"Give me your hand, Keris an Rynstar. Consider it my price. Perhaps I could even haunt you, if you deny me. In this new world, it may well be possible, and I do not think you would like such a thing."
Not at all. She stared at him, at the pale blue eyes glittering behind hooded lids, and could not ask why he wanted this. There were some things that had to be left unspoken.
Tentatively, she lifted one hand and placed it against his, palm to palm. Her hand looked small and muddy against his white flesh. Icy fingers, colder than death, closed around hers and she shuddered.
That soft, imperturbable, unbearable voice went on. "It revolts you to touch me. That is hate. Remember this feeling, Keris, for it is not what you feel for those who live in this time, who had no part in the downfall of your Empire. There is no betrayal in alliance with them."
She stared at slender white fingers, livid against her skin.
"Take your place in this world, Medair," he said, very softly. "Goodbye."
As she watched, the pale fingers blurred and changed, became smaller, more delicate. She gasped, and went to her knees as the person attached to that hand sagged against her. She found herself holding a boy of fifteen or so, in the throes of shivers so violent they were practically convulsions. White hair spilled across her arms as she tried to hold him still, and she could hear his teeth chattering. Awkwardly she pulled open her satchel, dragged out the lambs' wool cloak which she resorted to on the coldest days, and wrapped it around his shoulders.
He clung to her, decidedly disconcerting until she realised how warm her body must be in comparison with his own. So she held him close, this Ibisian boy she suspected must be a descendant of Ieskar, and wondered if the Niadril Kier had known this would happen. Deliberate contrast. Like the attempt on her life, it would be characteristic.
"Who are you?" she asked, when his shudders had finally subsided to the occasional quiver, and he lay exhausted against her chest.
"Islantar." His voice was a breathy sigh.
"The Kierash."
"Yes." He spoke in Ibis-laran. Eyes rose to peer at her through a disordered fringe. "You are Medair an Rynstar. That was…"
"Kier Ieskar."
"Yes." The boy hid his face against her chest, trembling. "He was so sad," he whispered.
Medair could not think about that. She disentangled herself and found her feet. "Can you stand?" she asked.
"No," the Kierash replied. Then, with her aid, he levered himself upright, swaying.
"Medair an Rynstar," he repeated, as she began to guide him towards the exit. She did not reply. "Forgive my weakness, Keris," he continued, switching languages.
"Hardly your fault," Medair replied, shortly.
"The centuries have been kind to you, Keris," was the boy’s next foray into conversation, as they crossed the second tier of the Hall of Mourning. A round-about Ibisian way of asking how she came to still be alive. She wondered how much of the conversation he remembered, what else he had learned from briefly housing the Niadril Kier.
"You don’t know how wrong you are," she replied.
Islantar shook his head, then made an effort to stand on his own, and failed. The chill which had gripped him had faded, but he was as ungainly as a newborn colt.
"What were you doing among the crypts?" she asked, at least in part to stave off further questions.
"I don’t know. We were going to ask permission to go to the wall, then…" He frowned. "I don’t know."
Medair thought she should probe him on how much he remembered, but found she didn’t want to know. Such was the pattern of her life.
Emerging into the Hall of Ceremony, she winced at the sudden, alarmed shout of a guard and waited, resigned, as one of the patrols rushed towards them. The Kierash made an effort to stand upright, gripping her arm tightly. His change of stance must have made some impression, for the approaching guards stopped looking quite so inclined to cut her down, and slowed their charge to a merely hurried advance.
"Kierash?" The young woman in the lead pressed a hand to her chest in salute. "Do you require assistance?"
"I would be obliged if you would lend me an arm, Kaschen," the Kierash replied, very dignified.
"Kierash," the kaschen murmured. Taking over the role of vertical support, she assumed a weirdly cross-eyed and awed expression. It served to remind Medair that this was the heir to all Palladium and that even now there were protocols about whom he could touch. The man and woman at the kaschen’s back were eyeing Medair, ready to spring into action if their Kierash in any way indicated that she was the cause of his sudden indisposition.
Looking at the boy properly for the first time, Medair was unsurprised to discover a distinct resemblance to his distant ancestor. There were also marked differences, including a more determined jaw-line, possibly a remnant of his Corminevar heritage. He was considering her in return, blue eyes a shade or two darker than Ieskar’s.
"I would like to accompany you, Keris," he said. "But fear I would be a distraction." He attempted to shrug, and swayed perilously, sending a momentary flash of panic across the face the woman trying to support him without intruding on the royal person. "I can only…thank you."
He wasn’t referring to her assistance in his attempts to stay upright. He inclined his head to a more than courteous depth, without further allusion to her secrets. Then he handed back her lambs' wool cloak, turned, and led the trio of highly confused guards down the length of the Hall of Ceremony. Medair watched them go. Then she looked down at the satchel depending from her right shoulder.
She could do nothing but accept her fate.
Chapter Twenty
A light tap on the door.
"Medair?"
Avahn’s voice. Medair paused in the middle of fastening her tunic.
"Yes?" she asked, stalling.
"You are here." He sounded relieved. "I’ve been sent to collect you. Can I come in?"
After a glance at the bed, Medair closed the last three buttons, and said: "Yes."
As the door opened, she picked up the cloak. When she’d first been given the uniform, she’d made a great play of swirling it about her when she dressed. Now, as a startled Avahn took in her clothing, she merely arranged folds of pearlescent grey properly to cover one shoulder, and clipped the two ends together with the strangle-knot clasp.
"A rare occasion indeed," Avahn managed, though there was shock in the voice he meant to keep light. "Illukar is hardly ever wrong, and he did most particularly believe you were not going to declare yourself Medair an Rynstar reborn."
"You’ve stopped calling him my esteemed cousin," Medair said.
"He gave me his name." At another time, Avahn would not have hidden his pleasure. Now he was merely distracted.
"Mm. I am not going to declare myself anything reborn, Avahn."
Carefully, she lifted the silver badge from where she had placed it on the bed, and fastened it to her chest. It gleamed dully, this sigil of her office. Two crossed crescent moons, one etched with a scroll, the other with the Corminevar triple crown. She touched the crowns lightly, then glanced up at her audience.
"Herald Savart," she whispered, and black clouded the grey pearl of her uniform, like a thimble of ink dropped into a glass of water. A handful of heartbeats and she stood swathed in unrelieved night, her badge shining like a beacon on her breast.