New arrivals in the watchtower forced Medair to squeeze into the farthest corner. Holding her elbows in, she tried to avoid coming into contact with the short man who came nearest.
"Keridahl an Valese," the Das-kend said, inclining her head formally to a woman some years her junior, with neatly bound honey-blonde hair.
"Das-kend las Maret, isn’t it? Tell me, can you make out the device on the pennants they carry? We have come in hopes of gaining a better view."
"It is Estarion’s gryphon, Keridahl, though it seems he no longer cares for gold and blue." The Das-kend politely proffered the spyglass, and it was passed from hand to hand.
"Well-equipped, disciplined, protected by magic," was the Keridahl’s assessment. There was no voice of dissent. The army which came against them was obviously not lacking in preparation.
"What’s that they’re doing now?" asked a comely young man who stayed awkwardly close to the Keridahl’s side. "Changing direction?"
"Stopping."
The leading ranks had indeed drawn to a halt less than a quarter-mile distant.
"A formal declaration of war?" the Das-kend speculated, catching the Keridahl’s eye with a frown.
"Considering their opening moves, I would not trust to it," the Keridahl replied. The moment stretched, as the Keridahl plied the spyglass and frowned more, then handed it back to the Das-kend with the innate courtesy of her kind. The kaschen, at her mother’s side, struggled not to fidget.
"Inelkar."
Half the watchtower’s occupants jumped. Probably half the city did, as that word boomed and rumbled from the sky. Medair’s eyes jerked involuntarily up, almost expecting the sky to be black with thunder-clouds. A lone fluffy splotch bundled itself away behind the castle towers, as if in a hurry to disassociate itself from the voice which again made the very air tremble with its volume.
"Inelkar. Will you cower behind your walls? Do you fear to meet me?"
A long pause, as if the voice were somehow waiting for an answer, though the Kier would hardly be likely to emerge in response. It must be Estarion, the Decian King. The voice was so strong that Medair imagined she could feel it making the bones of her chest vibrate. A calm, deep voice. This Estarion sounded utterly certain, and that was perhaps the most chilling thing of all.
"We have travelled a long way to this, Inelkar," Estarion went on, as the Keridahl turned to whisper some message in the ear of one of her aides. "Centuries of dispute, of drawn knives, of blood spilled in the name of honour. Your honour. White Snake honour." He sounded sad, which felt out of keeping with his reputation. There were few in Palladium who were not convinced the southern king was a greedy, ruthless man thirsting for power.
"The sins of the past can not be forgotten, Inelkar. You call this land your own, but it was stolen from those to whom it truly belonged. Time will never wipe away that crime, nor make you more than what you are: the child of a thief, a bandit who cut the hand held out to offer aid."
An angry murmur filled the watchtower, but Medair shivered and turned her face into the stone. This was the very thing which cut her deepest: the reason behind the fall of the Palladian Empire. Ibisian honour, Ibisian pride. There had been no need for the war which had shattered the Empire. Grevain Corminevar had been willing to shelter the refugees, but they, in their pride, had brought down Medair’s world rather than accept such charity.
"In younger years," the voice continued, a thoughtful rumble vibrating through Medair’s breast, "I vowed to scour Farakkan of your blood, of all the pale thieves who shattered the Golden Age. But time offers the grace of mercy, and your race will benefit from mine. I will allow your children to live, White Snake. They will not sit high on stolen thrones, Inelkar, but I will not hunt your race into nothing, for all the anger of my forefathers urges me on. They will serve, but not die."
"He would make slaves of us!" spat the kaschen, meekness forgotten.
"There is, of course, a condition," Estarion rumbled on, heedless of the instant opposition his mercy inspired. "A stolen prize, another piece of thievery to add to the accounts. Give up to my protection the woman of the Isle of Clouds, before the sun sets this day. Else, my anger shall know no limits, and there will be no hole a single one of your spawn can crawl into that I will not find. Dawn will bathe in your blood. The choice is yours, Inelkar."
Thunder died to silence over a city seething with fury, confusion and fear.
As soon as she could escape from the crowded watchtower, Medair had retreated to Odessa Park. She was lying in the grass, watching the clouds and pretending she wasn’t paralysed. She didn’t know what to do, did not want to do anything, but could not force thought from her mind so that she was able to do nothing at all.
Medair?
Jerking upright, Medair stared about, but Ileaha did not suddenly appear to accompany her voice. A wend-whisper, she realised, as the wind carried her more soft words.
Medair. Please meet me in three ten-measures at the Bravi Fountain. I will wait.
Of course they would be looking for her. Especially after Estarion’s demand. Medair waited a moment more, to be certain Ileaha had not whispered anything else to the wind, then lay back down. She breathed the scent of clover, with damp earth lurking beneath. An ant ventured onto one hand, and she twitched it off. Only the calling of birds disturbed her peace. Lying there, Medair could forget about wars and oaths and the army at the gate.
With a curse she climbed to her feet, and shouldered her abandoned satchel. Of course she could not.
Bravi Fountain was within Remembrance Wall, near the southern gate. The fountain filled the centre of the square, which was actually more of a curved rectangle. It had been newly constructed in Medair’s time, in an area which had once been a slum, but was now a prosperous place. The fountain was a magical construct: round, rising four levels, with a sculpture at its peak which had a suspicious resemblance to the White Palace. It spurted water in almost every conceivable direction, a fine mist providing cool delight in Summer. She wondered if they still held parties there on warm nights, to watch the tinted pastel colours which appeared beneath the stars, and argue about whether something so frivolous as colouring water was a waste of magic.
There was something about large, open squares with fountains which attracted birds. A flock of grey and white pigeons landed a comfortable distance from the people clustered at one end of the square, then immediately took to the air once again. The crowd centred around a group of young women and a youth who would better be called boy than man. They were having a white-faced and tight-lipped discussion with unhappy parents about whether it was better for them to go join a battalion of reserves or stay to defend their homes in the event that Ahrenrhen and Ariensel fell. Ileaha, very plainly dressed, was seated quietly on the far rim of the shallow pool around the fountain, her attention on the crowd.
"No shouting," Medair said, having made her way with deliberate silence to the younger woman’s side. "No raised voices, no shoving or struggles. Even those with no Ibisian blood behave this way. Not unemotionally, but fantastically restrained. It takes something like the Conflagration to really jar all these careful good manners."