She wasn’t sure how long it had been. The soldiers had left the watch-tower soon after it was certain the shield would hold, and Medair had stayed to watch the flames. They took on a greenish tinge, through the blue of the shield, and showed no sign of abating. Enough heat came through to keep Medair sweating, and there was not so much as a hint of breeze.
Medair’s first concern had been that the shield would not last as long as the fire, but she’d had time to think it through, now. How long would it take for a city full of people to use up all the air trapped within the shield? How long before Athere became an expensively preserved tomb?
Even if they survived the Conflagration and the shield released before everyone suffocated, what would they find? Anything at all? Charred earth, the scorched beds of rivers? No crops, no stock, no wild game to hunt. There should be, in Athere, stores enough to do some planting. There might be horses to breed, but few cattle and sheep and birds. Frogs? Dragonflies? Let alone the fodder to maintain what survived. Faced with the prospect of starvation, Medair thought of the Bariback violet, tiny and delicate, and lost forever.
"The sky!"
A single voice from the crowd still lining the walkways. It sparked a series of outcries as eyes sought the apex of the glimmering pyramid and found, as proclaimed, the sky. So commonplace a sight to inspire such a groan of unbridled relief. The shield still held and the fire was waning. Athere had survived the Conflagration.
Like water, the fire drained slowly down the sides of the shield. Medair followed its progress sadly, not wanting to see what it had left behind, not wanting to see the–
–verdant hills. Manicured woodlands. Fields of gently waving corn and wheat. A road paved with stones of lambent silver instead of the familiar, worn grey. In the distance there was a rider, racing towards the city.
Medair, who had suffered many shocks in the last day, swayed invisibly in the watch-tower. She had looked upon the land around Athere countless times, and this was somewhere else. Five hundred years had changed certain features of Palladium, but it had still been the same place. This sculptured landscape of quiet hills and soft curves was… She shook her head.
In the far distance, the mountains which formed the eastern reaches of Farak’s Girdle rose as they always had, yet they seemed higher and darker than before. The glitter of the Tarental River curved to the east, but surely that bend shouldn’t be there? And that bridge, an elegant arch which led to the beginnings of a dark forest where farmland should be? Everything was different and oddly familiar.
"I finally have run mad," she whispered.
The verdant world did not go away. The shield remained, locking out the scene like an image behind glass. It was better, surely, than the ashen char everyone had been expecting, but Medair still stared in blank dismay. She could hear cheers from the wall below, but they were muted, nervous. Frightened.
There was something strange about the rider still racing toward them. No, not the rider, the steed. It took only a moment to isolate why: not only was the animal travelling faster than any horse Medair had ever encountered, it was doing so at about a foot above the ground.
It looked like a horse. A black horse which cantered along with great, smooth strides. Its rider was a woman, dressed in green, black hair flowing in a mass down her back. Long before horse and rider were in hailing distance of the shimmering blue shield, Medair knew she wanted a much closer vantage point.
The Kier’s armed escort, their own horses missing, were holding the crowd back from the open gates. Medair was quick to slip invisibly past and hurry out to the shield. The Kier, with the Keridahl Alar and a cluster of attendants, was standing before the shield, lost in casting. Even as Medair came up, the blue wall dissipated, and a cool, scented breeze swept over the city.
It was all real. Medair stopped where she was, only a short distance from the Kier. Beneath her feet, the grass was withered and brown, a testament to the heat which had beat upon the shield. A few feet away, beyond where the shield had stood, the grass grew lush and moist. She took a few steps forward and then knelt to touch it. Grass, cool beneath her fingers. It smelt real. There was magic everywhere, the lingering remnants of the Conflagration, but the grass was not an illusion. The fire had destroyed Farakkan, then remade it.
The rider on her floating horse was drawing close. Why its hooves should make any noise when they didn’t touch the ground, Medair couldn’t guess. And didn’t try, as she had her first good look at the rider. She had Mersian features, almost exaggeratedly so. Her hair was a mass of thin braids wound with glittering threads. And she wore the uniform of a Herald.
Medair put her hands slowly down on the grass and simply stared.
It wasn’t until the woman dismounted that she was sure it wasn’t the same uniform. In outline it was almost identical to an Imperial Herald’s, but there was no silver badge, no satchel, and there was a device of a tree stitched on the breast. And it was green.
Long before Medair been born, Heralds had worn a thousand combinations of colour to complement every kind of message. That was why the colour-change enchantment had been created. The system had been deemed overly complex during the reign of a former Emperor, and the Heralds had been restricted to three colours. White, red and black. Dark green would have been…marriage tidings? Medair shook her head, numbly. This wasn’t an Imperial Herald. It wasn’t.
"It was a marvel to look upon, Ekarrel," the rider was saying. Medair had missed part of their conversation, while she had crouched on the ground trying not to scream.
"Tell me more of Queen Valera," the Kier responded.
The Mersian looked frankly bewildered, but then, so did most of the Ibisians. "Ekarrel," she said, "I have carried messages between you and My Lady Valera these past five years. I was in My Lady’s escort when she visited the White City two years ago. I do not understand what it is you wish to know."
The horse, a black mare, swung its head in a strangely alert fashion as Medair climbed unsteadily to her feet. The animal seemed to be looking directly at her, and Medair shifted uneasily, not certain whether to be concerned. At least the black’s hooves were for the moment planted firmly on the ground.
The Kier’s voice was as thin and cool as it had been when she’d interviewed Medair. But she looked tired. "This day has brought many strange things to Athere, Heleise of Tir’arlea. The memories you have I do not share. Nor, it seems, does the fire we watched overtake our land remain in your mind."
"Fire?" The Mersian’s gaze rested on the withered grass, a puzzled frown creasing her brow. She shook her head, then continued urgently. "Ekarrel, my message is such that it cannot be delayed, even if it seems you no longer know the one who sends it. Estarion’s armies mass. His mages work spells of great strength and speak of bringing down the White City at dawn. My Lady’s spies send word of a new confidence in the Cloaked Lands. They whisper of a weapon of surpassing strength. Over such a distance a warning is all My Lady can send before the dawn, but if a battle is to be joined, the Lady of Silver-on-Water will not allow her presence to be missed for long."
The woman – the Herald – was sincere, impassioned. She was met by blank silence and her steady gaze faltered.
"The Cloaked Lands?" the Kier said, slowly. "Silver-on-Water? Keris N’Taive, I do not understand you. I do not understand you at all."
The Herald shook her head despairingly. "I know not what subtle magic has stolen your memory, Ekarrel," she said. "In the name of the Holy Four, I know not what to say to you."