not without merit to have Surreive forced to regret one of her games, I cannot say I am pleased with the results of our experiment. It has merely raised more questions, with no prospect of answers."
"You have my sympathy, Keridahl." Medair shook her head, wishing he would go, then straightened, and looked at the milk and midnight face inclined courteously towards her. "I pose no threat to Palladium, am in league with none of her enemies. I will take no part in the coming war and, leaving with the dawn, will never see any of you again. You have a love of mystery, it seems, for you continue to attempt to solve mine. I will not tell you my past and I doubt your current theories tally at all closely with the truth. Leave it be, Keridahl."
That silenced him, at least momentarily, and he turned to study the jagged horizon, where Farak’s Girdle separated Palladium and Decia.
"My current theories, Kel," he said, eventually, "have the virtue of fitting the facts, the flaw of lack of proof, and the fatal weakness of not convincing me with their arguments."
"And you would like to tell them to me, to see what you can glean from my reactions," she observed, weary.
He did not deny it, quite possibly smiled in the darkness. "Would you object, Kel?"
"I am no longer certain I care, Keridahl."
He paused again, out of guilt she hoped, before beginning.
"The name Medair is never given or taken lightly," he told her. "Combined with your satchel, it is obviously more significant in your case than a name your mother gave you. But you are not a Medarist. No Medarist would deny her cause, or aid Ibis-lar. Are you familiar, Kel, with the belief that Medair an Rynstar will be reborn, to rid Farak of the scourge which descended upon it five hundred years ago?"
"I am not Medair an Rynstar reborn," Medair told him, an edge to her voice.
"I do not suggest it. But it is a legend of great strength, and the appearance of a convincing pretender has been used as a weapon on two occasions in the past. The deceits were uncovered, but the belief in her return remains, unwavering. Consider for a moment, Kel, in this time of approaching war, what the effect would be of a woman who was not pretending to be Medair an Rynstar reborn, but who was raised to believe that she was in truth legend given new life, whose entire existence had been carefully orchestrated to give foundation to the lie."
Medair stared at his shadowed face. "That’s your theory? You think that fits what facts you have about me?"
"Not quite. But picture this woman, who has been told all her life that she is Medair an Rynstar reborn, who has witnessed various events which make her believe this. She is trained as a Herald, her hatred of Ibis-lar instilled from birth. She has been given a satchel in honour of her supposed past, possibly been told that it is the original satchel carried by her namesake. Perhaps she has been subjected to arcane manipulation. She might even remember events of the distant past. For a skilled adept of sufficient imagination, it is not too difficult to plant images in a sleeping mind. Memories real enough to her to convince any spell of her veracity. Picture her discovering the truth."
It was a compelling image. Medair considered it until the Keridahl spoke again.
"Such a woman could be expected to flee from those who had manipulated her. And be pursued."
Medair made a sharp movement with her head, and he nodded. "A woman such as this might even be worth the risk Vorclase took venturing into Finrathlar. Avahn is certainly not worth so much to the South."
"You’re right, Keridahl," Medair announced. "It does fit what facts you know, if somewhat imaginatively."
"And is not correct," he concluded.
"Not at all."
"A pity. I do, as you say, have a fondness for mysteries, but I can see no way to pursue this one. You leave on the morrow, Kel?"